Five go to Cornwall and Devon

28 June 2025 – Visiting Cornwall and Devon: Is it a good idea?

Contents
Five Use Airbnb
Five Go to Briar Fisherman’s Cottage
Five Go to Boscastle
Five Go to Newquay
Five Go to Somewhere Special
Five Go to Tintagel
Five go to Port Isaac
Five Go to Padstow
Five and the Mystery of the Ever-Arsey Cornish Locals

Five Go to South Devon

Five go to Applecot Cottage in Modbury
Five Swan Around Modbury
Five Go to Bigbury-On-Sea
Five Go to Torquay
Five Review Pubs in Cornwall and South Devon
Includes:
Cobweb Inn, Boscastle
Napoleon Inn, Boscastle
The Golden Lion, Port Isaac
The White Hart, Modbury
The Exeter Inn, Modbury
The Pilchard Inn, Burgh Island
The Journey’s End, Ringmore
The Warren Inn Hotel, Dartmoor
Five Go to Dartmoor
Five Keep Out of Dartmoor Prison
Five Went to Other Places in Cornwall & Devon

Those of you who are authentic English – that rules out a good many – will not be unaware of one of England’s most famous children’s story writers, Enid Blyton. She wrote a series of successful adventure novels in the 1940s and 50s about five going somewhere or doing something. For example, Five Go Down to the Sea, Five Go to Mystery Moor, Five on a Hike Together. Without Enid Blyton’s consent, but I am certain she approves (as this is not a woke rewrite), we did something similar in Five Head off to Cornwall.

For those of you who didn’t know that Cornwall is in Kaliningrad, you’re right. It isn’t. But this account finds itself in my cunning ‘Diary’ category, in which I can write about almost anywhere and, failing that, almost anything, even when it isn’t in or relevant to Kaliningrad, so you haven’t caught me out yet.

The Five that went to Cornwall in June of this year (2025) consisted of my not-so-good self, my good lady (I left the bad one at home.), my youngest brother Joss, a venerable Old Gentleman and our version of End Blyton’s Timmy the dog, Kiera. How did we all fit into a Messerschmitt bubble car? The obvious answer to that is we didn’t. We bombed off from Bedfordshire in a large and comfortable Land Rover.

Visiting Cornwall and Devon: What to expect

This is that story, in words and pictures:

Five Use Airbnb
Airbnb is a Godsend, isn’t it? It’s also a pain in the arse. Five used it to pick their ideal holiday home, because rumour has it that it’s the best place in cyberspace to track down self-catering accommodation at a reasonable price. To join Airbnb’s happy-go-lucky community, in addition to the usual written particulars, you need to provide a mugshot of yourself and also attach a document, such as a copy of your passport, to prove you are who you say you are.

One of the two cottages in which we stayed also asked for a statement to be written explaining why their cottage was a ‘good fit’. I wanted to write, “Because it reminds me of a pair of underpants”, but refrained from doing so and wrote instead, because we are the Famous Five, who go to places and do things.

Five Go to Briar Fisherman’s Cottage
There are no shortage of fisherman’s cottages in Cornwall, perchance because there was a time when there was no shortage of Cornish fishermen. In fact, every fisherman had a cottage, the vast proportion of which today have been converted into holiday lets, presumably because it is an easier way of making money than to go bobbing about on the briny early at the crack of hangover in all kinds of English weather.

Briar Cottage (let’s leave the fisherman out (Oh, that dripping sow wester!)), the one in which we stayed, is located in Boscastle. If you like low ceilings, gnarled beams, lots of original nooks and crannies and plenty of old-world feel – and we most certainly do – then fall in love at first sight with Briar Cottage you most certainly will.

Briar Cottage is chocolate-box picturesque. It is tucked away in a truly sequestered spot, cozily contained within a Victor Matured two-tiered garden, with all the right dimples in all the right places. It is clad, adorned and surrounded by flowers and invested with foliage and shrubbery so perfect in their natural complement that even Enid Blyton’s pen would have struggled to make it more idyllic.

In the near distance, as the rise of the land precludes sight of any other, the sort of landscape that children draw — steep and rolling hills with little toy cows in pocket corners — reach up into the sky and touch the sun with their eyebrow hedgerows, and if you get to sleep in the room that is furnished with two single beds, this is the scene that will greet you, each new dawn as you draw back the curtains. Think character cottage enclosed in a lushly planted garden retreat, and your thoughts will lead you to Briar in Boscastle.

This is how we rated Briar Fisherman’s (Hello, he’s back!) Cottage nestled in Boscastle:
Plus 😊
Location: Excellent for touring, not so easy for the local pubs at port level, for which you need to be an accomplished mountain climber or own a funicular railway.
Facilities: Everything you could possibly need is there, including the most important thing, which, as you know, is a beer-bottle opener.
Condition and Comfort: A+ The cottage cannot be faulted. In fact, it is even better than the owners, described.

Minus 🤔
Parking: If you are spoilt by off-road parking at home, you may feel inconvenienced by the fact that there is no off-road parking at Briar Cottage or designated parking space. There is a small layby just up from the cottage where you can unload your gear, but pay heed that this is a privilege and one that comes with a warning, namely that should you leave your car there unattended for any length of time, they, whoever they are, possibly the Boscastle Mafia, will block it in for a month of Sundays, as this is a private parking spot. The owners of the cottage claim that parking space is usually available a little further down the road. This turned out to be true, and we were happy with that.
{Briar Fisherman’s Cottage, Boscastle, is listed on Airbnb and other online holiday-letting websites. Just enter the name in Google😊}

Five Go to Boscastle
Remote, rugged, secluded, the village of Boscastle, location of an ancient but still working fishing port, is a treasure trove of antiquity and character. It is a pilgrimage destination for fans of the famous novelist Thomas Hardy and for stout-hearted fellows and gals of the outdoor hiking and trekking variety.

