Oh no! Here's somewhere else in North Devon at the end of a terrifying and interminable descent in the rain of a combe and we're looking at you Woola and Martin.

Yes, there's a wooded valley to worry about but more on that in a minute and all to reach a, quite frankly, marvellous harbour.

There's a colourful introduction to the quay and if you look closely a Banksy™-style stencil, not shown, proclaims 'This is Thirsty' work'.

Not Banksy™, though, rather the work of 'Peachy', another anonymous, aerosol-waving individual and it seems that Peachy is having a dig.

A dig at Damien, Damien Hirst, of course, and the rather cheekier tag 'I could do that' can be found further up by the side of an art gallery.

Since Hirst might still \ used to live in Ilfracombe, it's not known if these remain but a big piece of Hirst's work definitely does.

Verity stands guard at the harbour, all pregnant and internal organs, and is a 'modern allegory of truth and justice'. You what?

That's nearly as nonsensical as Gormley's claim of the Angel of the North to 'serve as a focus for our evolving hopes and fears' or, for that matter, his figures on Crosby Beach where 'human life is tested against planetary time'. You what? Twice.

Forgetting about the unfathomable, it's a belting bit of bronze and will stay here until at least 2032 when the lease runs out and when it's even less sure as to whether Hirst might still \ used to live in Ilfracombe.

There's another perspective on Verity from up the tiny Chapel of St. Nicholas as there is on the, quite frankly, marvellous harbour, see above.

A spiral path will see you up from where there's a better idea of Hillsborough, a rocky mound where nerves of steel are required and not just on a Wednesday.

They're not short of a viewpoint here and a little way west, Capstone Hill delivers another from where you can see South Wales on a good day, they say.

It's from up Capstone that there's a better sense of the town's then and now. The then of the Victorian Promenade building, its colonnade a clue, and the now of the Landmark Theatre.

Following a, taps nose, fire in the '90s, this replaces the original Pavilion Theatre and the conical twin towers are deliberately 'non-directional', whatever that means exactly.

It's beyond the Landmark, however, that the Victorian is most prominent including the grand hotels of the heyday.

The geography of these parts meant the train came relatively late in 1874 and it lasted less than 100 years, which is when thrillseekers started thronging to Torremolinos with Thomson™s instead.

At least one of these original accommodation providers sits boarded up but the coaches still come and, with the sun finally out, the palm trees of Jubilee Gardens mean this could be on the Med. and not what's nearly the North Atlantic, for a few weeks of the year that is.

Besides, it's all handy should you be fancying a dip. A dip you say?

Ilfracombe's beaches are best described as, erm, serviceable with some effort often required to reach a secluded, sandy cove. To make access for those living it up in Ilfracombe easier, a group of chancers, sorry entrepreneurs, employed Welsh miners to channel six tunnels beneath the cliffs in the 1820s.

After two years of digging of course they charged for the pleasure of Tunnels Beaches, they still do, but separate tidal pools for hims and hers meant that everybody's modesty was maintained.

Saying that, a bloke with a bugle was employed to blow for the bobbies if any hims were suspected of trying to cop an eyeful of the hers, them men, eh?

There's history-a-plenty, thanks to some informative boards, but this weird and wonderful waterscape is more suited to a geology field trip than for those suitably attired in swimwear.

It's a rocky old business round these parts, you see, and Devon slate is particularly predominant along this stretch of coast. When it's pounded to a powder over millennia, that's what gives the sand, sorry shingle, a distinctive dark hue, probably.

400 million years old, all of this, from the Devonian period, naturally, named from the county by some studious Victorians so go and stick that first on your scones Cornwall!

If the prospect of paying to access what's rightfully yours anyway, right comrades, is a dilemma then it's suggested that you don't dither and fork out to fund the upkeep for something that is quite fascinating.

Access might be restricted if there's a wedding on but you can always head to Woolacombe for a proper beach if that's what you want in the first place.

It's uphill whatever your way to arrive at the high street where there are two Marks making a living from modelling?

Saying that, is it High Street or Fore Street? Fore is a Cornish thing meaning street so Fore Street means Street Street meaning SlyBob's none the wiser as to which way to turn, neither.

Whatever your direction, things are fairly functional since people actually live here and need things and the better the discount the better.

If you hanged a left, however, things soon go downhill on what is officially, yes officially, Fore Street and where a handful of knick-knack providers are now evident.

One thing that has been noticed is where is the river that carved the combe that helped to name that toon? If you came in on the rollercoaster ride that is the A361, road fans, it's down there on the right in Bicclescombe Park, a mile or so south of town.

Ilfracombe's 'premier' park, they say, retains all of the original and pleasurable 1911's elegance. Not quite a river but the Wilder Brook cuts right through it feeding a duck pond, a boating lake and a working water wheel.

The wheel doesn't, however, provide the power for the steam for your frothy coffee in the tea room and a further word of advice...

There looks to be a language school attached and the traffic might be troublesome at picking up time causing a delay in you finding a suitable spot.

SlyBob would have got parked up straight away if it wasn't for those meddling, never pesky, kids.

Not much mention of the many fleshpots of which there are more than enough to go around. The newer operations have gone down the bistro-ey route but there's a fine-dining option, a good-old-fashioned Italian and even tapas if you're yearning for Torremolinos.

The George & Dragon claims to be Ilfracombe's oldest pub but Wetherspoon™s can claim to be the newest, probably. Their inevitable offering in a town of this size is the Admiral Collingwood, named after Nelson's right-hand man who had absolutely no connection with the place whatsoever (0/5).

Not unless you mean the original, Victorian Collingwood Hotel, still (0/5), on which this stands and once the place to stay in the day but a derelict eyesore in the noughties following a, taps nose again, fire.

Opinion seems to be that this is a positive enhancement and while we're not big fans of these places, honestly not, it has to be grudgingly admitted that their roof terrace is cracking with all of North Devon's disenfranchised youth seeming to agree.

Meanwhile, back at the harbour, here's the early-evening view from the back of the Royal Britannia Hotel's beer garden.

It announces its date of birth as 1617 and if several advising trippers are to be believed, that's when they last had the hoover out. If some local chit-chat is to be believed, the elderly lady behind it made her money in jewellery in fancy London and it's more of a hobby than a hotel.

Shame that, this prime location could, no should, be the jewel in North Devon's crown but that would mean forking out more than a double-digit number of GBPs for a night.

No problem, just dine at Smugglers, that'll cancel out some of the outlay.