Westward Ho! - Grockles and Guillemots

You’ll have to forgive me if this particular account of piscatorial pursuit drifts somewhat off-course, like a badly anchored crab bait on a spring tide. That, I assure you, is entirely intentional. I’ve just returned from another jaunt down to Westward Ho! yes, with the exclamation mark, which gives it the air of a place forever surprised at its own existence.

Now, I know what you’re thinking: Westward Ho!? Isn’t that the place where your chips taste faintly of sand and where the amusement arcades still give out 2p coins like it’s the 1980s? Well, yes, but don’t be so quick to mock. For us, it’s something of a second home, a family bolt-hole, and as ever, the holiday didn’t disappoint even if the fishing did.

The stunning vista on the last night 

The town, you see, has had a bit of a renaissance thanks to one Rob Braddock, who appears to own roughly 93% of the place. If you so much as buy a pint of milk or a stick of rock, there’s a good chance Rob’s getting a cut. But unlike most seaside towns where investment means sticking up an Aldi and painting a bench, he’s genuinely kept the place spruced up. Westward Ho! is not your peeling-paint, rusting-helter-skelter kind of destination. No, it’s a seaside town still clinging to the idea that England can be lovely if you squint past the windbreaks.

It helps, too, that my brother Chris escaped Coventry nine years ago and made the place his home. To his friends, he’s just Chris. To me, of course, he’s the identical twin who got away, which apparently is endlessly amusing to the locals. His middle daughter is now at uni in Southampton however she made an appearance which was nice as did his youngest daughter. 

They call him by name, then stare at me like they’ve had one pint too many and can’t quite work out how I’ve duplicated. I must admit, it does make me feel like a novelty act at times “Look, it’s the other one!” but after countless evenings in the pub, I’m now welcomed as something between a local and a particularly well-tanned grockle.

But I digress. My mission this year was a simple one: catch a smooth hound. The humble dogfish wasn’t going to cut it this time. I had the bait, I had the ambition, and I had the tides stacked against me in such a way that even Neptune would have raised an eyebrow.

With Summerlands Tackle now shut (a tragedy of Shakespearean proportions if you ask me), I’d stocked up beforehand: crab and squid, the smooth hound’s equivalent of a Michelin star menu. Sam (sporting his new haircut) was keen to join the pursuit, so between family commitments, bodyboarding sessions, and being dragged waist-deep into an Atlantic that felt like it had only recently been part of a glacier, I slotted in four sessions of fishing.

Four. Sessions. Ten hours in total. Do you know how many bites I had? None. Zero. Zilch. Even the ever-reliable dogfish, the aquatic equivalent of a drunk bloke staggering into a kebab shop at 2 a.m., failed to show.

Now, I’ve blanked before. Many times, in fact. But there’s something uniquely soul-sapping about blanking in Westward Ho! You stand there, rod tips nodding only to the rhythm of the waves, while around you the scenery is so ridiculously pretty that it feels like you’re in a Visit Devon advert. Gulls wheel overhead, kids scream with joy on bodyboards, and your bait is being entirely ignored in a manner that makes you question your very existence.

Still, there were compensations. The family had a cracking time, the kids are improving on the boards every year, and I even found myself up to my neck in the sea on one occasion Quite why, I don’t know. The British sea is cold enough to make your internal organs reconsider their life choices, and I normally limit myself to paddling. 

But there I was, submerged like a seal impersonator, grinning manically while wondering if hypothermia sets in faster with age.

So yes, the smooth hound mission was a failure. A glorious, noble failure, but a failure nonetheless. Not a scale, not a fin, not even the faintest tug on the line to remind me that fish still exist. And yet, oddly enough, I didn’t mind. That’s the thing about Westward Ho! you go for the fishing, but you stay for the chaos, the family, and the faint smell of vinegar that seems to permeate the air.

Next stop: Lanzarote. Ten days in the sun, and with any luck, I’ll catch something other than a chill. Smooth hounds may have eluded me, but there’s every chance I’ll return with tales of exotic fish, volcanic backdrops, and a sunburnt nose. Until then, I’ll keep thinking fondly of Westward Ho! the place that never fails to deliver, even when the fish don’t. 

The DJ sundown sessions at the Fairway Buoy concluded the holiday rather nicely. Oh before I finish, lack of competition down these parts does sometime mean the the food can be a bit hit and miss but Morans thai restaurant is decent as is the Pig and Olive pizza. The choice of beer, well that's another matter. 😀 The Beaver in Appledore, don't bother, that's all I'm saying, like me it's gone right down over the years we have frequented it.