Plus 😊
Location: No better for landscape sightseers, especially those who like it rugged and brooding
Amenities: Boutique shops; tourist-oriented cafes and souvenir outlets; three pubs; cafes
Places to visit: The Museum of Witchcraft; The Grave of Joan Wytte (White Witch) — if you can find it!; St Juliot Church (Thomas Hardy connection)
Atmospheric: Very
Pubs: (see Five Review Pubs section)

Minus 🤔
Location: Steep, multiple-hairpin road. The walk from the top of Boscastle village to the port below is not for the faint hearted. This is a double-plus positive, if you like that sort of thing, but not so appealing if you are unsteady on your pins and are wanting in the lungs department when making the uphill journey.
Parking: Pay and display only (well, what did you expect)
Pubs: (see Five Review Pubs section)
#

Postscript: I did not walk from the top end of Boscastle to the port below. I almost flew. My little legs and tippy-toe feet went down those snake-twisting roads as though someone had shoved a firework up my ah …, er, shirt. The time was early evening. The sky was grey and overcast. I was on my own. From one end of the village to the other, there was not a living soul. Or was there? If you like it close and eerie, Boscastle is the place to be.

Five Go to Newquay (but pass straight through it)
Footnote (so to speak)
The original title for this story was ‘Five Go to Newquay But Wished They Hadn’t’, but I’ve reserved that one for Five Go to Torquay.

Plus 😢
Nothing obvious

Minus 😢😢
Almost everything, without the ‘almost’
Location: Newquay is located southwest of Boscastle (now where did I put my compass?). It is about 20 miles away and, in our opinion, is only worth the trip to assure yourself that you wished you hadn’t gone there.
Amenities: Lots of pubs, but, by the looks of them and by the looks of everything else, you wouldn’t want to use them.
#

Postscript: We only got out of the car to buy something from one of Newquay’s shops and, even then, whilst leaving the place at speed, were worried about contamination. I checked myself for tattoos, looked in the mirror for rings in my snout and wondered if the soles of my shoes were as down and out as the buildings.

The best thing about visiting Newquay is the sigh of relief as you leave it.

Five Go to Somewhere Special (if only I could remember what it is called. I think it is between Widemouth Bay and Upton.)
Location: We are talking here about a dramatic cliff-top view on a section of spear-pointed headland that looks out one side on a ragged coastline of craggy coves weaving and curving as far as the eye can see and, on the opposite side, upon and across a cove prodigious in its proportions, hemmed in either end by jagged wedges of sea- smashing rock.

My name for this dramatic headland is Commemoration Peak, since the top is dotted with slate-slab benches, each one personalised with the names of loved ones no longer of this world. There is also a curious monument, a man-made formation of rocks, where painted pebbles have been deposited bearing poignant tributes to those who were but are no more. The stillness of their lost presence on this wild and windy outcrop, high above the rolling waves, is amplified, and in order to escape the noise of loss, you instinctively cast your eyes to that faraway point on the distant horizon, the place where people across the ages have always gone to look, vainly for comfort and/or meaning, to the edge of comprehension where the sky embraces the sea. It’s an introspective journey, which starts at the end of everything but which, in the end, never arrives there.
Practicalities: There is a layby you can park in and a van on the side of the road, where, instead of standing too close to the edge of the cliff, you can come down to earth with a portion of burger and chips.

Five Go to Tintagel
The only one among our famous five who could pronounce this settlement properly was our very own Old Gentleman, but as he was once a scientist, it is perfectly logical that he could, n’est-ce pas?

Plus 😊
Location natural: Sublime, in the true sense of the word, as defined by Edmund Burke in his A Philosophical Enquiry into the Origin of Our Ideas of the Sublime and Beautiful,1757.

If ever there are two words that have earnt their respective places in Hubert Conspicuous’ Guide to Travel Bloggers’ Cliches, then those two words must assuredly be first ‘breathtaking’ and secondly ‘stunning’. So, let’s go ahead and use them, as we could do a great deal worse in attempting to describe the stunning Tintagel headland and the breathtaking views therefrom: first inland, looking up to Tintagel Castle, then looking down from cliff top to sea and then gazing out to that mystical hinge where water shakes hands with the skyline.

Small man-made paths about the width of rabbit runs, rove up and down and around the grassy and rock-jutting promontories and across the dipping troughs, the highest point of which consists of two tall peaks linked for human passage by a simple scaffold bridge. From a distance, this looks so dangerous that you feel the urgent need to cross it as much as you do the compulsion to venture as close to the edge of the cliffs as you can and hurl yourself right off them. Yes, Tintagel is that sort of place. But it’s also good for the thighs and calves (Do I hear a wolf whistle?), and for wondering out loud for any seagull that cares to answer, how old is Tintagel Castle? Not the remains on the outcrop of rock, but the one that towers in liveable form above the coastal epic, the one which is now a hotel. Without cheating recourse to Google, I bet it dates to Victorian times.

Minus 🤔
If you watch telly a lot, Tintagel is the sort of place that is destined to make your legs ache.

