Postcards from the Edge of Dartmoor: parkrun with a Difference
One of the things I’ll be featuring regularly in Postcards from the Edge of Dartmoor is running, because it’s such a big part of life out here. I run on the lanes and roads around the moor, and I take part in local events too, including my local parkrun. Now, if you’ve been following along, you’ll know that this one has a rather ironic name, Parke, with an ‘e’ on the end, and I’ll get to why in just a moment.
First, though, let me set the scene, because this is no ordinary parkrun. It’s not in a municipal park or a town centre green space. It’s set in the grounds of a beautiful country estate, and that makes it a very different experience from anything you’d find in a city. As I look around, there are people toiling away in the distance, paths ranging through big open fields, and, yes, cows. Actual cows, grazing peacefully right next to the track where about 150 runners have just plodded past. Whether they’re cows or bullocks I honestly couldn’t tell from where I was standing, but it’s a beautiful sight, and it’s definitely not something you’re likely to encounter at your local urban parkrun.
The cows can occasionally be a bit of an event in themselves. Sometimes they get a little excited and start running alongside the runners, or they’ve been known to cut across the path entirely. They’re not aggressive creatures by any stretch, but they can get spooked, and they are big and heavy. Mrs C, for one, is not exactly keen on a close encounter with a cow on the home stretch. It adds a certain something to the finish line experience, let’s say. It certainly makes you think, “Well, that’s not going to happen in the middle of a city.”
As I recorded this video I crossed a cattle grid, which I’m so used to by now, so I picked my way over it without thinking. But for visitors, it’s all part of the charm.
And it is charming, genuinely. The paths here aren’t smooth tarmac. They’re rough and stony, with muddy patches, especially in winter when it gets quite slippery. There are a couple of decent-sized hills and a few smaller ones, which catch a lot of people out if they’re not used to running on hilly terrain. Devon is hilly though, so we’re fairly used to it. I passed someone after the run who was telling her friends, quite loudly, that, “You have to keep watching where you put your feet, it’s not natural.” Which is wonderfully ironic, of course, because it’s entirely natural. You’re running through nature. A stony path is about as close to nature as it gets.
Now, about that name. Parke, with an ‘e’, is named after the house itself, which is right there on the estate. It’s a grand Georgian building, and it’s rather beautiful. I’ll confess that Georgian is about the only period of architecture I can confidently identify, thanks to school lessons about proportion, the pillars around the door, the tall windows, and that satisfying, solid, boxy design. I’ll do a bit of research into the history of the house and share it properly another time because it deserves its own piece. What I can tell you is that at some point it was given over to the National Trust and is now the headquarters of the Dartmoor National Park Authority. Not a bad second act for a country mansion.
We’re just outside Bovey Tracey here, which you can see up on the hill behind the estate. It’s a lovely spot, and the whole parkrun experience feels very much like a Dartmoor experience rather than just a Saturday morning jog. We get quite a few tourists joining the run, and I think some of them arrive expecting a gentle plod around a flat park. The look on their faces when the hills and the mud and the cows appear is always quietly entertaining.
If you’re enjoying this kind of slightly different window into life on the edge of Dartmoor, I hope you’ll stick around. I’ll be bringing lots of different pieces here, from running to the landscape, the history, the quirks and the characters. And yes, I’ll do that research on the house. It might just become its own little story.
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Thank you for your company.
Take care of yourselves, and I’ll see you next time from Dartmoor,
Michael Campling
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