Whether it’s the “Showboat” song “Ole Man River” about the Mississippi, which ‘just keeps rolling along’ regardless of the struggles of the black slaves, or my near-death experience canoeing as a teenager, rivers have always held a deep fascination for me. Any walk I do has to include a river of some kind.  My favourite river walk isn’t as well known as the Mississippi, but as far as I am concerned, it is equal in majesty.

The 14km walk to Shavercombe Falls on Dartmoor takes you through the most beautiful place on our island.  It’s a beauty of the rugged kind, nature without compromise. It was Dartmoor that lured me to the West Country eight years ago.  It was love at first sight and I bought a farm only a few miles away.  As The Black Farmer, I feel an affinity with the moor.  There are no problems fitting in here, for everyone who visits is an outsider.

Man is afforded little compromise on Dartmoor.  Here, nature has the upper hand, so it is no surprise to find man pitting himself against the challenges that Dartmoor sets.  The Military, orienteers, school groups or just plucky individuals – all can be witnessed testing themselves here.  If you can survive in this place, the feeling is that you’ll be able to cope with anything.

The time of day I choose is as important as the walk itself.  For me, it’s when the day is in full bloom.  For the full four-hour walk from Cadover Bridge, start no later than 2pm.  A shorter, two-hour trek begins from a car park just beyond Nattor (grid reference 57.9 across, 67.4.down).  Whichever you decide on, make sure you start your return journey a few hours before - beauty has to give way to darkness.  Not just for safety, but also so you can experience the great light and colour that only appear at this time of day.

Photography: Tim Cuff

Leaving from Nattor car park, I head for the River Plym following a track which eventually leads to what I can only guess is a condemned stone farm house - its boarded-up status gives a strong reminder that this place belongs to nature, not man.  At this time of the year, as you carry on over scrubland down to the river, you may pass a number of sheep irritated by your presence because of the alarm you may be causing their day-old lambs who are concerned by anything or anyone who isn’t Mother.

Heading away from the farmhouse you will see Hen Tor proudly proclaiming it’s right to be king of all it surveys.  It looks as if it could have been put there by man, but its supremacy has been won from defiant battles against the elements. Crossing Ditsworthy Weir sends a rush of blood to the head.  You would think I were crossing the Niagara Falls, but even a gentle flow of water concentrates the mind.  There is less power flowing from this weir than I get from my bath tap but because you can’t turn it off, it automatically has my respect. 

Walking along the river, its gentle flow is mesmerising.  Its understated persistence has had a massive effect on the landscape.  As it finds its way, bending and twisting, its single objective is to get to journey’s end – Plymouth, from where it gets its name.  But I am heading towards its place of birth. Looking towards the standing stones at Giant’s Hill, long yellow grass fools the eye into thinking there is an expanse of desert being crossed by an army of oversized ants.  It is only the bright pink shirts worn by a group of orienteers that allows the brain to compute they are fellow human beings.

When I am forced a few yards away from the riverbank by boggy conditions, amazingly it is as if the river no longer exists. Hidden by tufts of springy grassland on either side, it fails to make its presence felt by either sight or sound.

The greatest motivation for moving away from the River Plym is a pending change in scenery.  Turning off to the right along Shavercombe Brook, the atmosphere is one of expectation as the banks rise higher and you are forced to pick your way along grassy and rocky ledges.  Your senses signal that you are about to come across something memorable and, as you approach, the scenery acts as a tantalising draw into what it would like you to see.  Some 200 yards before you arrive, you are presented with a glorious scene, which lifts the spirit.

Shavercombe Falls is tranquillity itself.  Rock, vegetation and water live together in perfect harmony.  It is an ideal spot to contemplate nature’s great wonders, to while away your worries, to recharge your spiritual energy - an altar at which man may find peace.

This heavenly place is very difficult to leave, but leave one must, and my recommendation for the rest of the route and then home is to climb up high. On a good day, you can watch the sun and clouds playing peek-a-boo with each other, creating a spectacular lighting display across the expanse of moor. While the walk to the waterfall allows you to inspect the terrain up close, the return trip offers you the view of the gods.  It is from here that you can see the river in all it glory making its imprint on the landscape.

It looks as if the River Plym is flowing uphill towards the sea.  But the landscape enjoys playing these tricks on the eye because, remember, you are now in nature’s playground and your rules don’t apply. As you’re trying to work out whether the law of gravity is totally wrong, you are serenaded by a symphony of sound.  It’s important to be high up so you can hear this at its best.  The wind is the first instrument you notice, then the distant waterfall reminding you of its pleasure recently given.  Next, the crunching of dry grassland underfoot and, finally, sheep and their lambs introduce the vocals, intercepted by numerous birds rapping their own lyrics.

At journey’s end, you will find your senses more finely attuned than when you began the walk.  The wonders and excitement of the trek widen your eyes and you have been blessed with a most wonderful sound, rarely heard in the course of modern living.  And the river?  Well that ole man river he jes’ keeps rollin’, he keeps on rollin’ along.