My friend Rachel has been trying to find a hidden waterfall on Dartmoor for at least fifteen years, after a friend told her about it in glowing and rather mystical terms. It's called Shavercombe. She's had at least two aborted attempts; the latest was with me, a couple of months ago, when the weather was so wet and awful we had to give up our quest after getting stuck in bogs and failing to ford a river. Today, after a long dry spell, it seemed the right time to try again, and we set off full of anticipation, but trying not to get too excited, in case fate intervened again to prevent us reaching our Holy Grail. The Moor was beautiful. Larks were everywhere, flitting around down low as well as high above us, and clumps of bog cotton dotted the wetter areas. We found the stream and made our way up it. It was tiny, and it hardly seemed possible there could be a waterfall, especially in the rather featureless Dartmoor landscape. But suddenly, up above, we could see a patch of green, and sure enough, there was the waterfall, enclosed by a network of branches, like a moss-lined room. It was enchanting.