A stay at the haunted Molesworth Arms on New Year’s Eve brings more questions than answers—and perhaps a missed encounter with Cornwall’s ghostliest legend, writes DAVID SAUNDERSON
All my hotels are haunted. That’s the rule.
If I’m travelling, I’ll go out of my way to find a place with ghost stories and creaking floorboards.
So when I booked a few nights at the Molesworth Arms in Wadebridge during a winter trip around Cornwall, it fit the bill perfectly—16th-century inn, old coaching history, plenty of folklore.
What I didn’t realise until we checked in was the date: 31 December. New Year’s Eve.
The one night each year a ghostly coach is said to appear in the courtyard at midnight—drawn by four spectral horses and driven by a headless coachman.
I’d stumbled into one of Cornwall’s most specific and spine-tingling legends, completely by accident. I was ready. Or at least I thought I was.
The Haunting of the Molesworth Arms
The story goes that, as the old year dies, a phantom coach pulls into the courtyard of the Molesworth Arms.
No one sees it coming. No one hears it leave.
At the stroke of midnight, the sound of hooves and rattling harnesses cuts through the stillness, and a headless driver guides his ghostly team past the windows—and straight into legend.
One version claims the coach drives into the hallway and disappears. Another says it fades within seconds.
But nearly every version agrees: it only shows up on New Year’s Eve. And only if you’re really paying attention.
The inn is certainly old enough to hold onto its ghosts.
Built in the 1500s and named after the Molesworth family (who once served as Royal auditors under Elizabeth I), the building served for centuries as a coaching stop on the road between Bodmin and the western parishes.
Today, it still retains stone-flagged bars, a low-beamed snug, and a courtyard that looks like it hasn’t changed in 200 years.
My Visit: New Year’s Eve 2018
I’d already been to the Jamaica Inn and the Museum of Witchcraft and Magic in Boscastle (where a shopkeeper had handed us champagne with our scones, as you do).
The Molesworth Arms, with its ghost coach legend, was another tick on the haunted travel list.
My wife and I checked in, had dinner, and settled into the pub with a couple of beers.
The place was buzzing — locals, travellers, people in sparkly hats.
It was only when I saw the date on my phone that it clicked: this was the night the ghost coach was supposed to appear.
I kept checking the courtyard. Watching the time. Waiting.
And then I broke a glass.
I was completely sober. No excuses. I knocked over a full pint.
It smashed spectacularly. Heads turned.
A staff member swept it up with a smile and a shrug. “Happens all the time,” he said.
But I couldn’t help feeling like I’d disrupted something important — like the stillness that the coach needed had been shattered.
The jukebox wasn’t helping either.
It had been blaring since early evening—pop hits, power ballads, a full-volume Mr Brightside singalong.
I remember muttering, “That’d scare away the devil faster than a priest with a trombone.”
There was no silence, no suspense. Just basslines and cheering.
Midnight came. We raised our glasses.
I looked out at the courtyard — no coach, no horses.
Just fireworks in the distance and someone spilling Prosecco on their shoes.
The Molesworth Arms has earned its place in Cornwall’s story.
As well as being a well-established coaching inn, it’s part of the region’s transport history.
Sir William Molesworth, of the same family, oversaw the creation of the Bodmin and Wadebridge Railway in the 1830s.
The inn itself has changed hands and faces over the centuries, but the bones of the building—the thick walls, the crooked stairs, the draughty corridors—remain very much intact.
Today, it’s a lively place with rooms above the bar and plenty of atmosphere.
Alan’s Bar, in particular, feels like it could still house a secret or two.
In the Cold Light of Day
I didn’t see the ghost coach that night.
But maybe that’s because I wasn’t quiet enough to hear it.
Maybe it came, circled the courtyard, and chose to pass us by.
Ghosts have standards, after all—and karaoke might be a dealbreaker.
Still, I’ll be back. And next time, I’ll pick a quieter night.
A cold Tuesday in January. No parties. No jukebox.
Just me, the courtyard, and the distant sound of hooves—if they’re still willing to call.
What did you think of this article about the Molesworth Arms? Have you ever experienced anything strange in a haunted inn? Share your story in the comments.
