Dartmoor

[alt_poppy]

Dartmoor is as ever it was: vast and lonesome. It's tempting to call it dismal or drear, but that ignores the variety of terrain here and the abundance of life settled in its peaty bogs and woodland glens and rough pastures. But for all that, it can seem a desperately lonely place. After a day of picking one's way through the bogs that dot these high moors, one feels very glad to find a friendly pub nestled in a valley.

It's difficult to describe how strange it is to trek across a blanket bog: the sphagnum underfoot is alternately crisp or sodden to the point of giving the sensation that one is walking on water. What it never is, however, is solid. One's footsteps do not resound here as they do on a hard floor and nor do they offer a proper sense of distance travelled. That's one reason it is so easy to grow disorientated on Dartmoor--that and the fact that for miles and miles, the terrain looks the same without marker or path. Oh, one occasionally finds an old muggle sign noting a bridle path or a right of way, but most of those have been swallowed by the bogs to lie in silent oblivion forever more.

One begins to imagine things out here: sounds, optical illusions, odd sensations. Yesterday morning, I could have sworn I heard the hounds and horns of a fox hunt away beyond Tor Royal, but, of course, there couldn't have been. Later in the day, I thought I was imagining things again, when suddenly a herd of ponies appeared where nothing had been a moment before. But they were real enough. I was in company this evening with some folk who told me that the ponies were introduced to the park (as it was then called) by a muggle conservation group concerned with keeping the woodlands from taking over all of the pastureland hereabouts. I've often seen sheep here in my visits, but never had I seen such a pack of wild ponies!

It's been an evening for storytelling here in the Vixen Tor, the snug little local I happened upon in good time for a late supper. There was much merriment had at the expense of some rather officious chap from the Ministry who came out last spring, ruffling feathers with his authority to inspect this and that, only to ride off of a morning and not return to his inn at dusk. The next morning, one of the locals happened to spy the man's pointy black hat lying on the ground off to the side of the track, which, rather than pick it up, he gave a good walloping kick. And in response, the hat gave out a bellowing yawp! Turns out the Ministry bloke was still wearing it, but he'd sunk that far into the mire and not been able to get out. 'How're yer doin' down there, guv'nor?' the local asked him. The Ministry chap answered in his most dignified tone, 'I'm perfectly fine, though the thestral I'm riding may require some assistance.'

Surely, though, a thestral would be too clever to fall into such dire straits. I shall have to ask our new Creatures instructor about that when we meet.

Speaking of creatures, my companions this evening have roundly warned me against allowing pixies to lead me astray. I thank my good luck and my six senses that I've only had one run-in so far with those tiny nuisances, and that was right in my tent. You may be well assured that I shall take better care in casting sealing spells on all my breakfast supplies from here on!

And one last creaturely note:

Horace, you'll be happy to know that I have found a healthy population of the Southern Hawker dragonflies you requested. As rare as they are in Scotland, they are as common as chizpurfles down here. But remind me: did you need the whole fly or just certain parts?

 

Comments

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[alt_sirius]

Oh, c'mon, Poppy, you're not falling for that old hags' tale about Vixana, are you? My grandmother used to scare us with that ghost story when I was in short robes.

Isn't that old legend the one where the pixies warred with the hinkypunks for dominance over the safe trails through the bogs? 'Don't go alone to the moors at night; don't follow the vixen's candlelight?'

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[alt_poppy]

I'm only drinking in her pub, Sirius. And listening to the stories about her. If I'm here another night, I shall ask about the hinkypunks. It seems that around the Dartmoor, it is pixie lights one's urged to fear and not the smoky hinkypunk. 'Look sharp to your steps, Mum, and beware you're not pixie-led!' That's the benediction they've offered me each night as I've left the pub to walk down to my campsite.

In my experience, pixie mischief has always been more mundane than murderous, but I suppose one ought never be dismissive of local lore when in a strange neighbourhood.

Are there hinkypunks in France? You don't suppose that's what misled the Malfoy boy, do you? I've never heard of city-dwelling will-o'-the-wisps, but I suppose I've not spent much time in cities, really, saving London, and that's been years ago.

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[alt_sirius]

There are hinkypunks, interestingly enough. But they are mostly a northeastern phenomenon - specifically along the Belgium and Luxembourg borderlands. Nothing like them down south, and none in the cities that I'm aware of. (I'll confess that I myself have run afoul of that Flooport Malfoy mentioned in his post about the lad's disappearance. It's a remnant of the days of the Revolution, I think - many a wizard had to escape Madame Le Guillotine back in the day!)

I always preferred the Black Shuck of Runyon tales myself. For obvious reasons.

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[alt_poppy]

It's funny you should mention the Black Shuck. I'd long forgot those tales until last week when I was in Suffolk: there was a band in one of the places I had supper, singing old ballads of the kind where the protagonist kills his lover (by accident or not) or he dies (of heartbreak or heroism), but it all always ends badly. You know the sort of song. Anyway, there was one about the Black Shuck that's been stuck in my ear ever since. The refrain was something like this:

And a dreadful thing from the cliff did spring,
And its wild bark thrill'd around,
His eye had the glow of the fires below,
Twas the form of the spectral hound.

It has an absolutely awful tune, too, wouldn't you know? I'd give anything to have 'Frere Jaques' or 'The Hosepipes' Lament' or anything else take its place in my head. But no, it goes on and on.

Oh, out from the dark leapt the fierce, fiery spark
Of that great beast's dreadful stare.
A cry and a shout, but he snuffed them out,
And they'd never, not nary a prayer.

Wretched stuff. Accompanied with a tin whistle. You wouldn't know a charm short of Obliviation for scrubbing this sort of rubbish from one's brain?

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[alt_sirius]

I can give you a charm to stuff your ears full of cotton wool if you like. Or one to make them occluded by wax. But selective obliviation, 'fraid not.

In fact, you ought aleady to know the cotton one. Remember - you insisted we tell you the spell we used to get it reversed, back in fourth year.

That was the month James was convinced we should start our own band. And tried to let us make him lead vocals so he sang at us constantly.

I think we told you it was persistent snoring. But no, it was James and his schemes. Merlin, I still miss that man.

[alt_terry]

boot likes to read Madam Pomfrey's entries and hopes Madam Pomfrey is having a good summer.