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.“But only if I can prevail upon ye tae make a little detour and drop me off on the Yelverton road.It’ll be a circular route for ye but no too far out of ye’re way, I promise ye.”As I hesitated he quickly added, “But if ye’re in a hurry, then dinnae fret.The walkin’s good for a man.And me: I must hae tramped a thousand miles over these moors, so a half-dozen more willnae harm me.”“Not at all,” I answered.“I was just working out a route, that’s all.For while I’ve crossed Dartmoor often enough, still I sometimes find myself confused.Maybe I don’t pay enough attention to maps and road signs, and anyway my sense of direction isn’t up to much.You might have to show me the way.”“Oh, I can do that easily enough,” Quarry answered.“And I know what ye mean.I walk these moors freely in three out of four seasons, but in the fourth I go verra carefully.When the snow is on the ground, oh it’s beautiful beyond a doubt—ah, but it hides all the landmarks! A man can get lost in a blink, and then the cold sets in.” As we set off down the steep slope he asked: “So then, how did ye come here?”“I’m sorry?”“Ye’re route, frae the car tae here.”“Oh.I followed the path—barely a track, really—but I walked where many feet have gone before: around that clump of standing stones there, and so on to the foot of this hill where I left the track, climbed through the heather, and finally arrived at this grassy ledge.”“I see.” He nodded.“Ye avoided the more direct line frae ye’re vehicle tae the base of the tor, and frae the tor tae the knoll.Verra sensible.”“Oh?”“Aye.Ye see those rushes?” He pointed.“Between the knoll and yon rock? And those patches of red and green, huggin’ close tae the ground? Well those colours hint of what lies underfoot, and it’s marshy ground just there.Mud like that’ll suck ye’re shoes off! It would make a more direct route as the crow flies, true enough, but crows dinnae hae tae walk!”“You can tell all that from the colour of the vegetation? The state of the ground, that is?” He obviously knew his Dartmoor, this man.He shrugged.“Did I no say how I’ve lived here for twenty years? A man comes tae understand an awfy lot in twenty years.” Then he laughed.“Oh, it’s no great trick.Those colours: they indicate mosses, sphagnum mosses.And together with the rushes, that means boggy ground.”We had reached the foot of the knoll and set off following the rough track, making a detour wide of the tor and the allegedly swampy ground; which is to say we reversed and retraced my incoming route.And Quarry continued talking as we walked:“Those sphagnums…” he said, pausing to catch his breath.“…That’s peat in the makin’.A thousand years from now, it’ll be good burnin’ stuff, buried under a couple of feet of softish earth.Well, that’s if the moor doesnae dry out—as it’s done more than its share of this last verra hot summer.Aye, climatic change and all that.”I was impressed.“You seem to be a very knowledgeable man.So then, what are you, Mr.Quarry? Something in moors conservation? Do you work for the National Park Authority? A botanist, perhaps?”“Botany?” He raised a shaggy eyebrow.“My profession? No laddie, hardly that.I was a veterinary surgeon up in Scotland a good long spell ago—but I dinnae hae a profession, not any more.Ye see, my hands got a wee bit wobbly.Botany’s my hobby now, that’s all.All the green things…I enjoy tae identify them, and the moor has an awfy lot tae identify.”“A Scotsman in Devon,” I said.“I should have thought the highlands would be just as varied…just as suitable to your needs.”“Aye, but my wife was a Devon lass, so we compromised.”“Compromised?”He grinned.“She said she’d marry me, if I said I’d come live in Devon.I’ve no regretted it.” And then, more quietly, “She’s gone now, though, the auld girl.Gone before her time.Her heart gave out.It was most unexpected.”“I’m sorry to hear it,” I said.“And so you live alone?”“For quite some time, aye.Until my Jennie came home frae America.So now’s a nice time for me.Jennie was studyin’ architectural design; she got her credentials—top of the class, too—and now works in Exeter.”We were passing the group of tall stones, their smoothed and rounded sides all grooved with the same horizontal striations.I nodded to indicate them.“They look like the same hand was at work carving them.”“And so it was,” said Quarry.“The hand of time—of the ice age—of the elements.But all the one hand when ye think it through.This could well be the tip of some buried tor, like an iceberg of stone in a sea of earth.”“There’s something of the poet in you,” I observed.He smiled.“Oh, I’m an auld lad of nature, for a fact!”And, once again on impulse, I said, “Andrew, if I may call you that, I’d very much like you to have that drawing—that’s if you’d care to accept it.It’s unfinished, I know, but—”“—But I would be delighted!” he cut in.“Now tell me: how much would ye accept for it?”“No,” I said.“I meant as a gift.”“A gift!” He sounded astonished.“But why on earth would a body be givin’ all those hours of work away?”“I really don’t know.” I shook my head, and shrugged.“And anyway, I haven’t worked on it all that long.Maybe I’d like to think of it on your wall, beside my mother’s painting.”“And so it shall be—if ye’re sure…?”“I am sure.”“Then I thank ye kindly
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