Location town:
Plus 😊 & Minus 🤔
Tintagel town is a lovely little place with a meandering main street containing all sorts of shops selling interesting but overpriced stuff for tourists. And why not! Come on, loosen that wallet! You’re on holiday!

It was in one of these shops, not the whisky-tasting one or the one selling pseudo-antiques, that I bought and sampled my first genuine Cornish pasty in years. My advice, as I’m not a carnivore, is to go for the cauliflower, lentil and curry option, and then park yourself on a free civic bench and enjoy! The cafes and restaurants in Tintagel are a ‘cost an arm and a leg’ job, and the pubs, though Cornish kosha once, of that I have no doubt, have, through injudicious gentrification, lost too much spit to too much polish. There are lots of great pubs in Cornwall but none, I’m afraid, in Tintagel.

Five go to Portwenn and find themselves in Port Isaac
Phew! Didn’t my brother go on! If I had a rouble for every time he mentioned ‘Doc Martin’, I’d have saved enough to buy myself … not a lot, I should imagine?
Location: It’s where they filmed Doc Martin, silly!

Plus 😊
Doc Martin is, I am told, a highly successful, long-running TV comedy drama set in the fictional Cornish port of Portwenn, whose real name is Port Isaac.

Put off by razzamatazz of any kind, I was at the outset loathe to go there, but once we had driven down its impossible narrow streets, along its tiny house-hemmed lanes, missing the sign completely warning ‘Unsuitable Road for Vehicles’, almost mowing three people down, nearly taking out a bay window and arriving much surprised back where we had started still unable to find a space to park in, and could that be with a painter and decorator attached to the Land Rover door handle, I grew immediately fond of the place.

Port Isaac is picturesque today because yesterday its commercial and residential properties were sandwiched together up hill and down dale, twisting, weaving and winding, in order to squeeze as much as possible into the natural lie of the land. Thus, the functional of yester-year becomes the historical quaint of our present. Bless ‘em all, bless ‘em all, the long and the short and the tall, not forgetting their crooked walls, their wonky roofs and their great slate floors …

My brother wasted no time in familiarising me with all the Doc Martin landmarks, particularly Martin Clune’s’ surgery (not the suspected ear job but the fictional office of Doc Martin fame).

After well-deserved refreshment in the Golden Dragon pub, which is painted blue not gold, we walked the sloping harbour road to the house made famous in the Doc Martin series. Judging by the ‘polite’ notice in the window of the property, the conclusion may be drawn that the property’s owners learnt the hard way that fame comes with a price. Respecting their privacy as requested, we refrained from peering through the windows as countless Doc Martin fans must have done, the fiction so bewitching them that it must have escaped all probability that the interior shots of the doctor’s surgery might possibly have been made somewhere in a studio as far away from Portwenn as Portwenn is from Port Isaac.

I am sure that at some time in their never-ending childhood Enid Blyton’s Famous Five visited Port Isaac and whilst there did discover many a smuggler’s haunt, secret passageways by the score and more ripping things going on than ever were conceived in the wildest Doc Martin plots. Unfortunately, however, during our time in Port Isaac, we were exposed to no such shenanigans but were happy to have been given the chance to embrace Port Isaac’s timeless past and pleased by virtue of our visit to have become a small part of its history and it an unforgettable part of our own.

Minus 🤔
The most significant downside to visiting Port Isaac is its dearth of parking. The official pay-and-display car parks sit at the top of the hill, some considerable distance on foot from the village. If the residents wish to put tourists off, and the regional attitude would suggest that they do, then the lay of the land of Port Isaac definitely works in their favour. With car park corrals far away from the port and with streets too narrow and steep to accommodate on-road parking, it would seem that Port Isaac’s structural history contains an inherently grockle-proof element.

Five Go to Padstow
Location: Approximately 45 miles from Boscastle
Known for: Historic harbour and seafood restuarants

Plus 😊
For me, taking into consideration that I am not a boating type, Padstow is as described above. It has a pleasant, centralised harbour surrounded by cafes, restaurants, fish and chip shops and a network of narrow streets embroidered with speciality shops. Hit it right, mid-afternoon, for Cornish pasties reduced in price. Apparently, if boating is your game, you pays your money and off you float to various destinations.

Minus 🤔
£8.90 for a jacket spud and 19 quid for fish ‘n’ chips. Hmm? Perhaps I have just lost touch with the UK’s inflated cost of living.

Five Go to South Devon

Unable to marry the prerequisites of our trip to Cornwall, which were, not necessarily in this order – a base with pubs in walking distance, accommodation on a reasonable budget, somewhere preferably in Boscastle or as near as dammit for touring purposes for the duration of five or six days – we decided to split the destination in two and, after spending  an exorbitant time trawling through Airbnb, alighted on a cottage in the small South Devon town of Modbury, which would thus become phase two of our holiday destination.

Five go to Applecot Cottage in Modbury
Applecot, another Airbnb find, is one of a parallel series of 19^th century town houses forming Modbury’s Brownstone Street, aptly named once I’m sure, notwithstanding that the street today is predominantly white in colour. No matter to us, however, as Five Go Off with a Satnav.

Plus 😊
Location: Excellent as a home base for exploring South Devon by car

Brownstone Street connects with Modbury high street and in it (not to be confused with ‘innit!’) if you don’t find almost everything you want and almost more than everything you need, then you must be after something else.
Amenities: Applecot is dug-friendly and also textile oriented: fitted carpets reign throughout, along with comfortable sink-in armchairs and a highly relaxing settee. You even have a choice of what to use for privacy: will it be curtains, blinds or both?

