It’s tempting to take the rutted, peaty track due south from Oke and then a sharp left but I opt for the marshy plateau that spurs south-east tramping as the crow flies. Taking the easy option does Steeperton a disservice, avoiding its buttress-like flanks rising steeply from its arrow head of brooks. It also avoids a secret spot - my secret spot. Down here, next to the cascading copper current, and squeezed between the tussocked high banks that claw up and into an outsider’s sight, I am induced into a dream. A lone tree stands mottled and wind whipped, yet slightly taller than its more exposed cousins - lashed as they are by westerlies bent on destruction. I sit awhile under a budding branch and take in the limited view; a peek of Taw Marsh opening out to the north, wet and shining. From here it’s a 400ft calf-crunching climb to the hut atop tor. I rest up, knowing the clamber can wait. There are birds nesting here and their spring song lifts me. Small fish dart from granite pool to eddying inlet; there are civil war musket balls buried in the silt speaking of a less peaceful moment. The thought of conflict invades my meditative mind - man’s mad memory threatening this otherwise natural scene. A buzzard, high in the stark sky pushes this malignant malady away - for now at least - and I am filled with the wonder of the natural world once more. I swing my pack over my tired shoulders and leave my private eden for the peaks and troughs of the high moor.