The poem at the bottom of this page sums up my feelings about Dartmoor wild camping.

Further update on Dartmoor wild camping – May 2025 

The ongoing saga of the Dartmoor Wild Camping (backpack camping) case brought by Alexander and Diana Darwall has currently been resolved by the Supreme Court who agreed with the Court of Appeal that ‘open-air recreation’ as mentioned in the Dartmoor Commons Act does include the right to backpack or wild camp.

The review of the Dartmoor National Park bylaws, which include wild camping bylaws will at some point now continue after it was put aside to deal with the Darwall wild camping case.

The Dartmoor wild camping map remains the most useful resource to help you find permitted wild camping areas on Dartmoor.

Update on Dartmoor wild camping – January 23rd 2023

‘For the purpose of outdoor recreation.’

Six small but supremely important words.

Six words that are part of s.10(1) of the Dartmoor Commons Act 1985.

Six words that have given generations freedom.

Six words that are being tested next week in the High Court.

Freedom is a big word.

Bigger than ‘access’ or ‘ownership’.

Perhaps you would like to meet a few of my people who have found freedom in wild camping on Dartmoor.

The teenage girl from Torbay who had never visited the moor.

The wheelchair user who wanted to rekindle her passion for adventure.

The team of four who had never camped.

The Scout who couldn’t sit still but lay and watched the stars for hours.

The hungry tired team who waited for me at each corner.

The gentle man who conquered fears in his own quiet way.

The teenage lad whose words, ‘I get Dartmoor now’ will always be with me.

But what about me?

What about what wild camping on Dartmoor has meant to me?

It has quite simply changed the course of my life.

It has both broken and mended me.

Shouting about something so much a part of me would seem wrong.

So I wrote a poem instead.

TO STARE AND SLEEP AND ROAM

The mists up here don't swirl.

They hang and cover and seep.

And drape their dripping fingers,

As though earth has want to weep.

The paths up here don't lead.

They hint and trick and fade,

These broken granite sponge-ways,

Explorers long decayed.

The routes up here are guarded,

By post and pool and leat.

But man may not possess them,

His time up here is fleet.

My bed is where I place it

On slope, by wall, neath rock.

I lie here when the need comes,

I slumber to restock.

Generations lie here with me.

With countless more to come.

House dwellers seeking freedom,

To stare and sleep and roam.