Kathleen and May

Elegantly, she lay at ease upon her mooring, rolling drunkenly in the soft, lazy swell. Her pirate black hull reflected in the still calm, the sun shining gold upon her tall masts. About the hard scrubbed decks stood her crew busying themselves with barnacled tasks while dangling helpless fishing lines over the side.

A gathering crowd of would-be salty sailors, paying for the experience, wait with painfully fixed smiles for the chugging water taxi that was to transport them back in time.
This is where I come in, in my chugging little boat, the tide being low I waited for the hurriedly mobilized landing stage to struggle into position. The master mariners step lively aboard. Some had waited all day for this trip, others their whole lives, the chance to sail aboard a vessel well into her pension too great to miss.

Clambering inelegantly aboard, the hearty sons and daughters of toil gather. The feel of the tilting decks filling them with the dusty postcard nostalgia of a black and white age and seasickness.
Once all the passengers had boarded, I moored off my craft and scrambled up, over the bow to join the ship. Mooring lines were slipped and Bosun and Mate calls were made to lean on lines. Blindly keen and enthusiastic volunteers heaved arm over arm until the great tanned sails were swaged into position and filled with the late afternoon breeze. Slowly the Kathleen and May eased away from Clovelly.

The Kathleen and May, the last original three masted topsail schooner in the country, restored and owned by local business man Steve Clarke and run by a qualified and dedicated crew; had been bound for France, she was running for a cargo of wine, but last minute complications had brought an abandoned channel course and a hurried relocation at Clovelly on the possible off chance of a few sailings, in the vain hope of salvaging something from the voyage.
A lightening poster campaign had brought to Clovelly this unlikely but very excited crew.

Undersail; fore, main and mizzen, staysail, jibs and flying jib, helm over, swashing and buckling across the bay. People gaze up into the rigging, seagulls follow forlornly, ignored. Hands on the wheel feeling the push and pull of the sea. The enthusiastic crew, never wanting to miss an opportunity bring out the spoils of voyages past. Bottles of red, white and pink breeds of plonk, of various labels and strengths, were presented to the passengers on the hopeful chance of a sale while undersail. The obvious use of a built for cargo, ship, being used for the carrying of a cargo of wine, is a plaudible and admirable one and one that many of our sailors for the day were glad to take advantage of as bottle followed bottle to the glass.

The Master headed up into the breeze intending to tack, but without the winds momentum to bring her around we failed and so swung the wheel to wear ship and put the helm over for Clovelly and home. Passengers took up stations all about the ship, photo opportunities taken, beside the helm, glass in one hand, wheel in the other; crowded along the bowsprit, waving madly; or stood with the crew, evidence of their time at sea. It couldn't be helped but to reflect on how civilised the evening was, cruising in the beautiful Bideford Bay on a warm June evening, on a wonderful ship with a glass of eco-friendly wine; but few can imagine the hardship, the tiredness, the endless days and nights working to push and drive the ship from port to port, beating against the winds and tides to carry their goods from one end of the Bristol Channel to the other and further across to Ireland or down around the land to the English Channel ports. Life was hard, days were long and rewards were few.

Why is it then, that we queue to "Experience" sailing aboard ships like the Kathleen and May? Probably because like the men that worked these ships, it's not the grim reality of the life or the back breaking work with no promise of a return, it's the ships themselves that draw us; they live and breathe, talk and feel, they rely on us as we rely on them, no plastic imitation can possibly come close and we love them, whether watching from the shore or heaving heartily on the lines, we love them.

Motor Boat Trips

"Come on you boatie people" The boatman calls, standing bold and proud in seaboots and shorts, overfull T-shirt and woollen hat, "I don't want to hear the word no!!" "No!" People look and look away afraid to be caught by his eye as he waves his arms to catch the unsuspecting passers by "This is a harbour, we've only got boats."
"Where does the boat go and how much does it cost," a victim enquires, "Nothing if you don't like it!" the boatman declares looking around for approval, " Down to where the seabirds nest and back up again to the waterfall."
My own boat heads off the shore giving wonderful views of the coast and village.

"Follow me, follow me, if only out of curiosity" and slowly the boatman makes his way to where the boats lay waiting in the steps. People tread delicately, nervously one step at a time, unsure of the 16th Century craftsmen that built these steps. "How do I get aboard?" "Where do I go now?" "What do I have to do?"
"Just step aboard the boat, if you get wet you haven't made it"
"Oh! it moves"
"It's a boat!"
"When do I pay?"
"When you get back, if you don't get back you won't have to pay"
With an asthmatic wheeze the good old diesel engine, coughs into smoking, rumbling life. "Which way is it to the sea?" To the sea, to the sea, and off the battered whaler drifts to open water. Slowly idling along the scenic coast, gently rocking the passengers and skipper to sleep. Upon the shore people sit and wave, throw stones, brave the water or wait, full of Ice cream and shellfish, for the Land Rover, diesel donkeys, to take them to their cars.

