Bovey Castle

Winding our way down Dartmoor lanes in the pitch dark night of a winter’s 5 o’clock is an adventure in itself. My well-meaning and helpful passenger Lily, or Lily-Nav as I like to call her, assures me that I went the wrong way ages ago. As my carefully selected route begins to look less and less like an actual road and more and more like a farm track, a whispering voice deep inside me quietly broaches its concern that she could be right.

In order to deflect what could be another substantial blow to my driver’s pride, already slightly diminished after missing the last turn, I was obviously going to feign complete confidence, even if it meant driving off a cliff to get there. The best I could muster of sanguine replies was a quick blast of, ‘Where’s your sense of adventure?’, before thankfully arriving at what seemed to be the hotel’s service entrance, or as I was keen to phrase it, ‘probably the local’s way in’.

Rest assured that soon, once we had passed through a complex of kitchens and delivery bays, we pulled up in front of a very welcoming site, the spectacular and beaming warmth of Bovey Castle. Here we were met by Maz, a very well-turned-out steward and porter of the castle, who was to become our friend and ally in the few nights that we stayed here. Maz assured us that he wasn’t completely horrified by the great mountain of luggage that accompanied a photographer, her chauffeur and labrador Bob, and together we hobbled into the castle.

Once you find yourself inside this place, your world completely changes. No longer was I Bert from Banbury, but, like a phoenix stepping out of the ashes of his former self, Albert of Bovey was born. Quite a similar bloke as before really, but with slightly better posture and a hastily tucked-in shirt. Glancing over at Lily to see what kind of transformation had been wrought upon her, I was shocked to see that she too had remained much the same but then again, she always did have a queenly bearing.

In this new setting of fantasy and bewitchment, she began to turn to me in what felt like slow motion, her mouth poised to begin what could only have been a ballad of Disney proportions but instead sounded a bit like, 'Isn’t it amazing, apparently there’s a dog bed for Bobby already in the room'.

This was amazing. Bobby’s current bed was a sorry sight, what can only be described as a smelly, deflated and hairy balloon, worn out by the enthusiastic and romantic attentions of its occupant. Bobby would be delighted in this new change of scenery, but warned us with a knowing gaze that this new bed was about to change shape forever and would be unrecognisable by the weekend’s end.

The next few days were unbearably good. Breakfast in bed, chess by the fire, three-course meals and ultimately lots of time spent with each other. Yet, what stands out most for me from our stay was the walk we did, starting from the grounds of the castle and heading to the little village of Lustleigh and back. A 10-mile round trip, which spirited us alongside rivers and through ancient woodlands: we climbed to the very top of hills, perched on Dartmoor’s shoulder and descended to the very bottom of its valleys.

We arrived at The Cleave Inn at 2.30pm, just when as our luck would have it, it stopped serving food. The landlord kindly pointed out that we could get a pasty from ‘The Dairy’, a small grocer just down the road that would still be open. I hasted towards this new lifeline with rekindled hope, only to discover that it was closed.

I returned to the pub empty-handed and, needless to say, everyone was horrified. What had been clearly outlined in the parish magazine (it may as well have been carved into a stone tablet) were the words muttered again in disbelief by the landlord: ‘The Dairy open Sundays until 3pm’. Lily looked weak — the missed lunch, false promise of a pasty, distinct lack of fresh lime available for her soda and probably another good two Bertie Hours' walk back (which meant three). Because of the gentle and dreamy pace of our journey, darkness was on our heels and the promised rest at the pub began to evaporate before her eyes. I began speed-stoking her with crisps, not really as high-grade fuel as a Sunday lunch or pasty, but just enough to get the spark back, one which would need careful nurturing if we were to get back with any light at all.

Just as it felt like we had begun to sit down, we were off again. Lily was trailing behind, my enthusiasm a raft, attempting to keep our team buoyed up and on the move. The raft of enthusiasm faced a few rapids, some which could very well have thrown us all in. Fortunately, a previously forgotten apple was discovered in my pocket. How long had it been there? I didn’t know, but split three ways, there was just enough sugar in there to repair and re-inflate the raft.

As the last few inches of sunlight were extinguished, a heavy silence enveloped the landscape around us. Dartmoor in the dark is a different story and one whose punctuation is marked by gentle whispers from the wind, twigs snapping underfoot, owls hooting from above and something always scurrying into the bushes. Winding our way back along rivers, up to the top of hills and hopping over remembered puddles and bogs, the light of Bovey Castle began to reveal itself and we were home.

Needless to say, our stay at Bovey Castle is a cherished adventure and one that we’ll never forget.