The Night Riviera to Cornwall

As the Night Riviera pulled out of Paddington our weekend began with a hiss of kissing steel and a clunk of clacking couplings. Our berths were like Japanese boutique hotel rooms – except on a train. They would have been futuristic once – but there’s something even more charming about the way they hark back to another era of long distance train travel. To a life more civilised. 

Our suite had two bunks, a sink, a dinky ladder, air conditioning and wonderfully static sheets that flickered and glowed when you shuffled around in the dark like the Northern Lights. After some free tea and shortbread in the dining cart we turned in for the night and awoke to a bacon sandwich and a cup of tea at Truro at 6.45am.

We had left the gloom and bustle of London behind us and alighted at piratey Penzance, squinting, as we were stunned by the azure brilliance of the iridescent Atlantic. Our 4 mile cycle to Mousehole, through the fishing port of Newlyn followed the coast and filled our lungs with sushi fresh air and our ears with the rhythmic cacophony of seagulls and trawlers. We felt a million miles from Paddington and felt like bottling the air and sounds in one of his marmalade jars.

By 8.15 we had been welcomed into the Old Coastguard as if they had just realised we were The Ancient Mariner and ushered our alarmingly Lycra clad bodies into the breakfast room where we feasted on locally smoked kippers, home made yoghurt and Cornish tea. I am sure being able to see the sea makes a kipper taste even better.

With the sun beaming down we set out on a 60 mile cycling loop that tracked west through Lamorna to Lands End before heading onto St. Just and then through the majestic moorlands either side of Zennor. It was like cycling through a Rapha photoshoot – except with more sweat and a much less successful posing. We watched as seagulls remorselessly followed a tractor as it ploughed a field that dropped off into the Atlantic. We waited as a cocky cockerel stopped the traffic as he ambled across the “main” road. We nodded at fellow cyclist. And they nodded back.

We paused at the Gurnard’s Head for a gawp at their lunch menu – and I am still torn between the roast turbot with truffles and the blade of beef with wild mushrooms. But it would have been a bit indulgent considering I’d just had a big breakfast, and that it was only 11am!

At St. Ives we stopped for a pasty and a cup of tea before escaping the tourists and heading through the delightful backroads around St. Erth where we climbed over the central hills where we were confronted by St. Michael’s Mount erupting out of the shimmering bay.  We continued along the coast and back to Mousehole and felt any sense of stress from London flutter away. It’s a spectacular coastline and a privilege to be able to cycling along it.

Dinner at the Old Coastguard was just as good as we’d hoped. Given that it is the latest addition to the East Sleep Drink family whose siblings are the Gurnard’s Head and Felin Fach Griffin – we had high hopes. You won’t find many better views than here to accompany a pre-dinner drink and a game of Scrabble. I’m gushing – but it really was magical.

Cowie’s pork belly starter was sticky, soft and unctuously coated with an oriental marinade. And my crab rarebit was gutsy and craby without being prissy. These weren’t mind-blowingly-original dishes, but they were refreshingly un-twee and intelligently crafted. And given how far we were from London they felt spot on.

For fear of food envy we, unusually, both chose their fish stew. It came laced with (possibly Cornish) saffron and a tangy aioli and swimming with ling, cod, squid and mussels – all bound together in a richly seasoned tomato bisque and spiked with fennel. We sent our bowls back so clean that they could probably have been able to bypass the washing up machine.

Cowie’s cheesecake was good without being thrilling – with the indecently juicy figs stealing the show. But my pistachio and yoghurt cake wouldn’t have been out of place at Moro. It’s the kind of pudding that makes you wish you had hollow legs.

We eventually carried our weary limbs to bed for a sleep that seemed to last forever – before returning for a repeat of the previous day’s breakfast – but with less Lyrca! My full Cornish was wonderfully well judged with the star being a nugget of Hog’s Pudding that left you in no doubt that the pig had enjoyed a good life.

