My parents last visited the UK in the 1970s. They lived here for a year, got married, travelled around the country in a campervan. I grew up with their stories. And now, 32 years later, they’re back. The Tower of London is still where they left it, so’s St Paul’s. Mum could still drink in the pub where she once worked. We could still travel south to the fishing village of Clovelly in Devon, one of their must-visits from the past.

Only these days, it costs £5.50 to get in.

Don’t let that put you off though. Once you get past the car park and ticket office, the huge giftshop with endless boxes of fudge and pictures of soccer stars, once you get past the huge glass windows and the audio visual presentation, the actual village of Clovelly manages to retain a certain historic charm.

There are no cars in Clovelly. The steep, narrow stone streets are prohibitive of that. Instead, deliveries are made on wooden sleds that are dragged across the stones. This definitely isn’t a place for high heels – even in sneakers, my toes were squashed against the front of my shoes as we descended towards the harbour. We bought postcards from the village post office – once that may soon become a casualty of the government’s closures.

We visited the Methodist Chapel and the Chapel of St. Peters, and a fisherman’s cottage which was set up with it’s 1930s furnishing. I read about the village fisherman lost at sea, the ones who Charles Kingsley wrote about in his poem, The Three Fishers, then walked down to the sea myself, across the quay, across the pebbles. There was a sign there which said NO STONE THROWING.

Clovelly’s been a bit of a tourist town for over a century. The narrow streets and the sea will guarantee that. We left at 10 on a rainy morning, and even then, it was starting to fill up. I guess, in the scheme of things, those £5.50s make sense. If they weren’t charged up front, I’m sure the actual village would be a lot more commercialised. Though I’m still not sure they need the sport star portraits in the gift shop.

Tash