Sister to The Griffin at Felin Fach, the Inkin brothers have created another superb venue for eating, drinking and sleeping. Full of character and charm The Gurnards' is a truly authentic hostellry.

The owners are putting some good taste and careful affection into this hotel, with good reason. The extremities of North Cornwall are short on attractive bolt-holes, once you get past Rick Stein, and the Gurnards Head has to cater for fog and stark wilderness as well as sun-crazed beach-boys.

So the inn has been gutted. Spare sun has been plucked off the shelf and dragged inside to large, Tuscan-washed lounges with rug-strewn floors and walls hung about with decent art. The dining room is comfortably haphazard, cooking and service are excellent, and yet a pleasing atmosphere of dilettantism disguises the efficiency of this project. It’s clever.

They know what they’re doing and it’s different. The bedrooms are uncluttered, and their expensive mattresses are a luxurious invitation to limit the tantrums of the weather if you can’t be bothered to challenge the power of cliff, ocean or heath. Downstairs there is a correct wine list, the worst collection of books you could ever wish to hurl, and a long room of beer and cider. This is a good-value, benevolent hideout, cultivated but not rigid, suitable to wealthy jeunesse in pursuit of a native bargain, striding pioneers or sleepy-eyed narcoleptics. Take four days. In any weather.

Highly respected and distinguished author Richard Thornley bolted to The Gurnard's Head on our behalf.