Nicholas Edgecombe is a poor warrener, a good and simple man who lives alone in quiet isolation near Wistman's Wood on Dartmoor with only a Bible for company, from which he projects the ancient events from his mind's eye onto the land on which he lives and works..
Timothy Oldreive is a dissolute yet handsome young gentleman farmer, wasting away his father's inheritance due to laziness and self-indulgence.
The two come into conflict over the affections of Hannah Bradridge, a barmaid and beauty who attracts them both in their own way.
This is the second novel of Phillpott's that I have read recently after stumbling across him quite by accident, and I can see him increasingly becoming one of my favorite author's over the years to come.
Devon is his domain much as Wessex was Hardy's, and they both reverence the implacable hand of Fate in human affairs, though Phillpott has much the lighter touch.
The lover's try in vain to escape their essential characters against a backdrop of local gossip and interference, well intentioned or not, as Phillpott creates a pleasing crew of supporting rustics with which to people his drama, such as Merryweather Chugg, a water bailiff and Wesleyan, and Sorrow Scobhull, a mournful labourer convinced that he is fated to die drowned in the river Dart.
It's not without faults. The principle players, though all born and bred in this out of the way portion of the West Country, seem almost to have just met each other at the start of the story; and the act of secret betrayal that ends the first part of the story struck me as psychologically unlikely on the part of one of the co-betrayers.
But these are minor complaints compared to the overall charm of the thing. The funny thing is, I have never even been to Devon, let alone Dartmoor, yet I feel I know the place now, so intimately does Phillpott present its people and places.
Lovely.