The old Astra rattled down the hill. We were among fields now. The whistling winds and gorse of the moor were far behind us, tatty sheep and shaggy ponies left nibbling by the roadside. In the wing mirror the sign recommending travellers to Drive with Moor Care disappeared as we rounded a bend. Our road dipped, vanishing between dense hedgerows frothy with white cow parsley, tiny pink stars of campion sparkling among dark ferns. This is one of the back roads into Ashburton, where trees mesh overhead in a tunnel of flickering green. It’s pretty enough, but dwindles to a narrow twisting lane with few passing places, and as everyone who lives locally seems to drive a tractor or a four-by-four, and is either incapable of backing, or unprepared to give an inch on grounds of vehicular superiority, it can be a two-wheels-forward, four-wheels-back sort of journey.

That morning I was lucky, forced to pull in only once, stopping by a farm gate to let a tractor trundle by, and delivered the members of the Tribe to their respective homes without much delay. Sally, the arthritic Labrador was joyfully received by her equally arthritic owner, but Nookie had to be let into an empty house and fed. At least, after her run, she would sleep away the morning, and her lonely wait for her family to return would not be too long.

Ashburton is a nook-and-cranny sort of place, a solid stannary town of narrow streets and even narrower pavements, ‘nestling’ as the guidebooks like to say, among hills on Dartmoor’s doorstep. In distance the town is a mere slip road away from the A38; in time, a century or more: a place where old cottages and ancient pubs stand wedged between elegant Edwardian town houses, a place of quaint corners, secret courtyards and long walled walks. It’s a honeytrap for tourists and day trippers coming off the Expressway, the last place for a comfort stop before they head on up to the moor, the perfect setting for a cream tea or a pint of local ale, a leisurely browse among shops selling expensive gifts and artisan foods, shops selling nothing which is not rustic, artistic or picturesque. There are no fewer than sixteen antique shops, and that’s not counting the flea market and the auctioneers, and most of these are packed within the framework of streets surrounding the broad junction where East Street becomes West Street, and North Street becomes St Lawrence’s Lane.