You can hear it before you see it. The gentle shoosh-shooshing of the sea, followed by the roar of pebbles being dragged back into the water. There’s the smell of salt and sun cream; families on the beach. You follow a tunnel through the Ilfracombe hillside and if you run your hands along the wall, you can feel the grooves of pickaxe marks, left by the Welsh miners who created this place the 1820s. Closer, closer as the bolt of blue at the end of the passageway