If I was to compare our first holiday cottage, Briar in Boscastle, with our second in Modbury, Applecot, the defining difference would be that whereas Briar, with its low oak-beamed ceilings and Cornwall trademark slate-stone floor has a masculine feel (ooh, missus!), Applecot, with its accent on soft-furnishings, it’s fitted carpets and comfy chairs, its patterned curtains, art-studio ornaments and all that it contains all in its thought-out place has a feminine personality. But let’s don’t get too gender. Here I am mindful of floaty feminine not frenetically, fearlessly feminist! I wouldn’t want to put you off.

A nice touch at Applecot is the information and welcome pack. Personalised by the host and her husband, this mine of useful information also serves to remind guests that Applecot is not first and foremost a strictly commercial enterprise but a loved and cherished home. It has that lived-in, cared-for feeling, as though the owners have gone on holiday, and you have faithfully promised to look after their home whilst they are away.

My good lady wife professed to be completely in tune with the unspoken essence of Applecot. From the naturalistic ornaments to the ideas expressed in the prints on the walls, both the aesthetic and esoteric ethos vibrated through her energy chords, whilst the rest of us, including the dog, were satisfied to say the least that this well-appointed property was less than a minute’s walk away to Modbury’s nearest pub. One for one and all for ourselves, a win-win situation.

Minus 🤔
It would be remiss of me — and you know that for all my faults, this is not one of them — if I failed to bring to your attention that, as with Briar Cottage in Boscastle, parking at Applecot is problematic. Whilst the inclines in Modbury are nowhere near as mountainous as they are in Boscastle, Brownstone Street is brownstone steep, and once you’ve unloaded your vehicle, which you have to do on double yellows, you must remove it and take potluck that you’ll find a place to put it somewhere at the top of the street. We have Potluck to thank, for he was on our side.

Another consideration, which may or not be important to you, is that since Applecot is a terraced property belonging to a certain age, it does not possess a garden, but in my opinion, be it ever so humble, in terms of overall comfort, its nearness to the pubs and to other high-street facilities, Applecot more than makes up for its parking and garden deficits. Moreover, I should add, the rental price is right!
{Applecot, Modbury is listed on Airbnb and on other online holiday-letting websites. Just enter the name in Google😊}

Five Swan Around Modbury
Location: Twenty minutes from the South Devon coast; twenty minutes to Dartmoor

Is Modbury a large village or is it a small town? Great imponderables such as this do not detract from the fact that it is darn pretty and quintessentially English. The high street, aka Church Street (or is that Poundwell Street?) meanders gracefully from a steep incline opposite the parish Church of St George down to a dip at the crossroads, wherein stands the Co-op, before becoming a rural road, rising out of site and drifting into the great beyond.

Described widely as a historic market town, in the same way that a renowned English figure couldn’t see any ships, I could see no market in Modbury.

What I did lo and behold was an attractive series of boutique shops, art galleries, delicatessens and a wonderful half-framed timber pub.

Everything in this little place evokes a sense of style and culture redolent of its English past. From the floral wreathes on shop doors, the trailing plants above them and the potted plants which flank them to the brightly coloured bunting connecting the shops both sides of the street, Modbury is a bright and beautiful place. Is it a village? Is it a town? I don’t think it cares that much. I think it is simply content being cosy and complete and being whatever you want it to be.
For more information, see> https://www.visitmodbury.co.uk

Plus 😊
I think I may have already brushed upon some of its good points, but an additional feather in Modbury’ positive cap is that its beautiful rural location is in easy day-trip reach of many must-see places, including the golden sandy beaches of Bigbury-on-Sea and the wild expanse of Dartmoor.

Minus 🤔
Give me time, and I might come up with something.

^^^^Bollards! More than a hat trick in Modbury.

^^^^Ringrose, a recommended shop in Modbury. Fun, fabulous and friendly service.

*****Another recommended Modbury shop is Mackgill’s Delicatessen : I Just couldn’t stop scoffing their Cornish pasties.

Five Go to Bigbury-On-Sea
Location: Bigbury-on-Sea isn’t very big at all. It is a village in the South Hams district on Devon’s south coast about seven miles from Modbury. Even without an Arthur Daley-bought satnav do not expect to cover the seven miles distance in the time it would normally take by car, since the roads are devilishly narrow, are up and down like a roller coaster, maze-like in their twists and turns and claustrophobic in their impenetrable banks of foliage. Does this warrant a minus? I for one don’t think so. I consider it more of a plus on life’s roadmap of unique experiences.

Plus 😊
Bigbury-on-Sea boasts the largest sandy south-facing beach in South Devon and is a popular destination for surfing, kitesurfing, windsurfing, and wing-foiling types. On the day of our visit, although the sun was out, a stiff, cold breeze belted across the Atlantic, coming in such gusts that I had to hang onto my Königsberg hat! One man’s meat is a vegetarian’s poison, thus what to me was a state of inclemency was to the surfers a joy to behold.

Minus 🤔
The coastal view of Bigbury-on-Sea seen from nearby Burgh Island has been spoiled from what in the 1930s would have been an acceptable, even attractive, sprinkling of dwellings into an overcrowded jibbly-jobbly mess, primarily due to lax planning laws and, perhaps, who knows, the odd greased palm or two (are we talking butter or lard?). I particularly dislike the new fad and fashion for those horrible, huge plate-glass-windowed, so-called eco-friendly, wood-stuck, virtue-signaling, steel-framed holiday chalets that have in recent years the frequent and awful propensity for popping up around Cornwall and Devon like a nasty dose of ‘Whilst no one’s looking, we’re bound to get away with it.’ It is my considered opinion that a reprised version of Agatha Christie’s conclusive Then There Were None would do this stretch of South Devon’s coastline a purging power of good.

