The mild wild west: Why Exmoor’s wildness is best explored on a literary tour

Lockdown recalibrated our shrinking planet: easily traversable cities became small states, while countries took on continental proportions.

I was fortunate to spend Lockdown 2.0 at my Mum’s in west Somerset and pleased to find that Exmoor’s windswept plains remain what they have always seemed to me: another world. During the Romantic period, painters, writers and poets descended on this part of the West Country, eager to discover a rural idyll they felt was disappearing elsewhere.  

Not long ago, I walked one of its most storied corners on a crisp December day. I passed through valleys, over rivers, around lakes and along cliffs, but barely scratched the surface of what is sometimes called Britain’s “forgotten national park”. 

Exmoor’s 267 square miles feature the most dramatic landscapes and clearest skies (it was recently designated an International Dark Sky Reserve) you’ll find in southern England.

That day, however, I had a different twinkle in my eye. My target was the twin coastal towns of Lynton & Lynmouth, the confluence not only of two rivers but also three literary walks: the Doone Valley, Coleridge Way and Tarka Trail. Three generations of family (four if you count dogs) and I would attempt to touch sections of each.  

The night before, I’d dug out my granny’s old Exmoor dictionary. It is often said that the Inuits have 78 words for snow. Well, about three-quarters of this book is filled with synonyms for mud. Not wishing to get too bogged down in semantics, I’ll share with you jugg, mux, queech, zogg, stogg… I made a mental note to wear boots.  

Unlike London, Exmoor has always been somewhere that time moves more slowly, and not just because of all the zogg. En route to our rendezvous, I was stuck behind a herd of cattle for half an hour. I texted ahead, including photo evidence of the hold-up – when I arrived at Doone Valley, my uncle told me every local possesses such an image, ready to be deployed if running late.  

Lorna Doone was written in 1869 by RD Blackmore and quickly became a literary sensation on both sides of the Atlantic. It takes place in the late 17th century, during the time of the Monmouth Rebellion, in a remote valley terrorised by a family of brigands, the fearsome Doones. Though it drew acclaim from Thomas Hardy and Edith Wharton, its meandering prose hasn’t quite stood the test of time. Unlike its setting.  

Today, the valley’s campsites probably don’t contain many ‘Dooneheads’ but, dipping in and out of the novel, one still gets the sense of an ancient landscape lovingly evoked. Even in winter, it is inordinately lush: green meadows and thick forest make it perfect for birdwatching. Or, you know, sheltering outlaws.  

In the late 19th century, tours filled the area with fans eager to put places to names, much to the author’s chagrin. Exasperated by requests to disclose specific locations, he moaned: “I romanced therein, not to mislead others, but solely for the uses of my story.” Since Blackmore didn’t stick to the map, neither will we.  

I decided to climb the valley’s steep sunlit sides and join the path of a more famous literary figure. The Coleridge Way runs 51 miles from the Quantocks across Exmoor to Lynmouth, taking in varied landscapes and (in normal times) many excellent pubs. It follows a route the poet often walked with William and Dorothy Wordsworth. Though he lived in these parts for just a few years, it was here he was inspired to write his two greatest works, Kubla Khan and The Rime of the Ancient Mariner.  

The latter contains many descriptions of the south Atlantic’s “fog-white smoke”. Crossing into Devon, we went from dazzling sunshine into what is known on Exmoor as a thick wet. It often gives one the impression of being far higher up than in reality. The coastal path, much of which is blanketed in lustrous rhododendrons, felt Himalayan – I imagined Coleridge’s opium smoke drifting across the invisible precipice.

Thankfully, the path is well-signed, as it zigs this way and that, up, down and across the sheer cliff-face. On the headland, known as Foreland Point, there is a working lighthouse adjoined to a magnificent whitewashed former keepers’ cottage, available to rent from the National Trust. Its vertiginous location reminded me that Thomas Hardy coined the term “cliffhanger” in a novel set on the West Country coast, though I couldn’t remember exactly where. I got out my phone to check but, just then, the battery died… 

After a few hours spent amid the clouds, the path veered south, up Countisbury Hill. Here the fields are filled with fat cows and laced with metres of glistening, gossamer webs. Robert Southey, a Victorian poet laureate, likened this area to an English Switzerland, and it was even marketed to tourists as such, replete with Swiss-style chalets. I felt like yodelling myself, but decided the mere thought was enough to push me over the edge.  

The last leg of the walk features an exciting descent into Lynmouth Harbour. In 1812, Shelley honeymooned here. As we strolled along the promenade, a harvest moon, looking like a frozen orange, poked out from behind the cliff. Round the next bend was the awesome Valley of the Rocks, where the witch in Lorna Doone, Mother Meldrum, cackles among the caves.  

Beyond that is the Atlantic Ocean and the whole wide world. Many travellers will be desperate to get back out there as soon as they are able. Until then, it’s good to know that such abundant riches lie closer to home – in the mild, wild west, where you don’t need your passport and can take as many liquids as you like. Might I suggest a pint or seven of the local Exmoor Gold.