A Day at North Bovey - Ring of Bells

The Ring of Bells was our destination, a quaint old pub in the heart of Dartmoor. We had a long drive from the Isle of Wight and had to catch a ferry and negotiate many towns and cities and infinite roundabouts.

We breezed by Exeter and Winchester, neglecting history and architecture and I inwardly cringe, embarrassed as we doggedly head for the woods.

The long drive ended as the day ended. We found our little pub - our one pub experience for this trip. There is not much to do in a little village at night. There were no eateries and nothing open. The wooded lane ways and babbling brooks, ancient trees and stone bridges were exactly what we wanted. We wandered around soaking up the atmosphere, noticed all the little things. This is a Patrick sort of place - where you can spend time reading in the quiet, enjoying the interesting minutiae of a million fascinating nooks and crannies. The trees have birth dates - when they were planted - engraved stone markers. The roofs sport individual thatching techniques. The roads are rickety and winding, not a level piece of ground to be had.

The late night sun was setting and we saw some strangely dressed men approaching the courtyard. The Morris men.  We watched from our window above the courtyard as they prepared to dance, bells on their legs, top hats and ribbons. The music started. The dancing and leaping and laughing filled the courtyard. They filled the air with joy and fun. They clowned around and echoed the sport of a hundred years and much more than that. A treasure of a memory, unplanned and unexpected. A gift from the village and from times gone by. I am blessed. Thank you Morris Men. Thank you North Bovey.