The other minus box ticked categorically by Bigbury-on-Sea is the old familiar bugbear, nowhere free to park. OK, there are too many people and too many cars, and life is a hustle anyway. But £8.50 pay and display for parking your tin for a measly four hours! Rip-off Britain strikes again. I would willingly cough up double if the local council would guarantee that they would use the money to put to rights the blot which they have failed to protect this beautiful landscape from.

Bigbury-On-Sea has a big, modern, pay-and-display unit, one of those which accepts all kinds of payments, including touch-card and QR-code-by-phone. The only problem is that not many people, including us, seem au fait with its usage. Once you get the hang of it, it’s a piece of proverbial p*ss, but should you be rushing to catch the tractor before it leaves for Burgh Island, give yourself plenty of time, for even if you are savvy with this irritating P&D system, all it takes is that one person to non-comprehendee in front of you, and you may need to roll up your trousers and make the trip to Burgh on foot! Not so very stylish if you are dressed black tie and evening jacket. (I always travel to Burgh this way, complete with a pair of wellies.)

Postscript:
Anybody into Art Deco, which includes the 1940s’ clientele of our former Northamptonshire vintage shop, and every living soul who has ever read Agatha Christie, will be cognisant of the fact that Burgh Island is home to, and also privately owned by, the iconic Art Deco hotel dominating its frontal perspective.

It had never been our intention that Modbury would become a springboard for an Agatha Christie experience, the holiday merely evolved that way, thanks mainly to my wife, Olga, who decided when we arrived at Modbury to take a look at the map. Whilst we were in South Devon, we made the Christie-Deco pilgrimage by celebrated sea tractor to the romantic setting of Burgh Island, treading in the footsteps of other great celebrities, such as Noel Coward, Edward VIII, Wallis Simpson and Winston Churchill. Bitten by the Christie bug on Burgh, we later went on to visit Agatha Christie’s summer retreat, her Georgian mansion, Greenway, an account of which I will attempt to cover in a subsequent post next month.

Five Go to Torquay (and wished they hadn’t)
Minus 🤔 Minus 🤔
Often described with a wicked sense of humour as the ‘English Riviera’, apart from visiting Torquay as part of our impromptu ‘tread in the footsteps of Agatha Christie’, having been to Torquay before, back in the 1990s, I wanted to see for myself if it was as bad as my memory told me it was. It wasn’t. It was worse.

Torquay started its journey long ago and has now completed it, and every step of the way has been downhill. I presume that they call it the English Riviera as a means of circumventing the possibility of anyone going to its counterpart in France. If it’s a cunning ploy by the British Tourist Board, someone should tell them it doesn’t work. It may be Froggy France, but when the French finally wake up and kick posturing Macron out, go and compare for yourself!

Torquay town couldn’t look more rundown than if it was a road-killed rabbit. Urban decay and grubby dilapidation set a perfect scene for pavement sprawling outs and downs and winos. Meanwhile on the shore front, the flowers in the municipal gardens and what remains of Torquay’s famous palm trees, shiver not only in the cold June breeze but at the surrounding sight of commercialisation that is at once and impressionably stark and tacky. Blame it on a snide satnav or an act of gross perversion, but can anyone tell me, please, is Torquay twinned in any way with Newquay and Great Yarmouth? It was foot down hard on the gas pedal and back inland post haste!

Five and the Mystery of the Ever-Arsey Cornish Locals
Are the Cornish locals friendly? In a word, no. In another word, ‘grockles’.

A grockle is a derogatory term that has been in circulation in Cornwall since the year dot. It is a means of identifying and disenfranchising tourists by those who consider themselves true Cornish born and bred; brought up, I expect, on a strict diet of pasties and clotted-cream scones. It is a well-publicised fact that those who subscribe to this traditional bigotry can sometimes come across as churlish and unwelcoming, but at the end of the day, it’s all a storm in a Cornish teacup and should be taken with a pinch of salt.

My personal way of getting around this straw-in-the-mouth and smock-frock attitude is by comparing it to those ‘hicks in the sticks acting strangely’ films. You know the ones to which I refer, where strangers come to town and the locals instantly all clam up, as if they’ve suddenly been stricken by a collective dose of Cornish piles.

The way to deal with this legendary hangback is much the same as with any other: Do not take offence; simply take the piss. After all, you are on holiday! That inimitable welcome in the hillsides is one of the reasons I go to Cornwall!

How we laughed😂: Instances of rudeness and unfriendliness that we encountered on our stay in Cornwall — and notice I reference Cornwall and not South Devon — ranged from rudeness in pubs and shops to snidey whispers and muttered remarks.

One glorious moment occurred when on sitting down at an outside pub table whilst one of us went inside the pub to check the interior out, a red-faced old piss artist, who had obviously spent a lifetime overdoing it on the jam and cream scones, warned us not to allow our much larger Akita dog to stray anywhere close to his mongrel pooch or his totally tiny and indifferent dug would ‘’ave her!’ Did he mean bite or sexually? When we rose to leave, he fired back sarcastically, “Thanks for sitting at my table!”, for which we thanked him in return. We assured him the honour had all been his, but on this occasion there would be no charge.