Uninterested seabirds ignore the digital snappers as the boat edges its way further out, taller cliffs, Gallantry Bower, 375 feet tall, open up along the coast. Lundy high sign of dry, Lundy plain sign of rain, Lundy Island 14 miles from Clovelly. Mind the buoys and coloured dahn flags marking the Lobster and crab store pots, destined for a tourists dinner or France. "Is that Wales?" they wonder looking at the North Devon coast from Westward Ho! to Morte. The Bristol Channel pouring away to the north as the Welsh coast of Worms Head hides beneath the horizon.

"That's the best way to see Clovelly" Nestling white and grey in the fushia and honeysuckle covered valley, approximately 80 houses, roughly 160 people living there, all owned by one man, the same family having owned it since 1728. The boat pushes on, soft winds crack the spray across the bow, howls come from wetted tourists. Arms dangle over the side, "Careful the sharks don't get you," arms quickly whipped back aboard!

Closing on the shore, the waterfall, 'Freshwater', once fresh water, drops elegantly from its wooded path to the beach. Rocks resembling a giants boot give amusement to parents and odd looks from unimpressed teenagers, as the tree lined cliffs end up on the beach, revealing just how sheltered this corner of the bay is. "That's as far as we go, swim the rest of the way if you want to," The harbour return, tied up alongside. Funny how much easier it is to climb back off, a safe foot on the ground. "Tip as much as you like I'm not proud"
"That was wonderful"
"So glad we came"
For the tourists it's the steps back up, for the boatman, "Come on you boatie people."

Ale and Cider Fest!

The outsized chef stood outside watching intently, hoping for customers, young surfer types from Welcombe and Cornwall sat around in huddled groups along the Quay wall, families with plastic packed picnics lay half baked on the soft round pebbles while children that can't read and parents that don't care, throw stones at the boats. The bank holiday weekenders full of the joy of British summer time queue for pasties and ice cream served with a smile. The handy helpful hands stack up the barrels and kegs of locally grown ales that arrive in a variety of strengths, from session to depression to ridiculous! So the people who have found and followed the signs from the outside world at the top to the village far deep below, can find solace in ale and comfort in cider.

Welcome to Clovelly's celebration of local ales and ciders, where the cardiganed experts in socks and sandals, brave pale chested youths with everything to prove and nothing to achieve, the 'Ever so supportive of local events' and the chilling in the sunshine real ale enthusiasts, gather to try, test and take too much pleasure in the finest of mashed and stewed brews.

All day long and over the weekend the barrels were tapped, drawing off potent nectar for the, 'Just as well try some as we're here' as the 'Hello sweetheart' barmaid is run off her feet, trying to pour drinks at the bar and find food from the kitchen while cleaning and clearing the overflowing tables and chasing up the 'Sat outside in the sunshine' orders, 'Number 101! scampi and chips!!' going cold.
Enthusiasts and alcoholics enjoy imbibing the interestingly titled beverages, discussing the variety of subtle distinctions that each ale offers to the discerning palate as they quickly knock back another!!

Chatter becomes less structured as everyone becomes an expert, everyone finds their favourite, unassuming, disapproving partners gather, arms crossed at the door waiting for the Lion to roar. the half drunk, just a little merry, louder mouthed youths down another unappreciated pint. The 'Not so you'd notice' sober couples, arm in supportive arm sidestep up the blackening street heading for home and a hangover. Heads and walls fill with the familiar scrape and plink of the regular folk music, flowing with the pouring of another glass. one by one musicians change tune but nobody notices. The evening extends pleasantly into a warm ale, soaked sawdust filled night, waiting for sleep and escape.

For three long, glorious, sun blessed, famously calm watered, stunningly hot and deliciously drunk days the ale fest and cider pressed celebrations lingered on, leaving us pleasantly and persistantly plastered, praying for an end and salvation and hoping we can do it all again next year.

The Consummate Fisherman

Shall I have another cup of tea? How many cups of tea are needed before heading off to sea? I can hear the wind freshening and the swell beginning to build, I can see the waves breaking white further across the bay, the tell tale signs of a southwest wind. Seagulls stand firm upon the harbour wall while somewhere a dog barks, it's voice carried away by the breeze. High over the village the trees roar and sway, dancing to the winds tune. Coal grey smoke curls away from the chimneys as the first damp spots of rain find the pebbles. The joys of spring!

