Clovelly boasts just two pubs, the New Inn partway down the main cobblestone street and the Red Lion on the quayside, both of which double up as hotels. The New Inn is very quaint, sitting as it does on a 30-degree gradient, its exterior decorated with flowers. Unfortunately, today most of the exterior is clad with scaffolding, as it receives its annual makeover and repainting before the tourist season begins at Easter.It’s very cold outside today, with regular snow flurries, so I don’t really need an excuse to go inside. I’m not disappointed: low beams, an open fire, and a real warm welcome: what more could you ask or expect from a pub?
The barman pours me a pint, which is well kept and just the right temperature, no mean feat when you consider how cold it must be down in the beer cellar. The menu offers a decent range of meals, ranging from bar snacks to fish dishes, at very acceptable prices. A few locals are leaning on the bar, and one of them seems surprised that I should willingly venture out on such a wintry day. I explain that I do some writing for a travel-based website and that Clovelly is my latest port-of-call, whereupon he asks me, "What’s a website then, my ‘andsome?" in that rolling Devonian brogue.
Continuing my descent to the harbour, I pass the Cottage Tea Rooms and decide that I will call in on the home leg for a refreshing beverage.
The Red Lion Hotel sits to the left side of the harbour and seems to be busy with lunchtime drinkers. I assume that drunk-driving would never be an issue here, mainly as there’s no car park, but I wouldn’t fancy staggering up that hill on shanks’ pony after a few pints, that’s for sure. Again, it’s warm and cosy inside, albeit considerably larger than the New Inn. Most folk are tucking into their lunches, which all look pretty tempting.
I order a half in here, as I have the car and see there’s a full menu with a wide range of courses, again reasonably priced, but being the skinflint I am, I decide to avail myself of a large pasty from the little shop halfway back up the hill.
Leaving the Red Lion behind me, I attempt the ascent, stopping by the village shop for the pasty, which is stuffed full of beef, carrot, swede, and potato for the princely sum of £1.50 before taking a seat in the Cottage Tea Rooms. A lovely lady who anyone would want as their grandma serves me tea in a beautiful bone-chine cup and saucer with matching tea pot, sugar bowl, and milk jug. The cake trolley appears from nowhere, and having just downed the pasty, I have to decline, although the fare looks delicious. I settle for the tea and, after two cups, pay my bill and venture back outside, where it’s snowing once again.