Still slogging through the homeward leg of the Cornwall & Devon Codgers Crawl now, as we stop for a bit of exercise in Lydford Gorge.
Despite it being National Trust, which normally means, pashminas and cream teas, the Gorge is a rugged pleasure, even though Covid means you can only do a “highlights package” of waterfall and back.
Mrs RM was delighted it was the mini-version, discovering muscles she didn’t know she had in the deep descent.
Up the road, not easily accessible off the A38, lies the distinctly Devon charms of Bratton Clovelly. Look, a free car park !
But I don’t think they get many visitors at the Clovelly Inn. That was my explanation to Mrs RM for an experience we have argued about EVER since.
We did the obligatories. Or tried to.
“The hand sanitiser’s done to buggery ! There’s one inside“
Inside, a cheery lady sat on the sort of table you normally see at Working Men’s Clubs, guarding the track and trace forms.
No-one asked “Will you be dining with us ?”. Hurrah.
All the tables in the Public were occupied by the locals. I wanted to join the smokers outside, but Mrs RM took the adjacent lounge, despite my protestations.
The light was turned on, a little late for Mrs RM’s pleasure.
The Lady at the Table (unsuccessful Chris de Burgh follow-up) asked how we were, the Jail Ale was decent, the banter concerned a labrador that had eaten two £20 notes. I’d never seen anyone so cheerful at losing £40.
£20 would have fed the village based on their menu (take my word for it).
Perhaps the first ever use of the word “Lads” on a pub menu.
No food till 6pm, of course, it’s the law. We moved on.
And if Pauline was wondering about the orange sheep vase.