My Dartmoor: Dogs, Wild Skies, and the Right to Breathe
- Tracey Langrill
- May 23
- 4 min read
Note: often in training, counsellors are taught to withhold themselves and their personalities. I see the reasons, and they're very valid on the whole (I feel there are exceptions). However, Dartmoor is a passion of mine and plays a big role in my life. So, I felt compelled to write more personally for this blog.
The recent Supreme Court ruling to uphold the right to wild camp on Dartmoor isn’t just a victory for walkers and outdoor enthusiasts; it’s a lifeline for those of us who find solace, space and sanity in wild places. And for me, Dartmoor is the wild place that matters most.
It’s hard to explain what Dartmoor is to someone who’s never stood on a tor in sideways rain that feels like needles or watched their breath steam in the air under a gin-clear sky. It’s not always beautiful in a postcard sense. Often, it’s bleak. Stark. Raw. But in that rawness, there’s something essential, a kind of honesty that cuts through the noise of modern life.
And then there’s Ten Tors, that rite of passage so many young people take on with a mix of nerves, grit, and stubborn determination. My own kids have trudged those moorland miles, packs heavy and spirits high (or at least mostly high). I watched them return changed, not just tired or muddy, but steadier somehow. There’s something about Dartmoor that does that to you.
It breaks you open, just a little - and then it builds you back.
I’ve spent years walking Dartmoor in all seasons. With family. With friends. With dogs tearing across the heather and coming back soaked and panting, eyes bright with the thrill of open space. I’ve wild camped in the folds of the land where the wind quiets, and I’ve laid in a sleeping bag listening to the silence, broken only by the gentle sounds of nocturnal wildlife. Those are the moments that stay with you. Not just because they’re picturesque, but because they remind you of something you don’t always realise you’ve lost until it comes flooding back, Stillness. Space to think. The feeling of being connected to something ancient and far bigger than yourself.
Dartmoor has always offered that. It doesn’t demand anything. You can come as you are, tired, busy, anxious, overwhelmed - and it will simply be. There’s something healing in that. It’s the opposite of social media, of deadlines, of inboxes and expectations. Dartmoor doesn’t care who you are or what you do. It just keeps on being moorland, weather, granite, and sky. I’ve walked out there when the sky has cracked open in blue and gold and the light seems to stretch for miles. I’ve also trudged through mist so thick you can barely see ten feet ahead, boots squelching, dogs shaking off rain that feels like being sandblasted. And strangely, it’s not just the fair-weather days that bring peace. There’s something powerful about facing into the wind and knowing you’re still standing.
As a counsellor, I think a lot about the importance of resilience (and not the kind that means ‘just get on with it’ that I often reached for in my military career). I mean the resilience that comes from feeling properly grounded. From knowing you have somewhere to go that holds you, even when everything else feels uncertain. For me, Dartmoor has always been that place. And for many of the people I work with, even just the idea of somewhere wild, open and untouched can be enough to spark a shift. A breath. A loosening of the shoulders.
We need wild spaces. Not just for biodiversity and beauty, but for balance. For mental health. For remembering who we are outside of the constant hum of pressure and productivity. You don’t have to hike for miles or sleep under the stars to feel it. Just being there, smelling the wet bracken, watching a buzzard wheel above the valley, hearing the crunch of boots on gritstone, can bring you back to yourself.
That’s why the Supreme Court’s decision matters so much. It’s not about politics or paperwork. It’s about protecting something that can’t be replaced: the freedom to lose yourself in a place where nothing is expected of you, and where you might, just for a while, feel whole.
For me, Dartmoor is memory and medicine. It’s my kids wrapped in too-big waterproofs, laughter echoing through the wind. It’s flasks of tea and squashed sandwiches. It’s wet dogs and frost on the grass. Stars so bright it feels like they’re pressing down on you. It’s the weight of the world lifting, even if just for a few hours.
This place isn’t optional. It’s essential.
So, let’s keep walking. Let’s keep camping. Let’s keep showing up, muddy and grateful, for everything Dartmoor gives us. And let’s protect it, not just for ourselves, but for everyone who needs to remember that wildness is still out there… and still in us.
But remember – LEAVE NO TRACE.
Points to Note:
Dogs on leads March 1 - July 31
and around livestock