We took the cycling a bit easier on the second day with a 40 mile loop – and instead took in the delights of the Logan’s Rock Inn which is famous for its crab sandwiches and also marveled at the waves crashing against Cape Cornwall. If the sun had been out we’d have visited the Menack Theatre, Porthcorno and Senna Cove – but unfortunately we were battling against near gale force winds. Even in these conditions the cycle was spectacular.

We retuned to The Old Coastguard for Cornish scones and lashings of tea as we slumbered on the world’s most comfortable sofa. Eventually it was time to go and we reluctantly bade farewell and paid our very modest bill. They’d looked after us superbly and I can’t recommend The Old Coastguard highly enough. My only suggestion for improvement would be to have a cycle rack. In fact, it could easily become a base for people cycling around Cornwall. All they’d need to do would be to provide some waterproof maps, some suggested routes (with stop offs at the Gurnard’s Head) and maybe team up with a local bike mechanic to offer some basic tools and services.

We meandered back to Penzance to board our sleeper with some provisions from Co-op – to help make the first part of the journey pass by quicker. After a ½ bottle of train wine we were feeling suitably snoozy to sleep through anything that the train tracks could throw at us. We turned into our bunks and awoke in Paddington station at 6.15am with a bacon sandwich and a cup of tea and were allowed to doze on the train until 7am. Given that the train arrived at 5am there’s something quite surreal about being asleep on a stationary train in a major station.

It is without question my favourite weekend break that we’ve been on. The fact that you get three nights away and two full days in Cornwall makes it fell like a holiday rather than just a weekend. And the experience of the sleeper service is so civilised you’ll feel like you were in a Bond film. Add the relaxed and civilised delights of The Old Coastguard into the mix and some epic weather and it gets even better. We’re now sleeper train nerds and are looking forward to an adventure to the Lakes or maybe even all the way up to the nether regions of Scotland.

The Old Coastguard, Mousehole

Mousehole is one my favourite places purely because of the name. A bit like Clitheroe – and a tiny village in Wiltshire, called Tiddlywink. I amused myself by insisting on pronouncing it as Mouse Hole, even though Cowie kept correcting me with “Mauzall”. The more she intervened the more childish I became and the more fond I am now of this spot that’s nestled in the Carribean waters of South West Cornwall.



Mousehole was 45 miles into our Land’s End cycle circuit, that had started at Penzance and climbed up through St. Just, so we decided to treat ourselves to a very well deserved lunch. Cowie used the lure of lunch at The Old Coastguard to keep me going – which had the result of us arriving there over an hour ahead of schedule. If I was ever to enter the Tour de France, you’d just have to dangle lunch at Pierre Gagnaire in front of me and Contador would be chasing my Lycra clad shadow.

We had been tipped off by the team at the Gurnard’s Head (their sister restaurant) that they were in a launch phase and were just warming up. So we arrived with an open mind, some very weary legs and an appetite of Chris Hoy proportions. We loved the setting, the large garden and spectacular view out to sea and settled in on the terrace for a very memorable lunch. If you’d told us that we’d just cycled to Trinidad I’d have believed you after a few more pints of Doombar.







It seemed rude not to have a couple of oysters which slipped down elegantly. I can recommend the shear sensuality of eating oysters whilst wearing nothing but Lycra: it seems to heighten the oystery pleasure.



A sympathetically dressed goat’s cheese and fennel salad was fresher than a student in the first energetic thrusts of university.



And a tomato and shallot salad with basil and balsamic vinegar was about as good as it can be in the UK, without access to intense Mediterranean sunshine. We loved the Hula Hoops of shallot whose intensity had been mellowed by the vinegar.



My crispy skinned hake with mustard béarnaise and fennel was just what my weary legs needed and is a dish that I’ll be attempting at home. The anise flavour of the tarragon in the béarnaise held hands with the fennel to create a dish that shows that the kitchen is going to be an exciting prospect when it is firing on all cylinders.

Things got even better when I asked whether there happened to be a good fishmonger nearby the waitress – with a straight face – asked whether I knew that Newlyn was the next door village, which she, helpfully, pointed out is home to one of the UK’s main fishing fleets. Whoops.

