It had always been a place of mystery – out of bounds and with a distinct aura of otherworldliness. Its riches were legendary, there were those lucky few who had passed many an hour in its warm embrace, refuelling and taking stock. It was a den of desires dutifully fulfilled, a beacon with an almost magnetic attraction drawing us ever closer. On many occasions I had passed by, sodden and melancholy, but always moving on and out of its orbit - like a rogue comet it seemed I was not destined to land here. Until one day my chance came – albeit at the ultimate price.
The Fox Tor café, unassuming and modest, stands squeezed between the Railway Inn and Tor Royal Lane in the high moorland village of Princetown. There is nothing particularly special from the outside – its off-white and slightly weather-beaten façade is sliced through with a functional lamplit burgundy sign proclaiming its hostelry status. The triplet of sash windows on the upper floor are closed and dark but emanating from the misted glass of the lower two apertures are beams of warm light like eyes puncturing the perennial fog that cloaks the village for much of the year.
I’m tired – more tired than I’ve ever been on one of these Ten Tors training walks. The previous day has really taken it out of me and I’m not the only one – two of our team have already dropped out. The reality of the situation is hitting me hard and the prospect of trudging another 30km northwards to Okehampton Camp is soul-destroying. The truth is my body gave up hours ago and it is only mental fortitude, drawn from the deep well of experience that is tenuously carrying me onwards. However, wobbling along the track somewhere between Nun’s Cross and South Hessary Tor, I realise the tank is empty and I’m running on fumes. It’s time to concede – the first and last time I would do this. I would sell my soul, so to speak, down at the crossroads of the B3357 and the B3212, for a few hours in the garden of earthly delights.
On opening the bright red, glass-paned door I cross the threshold and pass into a mythical and ethereal domain, hitherto exclusively the reserve of group leaders, teachers and ex- students up here to help out for the weekend. Hots mugs of milky tea throw clouds of steam skyward and there is a distinct fug of damp outdoor wear desperate to dry out before the next onslaught of meteorological inclemency. Huge plates stacked precariously with delectable morsels of every breakfast combination imaginable are brought out from a hidden kitchen at the back. Teetering towers of hot buttered toast are placed on wooden tabletops whilst the more adventurous opt for teacakes and muffins. Every conceivable culinary requirement of the discerning hiker, worn down after days of rehydrated space food, Smash and Angel Delight, is on offer. Simply put, we are in heaven.
My hardier companions have already crossed into the wilds of the north moor, doggedly soldiering on to glory but I am seated in the bosom of this hallowed place, so revered and respected by those who have taken communion here. A feeling of contentment washes over me. I have paid a high price indeed to be here but the disappointment and regret that was felt so keenly just moments before ebb away as I eagerly tuck into my first plate of bacon and eggs.