I stand, arms outstretched, a stiff westerly punching my chest. Mum clicks the shutter and freezes me forever - rooting me to this spot, immortalising the moment and setting it free on film. Dad resists the bugging tug on the taut lead as our dog, Amy, fights for freedom and a chase. My younger sister looks on, no doubt wondering what on earth we’re doing here. But it is my 14th birthday and therefore my choice. I have chosen here, 1500ft up on the back of my new favourite thing; Dartmoor. A team of teenagers, around 16 years old, heavily laden with packs and maps, appears from the south chatting loudly. They stop at the boulders around the base of the Tor and pull out high energy snacks and supplies. The wind blows stronger.
I take a bite of my chocolate covered Kendal Mint Cake and stuff the remainder back into the side pocket of my pack. “Let’s move ‘em up and move ‘em out!” comes a cry and we shoulder our kit and head north, downhill to Princetown leaving the family behind. At the wooden gate where moor meets road my comrades and I pass four guys with guitars and a camera heading up to the Tor. We turn and watch them trudge along the muddy path, and comment on their lack of preparedness in their towny attire of jeans and trainers. The wind drops slightly.
Grasping my acoustic bass by its slender neck, and squeezing past a gaggle of teens out on a training walk, me and my bandmates laugh and joke, hopping from tuft to tuft and avoiding puddles as best we can in our wholly unsuitable clothing. I know this fact and feel a little uncomfortable as I have been here before many times but never quite like this. 30 minutes later and we are clambering over the rough rock and mustering the best album cover poses we can. The shutter is clicked - haven’t I done this before, a decade ago? Someone suggests it’s beer o’clock so we jump down and turn heal north again to the nearest inn where there will be a fire, warmth and company; more memories made. As we walk across the carpark I notice a wedding celebration going on in the function room, the bride and groom pausing for the camera as they cut the three-tiered cake. The sun beats down and the wind has dropped.
It’s been an amazing day. Sunshine illuminating the burnt orange grasses of the western moor, more photos taken than I can remember. My entire family and close friends, gathered, surrounded by a natural splendour that shines and dazzles even the most jaded and urban. “I had no idea it was this beautiful up here!” an uncle confides - “isn’t it just mist, drizzle and bogs?”. As my Angie and I smile for the camera, framed by the french windows, I notice a familiar face walk across the courtyard, but the fleeting recognition fades, the family crowds round and the cake is cut. Later, we wander up to the Tor, the sun sinking lower below the beech hedge on our right. Over the brow ahead a family of four come into sight, two young children skipping happily down the track towards us - the oldest maybe 12. I turn and smile to my new wife. A rare moment of serenity hits as we pass.
An early evening breeze picks up keenly from the west and we make our way to the car, the four of us glowing from an afternoon’s tramp and a quarter century on South Hessary.