Whilst The Old Coastguard doesn’t yet have the same cosy warmth and charm as the Gurnard’s Head and Felin Fach Griffin in terms of pubby atmosphere, its setting and the well heeled locals mark this out as one to watch for the future. I can’t wait to return next summer – except maybe next time for dinner and not wearing anything quite so figure hugging.

The Gurnard’s Head - Revisited

We had one of our favourite meals of all time at Gurnard’s Head back in 2009. It was only a light lunch of fish soup and grilled fish, but it was so perfect in its charm and flavour soaked simplicity that we left craving more. Inspired by our Cornish epiphany we went to The Gurnard’s Head’s sister pub in the Brecon Beacons called the Felin Fach Griffin and had an experience that was almost as good – it just made us want to return to the mother ship for more.

The Gurnard’s Head Inn is beyond St. Ives, not far from Land’s End and set back from a stunning stretch of Atlantic coastline. So it isn’t a place you can just pop along to on a whim. You need to build an entire holiday around it. So we decided to splash out on food rather than a roof over our head and found ourselves in Noongalllas's enchanting field between Penzance and St. Ives - where you rise from your tent to the sound of cows and the sight of a VW camper van selling coffee and croissants and go to sleep the sound of dropping pins.

We wanted to experience as much Gurnard’s Head goodness as possible so we walked down the National Trust coastal path with a picnic to explore the scenery. It turns out that The Gurnard’s Head itself is a rocky outcrop that stretches out into the Atlantic in the shape of a fish head, sheltering Treen Cove from the often ferocious sea. It’s been described as “one of the most striking and beautiful promontories in Cornwall” and is worth a visit with or without the brilliance of the restaurant.













The simply perfect 360 view, the roasting heat of the south facing natural sun deck and the cool breeze from the sea makes this outcrop our favourite bit of geography in the UK. After a perfect picnic we headed back to our tent to tart ourselves up and returned ravenously to the Gurnard’s Head for dinner.

We arrived with high expectations and settled in for what turned out to be a memorable meal. Please excuse the grainy pictures and I hope I can do the food justice with a scattering of words.



Pigeon salad with game chips, lambs lettuce and a turbo charged berry gravy was Cowie’s idea of heaven. The flesh was pinker than a camp panther with Cowie’s only criticism being that she’d like to have it all over again.



My crispy pig’s ear salad with peas, pork belly and a sticky sauce is the kind of dish that excites you about the rest of the meal to come, like a shot of adrenaline before a rugby match – just as starters are supposed to. With a glass of dry sherry it ranks as my favourite starts to a meal of the year.



Cowie’s cod, which came with a mound of puréed beans, carmelised fennel and a waft of truffle, was epic. It was as if the chef had briefed a silk worm to create a cocoon for the fish to be cooked in. It’s rare to find fish cooked with this level of care and intelligence. The purée complemented the softness of the fish and the fennel’s distinct fronds mirrored the flaky nature of the flesh.



My hake with basil gnocchi and spinach was the best thing I’ve eaten all year. Crisp skin, flaking flesh and a rich fishy depth had me savouring each bite - whilst the gnocchi’s fondant texture and loud basil flavour added several layers to this sensual feast. I know I’m wanging on about this dish, but it was pretty good.

We shared some delicious ice cream for dessert and lingered over coffee to absorb the atmosphere and avoid retuning prematurely to our tent. We fell in love with a playful spaniel puppy that epitomised the pub’s bosom like atmosphere as he scampered between tables and rolled over to have his tummy rubbed. If I was forced to choose a final meal – there’s a fair chance that the Gurnard’s Head would be near the top of my list to rustle it up.

Paul Ainsworth at Number 6 in Padstow

Our annual pilgrimage to the Cornish coast was one part “glamping” and another part fitness camp. On a frustratingly rainy day we stayed dry and cheery by conducting our own version of “Escape to the Country” by driving around looking for derelict wrecks to spruce up and turn into our dream house. We found a fabulous seven bedroom mansion with roses growing out of the tumbled down living room and dreamt of a new life of Cornish bliss. But when we got back to our campsite our hearts dropped when we saw that our tent had suffered a similar architectural disaster! My slapdash approach to securing the guy ropes had caused the business end of the tent to collapse and soaked all our bedding inside.

