In a small harbour town between the foothills of the Twelve Bens and the Owenglin river where it meets the Atlantic, Julia and Paddy Foyle run their B&B with ‘generosity of spirit’. They are ‘delightful, tactile hosts’ front-of-house; son Toby is in the kitchen. The property centres on the 19th-century harbourmaster’s house and ‘is spread across four houses, knocked through’. An inspector’s eye was immediately caught by a top-hatted cupid – ‘the Foyles are enthusiastic auction hoppers’ – while sitting rooms are filled with quirky ‘antique, vintage and reproduction’ furniture, zebra stripes, regency stripes, ‘curio upon curio’, and yet ‘it all works’. The bedrooms are (very) individually furnished, with maybe a four-poster, vintage luggage, ‘a broken Marie Antoinette clock’, a bust of Napoleon, his portrait over the bed. Each has a terrace or balcony, most have harbour views. Beds have an orthopaedic mattress (‘We slept like tops’). Breakfast, in a ‘lovely conservatory with a vine-hung ceiling’, brings ‘freshly squeezed orange juice, perfect poached eggs’, home-baked bread, cheeses, cold cuts, ‘two unexpected breakfast cakes – “Go on, treat yourself”, read the sign alongside.’