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By 3.00 am the weary need for a glass of port had set in, a true sign that Christmas can't be that far off. Assisted amiably by friends and family, I had been standing on the beach steadily shaking my nets of the vast shoal of herring they had just become entangled with, a dark night liason that the herring now regret and one that meant plenty of hours of unpicking enmeshed, scaley, slippery, silvery, darling fish.
The Little Lilly and I had slipped out of the harbour at 7.00 the previous evening, the light was changing as the early dusk spread its hands across the sky, the sea was calm but a stiff breeze was making itself noticed as it pawed across the bay. I cast my nets across the flooding tide in a way that would make them fall in towards the growling shore and entrap the unsuspecting fish as they swam away from the rocks chasing the last of the dying days light.
At 9.00 I dragged my son from the 'Wrecked Lion' and his triumphant game of Pool and with his unsuspecting but willing friends, a gathering of neighbours and family the daunting task of clearing the nets began. it wasn't long before boxes filled with fish, the beach was littered by boxes and the pebbles were decorated with deciduous scales, we dug in for a long watch.
A seals head appeared shortly following the nets entering the water, he sniffed the air and blew his approval that his teatime had arrived, I sniffed and blew my dispair as his arrival could spell disaster to my fishing expedition. I made the decision to hang on for the rapidly changing light and then haul for home, I had little expectation of much reward; little did I know.
Swimming down the Irish sea, calling in at the Isle of Man where they pick up the name, 'Manx herring'. Leaving all that behind to cross the Bristol Channel and enter the Bideford bay, where they remain full and filling with roe and healthy oils for several weeks before spawning and uping sticks to head off back upon their migration. It takes a Southwest stir and a boat load of luck to come across the playing shoals these days, the sepia views of a herring full harbour are firmly confined to the past as the men and skills of those men are buried in the local churchyard. But just once in a while as luck will have it, a boat, its nets and the fish are in the same place at the same time.
Over 4000 fish and half a night later, fish boxed, iced and stored, justly deserved port drained, unending thanks to the weary help and a bed calling. Tonight is done, tomorrow, given a fair wind and sea, it's back upon the water, back upon the herring.
Remember Clovellys Herring Festival on the 15th of November starting at 10 am where the Quay will be full of stalls and of course Herring.
Sunday, 1 November 2009
Thursday, 15 October 2009
Thomas Spearman
William Spearman was born in 1812 in Weare Giffard. he became a cobbler, a shoemaker, a cordwainer. Following his marriage to a Hartland maid, 'Susan,' he moved to 'Turnpike gate' at Higher Clovelly. William and Susan had four children, Ann, Thomas, Harriet and Priscilla.
Making shoes may not have brought enough income into the Spearman household because William was to look for alternative employment, eventually moving his family down into the village, taking a cottage in 'Back Lane,' beside the Pickards Bakery. William found work in the harbour as a Lime Burner. The Spearman children all grew to help with the family expenses, Harriet worked next door with Mrs Pickard. Thomas became apprenticed to a carpenter.
Not far from the Back Lane was a small street called, 'North Hill,' along here lived the family of James Bate. James was a mariner and his sons were destined to follow him in this trade, one son, William, had noticed Harriet and while home from sea would visit her. It wasn't long before love blossomed and in 1861 they were married.
William and Harriet eventually settled into a house on the Quay, No. 53 known as Crazy Kates Cottage, here they were to have seven daughters.
Thomas, now a qualified carpenter, knew he would never find enough work in Clovelly so he reluctantly decided to leave and seek work elsewhere. Before he left he would visit his sister Harriet in her harbour cottage and sit in a window seat watching all the boats gently rocking on their moorings. While he sat Thomas scratched his name on the window panes, over and over, "Everytime you look out of the window you'll see me," he said.
Thomas moved to Bristol where he settled and married, becoming a foreman at the Bristol Docks. His name scratched on the window pane was a great comfort to Harriet and today if I sit in my window seat I can still see Thomas Spearman looking out, watching the boats gently rocking on their moorings.
Making shoes may not have brought enough income into the Spearman household because William was to look for alternative employment, eventually moving his family down into the village, taking a cottage in 'Back Lane,' beside the Pickards Bakery. William found work in the harbour as a Lime Burner. The Spearman children all grew to help with the family expenses, Harriet worked next door with Mrs Pickard. Thomas became apprenticed to a carpenter.
Not far from the Back Lane was a small street called, 'North Hill,' along here lived the family of James Bate. James was a mariner and his sons were destined to follow him in this trade, one son, William, had noticed Harriet and while home from sea would visit her. It wasn't long before love blossomed and in 1861 they were married.