Bugger.

To her credit Cowie didn’t blame me in the slightest, but we both knew it was my hopelessness that had caused the catastrophe. We had planned to cook dinner al fresco, but in an inspired moment we decided instead to see if we could get a table somewhere good and not Steiny in Padstow.

“Not a problem Sir. We’re looking forward to seeing you,” were the words from the charming telephonist at Paul Ainsworth’s Number 6 restaurant that lifted our sodden spirits. In fact they were lifted so much that we decided to go for a sun downer 6 mile run to build up our appetite. So with chaffed nipples and an appetite the size of a dieting Texan we descended on Padstow.

We’ve been to Padstow a fair bit over the years with a very memorable stay at an eccentric BnB and a blow-out meal of lobster and all the trimmings at Rick Stein’s Seafood Restaurant, but we have recently started to pick up an unfriendly vibe from the village. Parking attendants are particularly officious. Shopkeepers refuse to give you change. Ice-cream-licking-tourists hang around with nothing to actually do. And finding somewhere to give you a decent cup of tea is almost impossible. So the warmth we were greeted with and the genuinely friendly service we received at Paul Ainsworth’s restaurant couldn’t have been more welcome.



Paul Ainsworth is a talented chef who earned his stripes within the Gordon Ramsay Empire at The Greenhouse and Petrus who upped sticks and headed west in 2008 to cook in Padstow. He worked to the orders of the then management before buying them out and taking over in the last year or so. Since then, according to our waiter, the restaurant has taken on a new lease of life and is being touted, by some, as a Michelin starred restaurant in waiting.

We immediately warmed to the restaurant which was ablaze with rosy cheeks, the hubble bubble of merry laughter and the glistening twinkle of licked-clean-plates. The menu is full of locally sourced produce and just as many fun ideas that make you want to sample every single item.



Feeling exhausted after our run I chose to feed my weary muscles with as much iron-y meat as possible. So a starter of Charles Macleod black pudding with Dave Thomasson scallops and carrot cream was as welcome as a scalding hot Radox bath. Both the perfectly cooked scallops and black pudding were worthy of bearing their maker’s name on the menu.

Cowie’s beef carpaccio salad with pea shoots and horseradish was so delicious that I was barely allowed a mouthful. But that one little taster was stunning.

The star of the show was a rather dull sounding “day boat plaice with sea greens, brown shrimps and sweet corn salsa”. It was a single-handed demonstration of just how fine plaice can be. It had been poached in a flavoursome liquor which left it quivering like a petrified toddler who’s just seen their Wendy House go up in flames. All the elements worked together perfectly and we just wished, like at Relais de Venise, that they would bring out a second portion!

My Cornish lamb's liver with braised bacon, lettuce and a tomato fondue couldn’t have been more what I wanted. It was as if Paul Ainsworth had judged my mood and cooked exactly what my body wanted but my mind hadn’t realised. The liver was tender, pink and perfectly seasoned whilst the braised bacon and lettuce was a pitch perfect counterpoint. The tomato fondue was a clever twist on the classic grilled version that normally comes with liver and bacon. It was a great example of how the chef tried to apply his own twist on classic dishes.

We shared a wonderful dessert of Boddingtons strawberries, thyme, cheesecake and strawberry sorbet. It almost ended in a fight as I absent-mindedly demolished far more than my fair share having said that I wasn’t really in a pudding mood! If you want to avoid arguments ruining the end of your meal, you might want to have their, rather pricey, dessert tasting slate.

As the evening drew to a close and the other guests all left we found ourselves having a enthusiastic conversation with our waiter who could not have been more passionate about food and hospitality if he had tried. I’ve since read an interview with Paul Ainsworth where he speaks about his young team with enormous pride – and it is easy to see why. It’s this sort of youthful passion that is infectious and helped to make our evening far more than the sum of its excellent parts.

