As a big Harry Potter fan, my husband and I were attracted to Appledore by its magical name. After living in this remote chav outpost for near on 4 years however, I can safely confirm that this North Devon realm is about as mystical as a pitbull’s turd which has merged with a KP Skips packet and a can of Fosters.
Tourism types attract visitors with talk of a colourful quay, unique art and music and quaint public houses wherein one can enjoy a beautiful, locally-brewed beverage amid glorious scenery and accompanied by the ear-pleasing strains of one of the town’s many song-singing poets. To be completely fair here, I must admit they are not far from telling the whole truth. That is, if not far actually means on the other side of the e***ing universe.
The ‘quay’ in question is in reality the side of a diseased, filth-ridden cesspit of depravity that serial killers would not dispose of their bodies in for fear of being cruel; the ‘unique art and music’ is felt-tip wall drawings of genitalia and NDubs/Rihanna/whatever crap being regurgitated by Asbo karaoke-rs; and ‘quaint public houses’ are Dickensian nightmares managed by skinheaded, swastika-tattooed beasts who would as soon eat you than serve you a tipple of their foul-stenched cesspit juice. And that’s just the lady landladies.
Just don’t go, that’s all. If you want a Harry Potter world, either go to Harry Potter World or stalk Daniel Radcliffe or that girl who plays Hermoine.