Fowey

Fowey is a fishing village that got expensive and never quite forgave itself for it. The town spent five hundred years as a nest of privateers, pirates and men who would sell anything to anyone, and now sells fudge and gallery space to the same people it once would have robbed at sea. The streets were laid out for handcarts and are now negotiated by Range Rovers with a nervous look about them, which is its own kind of justice. Come in August and you will queue behind someone photographing a doorway; come in February and you will have the whole harbour to yourself, which is either the reward or the warning, depending on how much you like your own company.