Devon

Hard to see how you might happen upon Hope Cove, unless you were a swashbuckling type arriving by galleon. We didn’t see many Erol Flynns the day we visited, though. Odd that. But its certainly not on the way to anywhere and has, therefore, to rise to the occasion of a ‘destination’. And that means any local foodie haunt has to be better than average, way better.

Having been given the nod by a local foodie colleague, we fired up the sat nav, drove around in circles for some time and then had to resort to an old-fashioned paper map of dubious, Dark Ages cartography. By some miracle, we found it. We were staying just down the coast, on the beautiful Rame Head where the might Tamar crashes into the sea. In Cornwall, in fact – so felt slightly traitorous as we left our cliff-top eyrie and headed off to the more bucolic delights of the county just over the bridge. If you’re staying in Cornwall, lunching in Devon is not something to admit to. I can’t imagine it ever crosses the minds of locals. Here be dragons etc etc.

The beautiful sand and rock-pool-strewn Hope Cove is a quiet sort of place whatever your West Country leanings. There’s more than a hint of hipster, surfer-dude mixed in with the traditional charms of the TQ postcodes (which range wildly from the rumbustious slap ‘n tickle of Torquay, via the billowing sails of Salcombe to the vegan self-knit and shamanic drum workshops of Totnes). The cove is home to a winner of the UK’s best craft beer bar or so I’m told (named – somewhat predictably – The Cove, it has rather nice views over the beach).

But we’d come to check out the restaurant at Hope Cove House (gosh, they do love their coves ‘round ‘ere). Not all places possess A-list looks from the outside and I think it’s fair to say that HCH’s charms lie within and on a deeper, more specifically gastro, level. Don’t be put off however by the plain exterior, inside is a lovely dining room, fresh, open and welcoming. A little bit Scandi, a scattering of New England and a whiff of Shoreditch. The place is a hotel and although I didn’t see the rooms I imagine they follow this cheery eclecticism and would make a rather nice base for … well … surfing and cove-hop(p)ing I suppose.

Lunch was a perfect mix of tip-top ingredients handled with a light touch and keen eye to letting freshness and inherent goodness sing. First up, bread. I do get overexcited when presented with home-made bread and butter, I have to admit: theirs was really very nice indeed. And served with a jaunty sea-urchin-shaped bowl of sea-salt flakes. Best of all, it made the perfect mop for a plate of anchovies served in precise modernist rows with rosemary oil and lemon. Oh, they were good. Other nibbly bits like almonds, hunks of Parmesan and Jersey oyster all sounded tempting, if not exactly local. Teignmouth has oysters and you can get Cornish natives when in season. What about a pilchard or two (even if you up their Mediterranean chic by calling them sardines)? And there are a few West Country grana cheeses that might fit the bill. Perhaps theirs is one of them: it resolutely avoids calling itself Parmigiano Regiano on the menu, after all. 

This slight gripe aside, we happily moved on to a crisp salad of chicory and blue cheese (surely local?) cleverly strewn with pops of caramelised walnut. A couple of sweet-fleshed red mullet, crusty from the plancha, then arrived in a shower of fried garlic slivers, accompanied by very good frites and wobbly-yolky aioli. We confined ourselves to the lower reaches of the wine list, but a roll call of Gavis, Grüners, Verdicchios made this a pleasure rather than a chore. A few Menetou-Salon gems and the odd oddity like Spanish Txakolina would keep things perky for supper. Fine selection of beer, too.

A very good lunch, just what Erol Flynn would have ordered. I’d definitely return, if I could find it again that is ...