Low life: Unfit to walk Dartmoor

On bank holiday Monday my brother and I, and my brother’s three Border terriers, went for a day-long walk on Dartmoor. We weren’t the only ones up there. And I often wonder whether the hardy, reclusive souls who live up there, having endured another long winter, aren’t a little peeved to find their peace shattered by the walkers, cyclists and day trippers who swarm all over the place at the first sign of spring.

But to our credit, we at least looked the part. Clown that I am, I was head to foot in lightweight, quick-drying walking clobber, my suede walking shoes made in Germany, and on my back a snug-fitting, 15-litre daysack. The day before I’d sat in a busy barber’s chair and told him to give me whatever it was that the kids who wear their hair short are asking for these days. They are asking for a ‘Hitler Youth’ apparently, and five minutes later I emerged from his shop with closely shorn back and sides and a ruler-straight parting.