William and Harriet eventually settled into a house on the Quay, No. 53 known as Crazy Kates Cottage, here they were to have seven daughters.
Thomas, now a qualified carpenter, knew he would never find enough work in Clovelly so he reluctantly decided to leave and seek work elsewhere. Before he left he would visit his sister Harriet in her harbour cottage and sit in a window seat watching all the boats gently rocking on their moorings. While he sat Thomas scratched his name on the window panes, over and over, "Everytime you look out of the window you'll see me," he said.
Thomas moved to Bristol where he settled and married, becoming a foreman at the Bristol Docks. His name scratched on the window pane was a great comfort to Harriet and today if I sit in my window seat I can still see Thomas Spearman looking out, watching the boats gently rocking on their moorings.
A colourful day
The colourful day began with the scattering of one Coastguard Officer upon the seas he strived to protect, escorted by gallivanting lifeboat men in their orange boat, accompanied by his yellow flower bearing wife and yet another retired, respect paying Coastguard Officer, he was blessed by a glorious October morning with the sun shining on the righteous harbour, bringing touring tourists to the village; late season trippers easing the burden of the pocket.
The day continued into a memory of what was lost and forgotten throughout the last July as warming Autumnal sunshine stripped the, 'better off covered,' of their shirts and early afternoon pints eased them of their wits.
Across the 'attempting to blaze' sky flew the bright red and yellow of the Devon Air Ambulance as it searched for a safe landing, and hurried, siren sounding vehicles collected on the beach. More Coastguards enter, filling the harbour with blue overalls and the green uniformed paramedics arrive in colour coordination.
Along the nearby beach the harbour is witness to a fine spectacle of pilotage as the Air Ambulance finds a landing, pouring out a red overalled paramedic to join the ever increasing gathering of emergency services.
Their target was an 88 year old man with breathing difficulties, reported to have been on the beach, hence the outpouring of Coastguards and use of the Air Ambulance. He was found to be further up into the steep village requiring a breathless walk from the angels of mercy and a quick relocation to the car park from the helicopter. Where standing by onlookers took mobile phone pictures destined for, 'Facebook,' uploads.
A day that began with floating flowers and scattered ashes, of Coastguards and lifeboat men, ended with flying paramedics and driving paramedics and even more Coastguards. Just another quiet, colourful day in Clovelly.
As the day clouded over, our local Hartland Coastguards, were called out uncomplaining, a further couple of times, showing what true dedication and commitment all our emergency services display.
The day continued into a memory of what was lost and forgotten throughout the last July as warming Autumnal sunshine stripped the, 'better off covered,' of their shirts and early afternoon pints eased them of their wits.
Across the 'attempting to blaze' sky flew the bright red and yellow of the Devon Air Ambulance as it searched for a safe landing, and hurried, siren sounding vehicles collected on the beach. More Coastguards enter, filling the harbour with blue overalls and the green uniformed paramedics arrive in colour coordination.
Along the nearby beach the harbour is witness to a fine spectacle of pilotage as the Air Ambulance finds a landing, pouring out a red overalled paramedic to join the ever increasing gathering of emergency services.
Their target was an 88 year old man with breathing difficulties, reported to have been on the beach, hence the outpouring of Coastguards and use of the Air Ambulance. He was found to be further up into the steep village requiring a breathless walk from the angels of mercy and a quick relocation to the car park from the helicopter. Where standing by onlookers took mobile phone pictures destined for, 'Facebook,' uploads.
A day that began with floating flowers and scattered ashes, of Coastguards and lifeboat men, ended with flying paramedics and driving paramedics and even more Coastguards. Just another quiet, colourful day in Clovelly.
As the day clouded over, our local Hartland Coastguards, were called out uncomplaining, a further couple of times, showing what true dedication and commitment all our emergency services display.
Saturday, 3 October 2009
A racket of Salt and Mariner
The Red Lion roared with a curmudgeonly crew of salt stained, water marked mariner types, an eclectic collection of spinnakered, jib boomed and full and by, gybing sailored yachties embarking upon a night time passage of tipping tankards and short hauled shorts berthed alongside a gathering of hardy Harbour Masters and ships pilots, masters of the fine art of 'Roaring Forties' stories, many rough crossings of manyrougher bars, with long dark nights destined for sore headed landfallen mornings.