Photo from the Paul Ainsworth at Number 6 Facebook page

Further Reading

You can follow Paul Ainsworth on Twitter or like the restaurant on Facebook which is a good idea given that their website is “under construction”
Review in The Telegraph
Glowing reviews on Tripadvisor
How to make Tongue-n-Cheek by Paul Ainsworth

Camel Vineyard Day Trip

Throughout our trip to the South West we saw fliers for Camel Valley vineyard. So on one of the less sunny days we embarked on the forlorn drive over Bodmin Moor and over to the Camel Valley, which is only a short hop from Padstow and the gastronomic wonders of Rick Stein and perhaps more interestingly, Margots.



The Camel Valley Vineyard has become increasingly well known and respected for their sparkling white and rose wines as well as for their fresh and not quite ripe whites. Given that these are just the sorts of wines Cowie loves to guzzle it made for an entertaining trip.

We picnicked by the Camel River before our tour, nestling in amongst the nettles and undergrowth next to a charming bridge with nothing but the trickle of water to distract us from our cured meats and salad. If it had been a bit warmer you could have convinced me I was in the Dordogne.

We were given a tour by Sam who is the son of Bob Lindo who owns the vineyard. They planted their first 8,000 vines 20 years ago and have been vanguards of the English wine movement ever since. They grown a mixture of grapes which seem not only tolerant of chilly English conditions but actually well suited. Given that the vineyard is not enormous, their main concern is one of volume. Their wine, apparently, tastes the same from year to year, but the grape yield tends to vary significantly depending broadly on how warm the summer is.



Because the climate isn’t warm enough for the grapes to ripen fully (much like Champagne) the wine tends to express the tart flavours of the English countryside such as elderflower, gooseberry, raspberry and a whole bunch of other limey-green, refreshing flavours.



We sipped our glasses of award winning wines on the balcony overlooking their vineyards and down the valley to Padstow. The Bacchus was like drinking a green fruit sorbet whilst the pink sparkler was beautifully rosey on the eye and better than any of the usual supermarket contenders from Champagne. We’ll be looking out for their wines in the future and can recommend a visit to anyone with an interest in seeing the embryonic first steps of English wine into the mainstream.

If your looking for other things to do on wet or gloomy days when your exploring Devon and Cornwall places then we’ve been recommended other excursions such as Sharpham Vineyards, Ticklemore cheese and a trip to the Helford Oyster beds isn’t a bad shout either.

This is part of a series about our trip around the South West.

Sam's and Fowey

Fowey is a stunning seaside town, dedicated almost entirely to boats. Chaps in thick sweaters, boys in sailing caps and squawky seagulls compete for attention, whilst cars squeeze through streets so tight you’re surprised when they don’t all get stuck.

Our camp site was on the east side of the estuary and as luck would have it, Cowie’s car turned out to not be amphibious, so we soon became the ferryman’s favourite customers as we shuttled between tent and food.



We ate extremely well in Fowey, thanks to everyone’s suggestions. We had a lovely, sunny lunch of crab and sardines at Food for Thought in the main square, waited on by a Hungarian staff. It was perfect for our needs, but we’re pleased we went for lunch rather than dinner.

Having failed to get a table at Nathan Outlaw’s star spangled restaurant we had to make alterative plans. Our second option was to dine at The Old Quay but after a chat with their ex-fish supplier and a glimpse of their, rather expensive, menu we decided not to go. With its terrace overlooking the estuary, The Old Quay would make a great spot for fruit de mer as their sun goes down or crab salad at lunch time perhaps. But with the sun already down it would have been silly to pay the premium for a view and not see it. We also looked at The Other Place which seemed good on the website, but less enticing in real life. And had a great tea stop in a hippy café called Pinky Murphy's watching cars holding their tummies in as the teetered through the cramped streets.





