The following day we drove early to Camelford, then made a circular walk across Bodmin Moor. Our route took us first to the oddly shaped granite outcrop of Rough Tor before crossing the heather-clad moorlands for a further mile or so to mount a hill named Brown Willy, Cornwall’s highest point, where we sat and drank a thermos of coffee provided by Morwenna. The ramble was pleasant enough, except for a meeting with a local shepherd, who was standing over the mauled carcass of a sheep.
“Dogs,” he just said to us. “Blasted dogs again. Folk let them off the leash and this is what happens. And the police don’t do nothing!” I gulped, looking at the dead creature, throat torn out and body ripped longways, almost in two, with most of the internal organs gone. I saw Sarah turning green (she told me later I had also turned green), then bade the shepherd a good day and we walked on, both silent other than saying the occasional hello to fellow ramblers. We arrived back at our starting point late morning and, as I climbed the stile into the car park, I felt Sarah shaking my shoulder and saw her pointing back to the moor.
“I wish we had a cine camera, Jack,” she said. “Or any camera, even the little instant one. I left both of mine back at the hotel.”
“Why?”
“Well look, over there. Must be our shepherd’s killer dog.”
I turned to see, over half a mile away but nevertheless quite distinct, a black animal, walking across the heather towards Rough Tor, its size, shape, and gait reminding me of a black panther I’d once seen in India.
“Looks a bit like the way a big cat walks to me,” I said, as the creature disappeared behind some rocks. “Of course, it can’t be a panther. Must be a big black dog, or perhaps just a calf or a foal?”
“Who knows, darling?” Sarah said with a shrug before walking towards the car. “Come on, we’ve still got time to drive down to the lighthouse if we’re quick, and perhaps we could drop in to see them at the academy. It’s nearby, isn’t it?”
“Yes, a couple of miles.”
“Oh, and I’d like to pick up my big camera on the way.”
“I suppose so,” I answered, anticipating the awkward detour needed to go via the hotel. The creek-side road from Truro to the village was a dead end, one way in one way out, and the turning off the main road towards the academy and the lighthouse several miles before Truro, all of which meant extra driving.