Another instance of unprovoked abuse, even more amusing than the first, took place outside Boscastle’s Museum of Witchcraft. For one moment, I thought one of the museum’s exhibits had escaped. A tall chap in a black sweatshirt suddenly turned on me: “F*ck off!” he bellowed and then just as quickly added, “Sorry, I’ve got Tourette’s …”

“Think nothing of it,” I replied. “Everyone tells me to F*ck Off! including myself.”

I believe my brother added: “If he’s not told to f*ck off at least once a day, he imagines somethings wrong …”

I am not altogether certain whether this gentleman really had Tourette’s or had discovered the perfect Cornish means of exercising abuse without fear of reciprocation. He did have a badge with ‘Tourette’s’ written on it, and his sweatshirt carried the slogan ‘Swear, Swear, Swear’, but anyone can wear a badge just as anyone can wear a sweatshirt. “It’s a blessing he’s not multilingual,” I thought. But then I remembered the shores of Dover, and every city in Britain, and strategically changed my mind.

Five Review Pubs in Cornwall and South Devon
Cornwall
Boscastle 👎👎👎
Legend has it that there was once 22 pubs in Boscastle; we found three: Two we used and one we did not, having been steered away from the third by scary tales of a stupendous revamp, which had resulted in the imposition of exorbitant recoup prices.

Cobweb Inn
The Cobweb Inn, Boscastle, is prominently situated in the port area of Boscastle itself. It is a great slate-stone slab of a building, five stories tall with an 18th-century history, which evolved into a public house by way of a corn mill, grain store, and off-licence. The Cobweb is a survivor. It survived the devastating Boscastle Flood of 2004 and later, in 2024, a landslip, which brought part of the cliff above crashing down upon it. Its greatest threat to continued success today is its shifty opening times and tourist-unfriendly bar staff.

The Cobweb Inn’s website reassuringly states that the pub closes at 11.30pm. On the evening of our first visit, we were turfed out at 11pm and come the following evening at 10.30am. On neither occasion did those tending the bar forewarn of this impending doom and never the bell for last orders did toll.

On our second visit, the two XXL ladies manning the pumps kept loitering near the bar or peeping around the wall of the bar from the adjacent room, presumably reconnoitring to see how much beer we had left in our glasses, poised for the first opportunity to snatch them away and close the pub. Then came the corny routine of standing the chairs on the table tops and bringing out the furniture polish.

When I rose to buy a pint at approximately 10.30, I was abruptly told, “We’re closing!”

Could they have heard us farting? Except that we didn’t. Well, not this evening.

My brother, being less shy about coming forward than I am, piped up from his seat:

“This pub closes earlier every night. Last night it was 11, tonight it is 10.30, on your website it’s 11.30. Which is it?”

“We’ve got no customers,” came the tart reply.

“We’re here,” my little bruv replied. “What do you think we are?”

It was a good job that the large lady was not a quick thinker or an honest replier.

“You might as well pour me a pint,” I reasoned. “After all, it’s all money.”

She sullenly acquiesced.

Brother wasn’t finished.

“If you carry on treating your customers like this, the pub will end up as an Indian restaurant.”

“I doubt that very much!” snapped the hostess with much, much more than the mostest, thrusting my pint towards me as if she had just removed the pin and was off to take cover again.

We didn’t eat at The Cobweb. We couldn’t. The kitchen was always closed (snigger). But they say the grub is good. Let’s hope for all concerned it surpasses the Cornish greeting.
Cobweb Inn, Boscastle website>  https://cobweb-boscastle.co.uk/

Napoleon Inn
Napoleon Inn, Boscastle: On the second evening of our visit, we were treated to one of the more surreal experiences of our trip to Cornwall: Let’s play it down and call it vernacular. We’ve all seen those films where the main protagonists walk into a remote and secluded inn expecting refuge and hospitality only to discover that there is something amiss with the locals: something odd, something strange, something secretive, something suspicious, something not quite right. Welcome to the Napoleon, Boscastle.

The setting could not be better for a stage play of this kind. An ancient inn off the beaten track: oak beams, flagstone floors, deep dark wooden settles; a number of rooms on different levels; a locals’ not a tourists’ pub; somewhat rundown, faded and jaded; an honest pub in its way, but a pub with something to hide.

We entered the pub via the short steep path that runs at the back of the building and, having been unable previously to use the smaller bar, as it was crammed to the rafters with locals pretending that they could sing, we swerved left yet again into the larger room. However, on this particular evening, the seats lining three walls of this room, and the stools fronting the bar, were occupied by locals who could sing. In fact, all harmonised perfectly, delivering sentimental ballads to do with their native county and singing wistful folk songs about sailing home to Cornwall. As there was nowhere for us to sit, we sailed off into the lower bar at street side, returning to the upper room when the choral troop had gone.

