Ashley Darkwood continues his haunted road trip with ghost stories, eerie legends, and wild moorland mysteries in the heart of Dartmoor
Sunrise at Maiden Castle and a False Start
I woke at sunrise at Maiden Castle after a surprisingly decent night’s sleep. Not bad at all for my first proper car camp, without even a practice run.
I gathered up my trail cameras and started thinking about heading to Exeter, where I could grab a shower at a leisure centre.
Of course, no great road trip would be complete without a bit of car trouble. Right on cue, the car wouldn’t start. The key fob battery had died, but I managed to get it going by placing the key in the centre console.
Luckily, there was a Halfords a couple of miles away, so I drove there and waited for it to open. It took me an hour to realise I was parked right outside a Tesco that was already open, selling the exact same battery I needed.
With everything finally working as it should, I set off for Exeter, paid for a swim at the leisure centre, and made the most of the shower and changing cubicle.
The Legend of the Hairy Hands
The next part of the haunted aspect was a curious one. The legend of the “Hairy Hands”.
The story is one of Dartmoor’s most famous and enduring legends. It centres around a stretch of road near Postbridge and Two Bridges, now the B3212, known for a series of strange and often deadly accidents throughout the early 20th century.
Drivers, motorcyclists, and even cyclists reported a terrifying phenomenon: a pair of large, disembodied, hairy hands that would suddenly appear and seize control of the steering wheel or handlebars, forcing the victim off the road.
The first reports began around 1910, when horse-drawn carts and early motor vehicles were starting to use the narrow, twisting lanes across the moor. The accidents became so frequent that locals began to whisper of a curse.
Survivors described the same chilling experience: an overwhelming sense of presence, then the sudden appearance of powerful, hairy hands gripping the wheel, trying to veer the vehicle into the granite walls or down into the moorland below.
Ghostly Encounters and Rational Explanations
One of the best-known accounts came from a motorcyclist who claimed to have seen the hands take hold of his handlebars before he was thrown clear of his bike.
In another case, a woman camping nearby said she woke to see a pair of ghostly hands crawling towards her tent, glowing faintly in the dark. She made the sign of the cross, and they vanished.
Explanations for the Hairy Hands vary. Some suggest the accidents were caused by driver fatigue, poor visibility, or the camber of the old moorland road. Others believe the area is haunted, perhaps by a restless spirit or the victims of earlier tragedies.
The phenomenon seems to have faded since the mid-20th century, though motorists still report feeling uneasy or watched while driving through the area at night.
Whether it was the work of a supernatural force or just folklore born from isolation and fear, the legend of the Hairy Hands has become an inseparable part of Dartmoor’s eerie reputation — a reminder that even the most beautiful landscapes can have a darker side.
Warren House Inn: Hooves, Fire, and Ghostless Pints
A few things about this story piqued my interest. People were reporting that they had seen hairy hands, felt hairy hands. Quite specific descriptions, as opposed to, say, cold hands or wet hands.
I was reasonably sure there wasn’t much substance to the legend, but I wanted to see if I could feel anything physically. Was there static in the air, for instance?
The Warren House Inn, located on the B3212, is a historic pub that serves food. The road to the inn is indeed treacherous, not because of hairy hands though. Because of hooves.
Cows, sheep and horses all consider the road their right of way, and one must remember that down that neck of the woods, animals own the road, not motorists.
It is a magnificent sight though, pulling up at the inn and seeing all the cattle and horses roaming freely on the moors.
A Fire That Never Dies and a Tragic Chapter
By the early 19th century, the inn was at the heart of a busy tin mining district, providing food, drink, and shelter to workers from the Birch Tor and Vitifer Mines.
In 1845, after a fire destroyed the original building, it was rebuilt directly across the road.
The Warren House Inn is famous for its fire, said to have been burning continuously since the rebuild. According to tradition, when the new inn was completed, embers from the old hearth were carried across the road to keep the flame alive — and it has supposedly never gone out since.
Although, one staff member did say that another legend tells of a drunk pissing on the fire, just to be a bit of a git.
But not all of the pub’s history is cheerful. When the surrounding mines closed in the early 20th century, the area fell silent, and trade at the inn dwindled.
In 1929, the landlord, William Toop Stephens, took his own life inside the pub, overcome by despair after the end of the mining era. The coroner called it “an event of temporary insanity.”
Nothing to Report – Except Hoof Traffic
After a decent lunch I chatted with the staff. None of them had witnessed anything odd, or had even heard of anything strange happening in the pub. A few wished there was a resident ghost.
I was now near to the section of the road where the incidents of 100 years ago happened. I began to wonder if the Hairy Hands had been more the influence of having one too many in the Warren House.
After all, there were no specific drink-driving laws until the Road Safety Act of 1967.
A steady drive along the road revealed nothing remarkable. No feeling of static, no psychic vibe, just me and the creatures going about our business.
Combestone Tor: Granite and Ghosts
Combestone Tor rises above the Dart Valley like a weathered crown of granite, a landmark as beautiful as it is unsettling.
