My identical twin brother Chris managed to escape the relentless concrete and grey skies of Coventry twelve whole years ago to set up camp in Westward Ho!, though he still has to drag himself up to the Birmingham office a couple of times a month to keep the lights on where he operates as a security cleared software IT engineer.
The locals down here all know him as "Newey," but the second I step foot in town, I am rightfully crowned as "The Real Newey."
The locals down here all know him as "Newey," but the second I step foot in town, I am rightfully crowned as "The Real Newey."
I throw myself headfirst into local life and embrace the coast to its absolute fullest whenever I visit, whereas Chris—bless his cotton socks is such a creature of habit he practically needs a GPS unit to step five yards off his daily routine.
Now, my brother occasionally dabbles in a spot of sea angling, but it usually takes my triumphant arrival to actually ignite a fire under his backside and get him near the water. Seeing me unpack the gear last week worked its usual magic, inspiring him to tag along for a few sessions and even part with his hard-earned cash for some shiny new tackle that hopefully will not end up gathering dust in his garage.
We devoured some proper quality scran over the course of the week, including a massive bowl of fat, garlic-drenched mussels that did not stand a chance. We also decided to check out a brand-new tapas joint down the road in Northam called the Crowbar for the wife’s birthday, where "The Real Newey" proudly beat his brother to the punch despite Chris living practically next door.
The absolute highlight of the meal was a slow-cooked pork dish prepared over a roaring open fire that delivered an incredible smoky depth, paired with some utterly sublime garlic gambas. It was top-tier, mouth-watering grub, well recommended to anyone wandering through Northam with a appetite and a appreciation for proper cooking.
Despite a forecast that promised some gloom and rain, the weather gods decided to smile on us and my early morning sessions, making the 7:00 AM stroll to the mark in shorts and a t-shirt an absolute delight. I stumbled upon an absolute gem of a fishing mark that is probably no big secret to the local greybeards, but to me, it felt like discovering hidden pirate treasure.
If you walk up the Westward Ho! long straight, take a sharp right, and march straight towards the point directly opposite the Appledore Lifeboat slipway, the coastline reveals its finest secret. Whatever the state of the tide, this spot can be fished with total confidence, offering the kind of setup that makes an angler's mouth water.
I have landed some cracking bass in this region before, and after my first morning session resulted in an early fish, I naively convinced myself I had the entire species completely figured out. But sea fishing has a funny, humbling way of slapping you across the face with its sheer lack of predictability just when you get cocky.
I spent one heavily overcast morning thrashing the water until my rotator cuff felt like it was about to detach, executing what felt like 199 completely fruitless, soul-crushing casts. Just as I was about to give up and head for a bacon sandwich, a massive shoal of tiny baitfish erupted in the middle of the estuary, followed by proper, dark-backed bass leaping clean out of the water like silver torpedoes.
Within ten minutes of the mayhem starting, a savage, arm-wrenching bite slammed through the braided line, bending my ultralight lure rod into a frantic horseshoe shape. The fish immediately stripped line off the reel and went on a series of powerful, tide-assisted runs that had my heart knocking against my ribs like a trapped bird.
The place is owned by Rob Braddock, who is effectively Padstow's Rick Stein of Westward Ho!, except Rob actually plucks massive sums of his own hard-earned cash out of his pocket and pumps it directly back into the local community. He even recently bought a local car park that the greedy council was planning to slap pay-and-display meters on, making it completely free for everyone and securing his status as a local superhero.
Now, apart from the slightly eye-watering holidaymaker drink prices, the man is deeply respected by every local in town for keeping the soul of the village alive. Sure, paying a couple of extra quid for a pint stings a bit, but where else in England can you get a freezing cold lager with a world-class sunset right on the seafront edge?
Now, I did not actually manage to fish as many times as my inner obsessive wanted, but Sam was well up for a dawn raid on Monday morning. Sadly, the sea was an absolute desert and we did not manage so much as a nibble between us for our efforts.
However, the father-and-son bonding time was worth every single minute, as getting out on that vast, empty expanse of sand opens him up in ways a living room sofa never could. Out there, away from screens and noise, we just walk for miles and have the most brilliant, completely random chats about life.
The trek to the mark and back clocked in at a staggering 15,000 steps, but when you are almost the only soul standing on a massive open beach, it feels like stepping into an entirely different universe.
