Monksilver and the Edge of Exmoor: A Subtle Detour into Childhood

Did you have a favourite book as a child? One that, in some small but indelible way, stitched itself into who you are? I ask because this latest wander brought elements of mine back to life.

It may not be the most imaginative choice, but Danny, the Champion of the World, has always been mine. Published the year I was born, it tells the story of a father and son, simple pleasures, and outwitting the powers that be. Softer and less surreal than much of Dahl’s work, it still hums with adventure and anarchic mischief. For me, it became more than just a story. It was an invitation to roam, to potter, to dream. Exploring the woods near home or tinkering with Dad’s car felt like stepping into Danny’s world.

We arrived after dark and spent the night at the Notley Arms Inn, nestled snugly in the village of Monksilver. The charmingly eccentric landlord offered more than a warm welcome; he radiated an infectious enthusiasm for the area. From Hunky Punks to Sir Francis Drake, this little idyll was steeped in the folklore and history that so often accompanies a call to explore. One conversation drifted toward how seasonal shooting parties keep the wheels turning locally. Perched on the fringes of Exmoor and bordering the vast Coombe Sydenham Estate, it was clear that pheasants still matter here. A nod to an age-old rural tradition, still alive in places where time seems content to pause. It was impossible not to be drawn back into Danny’s world. A father and son pitting their wits against the odds with quiet, crafty determination. With both stomach and imagination well fed, the route for tomorrow would allow a subtle detour into childhood.

We woke to a suggestion of frost beneath an icy sky. Recent rain reflected the sun’s rays, and the stream running through the village burbled audibly out of sight. All was still. For those who have delved into my earlier posts, you will be au fait with Hunky Punks. The grotesque relatives of gargoyles that adorn churches, taunting unsuspecting parishioners and pilgrims from above. Coupled with the fact that, despite slightly woolly details, Sir Francis Drake was wed here for a second time in 1585, you have a recipe for a fantastic place to start a walk. History and folklore again combine to elicit curiosity.

The tranquillity of the scene was fittingly broken as we headed up and away from the church. The cacophony of gunfire echoing from beyond the estate fencing above signalled that a day’s shooting was underway. The pheasants were fair game. For us, safe passage was assured, as we funnelled into a long, narrow climb. Forming part of the Coleridge Way, we were drawn deeper into an increasingly remote setting, where a thick carpet of fallen oak and beech leaves cushioned our steps, shielding us from the mud beneath while rustling autumn’s lingering bounty. A winter stream rushed alongside us, small waterfalls tumbling down the steep path, their sound mixing with the quiet of the woods. Despite the cossetting nature of the trail, momentary views of the landscape beyond gave perspective; the watery sunshine projected enough clarity to make out the distant industrial Welsh coastline. The gradient felt unrelenting at times, with fewer words spoken and focus increasingly drawn to the terrain ahead. As ever, though, it was worth it.

As a child, a trip to the woods provided a portal into a fantastical world that nurtured the roots of imagination and wanderlust. A place loaded with stories handed down by grandparents, telling of mysterious creatures, hidden paths and unseen perils. The very type of setting to trigger thoughts of Danny and his dad scheming as they moved stealthily under the protection of the canopy.

Oak and beech scattered the forest floor as the ground plateaued. These stoic giants, some fallen, stood as quiet witnesses to times past. The very trees that had once overseen the wedding of Sir Francis Drake in the village below offered a contrast to modern life; a reassuring gesture to how nature can patiently persist against a backdrop of continuous change and development. Adorned with velvety, fluorescent moss, the scene gained an added sensory dimension that further enhanced the aura of this ancient woodland. The shotgun fire had steadied for now, with barrels doubtless cocked over arms, as port was sipped to help sharpen the aim. Our dog, living her best life, happily continued the hunt in vain. As if proof were ever needed, French Bulldogs are lovers, not fighters. Momentarily, the pheasants could rest.

Emerging onto a quiet lane, we reached the summit of the walk. The path had skirted the edge of the aptly named Bird’s Hill, forming part of the Brendon Hills. This lesser spoken of spot acts as a bridge between the Quantocks to the east and the wild expanses of Exmoor to the west. As is often the case with places that play second fiddle to their more illustrious cousins, this wander supplied a gratifying feeling of authenticity and discovery. A cursory look at the map led us back downhill, through a small plantation, before opening out into an expansive combe. These hidden valleys are enclosed on all but one side, creating a natural basin. In this instance, Nettlecombe Park captured our attention, with rolling grassland guiding the eye toward the church and manor house below. Water, too, is the lifeblood of these landscapes. It had certainly been wet of late, and the natural springs emerging from the ground made themselves known with vigour. Crystal waters flowed into a series of pools and streams, navigating seamlessly between lush fields and the surrounding treeline.