The B3212 neatly bisects the gloom of Dartmoor, a finger-trail through the misted expanse of England’s most eerie National Park. Somewhere past Postbridge, at the point where you and your little motorcar feel most alone and vulnerable, lies the Warren House, a crisply-whitewashed four-square block of normalcy in an environment which drags the hidden irrational thoughts from your head out into the open fields and beyond – youthful memories of American Werewolf and escaped monsters, the playground horrors of the beheading lunatic ever so relevant. You definitely need some comforting, sensitive beast that you are.

Whitewashed cosiness, quick quick inside.

What you need is to tuck in to a warming stew amongst your rugged companions, be they weekend escapees, errant orienteers or local hoteliers. The welcome is sincere, the beer from the cask, the fireplace doughty. The insane grip of Dartmoor, which kept the prisoners in their horrific cages, is itself kept at bay inside this pub.

Once fortified by food and beer, take a pew on the pub benches a small skip over the road, and drink in the miles of moorland. Remember that you’re in southern England, high-hedged, horizon-hiding glory that it is. Then set back in your car and head out of there, towards the bright lights of Exeter.

What a beer garden...