RUGGED ROCK STARS
They may not be as colossal as the red rocks of Arizona but Dartmoor’s lonely granite tors have won global fame for their rugged charisma. Tim Gent guides you through a natural-stone sculpture park
Dartmoor’s enigmatic granite tors are famous worldwide, and a natural-stone sculpture park, says Tim Gent.
Where do you come from?” It’s a question everyone is asked, especially if they travel. When abroad, my reply usually starts with “England”, and often that will do. If further detail is needed though, I know when the penny will drop.
“We live in the south-west.” Blank nod. “In a region called Devon.” Polite but puzzled smile.
“On the edge of Dartmoor.” And there we have it.
“Ah yes, Dartmoor. Ponies. Lots of mist. Sherlock Holmes.”
Almost everyone it seems, wherever they live, has heard of our moor, even if the images they conjure up invariably come with a strong and fictional Victorian whiff.
“And you have all those really dangerous bogs.”
“Well yes, a few of those, but they’re not really…”
“And those strange stone tors.” Ah yes… our tors.
Of course, I’m not claiming Dartmoor’s tors are anywhere near as well known as Uluru or the buttes of Arizona, and they’re hardly in the same league in terms of scale, but despite that, people do seem to know them. But then, should I be surprised?
It’s a good name for a start: short, rather noble sounding and evidently memorable. And besides, hardly a photo taken of Dartmoor fails to depict at least one tor, brooding and megalithic on the horizon. Granite appears at almost every peak after all, every hillock, even the most vague of moorland eminences, bursting from the soggy ground, dark and convoluted.
In fact, despite geological appearances, the creation of Dartmoor’s tors wasn’t anything
near as exciting as that. About 280 million years ago, molten granite seems to have done no more than ooze about deeply. There then followed a complex collection of odd geological events, all taking place deep underground, culminating in eventual exposure and an awful lot of weathering.
And the result? Well, some sort of elevated metamorphic wonderland, a natural-stone sculpture park – high, surreal and sublime. One minute you’re striding out across open moorland, the heather, cotton grass and sedge spread far in every direction, the next you enter a towering upland exhibition, nature’s precursor to Henry Moore or Barbara Hepworth; age-carved stone, windmoulded, frost-pecked, patinated by countless years. Sometimes the stone is bathed warm by the sun, on other days glazed by ice, but it is always tactile and approachable (and pretty much irresistible to anyone with a tendency to climb).
Each granite edifice has its own character, some friendly and inviting, others, at least in certain lights, dark and brooding. No visit is ever dull, and like any meeting with good art, you leave the encounter changed.
Hundreds of tors spread out across the moor, ranging in size from exuberant mini mountains to discreet piles of sometimes teetering slabs. Okay, perhaps I exaggerate a little here about the big tors. In reality, few of these outcrops stand more than five or six metres high. They just look a lot bigger as you approach. They have a presence that exceeds their mass. They demand attention.
Some of these tors seem almost untouched, their hard folded sides standing high and proud, their defences seemingly unbreached by wind, frost or time. As the weather deteriorates (and it often does up there), ponies, sheep, belted Galloway cattle (and the odd hillwalker or two), cluster sheltered in the lee of these gale-battered bastions.
Other tors appear to be almost on their last legs, the remaining rickety stands of teetering granite surrounded by a sea of shattered fragments. This disintegrated spread of ex tor – or clitter as it’s known on the moor – can cover whole hillsides, a fact that’s even more impressive when it’s realised just how much of this convenient stuff has been removed over the centuries, carted away to build barns, bridges, houses and even roads.
“It’s some sort of elevated metamorphic wonderland – high, surreal and sublime”
Many of the tors have names that fit their lumpy magnificence: Great Mis, Beardown, Steeperton, Great Staple. Others, such as Lints Tor, Kitty or Little Kneeset are rather less imposing, and more than a little baffling. Then there’s the splendidly named Laughter Tor or the intriguing Honeybag. I could carry on like this for pages.
ODD NAMES FOR ODD STONES
And if many of the names are a bit peculiar, so too are some of the tors. Branscombe’s Loaf is one of my favourites, and not just because of the odd designation (derived from a reputed hilltop standoff between the devil and a medieval bishop). This really is a strange stone lump. Prehistoric inhabitants of the moor certainly thought it was special, and ringed it with a ditch and bank. It’s easy to see why they felt drawn to this natural monument, and their need to encircle it in ritual significance.
Occasionally, tors have the same name. I can think of at least three