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. So I was every inch the pre-war Wandervogel.

My brother wore walking boots, but otherwise doesn’t need specialist gear to look the part. He is a strapping, rugby-playing policeman and judo black belt with biceps bigger and rounder than my calves. Next month he’s off to Northern Ireland to earn some of the £50 million that the security operation for the rash G8 summit is going to cost us. One day last week police instructors threw petrol bombs at him all afternoon.

I must mention the dogs, too. My brother had stripped out their winter coats and they looked as lithe and lean as racing snakes, and a credit to the breed, though if there was any well-rotted cow manure lying about, Ruby in particular wolfed down as much as she could before my brother noticed and started yelling.