Wotter is a lovely little village standing proud over Plymouth, where on a clear day, despite being 5 miles away you can see the individual boats in the harbour.

I’d spent a lovely full day relaxing up in the hills, away from the moderate hustle and bustle. Through my bedroom window, I could spot sheep and ponies on the moorland, whilst I was beavering away.

For Friday lunch, Tess and I wondered about a mile down the lane to the nearest pub, the White Thorn Inn, where it was surprisingly busy. I learned later that evening from a friendly local chap who often frequented the Moorland Hotel’s reasonably priced bar the story behind this. This area of south Devon continues to employ a lot of engineers supporting the local shipping and mining industries, and as the port historically shut at noon, so too do the peripheral companies.

Whilst eating my lasagne, a sturdy, beaming yet soft-speaking fellow walked in with his spaniel and baby daughter. We got chatting, the dogs too and turns out he’d been working a building contract up in Warrington the previous week. I explained my reason for being in town, and then like wildfire, it felt like the whole pub knew the adventure that Tess and I were embarking on. A lady some three tables down came over, greeted me, gave me a sizable hug and an equally sizable cash donation. She was a palliative care nurse and so helping those affected by MND had a special place in her heart.

The valiant young father took minerals and invited me for tea the next morning were I to pass by his farm, and the bar staff donated to my website.

And so it was with a spring in my step and a full belly, that I returned back to the Moorland hotel.

The hotel itself, I would go on to describe to others as interesting. Trapped in time perhaps, unintentionally quirky and with the most bizarre table layout in their dining room, with tables tucked all the way into the wall, uncomfortably so rich that you couldn’t untuck your elbow to properly make use of the knife and fork, yet all the while with a large empty space in the center of the room.

Generously I received an upgrade from a single to a double, but also said upgrade came with a wobbly toilet, broken toilet roll dispenser and an unlockable window.

Back downstairs for dinner, sitting wedged next to the wall, were quite a few people also dining with their dogs. Nestled into the corner was a squat short-haired terrier named Harry who Tess took quite a liking too. But poor chap had a problem with his pituitary gland, causing him to put on weight, drink copious amounts and then vacate his bladder at inopportune moments. The poor Indian waiter, when requested he bring serviettes to clean a dog spill, brought linen napkins and was sent off by the matriarchal dog owner for proper cleaning supplies.

All in all our stay was a pleasant one, mad even more so by the intellectual company afforded by the aforementioned local chap. It was our second evening together in the bar, the previous I arrived late on after playing with Plymouth band. He wished me well, warned me of adders and gave me advice on my route. I learned that the hotel was actually inside Dartmoor National Park by a mere 30 meters, as the perimeter is marked by a series of cattle grids to prevent the free-grazing livestock escaping. Apparently by some estimates 2000 sheep are stolen each year from Dartmoor and no perpetrators have yet been brought to justice.

Also that some 650 prisoners were moved out of Dartmoor prison last year, generally escaping media attention, due to potential dangerous levels of radon gas that gets emitted from Uranium rich granite rock.

And so it was with great anticipation I went to bed dreaming of both wild horses and escaped prisoners richening tomorrow’s adventures.