At the ragged edge of South Devon, where country lanes peter out to the Atlantic as the weather sets in, Larry decamps en famille to Gara Rock – a clifftop hideaway that majors in wild views, civilised comforts and a butler who mixes a very decent Negroni…
“Your butler will be with you at 5pm, sir…”
There are few sweeter phrases in the English language upon checking into a hotel. And so it was, on arrival at Gara Rock for the tail-end of half term, that I felt we’d chosen well.
The weather, it must be said, had other ideas. Rain had peppered the windscreen for much of the journey down and a squall beyond our balcony was busy washing the sea view into an Impressionist blur. But this, it transpires, is part of the point. You do not come here merely for sunshine; you come for theatre.
It may have a Salcombe address, but if you know Salcombe, Gara Rock sits the other side of the estuary – the Prawle side; the rural side. To get somewhere so pleasingly remote requires commitment: a long, winding drive skirting the fingers of the Kingsbridge Estuary, concluding with a final hedgerow lane so narrow and precipitous it quite literally runs out of road before tipping you towards the sea. A sign at the entrance announces, “Welcome, you made it.” One cannot disagree.
Gara Rock exists, wonderfully, in splendid isolation. In mid-winter, wind whips in across open fields and collides with the cliff edge in a manner that feels bracing rather than brutal. It is elemental, evocative – the sort of place that reminds you why the British coast, at its best, is a match for any Mediterranean interloper.
Known for its eclectic, quirkily designed rooms, we decamped instead to one of the residences: self-contained apartments – some forty in total – arranged across ground and first floors, opening out onto wilderness and sea. And the moment we crossed the threshold, Mrs L asked whether we might simply move in. Clearly, two nights would not suffice.
An open-plan kitchen-living-diner spills out to a terrace and garden; the master is fully serviced, complete with Penhaligon’s in the en suite, and the second bedroom – headquarters for our little nest of vipers – has its own adjoining shower. It is, in short, dangerously liveable.
Within minutes of arrival – and before the spa’s cut-off point for children – we decamped poolside. A long drive was shaken off in the sauna, only mildly disrupted by the excitable baying of our offspring’s running commentary as she corralled Mrs L around the pool. I elected to cook gently in the sauna, avoiding participation until the decibel level reduced to something approaching acceptable.
Soon enough, I relieved Mrs L and granted her an adult-only interlude in the steam room and hot tub, whose views across the rugged headland are enough to recalibrate the most frazzled of parental nervous systems. As we walked back to the residence, my little nose miner piped up: “Dad, I love this hotel already.” There are no finer TripAdvisor accolades.
And then, of course, there was the butler.
Returning from the spa, at the appointed hour, we found Crystal awaiting us. A portable bar had been assembled in the lounge, courtesy of Salcombe Gin, complete with all necessary accoutrements. From a menu spanning gins, tonics and cocktails – including alcohol-free options for the small but vocal contingent – we made our selections.
A ‘Four Seas’ Negroni for me, with Cornish vermouth, a Marmajito of Start Point gin with marmalade, mint and tonic for Mrs L. Crystal mixed as we reclined, and for a fleeting moment we could have been in a Downton-esque drawing room, our very own Carson attending to us. But rather than hovering discreetly in the wings, she proved a consummate host – chatting easily about Salcombe, about life, about ambition. What began as a civilised aperitif evolved into a miniature cocktail party. We had, improbably, made a friend.
The restaurant at Gara is, arguably, its focal point. Through a low-ceilinged lounge, the dining room’s windows wrap across the front of the building, gazing straight out from clifftop to horizon – alas, cradled in darkness this time of year. Given our position, it is entirely logical that a section of the menu simply reads “Sea”. If it’s caught that day, it’s on the specials; if the boats don’t – or can’t – go out, there is no sea to be had. It’s as honest as it is refreshing.
Mrs L and I, unsurprisingly, gravitated towards it. Tomato and Gorgonzola arancini; mussels with Devon cider, cream and leeks (paired with an appley Viognier); halibut with fennel and BBQ prawn sauce – a rich, weighty bouillabaisse in all but name – and tempura red mullet with escabeche. The latter was a revelation: butterflied fish in a tangy broth that demanded to be mopped up with indecent enthusiasm, particularly alongside a chilled Pinot Noir.
Our waitress, Naomi, was more than a match for our nest of vipers. She read her brilliantly – guiding menu choices, siding with her opinions, humouring her idiosyncrasies and discussing favourite television shows with the diplomacy of a UN envoy. It made for a thoroughly delightful dinner. I caught Mrs L mid-course, the most relaxed I’d seen her in some time, a small smile playing at the corner of her mouth.
Breakfast, however, is when Gara Rock truly reveals its hand. Back in the restaurant, buffet laid out, the floor-to-ceiling windows now framed unspoiled headlands and a shimmering sea, sunlight streamed across the dining room. Outside, as distant clouds darkened the horizon, threatening the blue skies above; inside, we were cosseted, coffee in hand and a panoply of fresh pastries within easy reach, surveying it all from our clifftop perch. It is a rare and rather British pleasure – to admire the elements without having to brave them.
After breakfast, we took the woodland path down to Mill Bay, erratic weather dictating the shorter route. From there, a bobbing skiff (to call it a ferry feels generous) ferried us across to Salcombe, pootling between coastal traffic en route to the quayside.
Salcombe is, as expected, absurdly charming – designer houses brushing against old fishermen’s cottages, boutique shops and galleries lining its lanes. In these quieter months, however, it feels less like a millionaire’s playground and more like the working harbour it once was. Along Island Street, former shipyard buildings now house artisanal producers; one can while away a happy hour or two browsing before repairing for something restorative.
And yet, as pleasant as the town is, we found ourselves drawn back across the water, up through woodland and field, to our clifftop aerie.
For that, ultimately, is Gara Rock’s magic. It is not merely a hotel; it is a vantage point. A place to watch weather roll in from the Atlantic; to drink something bracing while children chatter; to feel, for a weekend at least, deliciously removed from the churn of ordinary life.
As we packed to leave, the wind once again flexing its muscles beyond the glass, Mrs L cast one final look across the headland. “Next time,” she said, “longer.”
Quite. After all, when a sign greets you with “You made it,” it feels churlish not to return.
For more information about Gara Rock, and its residences, please visit www.gararock.com. To discover more about Salcombe Gin or to book Salcombe Gin Beach Butler, visit www.salcombegin.com.