Having assessed all our options, we landed up going to Sams. Of all the restaurants we visited on our trip, it had by far the most atmosphere. We were greeted with a barrage of energy and off beat humour reminding us of a combination of School of Rock, True Romance and Empire Records. The format is certainly working for them. We looked at the menu boards, placed our order with one of the three Sams and then joined the queuing masses upstairs in the bar.



An hour or so of drinking with some long lost friends and our table was ready. Apparently, in yesteryear, the pre dinner drinking took place on the street outside rather than in the slightly cramped bar upstairs which would have been a lot more fun. Rumour has it, the pre dinner boozing is designed to get everyone in a good mood so they don’t think too hard about the food. A tried and tested technique and a major reason for American restaurants all falling apart in the dry years.

We started with an enormous portion of stunningly crispy and juicy red mullet tempura that had us purring with pleasure. Thumbs up.



So far so good. We were nicely sozzled and beguiled by our starter. Then our distractingly attractive waitress started to work her magic as she brought me a steak knife for my skate, before realising that she’d muddled up her letters. When the skate arrived, I almost asked for the steak instead…

It was very tasty and ample, but let down by being overcooked and swimming in an estuary of caper butter. As much as I like chips, something less deep fried would have been a welcome foil for the grease on the plate. Unless of course they thought I was having steak and were hedging their bets.



Cowie’s sea bass was a mirror of my dish. An unattractive assortment of sea bass fillets jostled for position with a sprouting bean salad. Neither main course allowed the fish to be the star of the show as the red mullet had been with our starter. Which was a shame.



We feel bad criticising the food, which was enthusiastically off-key, because we had a really fun evening. Much like being at a karaoke bar or a mate’s gig. Other than a great starter and an epic soundtrack our highlight was watching our waitress spin from mini crisis to full on diplomatic row, but all the while admired and cheered on by her adoring bosses. We'll definitely come back in search of their bouillabaisse or for some lobster and chips next time we're in Fowey.

Our 1 mile trip home took around an hour as we had to drive all the way around the estuary because the ferry stops at a very leisurely hour. Silly us for expecting it to run late. Despite the messy main courses we loved Sam’s because it was simply great fun. It’s food as entertainment rather than being pretentious, fiddly and quiet. If you’re in the Fowey area and want to have a laugh with some decent food to soak up the booze, coupled with amusing service then Sam’s won’t let you down. If they could just replicate the brilliance of the red mullet tempura then it would be a belter…

This is part of a series about our trip around the South West.

Portloe, St. Mawes and The Ship Inn

Our journey from The Gurnard’s Head in Zennor took us through Penzance, past St. Michaels’s Mount and the oyster beds of Helford (where apparently there's a great camp site with a clay pizza oven called Gear Farm) and on to Flushings where we caught the tail end of a regatta and the start of a fete. Patches of blue sky and ribbons of bunting seemed to greet us wherever we went.

We landed up in a farmhouse BnB between Truro and St. Mawes in the most undulating and rugged Cornish scenery you can imagine. Hills didn’t roll, they tumbled; grass wasn’t green, it was emerald. As we arrived at Tregonan Farm we could barely believe we had found it. The driveway was a mile long, down a valley, over a stream and walled in by steep hedges. The tarmac had long worn away leaving a “road” more rutted than a winter ewe.

The farmhouse looked idyllic from the outside, as it did on the website. When our utterly charming host welcomed us in, we couldn’t help but sigh when we were shown to our browny-beige room. It was the least romantic bedroom you can imagine. The interior design equivalent of granny pants held up with a chastity belt. The dated look and rickety fittings were a master stroke in ensuring that amorous guests don’t keep everyone up all night!

We pottered downstairs and were greeted by tea and warm scones that had just emerged from the AGA. It made me wonder whether they had a camera at the bottom of the drive which alerted them when a guest was arriving in order for them to put the scones in the oven… There can be few more enchanting things than fresh scones, home made gooseberry jam, clotted cream and thoughtful hospitality. Full marks.





