Cherub's Nest - What a Bed and What a Breakfast!

When is a bed and breakfast more than a bed and breakfast?  When it’s the 17^th Century Cherub’s Nest in Dartmouth, Devon, England.  It just feels like home.

In Dartmouth, all things are connected to the sea, from the present day oystermen, who ply their ancient trade along the banks of the brackish river, to the history that glides us back to the days of Drake and the pilgrims, and forward to the Britannia Royal Naval College and the D-Day invasion.  The Cherub’s Nest is no exception.

Peculiar name.  Somehow also connected to the sea?  Yes.  Perhaps called a ‘nest’ because it’s a residence that sits beside an even older building, dating to the 14^th Century, a pub called The Cherub.  And how did The Cherub pub get its name?  Local lore has it that the pub was built from the timbers of a ship of the same name.

Next Door is The Cherub Pub

The Cherub’s Nest may be old, but the accommodations and service most assuredly are not.  Well, let’s amend that, but not in a bad way. 

I’m particular. Here’s a tidy list of my bed and breakfast requirements:  friendly innkeepers, soft bed, clean room, clean en suite bathroom, and a tasty breakfast, with good coffee. A little atmosphere doesn’t hurt either.

The Cherub’s Nest met all those conditions, then added a long list of the delightful and unexpected.  The first things you notice as you step inside this compact, but comfortably elegant home are the cheery smiles and booming, barrel-chested “Welcome!”  Instant rapport. 

In a 17^th Century building don’t expect huge rooms and an elevator.  You have to deal with steep and narrow stairs, but, I ask you, when you’ve traveled far to experience life in an historic fishing village, home to the likes of famous English sea-captains, pirates, kings, and other nobility, do you really want to get a room with the modernity of a standard hotel?  So, yes, it is old, but that’s part of the delight.

Thank your lucky stars, you’re not going to ever truly live like they did in the 17^th Century, with rats and dogs in the streets, garbage tossed from the upstairs windows, open sewers, guests packed into shared beds, and personal hygiene …Oh, please let’s not discuss it.

The Cherub’s Nest offers quaintly furnished and comfortable rooms. All the modern day conveniences overflow in abundance:  Cleanliness, including a small, but spotless bathroom.  Sleep-in-comfort beds.  Ample closet space.

The service and breakfasts are what a member of the royalty might expect.    Everything from a full English, to any combination your wealthy imagination can devise.  I opt for salmon and fried eggs, which came perfectly done, served with spotless silverware and  on Royal Dalton plates.  The coffee and tea were equally fine, in cups that would outshine even the finest hotels.  Jams and jellies galore, many of them local.  In fact, most of the food is local, including farm fresh eggs that come from the innkeeper’s sister-in-law.  I was told the sister-in-law has eight hens, which each lay one egg each day.

 Another high point of the Cherub’s Nest is the locale, right in the middle of downtown Dartmouth.  In a large city that might or might not be a positive point, but in Dartmouth, a scenic seaside town, centrality is essential to putting everything within an easy walk.  The riverfront, open parks, and historic alleys all demand your attention. Not to worry. Step out the front door and go for pint at The Cherub Pub, or wander the historic town.

I find only one fault and that is we did not have the time to stay longer at the Cherub’s Nest.  It’s a gift from the past with all the opulence of today.  And the breakfast…oh, goodness…

The Full English Breakfast - tradition marches on

The Real Thing

The magnificent hotel reception

Later in the evening the bar gets hoppin'

Everything is bustling at my coffee shop

I like to stay at a rather nice hotel in the Kensington area of London.  Thick towels and a large bath, rooms judged perfect in every way, an exercise room, a full lobby bar that sings and whistles when the sun goes down, and a lavish reception area with mountains of fresh flowers.  The nearest tube station is across the street.

There’s also a sumptuous breakfast room, with plush chairs, an able and attentive wait staff, and a buffet the envy of every restaurant in the city.  But, I don’t dine there for breakfast.  Breakfast isn’t just a meal, it’s a comfortable way to greet the morning, outline the day, and relax before dashing around one of the most wonderful cities on earth.  For all those reasons, I choose to face the breaking dawn with a trip around the corner, across from a pub.  Tucked into a busy side street, there’s a bustling little Italian coffee shop where I can read the morning news and watch London’s commercial heart begin to beat.  Wrapped in tight skirts, hair done perfectly, legs swathed in shimmering stockings, shop girls trail in to grab a white napkin, croissant, and a carton of coffee.  Businessmen, stand in line, adjusting their ties, nervously fingering their cell phones, and using a calf to put a touch of sheen on the toes of their shoes.  Everything in the café is a steaming, aromatic hustle.  Tables along the wall are crammed.  Newcomers fit in where they can. Waiters, male and female, both sorts sporting black and white attire, waltz through the flowing traffic, twisting and turning to deliver plates of this, and cups of that.  “Full English?” a waiter calls out and there’s a nod from a back table.

Behind the bar a cashier scratches out new orders, rakes in cash and delivers change at the speed of sunshine, while another waiter hustles between the fresh orange and the coffee machines.  “Will you have a croissant with your coffee?”  The croissants are light, airy, buttery.  Best rendition outside of Paris.  But, I need something sturdy.  A Full English.

The fresh orange juice machine is a thing of wonder.  A large, gleaming metal basket cradles a few dozen ripe oranges.  On demand, they slide down a chute on either side, allowing the machinery to accurately slice and squeeze.

What is a full English breakfast?  You see the words chalked on menu boards outside every London restaurant and coffee shop that flourishes with the morning trade.  To tell the truth (Have I ever lied to you?  Really?  Well, I meant to correct that.), a full English can mean many things, but here are the basics:  Fresh bread, toasted or fried in butter, an egg or two, sunny side up, a couple of bangers (pork sausages), a couple of slices of very lean bacon, a grilled tomato and grilled mushroom, and baked beans.  Add to that coffee or tea, and fresh orange juice and you have about a thousand or so calories to crank your engine.

I’m told the Full English Breakfast began with the Industrial Revolution, when hearty slaves of industry needed more than gruel and tea to give them strength.  Then came World War I and pork sausage fell victim to the meat shortage.  Bangers marched on stage, still pork sausages, but diluted with bread, pork trimmings, and water.  The water tended to pop during the cooking, hence the name bangers. Another thing to consider if you try to duplicate a full English is that English bacon is nothing like American bacon.  The English version is barely salty, almost like a cured pork chop, sliced to bacon thinness.

 I know that look….that look that begs the question:  So, when did baked beans join the fray?  Seems that happened in the 1960s, courtesy of an ad campaign by Heinz Foods.  Somehow ‘Breakfast of Champions’ morphed to ‘Beanz Meanz Heinz.’  By the way, Heinz baked beans evidently started in the U.K., although I’m sure Bostonians will beg to differ raucously, at the tops of their lungs.

If you’re watching calories or cholesterol, which I insist on calling C², you may want to make up for breakfast by drinking a lot of English ale to boost that HDL.  Write it down and remember to do that.   Another day, I’ll recommend a dozen pubs to add to your list and help you save your heart.