A grand oak tree guards the entrance to Simonsbath car park, its canopy a firework display of greens, yellows and reds. Fallen leaves lie on the tarmac like confetti at the end of a wedding. The November weather is a typical mix of sideways showers and fleeting sunny spells. I can see my breath in the breeze and feel a sense of anticipation at what I am going to experience on my hike.
The trail begins as a stony path, bordered by ancient slate walls. Their stone is layered with a moist green moss, which feels soft to touch like stroking a pet. The path leads me into a forest of beech trees. There are colonies of oyster, jelly ear, golden waxcap, and porcelain mushrooms sprouting from logs, like fungal aliens. A sudden drumming noise draws my attention to my right. I cannot see the bird, but the sound is the distinct tapping of a great woodpecker. Without warning, two adorable labradors run towards me, full of energy. The owner soon arrives and apologises. I smile, wave cheerio, and carry on the path.
The forest opens up to the moorland valley, tracing the Barle river. The landscape is a tapestry of muted greens, bracken-browns, and pale yellows. The river gleams during a rare sunny spell. Its water runs clear - almost good to drink. A flash of movement near the surface catches my eye. I spot a solitary white-throated dipper skimming the water. The path turns to a grassy walkway. The only noise I can hear is the river meandering through the valley, negotiating the occasional small rapid. Further along, a lone beech tree leans over the water. Its withered branches extend out like the outstretched hand of an old woman. Above me, a chorus of robins sing.
Leaving the valley behind, the trail begins to climb. Below I see fields of long, wispy white grass that look like pockets of mist. From the valley floor comes the unmistakable rasping sound of pheasants. The trail is now lined with pine trees, intertwined with yellow flashes of gorse. I get the smell of Christmas in the air. A chime of wrens is above me, encouraging me to keep climbing. My mood is tempered by a sudden rain shower, but as I reach the top, a beautiful rainbow appears above me, making the soaking worth it. The summit is marked by a lone hawthorn tree, its branches draped in lichen like a spider’s web, heavy with scarlet berries.
Trekking back towards the car park, the golden hour light is now filling the sky with soft shades of yellow. The bitter wind pinches my nose. I pass patches of farmland, with cattle eagerly awaiting their supper. Out of superstition, I stop to salute a magpie that flashes past me. Suddenly, a deep roar starts to echo across from the other side of the valley. I fumble for my binoculars in my bag and scour the horizon.
And there he is. A majestic red deer stag, his antlers adorning him like a royal crown. I watch in silence as he serenades nine hinds, tilting his head repeatedly as he bellows his mating call into the dusk. I feel humbled to witness such an experience for the first time.
As I watch the spectacle, a family of four approach. “What can you see?” the father asks. I hand him my binoculars. He gasps. “Unbelievable!”
He is right – a perfect end to an “unbelievable” day in autumnal Exmoor.
