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The peacock seemed to want to get near me.
Maybe the many evil-eyed creature wanted to get me for some mysterious slight, I thought, as I took another mouthful of ale and pretended not to jump when the beast boomed in the late afternoon like a wild boar at slaughter hour.
There is something about close range large birds which makes me think about self defence, and when I'm in the corner of a beer garden in a steep wooded valley in remote North Devon I know full well the air ambulance could take time to get here. And there would be a scene if I had to wrestle the animal.
But the large strolling peacock was not intent on violence. He found a scrap of bread on the ground and fluttered up to a low roof, from where he watched me. We had reached an accommodation.
I already knew a lot about the pub, but not about the peacocks. Advertising and anticipation can ruin, with good reason, any element of well-I-never-did-see in any pub visit. Once you have been told a certain pub is the greatest creation since eden itself, there is little you can do to avoid trying to demolish that assertion. Human nature being what it is - clever, forgiving, rational - you can't help making up your own mind, which always means clawing holes in the well-knit arguments of the advocates...
And so before I even crept down winding high-hedge lanes to a hidden valley between Lynton and Combe Martin, to pay a visit to the Camra North Devon Pub Of The Year, the Hunters (no apostrophe on the sign) Inn, I was already filled with the type of prejudicial thoughts reporters often carry in their heads, but must always discard.
The beards at Camra (I mean it fondly, gentlemen) are rarely wrong about beer quality, but I have been to Camra-loved alehouses (not in the Westcountry) brimming with as much chummy cheer as a pox-riven yacht scoot to Hades, the home of the departed spirits.
The Hunters Inn, the landlord told me, had been the site of an inn for centuries and was once a haunt of the gilded age, before the late-1960s, when the gilded agers decided to go instead to Portugal or Monaco or wherever they went. Then the place became more of a haunt for coachloads of pensioners staying in nearby Ilfracombe. Now, the pub is trying to move "up market" and pull in locals as well as tourists, to avoid becoming an evil theme pub. The inn does everything a "destination pub" does: offers you hot or cold milk or cream with your coffee, rooms, chefs rather than microwaves and spotty teenagers. I was expecting the pub to be posh, but it wasn't; it was pleasingly ordinary. It felt like a proper local pub, which is an achievement, because not many people live in the valley. Maybe they camp in the woods, guerrilla-local style.
Camra was right about the beer: four Exmoor Ales on offer and my pint was too good to drink slowly. Weirdly, I was the only person drinking beer; everyone else (about four or five groups) were drinking tea or coffee. There is something exciting about pubs in odd locations. There is something odd about pubs in exciting locations.
I hadn't been there long and the peacock wanted to get near me again, perhaps as much as I wanted to drink another pint of Exmoor Ale in that beer garden, but the sky had gone old and the trees were closing in.
HUNTERS INN, HEDDON VALLEY
ADAM'S ALE RATING: 4 OUT OF 5
DRINK THIS: EXMOOR ALE, 3.8%
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