The Swiss think they’ve got the monopoly on yodelling, but they’re wrong. Couple of old boys slurp half pots of opaque scrumpy as an aide-mémoire. Both fondly recall hearing their grandads yodel right over there by the bar in the late 1930s. When men were men. When men, well, yodelled. Storied is the tradition of Devonian yodelling, I’m told. Education happens in the unlikeliest of locations. Mid-afternoon crowd, weekly pension payments being well invested in more than a dozen ciders. No beer, but some perry if you’re going to be operating heavy machinery later. Fruit wine if you’re not. A last bastion, railing against the dying lights of the market town centre. Contrarians, drinking all manner of fruited booze to ward off the evil spirits of the half-dozen out-of-town supermarkets that have stifled both the hustle and the bustle round here. It were ‘arf pints only for the women until recently, a pensioner politely tells me, but we’ve moved with the times.
Ye Olde Cider Bar, 99 East St, Newton Abbot, Devon TQ12 2LD
The English Channel glimmers nonstop during the five mile yomp along the coastal path from Salcombe. Prawle Point, Devon’s most southernly tip, delivers the rural, rugged beauty you’d expect. What you wouldn’t guess, though, is that Lee Scratch Perry, The Boomtown Rats, and *checks notes* Atomic Kitten have all played gigs at the end of this single-track road. Devon’s most southernly music venue, a seventeenth century smugglers inn kept alive by music industry veterans, who for thirty years have preferred pints of real ale and a sea breeze to schmoozing in Soho. We’re in for a skinful. Tankards of local best bitter followed by overflowing vats of shell-on prawns and pudgy proper pub chips, rinse and repeat. Decor choices begin making sense after a few beers. Of course there’s a life sized cardboard cutout of Boris Johnson lurking at the end of a 300 year old stone corridor. Minibus driver was due half an hour ago to pick us up. No phone signal out here, so we’re in analogue hands. Commotion breaks out in the bar as the entirely local remaining crowd clink shot glasses of tequila with a clearly popular new arrival, who bites into his lime slice before looking our way: “you boys order a taxi?”
The Pigs Nose Inn, East Prawle, Kingsbridge, Devon TQ7 2BY
If the tractors don’t get you on the backcountry lanes, the Waitrose delivery vans sure will. White-knuckle driving territory, hold that nerve until you reach Ringmore in the beautifully named South Hams. Journey’s End indeed. Eight hundred years of salty air would undo the very fibre of most buildings, but this coaching inn stands proud. The only conundrum in this neck of the woods is whether to have your pint before or after strolling downhill to the idyllic Ayrmer Cove. Both is of course the right answer (you’re in no rush to get back on those B-roads). Pass the Reading and Billiards rooms, nestled behind gnarled oak doors. Tiptoe round the assortment of beach-weary dogs snoozing by the blackened fireplaces to pick up a pint of whatever’s pouring from the gravity casks stacked wonkily behind the bar. Take a seat in a stone alcove, breathe in deeply. The end of this journey has been eight hundred years in the making, after all.
The Journey’s End Inn, Ringmore, Kingsbridge, Devon TQ7 4HL
Pub Vignettes is a fortnightly collection of impressions of the world’s more interesting drinking spots.
For those who’ve followed along for more than a decade via the now-retired Beermack site, welcome back. For those newer to this parish, welcome.