Clevedon had a heyday once, long ago. It was once a gentile Victorian seaside resort where people would go to promenade along (predictably) The Promenade and take steamer trips on the muddy waters of the Severn Estuary to places like Barry in South Wales and Weston a few kilometres along the coast to the south. (For some reason, the mention of 'muddy waters' had me almost breaking into a heart-rending blues, but I restrained myself.)
There's a pier, one of the oldest in the country, and a bandstand and, to be honest, very little else there now.
Happily there was an ice-cream stall.
Clevedon seemed to have the kind of 'old world charm' that leaves me cold and wondering what it was all about.