Dressed up and bound up the shore, today I'm taking the "Little Lily" she deserves an outing. Edging offshore we come across the wind, more than enough to hoist the canvas and sail across the bay, "Lily" positively runs away, leaning into the gusting breeze, laughing as she races along, born to sail and sailing well, only the sounds of the shivering water rushing by, the flapping of the ropes and sails and the creak of the rudder and tiller. We run briskly along leaving the village behind us, heading for the eastern coast of the bay where I can start work and once more haul my waiting lobster pots.

Rain lashed and drowned by the wind, hands pull and heave on rope after rope. I am in a world of my own, working home; hauling, clearing, baiting, relaying. The distant lands lay misty and pale as constant showers pass by heading up the channel. Closing away the headlands I work my way down the shore closer and closer to Clovelly, until my attention is distracted by a faint vibration in my pocket, far below, beneath umpteen layers of waterproof and heavy clothing, a mobile phone calls me! Wondering why I carry it I delve deep beneath the layers forcing my hand to reach the buzzing box, until success; "Hello?" I enquire, wondering how important the call may be. Is somebody in trouble? Maybe an order for a lobster? A vital message I can't ignore? "Hello can I help you?"
"I just wanted to say hello," Came the reply!
"Oh!!"
There should always be time to say hello, even when the weather is unagreeable and I'm at the furthest reaches of the bay. Knowing that there's someone missing me, waiting for me to return makes me smile. The phone returns to the deepest darkest depths and I get back to my pots.

At home I have been given a little beam trawl, it's not much use now after being abandoned in someone's garden and having a tree growing through it, the beam is only 10 feet wide, the net is full of holes and the iron shoes have rusted away, but I should be able to use it as a pattern for a new one. My boats engine is only small so I can't drag anything too heavy, so a small beam trawl will suit me very well, hopefully catching fish worthy of the plate as well as being good fun. I am in no way a trawlerman and have no wish to be, trawlermen are a breed apart. But I do enjoy trying different things and the idea of catching an occasional fish from my own little trawl appeals to me, even if it is just a feed for the table. I have been gathering the elements needed for the rebuilding of the net and have asked a friend to make some new iron shoes. I look forward to not only the fishing of the trawl but also to the reconstruction; believing that if you do something it should be done to the best of your ability, learning the skills of your trade, making you a more consummate fisherman.

Finally, we prepare for the weekend; it's Whitsun and traditionally the start of our season. Clovelly is hosting an Ale and Cider festival, with many local brews on offer in both of the village pubs, the New Inn and the Red Lion. At very short notice we have been asked to take part by selling seafood of some kind. I have a brother running a very successful seafood shop close to the harbour and he will have a good selection of produce to purchase, so we have only enough time to gather together some mussels and shall be serving them up outside the Red Lion. Hopefully a successful weekend to come, the start of a successful summer and just about time for another cup of tea.

Gone to pot.

The morning breaks with promise and sunshine, the calm tide stealing its way into the harbour silent and clear, the much listened to but little trusted forecast gives an indication of fine weather, better revealed by the stunning blue sky that beckons the day. All about the activity of the harbour begins breaking out, boats crunch across the beach as eager fishermen head in anticipation for the sea. Gathered lobster pots patiently board the waiting vessels, destined for hopeful fishing grounds and a long season. One by one I place my own lobster pots aboard my boat, making sure I am armed with rubber bands for binding any snapping claws and a measuring gauge for ensuring only legal size shellfish are landed; lobster must be at least 90mm along the carapace but no berried hens of any size may be kept, the future of the fishery depends on them.

So wellied up, oil skinned, gaff and bait filled bucket in hand I climb aboard the, "Neptune," wind the engine into complaining, belching, timber rattling life; let go for'ard, pull easily back on the quarter ropes until clear of the mooring lines and head my bow up along the shore.

Along the familiar coast of the sheltered bay, trees scramble down to wet their feet at the water's edge, cliffs decorated with gorse and rhododendron and old wind twisted trees hide the watching wildlife, home for the chasing seagulls and fulmars. We pick our way amongst the kelp dressed rocks covered now by the flooding tide while Clovelly shrinks away like Brigadoon in the Atlantic mist. I watch for the tried and trusted marks that tell where the hidden lobster holes and homes lay, fathoms deep and dark.

The pots are baited with old dead fish, the smellier the better for lobster, fresh bait being more of an attraction for crab; and carefully placed where rocks line up with trees and distant windows with chimney pots. The luxury of modern electronic navigation aids and depth sounders not having reached me yet. Happy though to be back upon the water, back amongst the lobster, back along the shore.

