It’s one of the most photographed coastal villages in the country, but what’s it really like to live in Clovelly? Becky Dickinson walks its cobbled streets and chats to locals, who reveal some surprising tales about having a tourist attraction as a home.
The other week, Naomi Phelps was in her garden when a group of Germans casually wandered in and started taking photos. Another time, she went to pick up her son from a friend’s house, and a whole family followed her through the door.
Most of us would baulk at such brazen intrusions. But when your postcode doubles up as a hugely popular tourist destination, they are almost to be expected.
Built into a cliffside, Clovelly is arguably Devon’s prettiest, and most recognisable, village. It’s one of just a handful of privately owned villages in the country and is famous for its ancient cobbled streets, enchanting cottages, resident donkeys and timeless views. It’s also the epitome of quaint – even winning the dubious title of 'most Instagrammable' village in the UK, in 2020.
But Clovelly isn’t just a tourist attraction; it’s a living, working village, home to around 300 residents – and up to 200,000 visitors per year. Although as Naomi keeps being reminded, some of them have yet to receive the memo. She recently erected a sign on her garden gate, saying ‘private.’ Although that doesn’t seem to prevent the most curious sightseers from overstepping the literal mark.
‘People don’t think we’re real, they think we’re paid actors, they don’t think we live here all year round,’ she says.
No-one in Clovelly can buy their own property. The village, which once belonged to William the Conqueror, is currently owned by John Rous, whose family have held it for the past 400 years. It may sound rather feudal and outdated, but Maha Rous, John’s eldest daughter, says her father prefers to think of himself as a ‘custodian.’
‘He sees himself as preserving something that’s very special,’ she says.
Maha currently works in finance in London, while helping to run the business strategy for Clovelly. She will one day take over from her father. So how does it feel to be heir to a whole village? ‘I’m so excited, it’s a huge responsibility though to keep it running,’ she says.
Maha is aware, too, of a certain amount of controversy that surrounds the village – at least on social media. Since 1926, visitors have had to pay an admission charge to visit Clovelly; currently £8.75 for adults and £5.10 for children. It’s a somewhat contentious issue, but Maha is quick to point out that other organisations, like the National Trust, also charge an entry fee. She stresses that income generated from ticket sales is used for essential restoration works and maintenance, needed to preserve Clovelly’s unique charm.
‘If we didn’t have tourism, it just wouldn’t work,’ she says. ‘We’d have to sell off the cottages and then there might be Starbucks appearing and Airbnbs and second home owners.’
Despite Clovelly’s status as a tourist hotspot, holiday homes are strictly forbidden. The first rule of living in the village is that you must actually live there. Which isn’t to say it’s a closed community; cottages do become available and anyone can apply for one. Although, before being handed a key, prospective Clovellians must attend an interview with Mr Rous - partly to ensure they know what they’re letting themselves in for, including the need to be ‘patient and polite’ with visitors and to keep the garden looking presentable.
There are logistical challenges too. Clovelly’s car-free status means there’s no parking outside your house, no Amazon packages or supermarket deliveries to the door, no unloading the shopping straight into the kitchen. Everything has to be collected from the car park at the top of the village and brought down the cobbles on sledges – whether that’s a loaf of bread or a new sofa. Although, on the plus side, residents say it’s great for building fitness.
Jakki Shepherd and Dave Francis moved to Clovelly around three years ago. Originally from Hertfordshire, they fell in love with the place on a day out and phoned to enquire about a cottage the very next day. As Dave puts it: ‘We got an ice cream and got a cottage.’
The couple now run a gift shop on the main street. ‘There’s something here you can’t put into words, it’s like going back in time, we know everybody, everybody helps everybody,’ says Dave.
Despite the physical closeness of the community, Jakki says it rarely feels claustrophobic. ‘We’re all on top of each other and there’s a lot of respect for neighbours, but you don’t hear any loud music, there’s no village gossip, people look out for each other, it’s just a unique place to live,’ she says. Then she adds: ‘You never tire of the view. We walk out of the front door and think “wow!”’
While many of Clovelly’s residents are relative ‘newbies,’ others go back generations. The Perham family have lived in Clovelly for 200 years, and Stephen Perham has fond memories of growing up in a ‘little paradise’.
'It was wonderful,’ he says. ‘We all used to row boats at four-years-old. We’d catch mackerel and sell it and we had all these woods around to play in. There were no computer games, so you were out and you wouldn’t go home until tea-time, everyone in the village looked out for you.’
Stephen is now the harbour master of Clovelly, a role he’s held for 20 years. He says the perennial tides of visitors are just a way of life. ‘To be honest, when we were growing up, there were probably more people coming here. There were less package holidays, so you wouldn’t be able to walk up and down the street during the day because it was just so full of people. We didn’t know any different.’ Although he adds that if they wanted to dodge the crowds they’d simply run down the cobbles shouting, ‘Lifeboat!’ and people would get out of the way.
For all its history and character, Clovelly isn’t immune to the winds of change. The village was founded on the fishing industry, but these days more people make a living from tourism. Stephen has witnessed other changes too, including the loss of the doctor’s surgery, the village shop, the post office and the village school. ‘I grieve these things,’ he says.
He has also noticed the community becoming more “transient”.
‘Some people will stay a few years. Some will stay longer. People come here, they try it, they don’t like it, so they move on. Anyone can come for a couple of years, it’s like camping. You have a nice summer, swim in the harbour, but then you think: maybe I’d rather have a Pizza Hut round the corner.’
But for all the changes, Stephen says living in Clovelly is still like living in one sprawling family. ‘You just have to accept that there are cousins appearing that you’ve never heard of before,’ he says. ‘It’s not an easy place to live. But the majority do become part of the community and that’s nice.’
So what does it take to stick it out? ‘You have to be a little bit more down to earth, a little bit more settled in your own mind,’ Stephen reflects. Presumably, a preference for sensible footwear would also be an advantage. Clovelly’s cobbles will never be a place for heels.
