![]() If there is a time constraint, even better, as I can enter into this weird stealth mode, ready to locate and buy good tat as if my life depends on it. I outdid myself this summer, shopping-wise, and this is saying something, for I am a kind of shopping ninja. We might head further afield into Exmoor: I’m completely obsessed with Dulverton, over the border in Somerset, like I-need-to-move-here-now level of obsessed. Have a shandy at the 14 th-century Rising Sun and walk in dappled green light through woodland along the river to Watersmeet House, a former fishing lodge, now a National Trust stop-off. Now, there was a hotel up here somewhere, sadly now closed, which I adored stopping at, and still madly dream of buying and renovating/keeping as is: it was so good, dusty and dark, Arts and Crafts, with Sicilian pottery. Walk along here, wave to the feral goats. At the top there is a very good junk shop, although most years it does seem to be closed. It’s never not fun, as if I’m five again. If the weather is good enough I cajole Mum, aunts, siblings and/or cousins to come on the cliff train with me. We’ve had good years: picnics by the East Lyn River, sunbathing, maybe a doze in a deck chair, and not so good years: a quick cup of tea under tarpaulin, a squint at the sea, then back in the car. Wordsworth, Coleridge and Shelley loved it here. Lynmouth lies at the foot of the gorge and a Victorian water-powered cliff railway connects the two. Lynton perches high on a plateau above the Glen Lyn Gorge. Little Switzerland they call this duo of towns, and you can see why. Lynton and Lynmouth are a non-negotiable must. We pour ourselves into cars and head out on various satellite missions. The cliff railway to Lynton Rolf Richardson / Alamy Stock Photo Nicholas supposedly contains the oldest working version in the country. The potatoes come from a farm up the road, a paper star in highlighter yellow announces. I feel like I only ever eat fish and chips in Ilfracombe, and only ever from Maddy’s. Do not under any circumstances forget to frequent Maddy’s Chippy. It’s the kind of proper fish shop one always hopes – but hardly ever actually manages – to find at the edge of an old harbour. The company’s bright orange trawlers – Our Jenny, Olivia Belle and Dylan Ben – are parked (moored!?) across the road, ready to meet local demand for local seafood. Head here for excellent crab sandwiches – take them on your walk – or load up on stuff for supper. No matter, because S&P Fish Shop is still going strong on the other side of the harbour. Light and airy inside, with fabulous views, it was all pressed napkins, crab claws and cold white wine. I must admit that I miss his restaurant on the quayside enormously: it was probably the most elegant gaff in town, looking out over the grey sea. Perhaps he still is? I’m not sure, but one of his towering sculptures certainly still guards the harbour, sword high in the air. ![]() I do truly believe that Ilfracombe has a special kind of atmosphere, and there is plenty to spellbind here.ĭamien Hirst was here for a bit. I don’t mean this in a derogatory sense it is precisely why I love it. ![]() ![]() But look, it’s a little rough around the edges. Because I have been coming here for so long, and with so many family members, Ilfracombe holds an extremely special place in my heart. The family cosily packs itself into this little house like sardines – it’s the way it’s always been. For the past decade or so our base has been a pink terraced house on the harbour: my whippets can easily step out of our front door and high jump over the wall on to the harbour beach below, ready to cause extreme havoc in the sand. A favourite yarn starts off with me, a tiny newborn, being bathed in the kitchen sink in a little flat above a shop. We have always stayed in Ilfracombe, loyal to the bone, moving from house to house as the family has grown. This content can also be viewed on the site it originates from.
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