This was something of a bye day from our programme of walking to pubs which we previously hadn’t visited. The London Inn at Molland is an old haunt, but we were looking for a short walk with our son before having a couple of pints and some lunch, again a rarity for us. It also seemed an ideal opportunity to see how the pub had changed, if at all, since the departure of its previous, long-serving, licensee.
The walk did not go to plan. We parked below the church, and walked out of the village towards Smallacombe. We passed the old chapel on our right, and at Latchgate Cross turned left towards Smallacombe Farm. It should have been a route all too familiar after chasing the Dulverton West hounds up this lane in March, but we took the wrong turn towards Luckworthy and found ourselves on the west side of Triss Combe. My intention had been to pass Smallacombe Farm itself and head out on to Molland Common towards Anstey Gate before turning leftwards towards Ridgeway Cross. We were stuck, however, on the wrong side of the combe but were compensated by a view of a herd of hinds and, later, of ponies on the far horizon. We were soon at Ridgeway Cross with its fine view southwards down the combe. Hunted stags disturbed in Combe Wood, or on the lower reaches of West Anstey Common, often run up Triss Combe before crossing the road and setting sail for the valley of the Danes Brook.
We walked over to Cussacombe Gate, or Cuzzicombe Gate, according to taste. Cuzzicombe Post, which stands just beyond the Gate, is a testament to the rigours of the weather here when you consider that the present one is but thirty years old.
The original plan had been to walk downwards from the post to the bridle path which runs round the cross-country course, but it would have meant arriving at the pub indecently early. Instead we walked on towards Twitchen until we took a track on our left optimistically rated as “unsuitable for motors.” We knew it from hunting but, where we normally turned left into a field back towards the top of the course, we plunged on downwards through some gates along the track which rapidly became unsuitable for human beings, leave alone “motors.” The nadir of this rugged and rather unwise improvisation was when we spilled out at the bottom into another bridle way next to a decomposing sheep.
We turned left and climbed back up on to the cross-country course. Pausing only to admire a frightening log pile jumped in late winter by our field master, Desperate Dan, while the remainder of the DW wisely unlatched an adjacent gate, we at last gained the safety of the bridle way above the course and eventually the lane back into Molland.
My stock as a pathfinder had never been lower, but we reached the London Inn at a respectable 12.30. This is one of Exmoor’s best watering holes, and the main bar, always with a blazing fire in winter, is a very pleasant place to sit with its homely tables, benches and chairs. On the mantle there are photographs of the tame deer which was kept by the landlady of many years, who is now our near neighbour. In the narrower room in front of the bar there is a large blackboard naming all sorts of tempting dishes. Beyond is another pleasant room, and the restaurant is attractive as well.
The new and cheery landlord sticks to the old regime of either Exmoor or Cotleigh straight from the barrel and, as a self-declared beer enthusiast himself, he keeps it very well. We are not normally people who do lunch, but we enjoyed a real treat. The son had a home-made burger and the wife a brie and bacon sandwich, both given ten out of ten. As a recipient of a limitless and free supply of statins from the National Health Service, I had a mouth-watering warm salad of black pudding and bacon with croutons. I also had spotted on the right of the bar a small slate with home-made bar snacks listed, and could not resist a side-serving of beef dripping on toast. That was one in the eye for the cholesterol police, and its flavour brought back all sorts of memories of childhood Sunday lunches. The landlord apologised that he had run out of his home-baked pork crackling but a fresh supply would soon be available. I can’t think of a nicer place to sit and have a stroke or a heart attack. It wasn't long before we were back at the London Inn for supper to do real justice to that blackboard. Food prices are pitched sensibly in the mid-division. My fish in beer batter with chips and home-mushed peas was less than £8, and my wife's smoked chicken with tarragon sauce was only a little more. Son's rump steak was £10.95, and I had no trouble in convincing him of the joys of dripping on toast. The pub was busy on a Saturday evening, and it deserves to be.