Once my pots are set and before I can turn for home I have to haul some lobster pots which were laid a few days ago. Each one comes with the creeping expectation of a worthwhile catch; arms tautened, hands gloved pulling up eight fathom deep ropes, bringing the hoped for fruitfil basket to the surface and aboard the boat. Revealing crabs; velvet, brown and spider, a flipping prawn or two, a thrashing dogfish, a tranquil rockling and maybe if I'm lucky, a lobster of legal size to keep.

Inshore fishing can be a battle of wills between the lobster and the fisherman, where subtle changes in bait or position may help entice the languid crustacean out of its lair. You have to understand and respect your opponent. It's a way of life that's not easy when you depend on it for your living, but it's a way of fishing that suits me, giving plenty of time to appreciate and enjoy the beautiful surrounding coast and views.

Cheer and Beer

Weeks have slipped by and so much has had to be done; beaches cleared of longshore drifting stones and flotsam jetsam rubbish, sweeping and cleaning the winter neglected Quay, walls whitewash freshened, boats scrubbed and smartened ready for a new term.
Daffodil dieing lanes lay carpeted with bluebells, primroses and the pungent wild garlic, while desperate to please birds wake up the trees with their singing. The days begin to fill with warm sunshine and bulging coaches brimming with grinning students or "Been before," pensioners, only concerned with whether the Land Rover service is running. Lundy Island stands high on the horizon telling the weather to stay dry.

People who have paid to see, rush through the village wondering what they've paid to see, missing all the history and the blossoming bounty of the spring. Some go looking for beer and ice cream while others head for the water and watch while children throw stones at the signs that ask you not to throw stones. There are those that swim or throw themselves off the harbour wall into the still icy cold, grey winter sea, either mad or brave or foolish; and there are those that just sit and admire the postcard captured views while watching the locals hang out their washing.

The business of the harbour begins. Yachts line up to enter, old faces rejoin the banter bringing cheer and beer and tales of winters ordeals and an occasional smiling new face and hopes of summer passages. The first boat trips head out, "Down to where the seabirds nest, up to the waterfall, see the village from the sea," get them aboard, get them off, never mind the paint or polish. Charter boats collect at the steps, trawlers lay off, their catch iced and sold. The first lobsters find the plate bringing joy to the customer and reward to the fisherman. The ailments of the last few months long forgotten.

There is something quite special about sitting on the Quay wall on a peaceful evening, edging from seat to seat following out the sun. Watching the fishing boats land their catch or sat idly on their moorings, gently waiting for tomorrows tide, while the high water softly knocks at the doors of the houses. The pasty hungry seagulls pull empty promises out of the litter bins and discarded glasses hide amongst the stone seats, all around lay the remains of another busy, grockle full day. The village has woken, this years story has just begun.

Preparation

I'm at the end of my tether, blackened by foul bilge water, back aching by abstract bending, twisting and kneeling. Frustrated by hose pipes dribbling like noses, tired of, "Cheaper Brand," washing up liquid, in a futile attempt to scrub the dead shell debris of last year out of my boat. Why is it, the last job you'd want to do is the first job you must do? But what this means is; it has begun, there is no going back, cleaning, washing, scrubbing, knuckle scraping, sanding, painting, anti-fouling, cut the line in, trimming, caulking, fitting, engine maintaining, glossing, varnishing, finishing, floating, finally floating. How good will it feel to be once again floating, once again boating.

The harbour fills with the wailing screech of competing outboard motors, rivalling that of the hard done by gulls, as the days thicken with ice cream tourists. The Trinity House Captain arrives for our annual lighthouse inspection and passes us fit once again for business, safe for ships to visit. Lime wash whitened walls brighten the village, redesigned signs sprout up showing which way not to go. windows and doors are thrown open letting in the spring sunshine and the worn thin winter is folded up and put away, soon to be forgotten. Shops fill with the recently delivered trade fair souvenirs, cheap gifts, cheaper sweets and the same old familiar view postcards.

Important meetings are held and drank through, organizing the organizers of the season's forthcoming festivals and events, taking minutes to write up memorandums to forward to the interested parties so they can be organized; and we mustn't forget the, "Celebration of Local Ales and Ciders," from the 23rd to the 25th of May.

So I sit parcelled in my tight knit village, staring out at the blue, blind sea, waiting for the equinox weather to settle upon the lobster rocks and a mermaid to return to my shore. Working towards the next day of my life, that shall be as full of the thoughts of tomorrow as today; watching as a boat burdened by lobster pots slips away to sea, passing the pasty watching seagulls and the unseeing tourists too busy thinking of the journey back to the top. But for now I must continue, cleaning, washing, scrubbing, knuckle scraping!