I was almost tempted to pull out the tape measure to see if it was a personal best, but holding it felt a bit hollow, and it was not quite the meal size I’d want to take home anyway. So, without any fuss, I slid it back into the cool water and watched it dart away into the blue to fight another day.
I fished on for another couple of glorious, peaceful hours without a single hit, but I could not have cared less if I tried. Standing on that shore under the morning sun was one of those rare, perfectly still moments in life that you lock away in your brain to treasure forever.
There were also quite a few massive fish leaping completely out of the water further out, with a few of them looking suspiciously like giant mullet—which led to a heated debate over whether mullet actually jump like bass, or if they were just mocking my lures. I switched to surface poppers to try and coax them into a explosive topwater strike, but time caught up with me and the mid-morning curfew meant I had to reel in.
That was the precise moment I made the spectacularly boneheaded decision to take a "shortcut" back across the Royal North Devon Golf Club. For those unfamiliar, it is located on the 650-acre common land of the Northam Burrows and holds the crown as the oldest golf course in England still playing over its original historic site.
What I foolishly failed to account for was the endless labyrinth of gorse bushes, hidden ditches, and protective fencing that stands between the fairways and freedom. I ended up doubling back on myself about four times in the blistering heat, turning a sensible 15,000-step stroll into a punishing 23,000-step survival march.
Who on earth ever started the rumour that fishing is a lazy man's hobby clearly never walked nearly ten miles through a sand-dune golf course while dodging stray Titleist balls and carrying a backpack. But despite the blisters and the aching legs, it was another utterly fantastic North Devon holiday that reminded us why we love this place so much.
The kids had a absolute whale of a time messing about on the beach, while the wife and I spent most of the drive home debating when the big permanent move down south will actually happen. It is supposed to be another glorious, sunny week down there next week, and I must admit I am green with envy thinking about my brother living the dream while I sit at a desk.
It really does feel like a magical, untouched little corner of England from a bygone era, where life moves a bit slower and the fish hit hard. Until next time, North Devon—"The Real Newey" will be back very soon to reclaim his crown.
The brilliant thing about the area outside of the chaotic summer holiday rush is that the locals actually get to know one another, and looking like Chris comes with distinct tactical advantages. We are made to feel right at home the moment we walk through the door, mainly because the family is recognized everywhere and treated like honorary locals.
Now, my brother occasionally dabbles in a spot of sea angling, but it usually takes my triumphant arrival to actually ignite a fire under his backside and get him near the water. Seeing me unpack the gear last week worked its usual magic, inspiring him to tag along for a few sessions and even part with his hard-earned cash for some shiny new tackle that hopefully will not end up gathering dust in his garage.
Since it was a standard working week for him, our joint appearances were mostly restricted to social catch-ups over a few pints rather than proper dawn raids on the beach, but I definitely put some solid irons in the fire for his angling future. For me, this trip was a desperately needed recharge because a proper, uninterrupted holiday has been a bloody long time coming.
I am fed up with the soul-destroying daily grind of work and watching my hard-earned tax money get enthusiastically wasted by clueless politicians and enjoyed by the shirkers, like all the alarm clock Brits. So fingers crossed my early retirement calculations pay off very soon, because the grand master plan is to pack up the circus and move down in his direction permanently.
For starters, the weather turned out to be absolute bliss compared to the usual British gamble, giving us a couple of scorching hot days balanced by a cracking sea breeze that cooled the cockles perfectly. Naturally, the summer 'Grockles' were out in full force clogging up the high street and driving at five miles an hour, but even they could not ruin the coastal magic.
For starters, the weather turned out to be absolute bliss compared to the usual British gamble, giving us a couple of scorching hot days balanced by a cracking sea breeze that cooled the cockles perfectly. Naturally, the summer 'Grockles' were out in full force clogging up the high street and driving at five miles an hour, but even they could not ruin the coastal magic.
We devoured some proper quality scran over the course of the week, including a massive bowl of fat, garlic-drenched mussels that did not stand a chance. We also decided to check out a brand-new tapas joint down the road in Northam called the Crowbar for the wife’s birthday, where "The Real Newey" proudly beat his brother to the punch despite Chris living practically next door.
The absolute highlight of the meal was a slow-cooked pork dish prepared over a roaring open fire that delivered an incredible smoky depth, paired with some utterly sublime garlic gambas. It was top-tier, mouth-watering grub, well recommended to anyone wandering through Northam with a appetite and a appreciation for proper cooking.