We had barely raised our second pint of Hicks up to our thirsting lips than the hicks from the sticks descended upon us; the first in the buxom form of a woman who introduced her personage as the landlady of the pub. She plonked herself down at the end of the table and began to ask us the usual questions: Where did we come from? What were we doing here? Why were we staying in Boscastle? Switching into banter mode, we soon had this rather stout lady in stitches. But then, just as it does in the films, the mood changed quite abruptly, and slowly, but with stealth, we found our table surrounded. The questions kept on coming, but more insistently now and noticeably with a warmth that seemed to be cooling rapidly. A chap, on whom we had never set eyes and didn’t really want to, was suddenly summoned behind the bar. He was a cross between Rolf Harris and Gerry Adams, with an attitude positively hostile. We had the buxom one to the left of us, some young fellow-me-lad sprawled half on half off his bar stool opposite, a good-looking bint perched on the bar stool next to him, a non-descript innocent bystander (they always get hurt, do they not?) and to my left, seeming to guard the exit, but possibly only loitering, a little Chinky Chinese chappie. To say that I suddenly saw myself on the Jon Huston set of the film The Maltese Falcon would be putting it mildly. Was it all about to kick off? I clasped my pint glass firmly. But then almost collapsed into tears, as it was roughly put to us that we looked like undercover authorities, possibly the police!

Whatever else the Napoleon wasn’t, and what it wasn’t was welcoming, it was a lovely piece of pub-goer’s theatre.

As for the Sunday roast and the tastiness of the Yorkshire puddings. You’ll have to see Trip Advisor if you want to know about that.
Napoleon Inn, Boscastle website> https://www.napoleoninn.co.uk/
NB: Due to the escalating level of paranoia, we refrained from taking photographs 😁

The Golden Lion
The Golden Lion, Port Isaac, calls you by your name. If you are a pub-going person, (and if you are not, you should seriously consider jumping into a rubber dinghy and trumping off to another country, as pubs are a part, an important part, of our heritage) Port Isaac’s Golden Lion, which is incongruously painted blue, is too irresistible not to frequent.

I’ve never seen any of the Doc Martin programmes, but I’d wager my penny to your pint that in the making of the drama, the Golden Lion must have featured in one or two of the episodes. The pub’s location in the port’s layout demonstrates how successfully town planners in days of old got their priorities right. Where better to put a pub than on a sharp bend at the bottom of a great big hill? Coming down, you need to stop for a pint to put a brake on your speed; going up, you need to stop for a pint to make the uphill journey more of a struggle, so as to blame it on the beer rather than too little exercise. Inside, the pub is as wooden as any old port pub should be. It has a much oversubscribed to veranda facing the sea and the cliffs, and out back, down a narrow alley, a stone-walled seating area that sits above the ancient harbour below. Within this welcoming walled-in wedge stands something you may have failed to install in your garden: a sea-salvaged ship’s cannon, the history of which you can acquaint yourself with here: https://www.portisaacheritage.co.uk/wp-content/uploads/2020/05/The-Gun-in-the-Bloody-Bones-Yard.pdf

South Devon

Modbury
The White Hart Hotel
Modbury’s historic coaching house, now a gastropub with rooms to let, is conveniently just across the road from Brownstone Street. I say conveniently, for if you are staying in Brownstone Street, as we were, it’s just across the road. The inn may be credited with a long history but, like many pubs in the UK, all that it had has been lost to an over-zealous and unimaginative revamp, which has robbed the pub of its past and turned it into an echo chamber. The older chaps at the bar were real, proper English chaps, one and all gifted by God with hospitable natures and senses of humour. The younger ones were yawpers, and it was their incessant grating cacophony that drove us from the pub to the Exeter Inn across the road. We noted in the brief time that we were on the premises that the White Hart stocks a range of beers more exciting than the standard fare of most pubs in the area, many of which are dominated by bog-standard brews from St Austell Brewery, but sadly when we called in, the beer selection was down to one. Catch it on a night when the yappers and yawpers are absent, or fitted with a silencer, and when all the pumps are fully loaded, and maybe the pub would be worth a more protracted visit.

The Exeter Inn
The Exeter Inn in Modbury is billed as a 14^th century coaching inn. The outside is a medievalist’s architectural dream and without question the jewel in Modbury’s high street crown. I wonder, however, if the half-timbered structure is less Middle Ages in origin and more a 1930s’ folly?

Peeping through at the diners in the window seat, we got the impression that inside the Exeter Inn would be the Talbot Hotel Oundle and were rather relieved, therefore, that having left our black-tie attire at home, the interior turned out to be anything other than we expected. Deep sigh of relief, also, came with the discovery that unlike Modbury’s White Hart Inn, The Exeter Inn had not been unwisely ‘got at’ — at least not yet!

The Exter inn, in Modbury, is unspoilt. There is plenty of wood, and it’s painted black – snob-screen divisions, low oak beams, wall supports – all painted black. There is a multiplicity of nooks and crannies and other age-old features, such as sections of dark slate paving, which can easily be likened to the in-floor tombstones found in Britain’s churches and cathedrals.

If it wasn’t for the lack of good beer and a woman behind the bar with little or no interpersonal skills, I would nominate this pub as a contestant for what a pub should be. Alack-a-day, however, good beer and a variety of it, together with a congenial welcome, were conspicuous for their absence. The woman behind the bar had an unfortunate way of addressing her customers. She sounded and she looked like she had entered the licensing trade by way of being a sergeant major, a matriarch of a 19th- century workhouse and the governor of a Victorian prison. Appropriately, the only beer on offer was the aptly named Jail Ale, which was perfectly in keeping since service at the bar was like admission to the nick — empty your pockets and just keep quiet!