The tor’s isolation and sweeping views make it one of Dartmoor’s most striking features, but beneath the wild scenery lies dark folkloric tales of ghosts, demon dogs, and ancient sacrifice that have clung to this place for centuries.
Long before the road and car parks, legend says Druids gathered here to worship the sun and moon, offering animal and human sacrifices on the flat granite ledges.
On certain nights, locals claim to hear chanting carried on the wind or glimpse flickering lights among the rocks, said to be the spirits of those long-ago rituals replaying their grim ceremonies.
Demon Dogs and Other Howling Myths
Combestone Tor is also home to one of Dartmoor’s most frightening legends: the demon dogs. These red-eyed beasts are said to haunt the tor and surrounding moor.
Travellers who hear their howls are warned never to look back. One old story tells of a farmer who fled toward Dartmeet, diving into the river to escape the hounds, which vanished at the water’s edge.
Then there is the ghostly horseman, seen galloping along the road near the tor, often in storms or heavy mist. Some believe he was a highwayman struck down by lightning.
Visitors have reported hearing hoofbeats echo through the fog, only to find the road empty.
Another version of this horseman story tells of a farmer who took his own life, unable to live with the shame of having been financially ruined by an unruly swindler.
Afternoon Reflections (and Cow Pats)
Arriving at the tor’s car park, the vista is immediate — a straggle of stones, all looking deliberately placed, a deep blue sky and bright sunshine.
This felt almost like a holiday when I managed to sit using my car as a shield against the chilly winds.
I passed a few hours by alternating between sitting and looking around the rocks while listening to the radio.
There were certainly more perils to look out for: dips in the earth, ranging from enough to trip over or fall fully into, rock poking up from the grass, and cow pats, for a change.
I wasn’t so bothered by the rabbit droppings strewn around the place.
It was sad to see blackened scorch marks in the grass, perfectly rectangular — almost as if a complete idiot had been using those disposable BBQ trays.
Surely, nobody can be that dumb and/or disrespectful.
The Hound of the Moors – Real or Folklore?
As I sat on one of the rocks, I noticed a herd of cows staring at me from the other side of the road.
This got me thinking about these demon dogs. It’s not entirely unfeasible that there was a pack of wild dogs causing mayhem in the area.
There had to be something to it. It was in nearby Princetown that Arthur Conan Doyle was inspired to write The Hound of the Baskervilles.
Could there be a pack of wild dogs terrorising the moors? Probably not.
There is a lot of cattle roaming around, and has been for centuries. Surely, they would be irresistible to a hungry pack.
I talked to a local walking her dog about this, and indeed, no local farmers complain of losing stock or finding carcasses.
Perhaps at one point, but definitely not in living memory for many locals or their families.
So, could these hounds be spectral? A residual-type haunt?
It’s possible, but some of the stories imply intelligence. They are specifically chasing a person.
Could it be that the conscious entities of these creatures are somehow grounded, or choose to cross over to our level of existence?
Or are they from some other plane, perhaps conjured by a mystic magic to protect sacred sites?
Personally, I tend to believe that they were feral wild dogs, probably euthanised by farmers long ago. But the legend endures.
Victorian Fancy or Druidic Fact?
I began to wonder about these druids, using the rocks on the tor for sacrifices. Something wasn’t ringing true.
There are multiple stone circles in this part of the world which would have been of great significance to them.
There is no doubt, there is something mystical here, but I needed a deeper dive.
It appears that these stories of sacrifice on the tor appeared around the Victorian period, and there’s nothing the Victorians loved more than the idea of Arthurian legend, magic and Merlin.
It was certainly not beyond the Victorians to embellish things. I point you to Victorian séances.
I started to feel that the reports were losing credibility.
A Classic Spectre and a Creeping Worry
Now for the ghostly horseman. Now, this is the type of apparition reported all around the country — sometimes even headless.
Even given the less specific origin of the spectre, this just feels more in line with a classic road ghost type of experience.
The tor is certainly a great place to sit and ponder.
By now my bovine friends had crossed the road, still giving me the side-eye, but it wasn’t them causing my creeping paranoia.
Once again, I had parked up in a place where overnight stays are prohibited.
Rangers and even the police are known to move people on, and I had no plan of anywhere else to go, totally unfamiliar with this part of the world.
I suppose I could plead ignorance. A weary traveller required by the Highway Code to pull over and rest a while.
Moonless Night, Rabbit Sounds, and an Unseen Realm
At nightfall I ventured back among the rocks of the tor, sitting quietly wherever the rocks would allow my butt to rest.
A full moonlit night would be spectacular up here, I thought. But, alas, this evening was not so.
I did hear rustling in the shrubs. It would have been easy to mistake this for human movement.
The image of the rabbit poop re-entered my mind. I called out, just in case anyone was present, even walked around a bit more.
But I was quite confident that I was the only person up there. Just me and some rabbits.
As for anything supernatural, well I’m afraid I appear to have just spent a second night being ignored by any entity not of this earthly realm.
A cloud bank had moved in, making visibility poor, and my clothing wet.
I decided to call it a day, for day two.
I woke to an amazing orange and red sunrise, fully refreshed, energised even.
Maybe there is some magic to Combestone Tor.
