After my Ilfracombe cream tea I walked up Hillsborough, the hard way (straight up, not the zig zag path).
It’s not as well-pubbed as the area round the Sheffield Wednesday ground, but it raises the heart rate and the view are better than from the Leppings Lane stand.
With its tremendous calf-stretching ascent and wondrous views, for a moment I thought “bit Llandudno like, innit ?”, but they’ve got a beach.
Ilfracombe had a sign saying “Keep out of the water“, which tends to be an issue for beach resorts.
I clambered over the rocks at the Quay, wondering if someone had built a micropub there yet.
But the building on top was St Nicholas Chapel.
From there you can see what Damien Hirst loaned to the town.
They’d probably have been happier with the loan of some sand.
Down at the harbour, Ilfracombe’s 11,000 residents had been joined by another 22,000 day trippers (like me, but I’m different), all keen to go home and complain about Covidiots and how busy the beach is.
Too hectic for me; I headed for the pubs.