Dulverton

"Hunting, hunting, hunting," said a local councillor once when I asked him what I could write about Dulverton. Back in Lordy Holcombe's day the answer could have been: "Poaching, poaching, poaching." But you get the underlying message - Dulverton is surrounded by deer, deer, deer. 

Exmoor is home to England's last large herd of wild red deer and Dulverton is capital of the hills. As such, deer - and the killing of deer, legal or otherwise - has been the town's central theme for centuries. It still is, despite the so-called hunting ban.

No town in Europe is so bound up with venery. You get some clue of this when you visit - half the vehicles parked are four-wheel drives and three-quarters of all the other cars are splattered in red Exmoor mud. Dulverton is the sort of place where folk come in from the hills. A town of wellington boots and fresh air. 

The image of the stag and its antlers seems to be stamped everywhere. It is even the logo of the Exmoor National Park Authority, which has its headquarters in town.

Lordy Holcombe, by the way, was the man who put deer poaching on the map. Lordy lived in Dulverton during the reign of Queen Victoria and was a character - as anyone who has read his book, The Autobiography of an Exmoor Poacher (reprinted by Halsgrove - on sale at £14.95) – will know. 

Lordy was candid about his calling: "I did not take to poaching as a means of livelihood, or, at least, as a means of livelihood solely. I liked poaching; I loved poaching; I was never so happy as when I was poaching. You see, it was in my blood. I was a born poacher and a born rogue."

For anyone who doesn't know Dulverton, you must imagine a small town situated on the banks of a fast-flowing river. All around to the south, west and north are steep woods and hills. Only to the south-east do the inclines subside into the contours of a softer, more rolling nature. In that direction lies Pixton Park, one of the great demesnes to rule the roost in this Somerset-Devon border region.

The town's main-street begins where a multi-arched bridge crosses the Barle. To the left as you cross you will see Exmoor House - now home to the Exmoor National Park Authority but was once a grim workhouse where the poor of the hills ended their miserable days. 

Ahead, the main-street climbs away from the river, introducing you to an array of interesting shops. A few yards up the road splits in two - fork-left and you will see the famous steps of the Town Hall and, at the far end on the hillside, there'll be splendid All Saints Church. Not quite so splendid as it was, alas. It was somewhat drastically restored in 1855 when it lost its gallery, box pews, and 15th century rood screen.

Dulverton is surrounded by pleasant walks - just as it is surrounded by history. Iron age forts seem to be in abundance with Oldberry Castle, Mounsey Castle and Brewer's Castle all relatively close by. Then there's what's left of Norman Bury Castle not far to the east and the remains of Barlynch Priory a mile or so up the Exe Valley.

Dunster

Dunster is, arguably, doyen of the Westcountry’s tourism honey-pots. Point your camera anywhere in the picturesque village, and you'll capture a classic shot. The famous Yarn Market, which dominates the main street, must be one of the most photographed structures in the region.

People have been admiring Dunster for a long time. In 1823 William Hazlitt recalled: "Eyeing it wistfully as it lay below us, contrasted with the woody scene around, it looked as clear, as pure, as embrowned and ideal as any landscape I have seen since..."

Just over a century ago Mrs Cecil Frances Alexander was so impressed that she sat down on Grabbist, the steep shoulder of hill that is the backdrop of the village, and wrote the famous hymn 'All Things Bright and Beautiful'.

Dunster is as historic as it is pretty. It is, of course, dominated by its castle. Everywhere you go - there it is, perched upon its knoll. There's been some sort of fort on the Tor since 1067 - and the people up there have held sway for the best part of a thousand years.

The Luttrell family gave the castle to the National Trust in 1976 after owning it for many centuries. The Luttrells had a good name as far as overlords go, but naturally they had the odd run-in with the villagers. All sorts of stories exist, but my favourite is the one about Dunster's own version of 'Lady Godiva'.