Prompted by their user-generated restaurant and pub guide we drove down to the stunning fishing harbour of St. Mawes. We loved the quiet atmosphere and sight of boats bobbing about as if they were listening to one of Will Young’s more mellow ballads. But St. Mawes is devoid of a decent pub, with the Rising Sun doing only a half decent job of imitating one. It’s crying out for someone with some vision to do create a cracking fish focussed pub.

So we drove on to Portloe where we found The Ship Inn, which was so full of people they were spilling out all over the nearly vertical street outside. It was abuzz with locals, visitors, old sea-dogs and boozehounds adding character at the bar.

A perfectly grilled whole plaice with lemon butter washed down with a magical pint of Tinners was just what I wanted. Nothing fancy. Light. Spot on. Cowie’s prawn cocktail was straight out of Simon Hopkinson’s world. And why not?

We walked off our light supper and stood looking out to sea feeling refreshed, inspired, liberated and eager to return. When we can afford it, we might even indulge in a trip to the Lugger, which looks like a very smart place for a romantic get away.

Well done Tregonan and Portloe. Timeless, British hospitality at its most genuine. Why can’t other places manage this? It really isn’t hard.

Part of a series of posts about our trip around the South West.

A Perfect Lunch at The Gurnard’s Head, Zennor

As we left St. Ives and headed west towards Zennor, the sun emerged from behind some sulky grey clouds and bathed us in warmth and optimism. I never thought we’d ever get to visit The Gurnard’s Head, which stands out in Diana Henry’s books as being one of the best gastro pubs in the country, but also the most remote.

After wiggling along the “Top Gear testing-esque” road we stumbled across the image we’d seen in books and on websites many times before. The iconic image of The Gurard’s Head Hotel with blue sky above and brown cows in front. I can’t think of a more welcoming sight.





The pub is renowned for its top notch food and relaxed but stylish atmosphere. A collection of friendly paintings adorned the walls evoking a feeling of being in a successful friend’s living room. Groups of walkers, families young and old congregated around plain tables and basked in comfy chairs. A toddler spent the whole time re-arranging the library and doing sprint starts towards the kitchen. Cookery books were strewn around along with guides to the local area and switched on staff never missed a beat.



We shared a perfect, deep-crimson, bowl of fish soup which came with a fully leaded rouille and some crusty bread. At the last moment they grate some orange zest on top to give it an extra lift. This put the fish soup from The Anchor at Walberswick to shame and is a contender for “best fish soup EVER” in the words of Comic Book man from The Simpsons.



A fillet of grey mullet, served with aioli and squished new potatoes and bursting tomatoes was divine. The delicate skin was crisp, but not burnt. The supernova-white, flesh teased apart and wasn’t muddy. Spot on.



Cowie’s sea bass with samphire, new potatoes and salsa verde was equally as good. There was nothing pretentious or flash about either dish. But neither could have been bettered.

This was without question our best lunch of our trip - and quite possibly my favourite since the Paunch began. It was so good, we are going to find their sister pub in Wales, called The Felin Fach Griffin Inn, which AA Gill once described as “Exceptional anywhere in Europe - in Wales, it was as damn near miraculous as the Angel of Mons".

We wish we could have stayed all day, and then tucked into supper. But alas, we had to move on. But isn’t it great when you leave somewhere wanting more?



This is part of a series of posts about our foodie odyssey around the South West.

Porthminster Beach Café & St. Ives

Our odyssey around the South West of England started in St. Ives with the rain screaming down and the forecast looking gloomier than Eeyeore at a funeral, which serves us right for having the audacity to spend our summer holiday in the UK and to expect sunshine! Spurred on by a break in the clouds Cowie and I went for an evening jog in order to work up a serious appetite and get a feel for the local area. Given that I only had 2 pairs of trousers for the trip and both were a touch snug, regular jogs to keep some of the impending weight off seemed like a good pre-emptive policy.

