Continuing the series in which we ask readers to name their Sites of Special Sentimental Interest, Martin Hesp has been to one of the most dramatic corners of Dartmoor to meet a woman who says the place has been an important part of her life

THE subtitle for this series could be Meetings With Remarkable People. That was what I was thinking as we marched up Brentor with an octogenarian brimming each step of the way with anecdote and charm.

Betsy Gallup had already entertained us with tales of yore down in her delightful old farmhouse on the banks of the Tamar, then she managed to overtake us on the 12-mile drive to Brentor – and now she was marching up one of the steepest hills in the Westcountry with all the energy of a woman of half her years.

Apologies for mentioning a lady's age, but Betsy had been telling us about her Second World War wedding at St Michael's – the little church that crowns Brentor – and you don't have to be very good at maths to work out the age of someone who married in the war years.

Her husband, Robin, passed away 12 years ago, but the church on the tor still remains dear to Betsy's heart. The place represents one of the greatest Westcountry icons for many people, but for Betsy it is a lot more.

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She was born in its shadow, baptised in its font, grew up within a mile of the tor, she was married there – and two of her three daughters also tied the knot in the church in the clouds. A third would have done so too, but the weather was so bad they had to post someone at the bottom of the hill to redirect guests down to the church in the village.

"I lived in three different houses in the parish and from all three we had a splendid view of the church on the hill, so it sort of influenced you," she said, before telling us about various incidents and adventures that have occurred on the peak.

One memorable tale concerns a possible romance that never happened. Betsy explained why: "I was about 14 – he was two or three years older – his family came from Wimbledon and they rented one of our farm cottages for their holidays. I was always pleased when Peter was down because I had someone to ride with – otherwise I rode by myself on a fairly untutored pony, with no hard hat, no fancy tack and no tuition – in those days they hadn't started the pony clubs. You had to find your own way on a pony."

Betsy remembers an age almost unimaginable in these days of health and safety consciousness. But safety was a thing even she began to think about the day she and Peter galloped to the top of the tor.

"He dared me to ride all around the church," smiles Betsy. "So I went and the side by the tower is only about four feet (wide) ending with quite a hefty drop. In those days there was no guard rail – so on a horse looking down it was terrifying – and my pony took fright and snorted and started forward.

"Her shoes were skidding on the smooth rock – we were very nearly in great difficulty – but we made it, and I rode all the way around. When I got back to where Peter was, I said 'come one now, it's your turn'.

"He hesitated a moment or two and he said, 'I think you will have to excuse me – I don't think my pony is well trained enough'. I can't tell you how disappointed I was. He was older, came from London, sang in the church choir – I thought he was wonderful. And it suddenly went – killed it absolutely dead."

So what of Robin Gallup – the man Betsy was destined to marry at the high altar on the hill.

"Robin was the son of Henry Curtis Gallup and we grew up within a mile of each other," says Betsy. "I was always a bit put off, because his family was well blessed with cash – my family wasn't – so I always felt slightly second rate. And I didn't really like him – for one thing he was terrified of horses and, for me, you need to enjoy horses.

"But when the war started he was at Cambridge and they sent him back in 1939 because they wanted to call people up. I joined the ATS and went to Devonport – and he was a bit bored I think.

"He came down to Devonport and took me out – went to the cinema, that sort of thing – then he was called up, commissioned, came home just after Christmas on leave. And he proposed.

"Well, by that time we'd had Dunkirk and the war was going wrong. Nobody knew what was ahead of us at all. He didn't know where he was going – and I hesitated a bit. But he was very persuasive and he said 'we won't get engaged properly – we'll just have an understanding'.

"So he gave me a little ring and said, 'wear that' – and I found out six weeks later that he'd landed on Malta and his convoy was the last one to get through."

It would be a long time before the young ATS girl would see the man with whom she had an "understanding".

"He was sent home on 28 days leave after four and half years overseas," sighs Betsy. "I met him in London and we got on a bus going up Regent's Street and, when we went past Liberty's he said 'we'll stop here and go and get a ring and get married'.

"When we got home my father and mother were not at all approving – but I said: 'He's only got 28 days'. So what do you do? You get married. We had a fortnight before the wedding and a fortnight afterwards.

"It was very wet and on the morning of our wedding," recalls Betsy. "And my father, bless him, was not to be deterred at all. He had, after the fall of France, done several months Home Guard watching up there (on top of Brentor) with Robin's father.

"That's where they were most nights and father, liking his comfort a little bit, used to drive his car very nearly up to the gate by the churchyard.

"So, father knew how to drive me up. But it was wet so he put the snow chains on the car – in September. We rattled all the way up the road and up the hill and he got me up there."

Since that day in 1945, Betsy has continued her association with Brentor and its church.

"We used to go up for evensong in the summer, a short service, and I always used to come out of the church and think: this is lovely, I am lucky," sighs Betsy. "One evening I came out and I saw a mole heap move – obviously a mole was underneath and I went over to investigate. I stirred it and got out half a dozen teeth. I gathered these little things up and said to Robin 'what shall I do with these'? And he said, 'chuck 'em over the edge'.

"By coincidence, a friend of the vicar was doing research into the effect of fluoride in water and wanted some milk-teeth. He asked me if I'd saved any of my children's, but I said 'I can do better than that – I've got some teeth from a grave on the hill which must be 150 years old so they would never have had any water, except local well water'. He was delighted."

As we wandered down, the grassy path curves around the rocky knoll and the thought struck me that if I had to choose a church in which to give praise for all that is holy this Christmas, I would have no hesitation in selecting St Michael de Rupe perched high on Brentor.

It is, after all, closer to heaven than almost any other temple in the south of England and certainly it offers worshippers a better view of God's handiwork than any other church in the region.