In one corner sat a vineyard of old Clovelly descendants, the grand and greater grand children of 'William and Mary Vine' one time mariner, one time baker, fifteen timed parents, the penalties of the television free age. The Vine contingent were enjoying the hostelry delights of the Red Lion having attended a family gathering earlier in the day. A cousin of William Vine, Samuel Vine, had at one time been the landlord of this very robust place.
The night echoed like the dull toll of the ghostly fairway buoy, (Or was that someone calling lasting last orders?) with dreams sprinkled with trips and ships, oceans, seas, bays and estuaries of ale. Anecdotes of past passages mingle with doomed pints, though my offerings of Clovelly's fisheries and soap style, prime time goings on, hardly compare with two masterful Master Mariners recollections of great circle navigated voyages, nights of foriegn ladies and the joys of working on a sewage barge in the Bristol Channel. Catching lobsters and herrings somehow seems so dull at times.
All good things as ever, come to an end, and so as we all embarked upon our seperate courses for bunks and beds, knowing that the morning will bring another day to fill with tales and a breeze to fill our sails.
In one corner sat a vineyard of old Clovelly descendants, the grand and greater grand children of 'William and Mary Vine' one time mariner, one time baker, fifteen timed parents, the penalties of the television free age. The Vine contingent were enjoying the hostelry delights of the Red Lion having attended a family gathering earlier in the day. A cousin of William Vine, Samuel Vine, had at one time been the landlord of this very robust place.
The night echoed like the dull toll of the ghostly fairway buoy, (Or was that someone calling lasting last orders?) with dreams sprinkled with trips and ships, oceans, seas, bays and estuaries of ale. Anecdotes of past passages mingle with doomed pints, though my offerings of Clovelly's fisheries and soap style, prime time goings on, hardly compare with two masterful Master Mariners recollections of great circle navigated voyages, nights of foriegn ladies and the joys of working on a sewage barge in the Bristol Channel. Catching lobsters and herrings somehow seems so dull at times.
All good things as ever, come to an end, and so as we all embarked upon our seperate courses for bunks and beds, knowing that the morning will bring another day to fill with tales and a breeze to fill our sails.
Monday, 14 September 2009
All things being equal
The Lobster's were feasted upon, the crabs devoured, half cockled visitors sampled wines and ales and shuddered over oysters, ladies with areas of outstanding natural beauty stood promoting Devons Areas of Outstanding Natural Beauty alongside 150 freshly hatched, cute as can be, cuddly, baby lobsters waiting to be adopted for a pound and released to the dark and murky depths off Clovelly.
Stalls of prints and paintings, pebbles and cards lined the Quay while entertainers dressed as fishmongers armed with crustaceans that talk and eels that squirt wandered up and down appeasing all the men and pleasing all the women. And an endless drone of off Quayed Shantymen filled the air with drunken sailored notes.
So slowly we slip anchor into the equinoxial month of September where grey skies equal those of blue, days ashore match those at sea, lobsters find more interesting things to do and boat trips are the exception not the rule. Occasional days of basking sun pour out the boating fools upon an unsuspecting bay, where they use all their navigating skills to chart a course to the Red Lion so they can refuel for the journey home.
Another Summer begs to leave, an Autumn piloted in to take its place. Soon the yachts we've come to love will be hibernating, more yacht clubbing than yachting, more embellished voyages than actual, more plans, more dreams, more Rum. And what's next for us, Lobster pots to bring home, boats washed and polished for the herring, more schemes, more dreams, more Rum.
Stalls of prints and paintings, pebbles and cards lined the Quay while entertainers dressed as fishmongers armed with crustaceans that talk and eels that squirt wandered up and down appeasing all the men and pleasing all the women. And an endless drone of off Quayed Shantymen filled the air with drunken sailored notes.
So slowly we slip anchor into the equinoxial month of September where grey skies equal those of blue, days ashore match those at sea, lobsters find more interesting things to do and boat trips are the exception not the rule. Occasional days of basking sun pour out the boating fools upon an unsuspecting bay, where they use all their navigating skills to chart a course to the Red Lion so they can refuel for the journey home.
Another Summer begs to leave, an Autumn piloted in to take its place. Soon the yachts we've come to love will be hibernating, more yacht clubbing than yachting, more embellished voyages than actual, more plans, more dreams, more Rum. And what's next for us, Lobster pots to bring home, boats washed and polished for the herring, more schemes, more dreams, more Rum.
