This was to be the end of the
quest. After visiting thirty four pubs, tasting twenty nine different beers,
and walking two hundred and twenty four miles, the finish line was in sight. We had toyed with prolonging our
project to walk to every pub on Exmoor by counting in Woods at Dulverton, but
at the end of the day Paddy Groves’s excellent establishment on the southern
fringe of Exmoor is described accurately by
its signboard. It’s a “public bar with a dining room”, not a pub.
The Castle at Porlock thus
remained the final enigma and challenge. Despite naming itself as a “hotel”, it
had always looked a boozer to me – when it was open. Landlords seemed to come
and go with the seasons and the swallows. The plan was to start at Bossington
and then circle through Selworthy and Horner Woods before attacking Porlock in
the rear, hoping to take the Castle by surprise during one of the infrequent
periods when it was open.
It was one of the few truly
beautiful days of a dreadful summer which recalled the dreary meteorological
disasters of my 1950’s childhood, but at Bossington we experienced the first of
a day of disappointments. The car park which I had picked out on the map was
administered by the National Trust and, therefore, required £3 from its
pay-and-display machine for the necessary all-day ticket. Ever since the
National Trust banned stag hunting in the wondrous Horner Woods, despite the
understanding of the Acland family that hunting would continue there in
perpetuity, any contribution to the already swollen funds of the landless
middle classes’ favourite charity has been wrung from me with the ease of an
appendectomy without anaesthetic.
Even this could not cloud such a
beautiful morning, and we set off along the shaded bridleway towards Hurlstone
Point. Here we turned right up Hurlstone Combe, climbing a gradient which is as
steep as any we have encountered on Exmoor .
It’s the sort of climb where you find an excuse every now and again to stop to
admire the view so that you can get your breath back. We were sobered by the
thought that a week later our son would be required to run up it as part of the
Seaview 17 race from Countisbury to Minehead.
You don’t have to go too far to
enjoy marvellous views of Porlock
Bay .
The views from the very top at
Selworthy Beacon are even better but, sadly, our camera failed to do them
justice. Here are the pictures for what they are worth, but on the ground the
all-round prospect of the Exmoor hills, and of the Bristol
Channel with its shipping and the Welsh coast beyond, is quite
staggering.
We walked down from the Beacon
towards the road which runs in from North Hill, Minehead. When we joined the
road, we walked eastwards without any sign of the path required to take us down
to Selworthy village. When we were almost upon it, it suddenly became visible
through the dense bracken and we turned down through Selworthy Combe, the track
following a stream through woodland until we finally reached the village. Here
the famous landmark white church was just turning out after matins, which had
pulled as big a congregation as any modern clergyman might wish for.
We followed the lane through the
lovely village of
Selworthy , given to the
graceless National Trust by the aforementioned Aclands, until we were almost at
the main A39 road. Just before reaching it, we turned left into a no-through
road past some handsome cottages so that we emerged exactly opposite to the
entrance to Holnicote House. A footpath runs through the grounds which would
eventually lead us to Horner. We followed it until it took us into a large
meadow, in which the grass had been cut for hay, and here we walked parallel to
the house until the path disappeared in a maze of nettles in the corner of the
field. It should have continued into the next ground where one would have
turned sharp left, but this way was blocked.
I had experienced the same
difficulty a couple of years previously when walking from Minehead to
Withypool, and we were obliged to improvise as I had done then, turning left
and following the boundary of the first field. We then went through a gateway
on our right near the foot of this field, turned left, and scrambled through a
muddy corner into a lane. Here we turned right and walked up it until an
overgrown stile appeared in the hedge on our left. This we climbed and headed
for Horner, now back on the path intended. It is irritating not to take the way
one should, but two attempts have left me none the wiser as to the correct path
at Holnicote House. It just dives into the nettles like a rabbit and
disappears.
We followed a line of stiles
until we passed through a belt of trees, on the far side of which were two of
the biggest ant-hills I have ever seen. We then walked down across a large
meadow of sheep until we reached the lane which leads from West
Luccombe into Horner. Here we turned left until we reached the
packhorse bridge at Horner by which we crossed into Horner Woods. We turned
right into the bridleway which would have led us straight into Porlock, but
after a hundred yards or so we turned left up the Cat’s Scramble path to reach
the top of Ley Hill. This we did, despite a convoy of pony trekkers stumbling
down in the opposite direction, and despite the path beginning to run westwards
away from the summit. We took a right incline here and fortunately found
ourselves back in the sunshine amid the bracken on top of Ley Hill.
Our intention was to walk down in
to Porlock through Doverhay Plantation but we missed a turning and to our
chagrin found ourselves back on the original bridleway, not a hundred yards
from where we had entered the Cat’s Scramble. We had all but come round in a
circle. Hot, bothered, and with the navigator’s credentials seriously
compromised, we walked into Porlock by a familiar lane, more than ready for the
best pint that mine host of the Castle might purvey.
Matters looked more than
promising as we walked past the church. Boards, no doubt advertising a
selection of local beers, stood on the pavement in front of the building, and
there was an encouraging sense of hustle and bustle. The familiar tile-hung
façade looked as it always did.
Stepping from the bright sunlight
into the dark of the interior, however, what met our gaze? – sofas, sofas,
sofas, and books, books, books, rows and rows of them! Sofas are all very well
at home to fall asleep on in front of the television, and not a day goes by
when I don’t open a book, but not in a pub. The answer, of course, was that I
wasn’t in a pub, and I wasn’t in the Castle any longer. I was in Miller’s Hotel
and Bistro, which had taken over the building of the old watering-hole. Well,
good luck to you, Mr Miller, and I hope that you succeed where too many others
have failed.
This sophisticated ambience was
not one in which I would have felt comfortable, but then there aren’t too many
pubs these days which, instead of sofas and books, would have displayed such
comforting and nostalgic personal totems as glass ashtrays with “Castella”
printed on them, or jars of green pickled eggs on the bar, or a rank “Gents”
across the yard. Like homing pigeons, we flew back along the main street
towards the “Royal Oak ”.
For more about this unpretentious boozer, please see our entry for September 19th
2009. Little had changed since our last visit. The bloke who’s a dead-ringer
for the albino bluesman Johnny Winter was still talking football, and there was
still a mixed crowd of local families and trippers getting outside the very
reasonable grub. This was a Sunday morning so that we dined for free from
the crisps and cheese on the bar – even
the “Oak” has its Surrey Hills moments - and drank two very welcome pints of
Summer Lightning. “Golden” ale remains too near a relation to the dreaded lager
for my liking but on a hot and sunny morning, when you’ve walked a couple of
miles further than you intended, in search of a pub which no longer exists,
that chilled citrusy tang goes down a treat.
We made our way back along the
foreshore to Bossington to pick up the car. As we drove out of the park, I
enjoyed the petty revenge of handing my all-day ticket to a delighted and
grateful driver coming in.