Lady Elizabeth de Mohun, a member of the family that built the original castle, decided the family should show a little more largesse and begged her husband to give some land to the commoners. He told her that he'd give them whatever land she could ride around at dawn. There was only one catch: she had to go naked. She did just that, but the village-folk are said to have been so grateful, they averted their eyes.

It's just one yarn in a history rich in legend and anecdote. A veritable pageant of the past has rolled along under the castle walls. Soldiers from Agincourt have been called to serve the Mohuns; mediaeval masons have hammered at the soft sandstone to build the huge church and priory; Benedictine monks have filed silently past the old Nunnery; mariners who used the vanished port called Dunster Haven, have carved their footprints in the church's lead roof; Royalist and Parliamentarian soldiers have besieged and been besieged; even Charles II took refuge here as a young prince...

So picturesque and historic Dunster has become a honey-pot for tourists. But the wonderful thing about the place is that the hordes of visitors have not ruined it - you can still enjoy the scenery and architecture and soak up its wonderful atmosphere of antiquity.

Lynton and Lynmouth

There's no other coastline like it. From Porlock to Combe Martin, Exmoor shoulders her great flanks to the sea. The tallest sea cliffs in England, rising almost 1,000 feet, make it one of the most inhospitable littorals in the land - and yet, in the middle of all this, there is a harbour. 

A tiny, brave little haven that has witnessed both life-crushing disaster and life-saving courage and fortitude. A port so picturesque that it inspired sweet words to pour forth from the pens of poets like Wordsworth, Coleridge, Southey and Shelley.

Lynmouth - the place where Exmoor drops her guard. The boulder-strewn haven where the great hills yield to the sea so that they can rid themselves of water - the life-blood that has tumbled and torn its way down a hundred rivulets and ravines.

Even its name gives us a clue to the fate of the place. Llynna comes from the Anglo-Saxon and means torrent - so that Lynmouth is the 'town on the torrent'.

In Lynmouth's case the day of reckoning came on August 15th 1952, when more than 90 million tons of water cascaded down the steep narrow valleys towards the small harbour village causing death and devastation as it went. In all, 34 people lost their lives that black night. 

Today, most people's initial view of Lynmouth is from high above the North Devon Foreland near the hamlet of Countisbury. The full vista of Lynmouth Bay suddenly opens up and the motorist is greeted by one of the most breathtaking surprises to be experienced anywhere on English roads.

No wonder the Victorians called this "Little Switzerland". The only flat thing here is the sea.  All other elements within the panorama are on the perpendicular.

It is a place of great romance – you only have to talk to one of the local boatmen to know it. Matthew Oxenham once told me this about his family’s salty history: "We've always been linked with the sea in some way. 600 years ago my ancestor John Oxenham was hung by the Spanish for being a privateer. Privateer mind, not pirate. He had a license.

"My grandfather had the Lily which was the last boat to trade out of here. She was a wonderful old ketch that traded in coal and pit-props. And then my father operated packet-boats which were so important to the village when a lot of steamers used to come to Lynmouth. There was a time when that was the main way of getting here, but I still use the packets to collect passengers off the Balmoral when she comes."

Matthew went on to tell me all sorts of fascinating titbits - such as the fact that local men would to play cricket out at sea on an extensive sandbar that used to dry out at low tides but which has now been committed to the deep thanks to commercial extraction. 

However, all these salty tales pale into insignificance compared to the "Overland Launch" when coxswain Jack Crocombe with his crew and many helpers dragged their lifeboat Louisa across the moors to Porlock to rescue the stricken Forrest Hall in January 1899. The famous deed has been described as: "Exmoor's contribution to a national roll of notable deeds..." 

You can wave goodbye to the boats at Lynmouth by travelling vertically upwards. The funicular cliff railway provides visitors with one of the best rides to be found anywhere in the Westcountry – and at the top you will find yourself in the pleasant little town of Lynton, which is a terrific starting point for countless wonderful walks.