Dunster, Somerset

Dunster is a well-preserved medieval village on the edge of Exmoor in Somerset, best known for its historic castle, cobbled streets, and centuries-old buildings. Once a thriving centre for the wool trade, the village retains much of its medieval character, with landmarks like the 17th-century Yarn Market and the ancient Gallox Bridge. Dunster Castle, perched on a wooded hill above the village, dominates the skyline and adds to the area’s historic charm.

Tuesday

Having breakfasted extremely well at the Nog Inn, we spent about an hour taking a stroll around Wincanton shops. Due to the early hour, most were not yet opened, but it seemed to have its fair share of independent and interesting shops. Unlikely to make a trip again, unless it’s another 2 Mikes reunion.

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Arrival in Dunster

We only had about an hour and a half journey down to Dunster, and with a full “tank” from a recharge in Amesbury, we soon arrived in Dunster. Where it was pissing down. As you drive in, you come round a bend and the main high street lies before you, sweeping down a hill, with a wide road and independent shops, cafe’s and restaurants either side. There is not a Costa, Greggs or Stabucks in sight – a welcome change.

Our cottage

We have rented an AirBNB cottage for our week away. It is 2-bedroom and very cosy, albeit clearly setup as a holiday rental.

Parking is not easy in Dunster, and although our cottage had a single parking space, we developed something of a military operation to get in and out of the space, not helped by it a) being very tight and b) emerging in the middle of a traffic light controlled road!

 

Our home for the week

Why Dunster?

Dunster was chosen by myself as I came here about 25 years ago, before I had met Nikki (in my fallow years between wives). We rented a cottage for one of our regular weekend getaways where a group of friends (I think there were about 18 of us) from London and Bishops Stortford would assemble for much drinking and laughter. Well, I say cottage, because the property, located in Timberscombe just outside Dunster, was called the ‘Great Big House’ and actually slept 22. It is no longer available as a weekend cottage and has been converted into a boutique B&B – visit https://thegreathouse.co.uk/

Our day

Although I have digressed considerably, I hope it explains my fondness for Dunster and, as we turned that corner to look down the hill of the high street, all those amazing memories came flooding back.

With a few hours until we were allowed to enter our cottage, we dodged the rain and hit the Luttrell Arms Hotel for a few lunchtime bevvies. To say it oozes character would be a massive understatement. Lots of small rooms and alcoves, stomework and beams, and quirky (well let’s call it like it is, old fashioned) decoration, it is a delight. We sat at the bar chatting to Lucy the bar keep, who was a bit of a character. Really busy as well for a wet Tuesday in April.

We finally checked into our cottage, which is very homely and has all we need for the next week. Best of all, there are 3 pubs no more than a 5-minute walk away. Ever since we left Henham in 2021, it is probably the biggest thing we have missed, so it will be great to once again be able to stroll around the corner for a beer without deciding either a) who is going to drive or b) is Ali available.

In the evening, the restaurant we had picked out was fully booked (see tomorrow), so we returned to the Luttrell Arms where a bowl of mussels (done the Somerset way with cider and bacon) and a venison cottage pie provided a very satisfying end to the day.

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Dunster - the back story

Dunster itself has very fond memories because the Sunday of that weekend probably ranks in my list of top days in my life. It all started with everyone pulling together to prepare a full english breakfast – cooking 18 fried eggs is not the easiest. We then split into 2 parties – those who just wanted to laze around the house and read the Sunday papers; the rest of us who went on a clay pigeon shooting experience on Exmoor. We were picked up in a Defender by a proper man of the country – nothing Barbour in sight! He drove us to the top of some hills on Exmoor where we were lucky enough to have one of those crsip Autumn days with clear blue skies. The views on such a day were breathtaking and something you never forget. Most of us had never shot before and, after a brief lesson, we each took a turn. On my turn, I shot and turned around and said “what happened there”? You hit is they all chorused! The other barrel was promptly fire, with a repeat “what happened there” and once agin, you hit it. I’m clearly a natural and gifted, thought I, until I didn’t hit a single thing for the rest of the shoot.

We agreed to rendezvous with the others at the Stags Head Inn in Dunster. What I call a proper pub, and 18 of us crammed into this small space, delighted to find a jazz trio playing in the corner. £180 of whip went into the jar behind the bar, and I swear the landlords hand was shaking as he put the glass on the shelf. You can imagine his look when a second £180 went behind the bar some while later. That was one of the epic sessions with everyone on great form, and where we managed to drink the pub dry of Buttcombe bitter (the boys), Holsten Pils (the girls), gin (all of us once the beer went) and Baileys (Brin). Bit of poetic license there, sorry Brin!

But we weren’t done yet.

On a Saturday trip into Minehead we bought from a proper butcher what I can only describe as a Desperate Dan Rib of Beef. It truly was big enough to feed 18. I had found a Raymond Blanc recipe where you could get a medium rare finish to the beast by slow cookig it for hours. It had been put on mid morning, and by time we arrived back at the house around 4pm, the smells were, as you can imagine, amazing. We all pitched in again cooking the usual accompaniments and a spendid Sunday lunch followed. One post script was that we drained all the cooking juices into a large glass bowl. The following morning, these had set into what I can only describe as a perfect glass of Guninness – jet black juices (“goodness” as my Mum always called it), and a pure white head. To this day, I have never seen its like again, despite cooking many a rib roast since.

But we still weren’t done yet.

There was a pub yards away, I think it was called the Lion, and after lunch was cleared away, we all barelled down there for an evening of more drinks and pub games. By the time we turned in we were all exhausted (I think that’s the word) but with big smiles on all our faces. Except Clive (sadly passed) who had attempted to drink 8 Diamond White to get a free T-shirt, and couldn’t stand up.