At Hartland Quay in north Devon, you may be surprised to find weekenders vacantly eating ice cream as if in Magaluf. The cliffs here look like they have been turned inside out, their craggy innards frozen in screams of anguish, and the icy Atlantic threatens to brain old ladies in swimming caps with each wrathful lurch. Such is the hard-won charm of the British seaside, and shelter is thankfully nearby.
The Wreckers Retreat, the pub in the Hartland Quay Hotel nestled above the menacing waters, sells postcards showing a tourist wedged into a lifebuoy in the rain, an angry local crab hooked on to their tuchas. “WISH YOU WERE HERE!” chirps the caption.
From the bar
Under the watchful eyes of the wall-mounted rubber sea life, other items on sale include: self-published booklets (ghosts, witchcraft, geology, shark attacks, smugglers, Execution Sites of Devon and Cornwall); Guinness, if you’re sticking to city-slicker habits; Rattler, if it’s time for jokes and arm-wrestling; fish and chips (good); surf and turf (gross); and cheesy chips (industrial pre-grated cheese, plastic basket, delicious).
Local knowledge
At least ten ships have been wrecked right in front of the picnic tables outside the pub. But this is the only place to sit: the sunsets in this part of the country are endless and there’s a hint of madness in the air. You meet a photographer who once worked a wedding where the bride told him to keep snapping as she tried to run over her cheating husband with their rented convertible. He sticks mainly to landscapes now, he says. He couldn’t have picked a nicer spot.
The Wreckers Retreat, Hartland Quay, Bideford, Devon
[Further reading: Beer and sandwiches: At the Old Nag’s Head in Derbyshire]
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This article appears in the 14 Jan 2026 issue of the New Statesman, Battle for power
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