March can be a tricky month. Winter drags its heels; the light at the end of the tunnel still feels like a distant illusion. Resolve weakens in the face of dank, chilly days, while hope dangles like a carrot in the form of daffodils and lengthening sunsets. After what felt like one long, relentless downpour, the return of blue skies and birdsong made getting out not just appealing, but necessary.
Curiosity has been the downfall of many a cat, yet I’d still place it near the top of the traits worth embracing. Even roads, seemingly dry subjects, reveal unexpected stories when looked at with interest. Take the A303: a giant among arterial highways, the subject of books and even pop songs. It carries not just traffic but possibility. Its vistas stretch from Hampshire to the West Country. Like any route we travel often, its landmarks flicker past, half noticed. For me, one such landmark is Dumpdon Hill.
Just after the A303 merges into the A30 and slips into Devon, Dumpdon rises above the traffic, a hillfort that always catches my eye. A glance at the map shows it marking the southern reaches of the Blackdown Hills, a lesser known National Landscape of ridges, high plateaux, and quiet river valleys. Dotted with farms, pretty villages, and winding lanes, the Blackdowns feel like a peaceful step back in time.
Luppitt sits astride a lane best described as steep. For those making the weekly pilgrimage to St Mary’s Church, which commands the view at the top of the village, Godliness would likely be matched by impressive calves. It was a fitting place to start the walk; our feet followed down between the cottages and onto a lane that felt wonderfully lost in time.
One joy of this season is the awakening of wildlife. Birdsong rose above the silence; hedgerows yawned themselves back to life. The lane carried us past farms and isolated houses, with nods of welcome from those tending their gardens. The unheard sigh of relief felt tangible.
Once off her lead, the dog was first to breach the summit of Hartridge. Ferned on its banks, this grassland promenade of common land offered a splendid view of the valley below and a welcome rest after the climb. The gentle warmth of the sun brushed our faces, and Dumpdon Hill rose on the horizon. Deep blue skies contrasted with lush, sunlit greens; silver-lined clouds drifted above like slow moving ships.
Peace held. The earthworks and beech trees of Dumpdon continued to draw the eye, rising above the Otter valley and commanding the landscape. It was one of those walks where the map could be tucked away. The lane below traced the route perfectly.
Approaching the hill along an unmade track, the path to the top was guided more by the feet of animals than by signposts. Despite its prominence, Dumpdon Hill is thought to have been unfinished and never fully inhabited. Yet myth and mystery cling to it; a testament to its strategic perch. Hands on knees for the final push, we reached the enclosure. Sheep grazed nonchalantly, and the beech trees muffled any hint of traffic below. Resisting the temptation to look until we reached the trig point, we soaked up the ancestral atmosphere that hillforts always seem to hold.
The reveal did not disappoint. The Blackdowns stretched to a distant horizon, countryside meeting a sky of bold contrasts. Buzzards patrolled above. We watched quietly, grateful to have found another place to enjoy in solitude. From the west came the faint hum of small planes taking off from Dunkeswell, a sure sign it was a good day for jumping. Shadowy parachutes drifted silently toward the ground, adding a final flourish to the urge to wander we had set out to satisfy.
Walking gingerly back down the steep path, the final stretch took us through more narrow lanes. Water had been a constant companion throughout the day, and the sound of a fast-flowing tributary grew louder as we reached the valley floor. Emerging from the escarpment above, a myriad of gullies and streams fed the water, each carving its own route around nature’s obstacles. The crystal flow, filtered through fertile land, was a welcome soundtrack, and a cooling drink for our thirsty Frenchie.
The last climb back to the car made the six mile walk feel considerably longer. Tender knees were proof that the views had taken some determination to reach. But the rewards more than justified the climb. By stepping away from well trodden routes and looking behind the scenes, we had embraced a beautiful, unspoilt, and often overlooked location. It felt like finding Old England hidden in plain sight, the kind of place that reveals itself only when you slow your pace and let curiosity lead. The Blackdown Hills are a true treasure, and this small detour was a reminder of how much wonder waits just beyond the familiar. Plans are already forming.
With the Luppitt Arms sadly closed (it looks amazing), we ventured to nearby Upottery and the Sidmouth Arms. A warm welcome awaited, along with a well-earned lunch and a pint of local Otter Ale. Today had been about stretching mind and limbs as spring made itself felt, shaking off winter’s dregs and feeling free again.
Wanderful.