Thursday, 3 September 2009
Lobster and Crab Feast
Robert Hodge was born in 1822 in the small village of Noss Mayo on the South Devon coast. Robert was a fisherman and had learned the art of making lobster pots using willow rods, known as 'withies'. Around 1848 Robert married a Clovelly girl, Mary Ann Pengilly, daughter of Captain William Pengilly and Grace Hodge, Roberts cousin. They lived at first in Revelstoke near Noss Mayo where their first children were born, but eventually moved to Clovelly where Robert was to introduce withy lobster pots to the local fishermen.
Clovelly fishermen were already familiar with the catching of lobsters using 'hook sticks' in order to catch them amongst the rock pools at low water, but the commercial value of lobster was not truly realized until the advent of the tourist season when the demand for shellfish increased enabling fishermen to make a living from lobster potting.
The willow and hazel sticks that were used in the making of the pots were grown in and around the woods above Clovelly. Lobster pots were made in the Winter months, ready to start fishing in March and continue until the end of August when the pots had to be brought in making the way clear for the herring drifters.
Men would fish in small rowing and sailing boats, using around forty to fifty pots. Each boat would work a small stretch of the coast, some craft fishing up along the coast towards Bucks Mills and Portledge, others working the treacherous Atlantic coast off Hartland Point and down the ships graveyard towards Welcombe Mouth.
From the first small pulling and sailing boats that would leave the Quay pool on the ebbing tide, working around the headlands and coves, giving names to the often visited rocks and corners of the bay, the lobster fishery at Clovelly hardly changed. Three generations of the 'Cruse' family continued to make withy pots in the Winter, ready to start fishing in March. In the years before the First World War, the Cruses caught an average of 1000 lobsters each season which would bring them an income of £48.00 to £50.00 a year.
Eventually the men invested in small engines for their boats taking some of the toil out of the daily trips to sea. Jim Foley bought the 20 foot BD35 'Sheerwater' with its 2 cylinder diesel engine, but still worked with mainly withy pots along the same familiar grounds. Lobster and Crab were then sold to the local hotels and tearooms or occasionally sent to Plymouth where the demand was greater.
In the 1970's Michael Braund, son of Lifeboat coxswain and fisherman William Braund, returned to fish from Clovelly with the 30 foot BD 106 'Matt Marie', it was to revolutionize the way Clovelly men fished for lobster. Using as many as 25 steel inkwell pots spliced together onto back ropes and with the added assistance of a hydraulic hauler, Michael was able to increase the amount of pots he worked to over 100 and was able to fish grounds previously thought out of reach. The amount of lobster landed at Clovelly increased dramatically. Most of the other Clovelly fishermen remained fishing along the familiar shoreline, but gradually the traditional withy pots were replaced by longer lasting ones made of steel.
Inkwell pots whether traditionally made or steel, fish best when hauled daily, lobsters being capable of getting out if left too long. It was the gradual change to the modern, now widely used parlour pots that was to take the fishery to a new level. Parlour pots have an internal net funnel leading to a seperate compartment from which there is no escape; this enables fishermen to not only increase catches but also to increase the amount of pots fished, boats are needed with more power in order to get around the gear on the tide. All this puts extra pressure on shellfish stocks. Measures to help the lobster have been introduced, increased minimum landing size, now no lobster less than 90mm carapace length can be landed and a ban on 'Berried hens' (pregnant females) is widely in force, but not in all waters. Measures to introduce 'Escape hatches' into parlour pots should help with the release of smaller fish and with lost pots that remain 'Ghost fishing'. Today lobster, crab and previously discarded Spider crab are landed and transported as far away as France or Spain.
The life of a lobsterman is one that depends on good luck, good weather and good old fashioned hard work. Whether working along the rock strewn coastline or out into the deeper waters of the Atlantic, the daily hauling and placing of lobster pots continues a lifelong struggle that began with a handful of hand hauled willow baskets laid in familiar places using trusted landmarks and continues today with fabricated steel pots, Mechanical haulers and the use of sophisticated, global positioning, electronic plotters and depth sounding, sea bed mapping fish finders.
The future of lobster fishing in Clovelly depends not only on the fishing families remaining to work from Clovelly, as men have for generations before, but also by the use of sensible and sustainable fishing methods, encouraging fishermen to retain a healthy and financially viable fish stock, combined with adequate, reasonable controls and guidance from fisheries management that are hopefully designed to help and not to hinder the industry.
Whatever changes lie ahead for the lobster fishery, for those men that still venture out and reap reward from the sea, it's still the best job in the world.
The Lobster and Crab Feast is on Sunday the 6th of September.
Clovelly fishermen were already familiar with the catching of lobsters using 'hook sticks' in order to catch them amongst the rock pools at low water, but the commercial value of lobster was not truly realized until the advent of the tourist season when the demand for shellfish increased enabling fishermen to make a living from lobster potting.