Despite a forecast that promised some gloom and rain, the weather gods decided to smile on us and my early morning sessions, making the 7:00 AM stroll to the mark in shorts and a t-shirt an absolute delight. I stumbled upon an absolute gem of a fishing mark that is probably no big secret to the local greybeards, but to me, it felt like discovering hidden pirate treasure.
If you walk up the Westward Ho! long straight, take a sharp right, and march straight towards the point directly opposite the Appledore Lifeboat slipway, the coastline reveals its finest secret. Whatever the state of the tide, this spot can be fished with total confidence, offering the kind of setup that makes an angler's mouth water.
The incoming tide floods into this massive estuary area, creating a roaring, fast-water river on your left and a lush, almost completely static back-eddy on your right. As an angler, you spend years learning how to read the water, but here you did not need advanced watercraft—the crease between the fast and slow water practically screamed "there are hungry bass sitting right here."
Since the trusty old Volvo XC90 is sadly no more, I could not pack my massive beachcasting tripods and heavy rods, so I had to travel light with pure lure gear. I packed a tactical selection of surface poppers, sidewinder sandeels, and shallow-running hard plastics, comforting myself with the thought that I could always borrow Chris’s gear if things got desperate.
Since the trusty old Volvo XC90 is sadly no more, I could not pack my massive beachcasting tripods and heavy rods, so I had to travel light with pure lure gear. I packed a tactical selection of surface poppers, sidewinder sandeels, and shallow-running hard plastics, comforting myself with the thought that I could always borrow Chris’s gear if things got desperate.
I have landed some cracking bass in this region before, and after my first morning session resulted in an early fish, I naively convinced myself I had the entire species completely figured out. But sea fishing has a funny, humbling way of slapping you across the face with its sheer lack of predictability just when you get cocky.
I spent one heavily overcast morning thrashing the water until my rotator cuff felt like it was about to detach, executing what felt like 199 completely fruitless, soul-crushing casts. Just as I was about to give up and head for a bacon sandwich, a massive shoal of tiny baitfish erupted in the middle of the estuary, followed by proper, dark-backed bass leaping clean out of the water like silver torpedoes.
Within ten minutes of the mayhem starting, a savage, arm-wrenching bite slammed through the braided line, bending my ultralight lure rod into a frantic horseshoe shape. The fish immediately stripped line off the reel and went on a series of powerful, tide-assisted runs that had my heart knocking against my ribs like a trapped bird.
After a brilliant, nail-biting scrap on light gear, the prize was finally mine as I safely slid a gorgeous, spikey bass onto the wet sand.
It took a £20 lure personally recommended by the 'Fal Anglers' channel on YouTube—who are well worth a follow if you enjoy watching bloke-in-a-kayak angling poetry.
The fish was not quite big enough to justify the frying pan, but I am not one to just brain every fish I see over the head anyway unlike my father-in-law, who approaches trout fishing with the ruthless efficiency of a man legally obligated to hit his catch quota at all costs.
I snapped a quick photo, unhooked it carefully, and slipped it back into the swirling tide to grow into a real monster.
Chris’s mates' WhatsApp group instantly lit up like a Christmas tree when news broke that "The Real Newey" had managed to extract a hard-earned bass out of Westward Ho!. Later that evening, the victory parade congregated at the Fairway Buoy pub to sink a few well-earned cold ones and watch the sunset over the Atlantic horizon.
Chris’s mates' WhatsApp group instantly lit up like a Christmas tree when news broke that "The Real Newey" had managed to extract a hard-earned bass out of Westward Ho!. Later that evening, the victory parade congregated at the Fairway Buoy pub to sink a few well-earned cold ones and watch the sunset over the Atlantic horizon.
The place is owned by Rob Braddock, who is effectively Padstow's Rick Stein of Westward Ho!, except Rob actually plucks massive sums of his own hard-earned cash out of his pocket and pumps it directly back into the local community. He even recently bought a local car park that the greedy council was planning to slap pay-and-display meters on, making it completely free for everyone and securing his status as a local superhero.
Now, apart from the slightly eye-watering holidaymaker drink prices, the man is deeply respected by every local in town for keeping the soul of the village alive. Sure, paying a couple of extra quid for a pint stings a bit, but where else in England can you get a freezing cold lager with a world-class sunset right on the seafront edge?
Now, I did not actually manage to fish as many times as my inner obsessive wanted, but Sam was well up for a dawn raid on Monday morning. Sadly, the sea was an absolute desert and we did not manage so much as a nibble between us for our efforts.