Contrary to its external image, the pub’s interior is a trifle worn out, even to the extent that the down-the-yard outside gents has a wall painted black to pee up and the proverbial ‘plink, plink’ water cistern. This was fine by me, to whom such nostalgic details are hallmarks of propriety. An old pub should be what it is: not a pastel-washed, block-wood furnished waiting room, pandering to the whims and caprices of the arty-farty three-course meal and ‘mine’s a red wine’ brigade. If you would like to know what the food was like, the crisps are quite expensive.
The Exeter Inn (which is not in Exeter but in Modbury) website> http://theexeterinnmodbury.com/

The Pilchard Inn, Burgh Island
Almost every old tavern is Britain’s oldest tavern in the same way that almost every old tavern in Britain is haunted. Nobody has yet told me whether Pilchard’s pirate Tom Crocker haunts its 14^th century cellar, but if he doesn’t, he should. The pint of Otter Ale that we bought in the unspoilt upstairs bar overlooking the sea was one of the best we savoured in Cornwall and in Devon. And even if it hadn’t been, the Pilchard is worth the trip, either on foot or by sand tractor, just to take in the historic patina of all that has gone on, been thought, felt and said within its time-sanctified, oak-beamed and ancient-walled interior.

The Journey’s End, Ringmore, South Devon
You won’t find the pub immediately, but the pub sign is unmissable. It is a finely crafted work of art. The carpark is opposite Ringmore’s All Hallows Church. Pop inside and confess your sins (you know a confession is overdue), take a stroll in the graveyard as a timely reminder of what one day will be and then head off on mortal foot into the charming chocolate-box lanes of this tiny, seclusive hamlet. The pub is directly in front of you, there at the foot of the hill, built into the verdant landscape like the cottages that surround it as though there was never a time in history when they were never where they are now.

The Journey’s End is said to have started life in the 13^th century and is a wood and flagstone memorial to the origins of its ancestry. It is all antiquity, abundantly layered with atmosphere and, on the occasion of our visit, gets a big gold star for having the friendliest and most accommodating host of all the pubs that we experienced whilst touring Cornwall and Devon. Thank you, Mr Publican, for taking the time, even though the pub was busy, to grant our party access to, and for apprising us of the history of, the building’s old armoury room! It was a pleasure to make both your, and its, acquaintance!
The Journey’s End, Ringmore, website> https://www.thejourneysendinn.co.uk/

The Warren Inn
Historically, and due to its isolated location high up there on Dartmoor, The Warren House Inn has got an awful lot going for it. I’ve stopped off here twice, this holiday’s visit making it three times, just to experience the odd phenomenon of walking out of a pub onto a magnificent rooftop wilderness.

The Warren House has many claims to fame, one being that it’s fire has been burning since 1845. Great Galloping Expenses Batman! “Shh, don’t tell anyone, but I forgot to stoke it up last night!”

I love the aged-in-the-wood and stone interior as much as I love studying the old framed photos that capture The Warren through decades of its history. It was such a shame, therefore, that the woman behind the bar got a bit of a bark on when she learnt we weren’t in the offing for a five-course meal. “They’re all reserved!” she rasped, alluding to the tables. Whereas, in point of fact, they weren’t.
The Warren House Inn website> http://www.warrenhouseinn.co.uk/history.html

Five Go to Dartmoor
Returning to Dartmoor after a 40-year hiatus, I was struck, as many have been before me, by the sudden change that occurs on leaving the green chequered meadows of the South Devon countryside for the rugged, rolling expanse of this inspirational landscape. The change is not purely one of visual contrast, it cuts much deeper than that. There is a permeating quality to Dartmoor, its wild moorland, formations of granite rock, lack of a new-build housing estate, its unexpected yet perfect isolation, that penetrates the psyche and sets the Romantic spirit free.

Dartmoor’s erratic climate has been well-documented over time, and, I am pleased to say, it did not disappoint. Within minutes of leaving the sunny climes of the rolling South Devon countryside and climbing into the moorland wilderness, the sun we had left behind was peremptorily replaced by a brooding panoply of seven, or maybe even more, non-erotic shades of grey. A fine wet mist descended. It carried in the breeze, bringing with its murkiness unforgettable images of Basil Rathbone and Peter Cushing. Our very own Hound of the Baskervilles, except that she came from Bedfordshire, was, with her powerful shoulders and grey-white beast-like fur, as close as I had come in years to a real, live, snarling werewolf. “Stick to roads!” I heard a voice say. Luckily for us, the chances of doing anything less were slim. Not forgetting that we had in our possession the most reliable satnav money could buy, we also had new friends: several helpful Dartmoor ponies, who knew the moors like the back of their hooves.

Five Keep Out of Dartmoor Prison
As soon as I mention Magwitch, you’ll think big man with a bald head and a bent nose, and before you know it the puzzle will have fallen into place: Dartmoor+Dartmoor Prison+Magwitch+Charles Dickens = Great Expectations.

Dartmoor was also the prison from which the infamous London gangsters, the Krays, were alleged to have sprung Frank Mitchell, alias ‘The Mad Axeman’, whom, it was also alleged, they later went on to murder.

To appreciate Dartmoor prison, preferably from the outside, in all its harsh Victorian glory, Dartmoor needs to be dank and bleak. As it is often, it seldom fails to press all the right emotive buttons.

Five Went to Other Places in Cornwall and Devon
They did, indeed.

In conclusion, there isn’t one (Dr Towlson: “As you go through life, you often find that there seldom is.”): Devon and Cornwall are two counties in England where social and cultural history, ancient history, scenic and sublime landscapes and thought-provoking sensorial seascapes converge to offer the visitor an almost infinite range of experiences that will keep you coming back for more even before you leave.

Visiting Cornwall and Devon: Is it a good idea? Can you think of a better one?

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