Yet more, Appledore.
With an hour’s walk back to the campervan and a serious chat with Baa Baa Toure ahead, I thought I’d better spend ten minutes writing off the village as the Aldeburgh of the West or something.
But it was enchanting, and surprisingly normal. The Royal Plaice combined deep fried haddock and Doom Bar.
The intriguingly named combined crazy golf with, er, Doom Bar.
and Serene Skye claimed a day trip to a Scottish Island one feels they couldn’t deliver (though I need a tick there).
I nearly popped in newly re-opened Royal George but they weren’t doing Doom Bar and it looked a bit Southwold.
“It looks just like a little Deal. Without micropubs” I excitedly told Dave, who had to agree.
Tight streets winding behind the bay (Irsha Street a marvel), packed with pale blues and antiques and tat. And the odd closed pub.
But the biggest treasure was the bloke who’d been seeking our votes (presumably for Doom Bar as CBOB) in the Champ. He tipped up again, twice, and nodded sagely at me outside the Beaver.
That Liverpool kit I thought he was wearing turned out to be the official shirt of the New Inn in Fremington, a short swim across the Torridge.
I should have tried at least one of the pubs, but Rishi’s half-price fishcakes had flooded the pubs, and I’m not queueing for a pint of Doom.
I headed home, wishing I’d slapped on more suncream.