However, the father-and-son bonding time was worth every single minute, as getting out on that vast, empty expanse of sand opens him up in ways a living room sofa never could. Out there, away from screens and noise, we just walk for miles and have the most brilliant, completely random chats about life.
The trek to the mark and back clocked in at a staggering 15,000 steps, but when you are almost the only soul standing on a massive open beach, it feels like stepping into an entirely different universe. It works absolute wonders for the mental health, purging all the corporate stress and leaving you feeling completely reborn.
Naturally, as I sit here typing this back in reality, I am suffering from a massive, soul-crushing post-holiday comedown, which is only to be expected after a week like that.
Naturally, as I sit here typing this back in reality, I am suffering from a massive, soul-crushing post-holiday comedown, which is only to be expected after a week like that.
But looking back at the photos of those pristine coastlines makes the impending return to work just about bearable.
On another morning session, the wind was completely non-existent and the sea was as flat and glassy as a kitchen table. Standard fishing logic dictates that bass hate these conditions and will hide until the waves start crashing to disorientate the baitfish, but standard logic clearly does not apply in North Devon.
The crease in the water at this mark is so ridiculously feature-filled that the fish simply cannot resist hanging around in the deep eddies. I cast a sidewinder lure out into the seam, let it sink, and within thirty minutes, a hard-fighting bass absolutely hammered it on the drop.
We were immediately locked in another thrilling scrap on the light lure tackle, with the fish fighting like a heavyweight boxer all the way to the shoreline. It gave absolutely everything it had, stripping drag and thrashing in the shallow foam before I finally got my hands around its tail.
On another morning session, the wind was completely non-existent and the sea was as flat and glassy as a kitchen table. Standard fishing logic dictates that bass hate these conditions and will hide until the waves start crashing to disorientate the baitfish, but standard logic clearly does not apply in North Devon.
The crease in the water at this mark is so ridiculously feature-filled that the fish simply cannot resist hanging around in the deep eddies. I cast a sidewinder lure out into the seam, let it sink, and within thirty minutes, a hard-fighting bass absolutely hammered it on the drop.
We were immediately locked in another thrilling scrap on the light lure tackle, with the fish fighting like a heavyweight boxer all the way to the shoreline. It gave absolutely everything it had, stripping drag and thrashing in the shallow foam before I finally got my hands around its tail.
I was almost tempted to pull out the tape measure to see if it was a personal best, but holding it felt a bit hollow, and it was not quite the meal size I’d want to take home anyway. So, without any fuss, I slid it back into the cool water and watched it dart away into the blue to fight another day.
I fished on for another couple of glorious, peaceful hours without a single hit, but I could not have cared less if I tried. Standing on that shore under the morning sun was one of those rare, perfectly still moments in life that you lock away in your brain to treasure forever.
There were also quite a few massive fish leaping completely out of the water further out, with a few of them looking suspiciously like giant mullet—which led to a heated debate over whether mullet actually jump like bass, or if they were just mocking my lures. I switched to surface poppers to try and coax them into a explosive topwater strike, but time caught up with me and the mid-morning curfew meant I had to reel in.
That was the precise moment I made the spectacularly boneheaded decision to take a "shortcut" back across the Royal North Devon Golf Club. For those unfamiliar, it is located on the 650-acre common land of the Northam Burrows and holds the crown as the oldest golf course in England still playing over its original historic site.
What I foolishly failed to account for was the endless labyrinth of gorse bushes, hidden ditches, and protective fencing that stands between the fairways and freedom. I ended up doubling back on myself about four times in the blistering heat, turning a sensible 15,000-step stroll into a punishing 23,000-step survival march.
Who on earth ever started the rumour that fishing is a lazy man's hobby clearly never walked nearly ten miles through a sand-dune golf course while dodging stray Titleist balls and carrying a backpack. But despite the blisters and the aching legs, it was another utterly fantastic North Devon holiday that reminded us why we love this place so much.
The kids had a absolute whale of a time messing about on the beach, while the wife and I spent most of the drive home debating when the big permanent move down south will actually happen. It is supposed to be another glorious, sunny week down there next week, and I must admit I am green with envy thinking about my brother living the dream while I sit at a desk.
It really does feel like a magical, untouched little corner of England from a bygone era, where life moves a bit slower and the fish hit hard. Until next time, North Devon—"The Real Newey" will be back very soon to reclaim his crown.
