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SomersetWalk Details:
The Walk: |
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We were celebrating our Mum’s birthday in Chippenham the tomorrow, but had decided a few weeks before that we would take advantage of our visit to the west country by arriving a couple of days early and spending today walking. Our initial plan was that we would spend the day bagging our remaining 6 county tops in South Wales. Unfortunately, the forecast was for gales and rain; we watched the weather just before we left and South Wales was due the worst conditions. As a couple of the Welsh tops involved boggy, off-path walking, we decided to give it a miss on safety grounds. Instead we chose to head to Exmoor, which despite being only just the other side of the Bristol Channel was forecast to be the least wet part of Britain (“driest” didn’t seem appropriate). However, I had also looked at the Metcheck website earlier in the week, which had forecast windspeeds of over 50mph at the summit of Dunkery Beacon. It looked like it might be an interesting trip...! A BMW driver had parked with typical arrogance across the entrance to our chosen car park. We managed to squeeze round him on the grass, but frankly (i) he had space to roll forward a good two or three metres, and leave the entrance clear and (ii) he should have parked in the car park itself anyway. Grrr!
We marched off up the path directly opposite the car park, with past-its-best-before-date heather all around. We knew that this was not the most direct route of ascent, but it would allow us a circular route. Part way up the hill we encountered a couple wearing very bright togs, with the bloke sporting a huge Japanese-tourist-style camera. As we approached him he pointed the camera straight at us and tracked us with it as we passed him. I found this not only rude, but also unnerving. I assumed this repugnant lowlife was the BMW driver. Muttering angrily to myself I followed Jim on up the hill. Visibility was now poor, but we knew we would have to turn right to reach the Beacon, and as the slope seemed to level out near the top we dutifully took a right turn. It turned out this was not the ridge summit path and instead ran parallel but a few metres down the hill; this turned out to be rather a blessing. We eventually saw the giant nipple-like cairn looming out of the murk and turned uphill towards it; as soon as our heads were above the summit they were almost snapped off by the full force of an Atlantic storm crashing into Exmoor. We struggled across the summit plateau and with some difficulty (at times we were blown backwards several paces) we made it into the surprisingly calm lee of the cairn. The cairn is, as previously indicated, a credit to its species. Erected by the National Trust, it’s steep sided and taller than a man. I (no doubt like thousands before me, and with scant regard for the violent weather) immediately decided that it must be climbed. I guess I had only myself to blame for what happened next. I was soon at the top, clinging desperately on as the wind tried to hurl me into Gloucestershire. Jim tried to get me to stand up for a photo but this was simply impossible – these were in all likelihood the strongest winds I’d experienced on a walk. The storm then decided to punish me for even being outside in these conditions by tearing off by glasses and hurling them down the hill. It was only by a crazy leap from the cairn (during which I was blown sideways several metres) and a mad dash that I was able to retrieve the frame – after a brief search I found a missing lens a couple of metres away. Fortunately (given that I was driving) I managed to repair my specs when we got back to the car. Despite this mishap, there is no doubt that it feels absolutely fantastic to be stood atop a hill facing down a gale – especially when, as now, it means you get a popular hill to yourself. It was just a shame that we were up in the cloud layer, with no views and getting soaking wet. Nevertheless, we stayed at the summit for a good five or ten minutes, enjoying the unpredictable gusts that would send you staggering several metres. I’d have to say though, it was fun on a nice rounded hill; on a rocky mountain with sheer drops, it could have been lethal – a sobering thought. Returning to the car park via the main path was simple, and with the occasional jog we were back at the car in minutes. I was pleased to find my legs completely dry under my trousers. Jim’s by contrast were soaked with sweat and he said he might as well have been wearing a bin bag. Dunkery had been fun, but it would be nice to return in clear, calm weather
– I bet there’s a hell of a view from up there if you manage
to stand on that cairn.
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Anyway, rant over. As soon as we got out of
the car it started to rain, a persistent and heavy swirling drizzle. We
straightaway decided that it would be our ever first outing wearing waterproof
troosies. Unfortunately, Jim had forgotten to pack his, and instead had
had to borrow our Dad’s thick, uncomfortable, non-breathable ones.