Pray Welcome, Come Inside

Fall is upon us and the weather has been raw all weekend. Come in and settle down by the fire, give yourself the chance to dry off before its warming flames.

There is nowhere on Earth as welcoming on such a night as an English country pub. Fortunately, here in rural Devonshire we're spoilt for choice, with some of this island's finest within easy reach. Though autumn's bite may chill the bones, her touch a shiver to the skin, you're never too far from a place of comfort, warmth and friendship. And maybe even sanctuary. From things that seem somehow more real, more frightening, now that the bright days of summer are gone.

The historic Blue Ball Inn is one such place, her sturdy stone walls and chimneys promising shelter from fierce winds blowing in from the sea. She has perched atop Countisbury Hill on Exmoor since the 13th century, overlooking the small fishing village of Lynmouth, once-upon-a-time a smuggler's haven, romantically christened Little Switzerland by the poets Coleridge and Shelley.

We'll talk about the Blue Ball Inn later, for she has tales of her own, as befits an historic pause on old coaching routes. In the meantime, how about we sup our ale before making it down the steep hill into Lynmouth, a village that boasts an ancient drinking hole of her own, the 14th century Rising Sun?

On a hot summer's day, crowds flock to this lovely pub. One comes across people from all over the world sat outside, making the most of the sunshine. Holidaymakers all, they'll enjoy a pint, a glass of wine or craft gin, the beautiful harbour views.

But on this late September night, she looks sort of moody. Ominous even. Her windows shine with lights yet, strangely enough, they fail to draw you in. It is cold and dark, salt spray stings your cheeks; all the same, you linger outdoors in the night air. There is something about this former smugglers' refuge that unsettles you. That makes the hairs on your neck stand up.

And so we continue on to Parracombe, a community so ancient she can trace origins to Neolithic times. Bronze Age man, hill forts, standing stones and Norman castles, she has them all. Here, too, we find the Fox and Goose, a Victorian coaching inn built upon a much older hostelry.

The Fox and Goose offers a warm, friendly welcome. Her bar is a chaotic ensemble of stuffed animals, local artefacts and other bric-a-brac. A moose's head, reputedly pinched from Billy Butlin's office at the nearby Minehead holiday camp, adorns one wall. The ale is good, the food even better, and the stove is lit. Outside, the storm is picking up apiece. We'll remain here for a couple of hours.

There's little better on a cold, dark night than hearing a ghost story. Needless to say, Devon and Cornwall possess as many good ghost stories as good pubs, and the Fox and Goose makes the perfect place for their telling. This is especially true since the pub is haunted; I know, because my girlfriend Emma Jane has seen something here herself. A man standing over her.

Settle yourself down and relax with a drink. If you're ready to hear about some of the spooky tales of Southwest England, then I will begin. Some of the tales are well-known, many are not. Some feature the rich and famous, others involve plain ordinary folk. All of them, I assure you, are true(ish).