A combination of sheer tiredness, rain and a lengthy walk led to us driving from our base at the Atlantic Hotel to Porthminster Beach. Sadly, as we had been warned, parking proved to be more difficult than getting a seat at rush hour on the Northern Line. For 30 minutes we explored alternative parking options, including such no-gos as a retirement home and cemetary, before heading back to our hotel and asking for a taxi. Several phone calls to cab companies later left us stranded with a 50 minute wait for the next cab! So we made another attempt at parking and got lucky, over an hour after we had started!

We arrived at the Porthminster Beach Cafe in a flap, with the rain teeming down to a charming welcome and a prime table overlooking the beach. If the weather had been better it would have been the best view from a restaurant table in the country.

A glass of sparkling raspberry Champagney stuff from Polgoon in Cornwall put us in the holiday spirit and turned the gloom outside into a sparkling, pink glow, just like our fizz. (It was a product we saw time and again around the region and is on the menu at the National Café.) Children’s crab buckets were filled with ice and used to chill the wine.

The menu was exhilaratingly charged with fresh ideas from countries far, far away but based on the fruits of Cornwall. Cowie’s scallops with cauliflower puree, bacon, spiced nuts and a warm grape and truffle jelly was stunning to look at and almost as good to eat. Some more seasoning and this would have been worthy of being exhibited as a multi sensory installation at the Tate down the road.



My crispy squid with citrus white miso, black spices and crispy shallots was magical. Apart from the last part. As ideas go, it’s up there with some of Baldrick’s less successful ideas. But luckily the burnt shallot dust was kept in its own vessel and wasn’t allowed to contaminate the fantastic squid. Meltingly tender and crusted with crispy batter, it’s a dish that I won’t forget for some time.



Cowie’s monkfish curry is one of the Porthminster Café’s signature dishes. The rich stew is an amalgam of prawns, mussels, tamarind, turmeric, coconut and chunks of monkfish topped with tomatoes almonds and tomatoes.



Unfortunately, the plate was cold and the food only slightly warmer so we sent it back for a quick blast in the microwave! The flavours were generous and deeply satisfying, if a little light in the chilli department.

My John Dory with crab fritters and an oriental dip, on the other hand was disappointing. The fish was meagre and over-cooked. The crab balls were bland. And the whole thing a shadow of what a good piece of John Dory can be. Plus, the use of a shot glass was a touch repetitive.



We shared a tamarillo themed dessert to finish, but as we tasted each component, wished we hadn’t. The best part was a gorgeous crème brulee which was the least infected by tamarillo! And why did all three of my courses have to feature a shot glass?



It was the most expensive meal of our trip with a very creative menu and a chic atmosphere that you will struggle to find anywhere else in the South West. Whilst, the food started brilliantly it tailed off like the end of a ballad as the ideas got more overworked. If we’d been watching the sun go down or alternatively having lunch overlooking the beach we’d probably have ignored this and thought, “wow”. But without the view to offset the culinary slip ups, we were left feeling impressed in general, but slightly irritated about the food and wondering if they are becoming victims of their own success.

The following day we had coffee at the Porthmeor Beach Café, with Tate St. Ives behind us and sun drenching the beach. It almost felt like we were sitting in a postcard. Over the course of 30 minutes we oohed and aahed as the kitchen emitted the most incredible smells of fresh fish and wafts of garlic and saw dishes of crab claws and bowls of rich fish soup land in front of wowed diners. If we hadn’t been going to The Gurnard’s Head for lunch we’d have tucked in and no doubt raved about it. We also heard that Porthgwidden Beach Café, is preferred by those who consider themselves to be in the know. Their menu is far less elaborate than Porthminster’s but that’s no bad thing. The sound of their seafood pancake has got me excited from 300 miles away!

St. Ives is incredibly lucky to have not one, but three fantastic beach cafes that serve a stunning range of top quality food with views over the sea – which can’t be far off being unique for a town of this size in the UK. You’ve also got the added bonus of stunning beaches and access to Vicky’s bread, (from Fore St. Deli & Digey Food Room) which wins awards on a regular basis.

For more foodie information about St. Ives have a look at this website.

This is the first in a series of posts about our trip around Cornwall, Devon and Dorset which you all helped to make so special by responding to our call for help.