Hookney Tor, Hameldown Tor And Grimspound With Mr Marks

Breasts exposed on Hookney Tor for Tits Out Tor Bagging

If you’re familiar with Dartmoor, do you recognise this Tor? It’s Hookney Tor! Reached via a short uphill path North west from Grimspound, a Bronze age settlement in an inhospitable part of the moor. Of course, (approximately) 3000 years ago the landscape was very different, less hostile, more able to sustain those that lived in the twenty four houses there.

I’d made plans to meet with Mr Marks for a walk on the Moor recently.

The day before I had drop. Nasty, horrid, vile, yucky drop. I almost cancelled plans, but knew that the Moor is where my soul recharges. And it had been too long since I’d seen my friend. (Checking now, I can see it was when we explored the Moor around Blackingstone Rock back in March. That really is too long!!) Anyway, I didn’t want to postpone our plans, and I did know that the big skies would do me good, so I pinged him a warning message that I might be sub par so far as emotional health goes. That drop was kicking my ass, giving him the opportunity to cancel instead.

Well, he didn’t cancel. Instead asked where I’d like to go. Sat on a train without the Dartmoor 365 book (a project I share with friends and family) I plucked a route out of thin air. Widecombe in the moor, over the Hameldown ridge, turning round at Grimspound. Certain that Grimspound would be in the book, but not even thinking about the possibility of visiting a Tor (or two).

I was surprised when I went to bed feeling better. Drop alleviated, D just chatting rather than trying to fix me. And when I woke on the morning of my walk I was raring to go. My warning for Mr Marks had been unnecessary! (But it was sensible.)

My Tits Out Tor Bagging campaign had been entirely forgotten. Until, that is, we sat in one of the houses (a circle of stones) rehydrating and enjoying a snack before continuing our walk. We were looking at the map, finding out which building in the distance was the pub with a permanent fire burning in the hearth when the words leapt out at me, and I looked to my right…

Hookney Tor loomed over us to the North West. (This is what I was looking at on my right.)

And could easily be incorporated into our walk. The hill a short out and back, as demonstrated by a little family making the return journey as we watched. “Would you mind if we bag the tor?” I asked nervously.

I’m unsure why I was nervous, I barely have any friends who don’t understand my silly, exhibitionistic ways. Mr Marks is no exception, replying along the lines of “it would be rude not to!” And so we set off. The views, the sky, the cheeky wind that whipped across the landscape… All the recharging going on, we were both grinning from ear to ear as I pulled up my top and flashed my boobs to the now deserted patch of moor.

Looking back down the way we had come, Grimspound barely made any sense.

Grimspound from Hookney tor, with the path leading up to Hameldown Tor.
Grimspound and the path up to Hameldown Tor, from Hookney Tor

How could twenty four families have lived there? Though, of course, the stream and the forests that used to stretch across the wilds meant that the soil was rich and fertile. The historic trees inevitably providing more shelter than the low slung gorse, ferns and bilberry bushes of modern day Dartmoor.

Our route would take us down the hill, through Grimspound and up the wide green path on the other side to Hameldown Tor. Then we had three (mostly downhill) miles to ice-cream.

But before ice cream we had boobs to capture on the other side of the little valley.

Conversation faltered as we concentrated on the technical descent and leg sapping climb that followed. There were giggles as I exposed myself at the trig point atop Hameldown tor. (And creating and sending a full moon picture suggested by D.)

Hameldown Tor, trig point and cairn

With pictures taken (and sent) I put myself away and we began the walk back. Conversation flowed again, bouncing from body confidence and depression, from work to camping. Like the vast majority of my friends, Mr Marks is also a sexual deviant and outdoor adventurer. Taking a shared interest in putting our kink and vanilla worlds to rights under the big skies of a mutual happy place was such a joy.

What better way to embed the drop recovery from the day before?

A moorland yomp under big skies, with tits out atop Hookney and Hameldown Tor.

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