My father, Peter Hesp, at The Graves of the 40 Doones, 40 years ago

When I put up a recent Lockdown Diary a lot of people contacted me regarding Selworthy Sands - its seems that Exmoor’s lonely coast is a place people like to read about. No public right of way in the world captures the imagination quite like the South West Coast Path - I’ve met all manner of individuals who, in some way or another, have been entranced by all or some part of the 630-mile trail.

Some have had jobs maintaining the path, others have merely used it for pleasure, some have rescued people along it, written about it, painted it, studied its geology and even collected fossils from under it.

And I’ve found myself questioning my own fascination for the most beautiful path in the world. As a walks writer for 20 years, I was forever pacing up and down the coast path – but what was it that first drew me to the long thin strip of loveliness by the sea?

I found part of the answer this week while looking through my father’s dusty files. He was a journalist and I recall him telling me stories about a mysterious correspondent who called himself Afghan. It was the rich vein of anecdotes from this enigmatic man that first captured my seaside imagination beyond the boyhood call of bucket and spade.

Afghan, who would not have his real name printed in a newspaper, was a font of knowledge when it came to the most lonely section of the coast path – the 12 mile stretch between Porlock Weir and the North Devon Foreland. The vast vertical shoulder where Exmoor meets the sea.

Here’s what my father wrote about Afghan some 40 years ago.

“His notes contain references to the paths which contour through the hanging woods high over the sea on the ramparts of Exmoor. Some of these paths were little more than game trails widened by the ancient men who passed among these hunting grounds between historic Caesar’s Camp and the mysterious Guild Hall over Embelle Bay.
“Landslides are not infrequent on these unstable, seawards cliffs of the moor and many of the paths which were passable in Afghan’s younger days are now unused and overgrown terminating in sheer precipices where the land has fallen away.
“According to Afghan, a former landowner went to the trouble of bringing mountaineers over from Switzerland especially to construct some of these scenic paths. In steep places they worked with Alpine techniques using ropes and ice-picks. A century’s storms have swept away much of their fantastic work, and much of the remainder is quite overgrown and hidden away.
“Afghan’s notes refer to Apple Dumpling Point and Cherry Tree Steep. The first is a rocky outcrop on the Culbone Path, which apparently got its name when a group of workmen, toiling there a long time ago, grew weary of hearing one of their mates boasting about his wife’s apple dumplings. While his back was turned the opened his lunch box and, to use Afghan’s phrase, ‘abstracted the apple contents from the dumplings and substituted some rubbish.’ He goes on to speak of the merriment of the workmen at their meal break, when their mate bit into his vaunted viands.
“Whether the glorious cherry tree which gives its name to Cherry Tree Steep was planted by the monks of Chapel Knap, or grew from a walking stick which sprouted from being carelessly struck in the fruitful earth, Afghan seems uncertain, but he was more sure of himself on the matter of ghosts on these paths.
“Big yellow dogs, strange figures all in black and unseen, ghostly presences all figure in his reminiscent notes. He pointed out that one part was strangely avoided by woodland birds.”

As a boy I was taken to this eerie section of coast beyond Culbone – and indeed, there were no birds. The vertiginous area certainly does have a strange, sepulchral feel to it – which may or may not be to do with the Graves of the Forty Doones that are situated not far away. What exactly the barrows of that name are – who put them there and why - not even Afghan knew.

But he did know all about the customs officer who used to patrol this most lonely of tracts. His job was to patrol the path between Porlock Weir and Lynmouth each and every night.

Writing from Afghan’s notes, my father recorded: “This gentleman carried a swordstick. With it he made furious passes at a ghostly figure which insisted on accompanying him. In the end he got fed up, slashing at empty air, and in time he learned to value the company of his silent companion on the solitary night time vigils.”

But my favourite of all the Afghan reminiscences is an anecdote relating to a mysterious man of true and tremendous style and élan.

Again, I refer to my father’s notes: “It seems that in a little dell beside the Culbone pathway, Afghan once saw a man walking about in ever-widening circles probing the ground with a sharp-ended stick.

“Curiosity getting the better of him, Afghan approached the man and asked if he had lost something. ‘No,’ was the reply. ‘But each year, when I am in this area, I always bury a couple of bottles of beer so that when the next holiday comes around and we are dry with walking, I can mystify my companions by asking them if they are thirsty. And then, as if by magic in this lonesome place, I produce the much needed drinks.’
“Afghan said nothing but watched the stranger dubiously, until the man suddenly stopped probing with his stick and began scraping aside the mossy earth. Presently he dug up two bottles of beer.”

In all the years I’ve been trudging up and down the celebrated path, I have never succeeded in emulating this moment of panache. But the remarkable little tale is the reason I first fell in love with the nation’s favourite long distance trail and so I have the mysterious plucker of bottles, and Afghan, to thank for all the seaside miles I’ve paced.

The 40 Graves

Where are the Graves of the Forty Doones? Exmoor's vertical coastline stretches from Porlock out towards the Somerset-Devon border with hills dropping more than 1,200 feet down to sea-level. Along the way there are countless coombes with myriad paths running through thick woods where all you can hear is the cry of the peregrine and the crash of the waves. To make things worse the modern Exmoor Outdoor Leisure map makes no mention of either bandits' graves or Guildhalls - or anything else that might lead to a clue. But a 70 year-old map I have of the area does contain information...

Historian Frank Hawtin, a friend of my father’s studying the Graves of the 40 Doones 40 years ago

'The Guildhall', just below Sugarloaf Hill and above Yenworthy Wood.

The name 'Yenworthy' rang a bell and I looked in a cuttings file and found an old photo of the 'Doone Long Gun'. In the picture it's being held by Farmer Pile who, some thirty years ago lived at Yenworthy and for some reason kept this extraordinary weapon. Blackmoor had the Doones being shot at by just such a gun at a farm whose description fits Yenworthy exactly. In the story no-one is at home save for an old grandmother and, upon hearing that the Doones are on their way to rob her, she loads the long barrel with gunpowder, nails, tacks and anything else she can find.

As the marauders arrive she shoots, causing them to retreat in "great discomfiture". She had every right to do so - the last time they'd come a-calling they'd thrown the baby on the fire. With such discomfiting thoughts I dropped down over the hill into the steep coastal woods. And when I say dropped, you'll see that's no exaggeration - if you're ever lucky enough to visit this stunningly beautiful corner of the West Country.

Everything is on the perpendicular around here, and if you were unfortunate enough to stumble upon the Guildhall from the south, you certainly would drop. There's a sheer 60 foot cliff face on one side of this rocky ravine. But what an eerie place the Guildhall is. There can be no geological reason for this dripping, mossy chasm, but oddly there are no records of there ever having been a quarry in such a remote location.