The willow and hazel sticks that were used in the making of the pots were grown in and around the woods above Clovelly. Lobster pots were made in the Winter months, ready to start fishing in March and continue until the end of August when the pots had to be brought in making the way clear for the herring drifters.
Men would fish in small rowing and sailing boats, using around forty to fifty pots. Each boat would work a small stretch of the coast, some craft fishing up along the coast towards Bucks Mills and Portledge, others working the treacherous Atlantic coast off Hartland Point and down the ships graveyard towards Welcombe Mouth.
From the first small pulling and sailing boats that would leave the Quay pool on the ebbing tide, working around the headlands and coves, giving names to the often visited rocks and corners of the bay, the lobster fishery at Clovelly hardly changed. Three generations of the 'Cruse' family continued to make withy pots in the Winter, ready to start fishing in March. In the years before the First World War, the Cruses caught an average of 1000 lobsters each season which would bring them an income of £48.00 to £50.00 a year.
Eventually the men invested in small engines for their boats taking some of the toil out of the daily trips to sea. Jim Foley bought the 20 foot BD35 'Sheerwater' with its 2 cylinder diesel engine, but still worked with mainly withy pots along the same familiar grounds. Lobster and Crab were then sold to the local hotels and tearooms or occasionally sent to Plymouth where the demand was greater.
In the 1970's Michael Braund, son of Lifeboat coxswain and fisherman William Braund, returned to fish from Clovelly with the 30 foot BD 106 'Matt Marie', it was to revolutionize the way Clovelly men fished for lobster. Using as many as 25 steel inkwell pots spliced together onto back ropes and with the added assistance of a hydraulic hauler, Michael was able to increase the amount of pots he worked to over 100 and was able to fish grounds previously thought out of reach. The amount of lobster landed at Clovelly increased dramatically. Most of the other Clovelly fishermen remained fishing along the familiar shoreline, but gradually the traditional withy pots were replaced by longer lasting ones made of steel.
Inkwell pots whether traditionally made or steel, fish best when hauled daily, lobsters being capable of getting out if left too long. It was the gradual change to the modern, now widely used parlour pots that was to take the fishery to a new level. Parlour pots have an internal net funnel leading to a seperate compartment from which there is no escape; this enables fishermen to not only increase catches but also to increase the amount of pots fished, boats are needed with more power in order to get around the gear on the tide. All this puts extra pressure on shellfish stocks. Measures to help the lobster have been introduced, increased minimum landing size, now no lobster less than 90mm carapace length can be landed and a ban on 'Berried hens' (pregnant females) is widely in force, but not in all waters. Measures to introduce 'Escape hatches' into parlour pots should help with the release of smaller fish and with lost pots that remain 'Ghost fishing'. Today lobster, crab and previously discarded Spider crab are landed and transported as far away as France or Spain.
The life of a lobsterman is one that depends on good luck, good weather and good old fashioned hard work. Whether working along the rock strewn coastline or out into the deeper waters of the Atlantic, the daily hauling and placing of lobster pots continues a lifelong struggle that began with a handful of hand hauled willow baskets laid in familiar places using trusted landmarks and continues today with fabricated steel pots, Mechanical haulers and the use of sophisticated, global positioning, electronic plotters and depth sounding, sea bed mapping fish finders.
The future of lobster fishing in Clovelly depends not only on the fishing families remaining to work from Clovelly, as men have for generations before, but also by the use of sensible and sustainable fishing methods, encouraging fishermen to retain a healthy and financially viable fish stock, combined with adequate, reasonable controls and guidance from fisheries management that are hopefully designed to help and not to hinder the industry.
Whatever changes lie ahead for the lobster fishery, for those men that still venture out and reap reward from the sea, it's still the best job in the world.
The Lobster and Crab Feast is on Sunday the 6th of September.
Thursday, 27 August 2009
Rum do at the Regatta
Move your cars, don't stand around, take hold, give a lift, clear the decks, make way make way, brush, sweep, clean and polish, the gigs are coming Clovelly is humming, tractors are rolling up and down the steep wooded hill, calls of 'slow' calls of 'go'. Set up the barbecue, start up the hogroast, stand up the barrels, fix up the raffle. The gigs are arriving. From Bristol to Salcombe, from Ilfracombe to Weymouth, fine fettered, thundering thighed crews carry and jostle the precious gigs across the pebbled expanse of the tide drained Quay pool. Someone turned the music on, music to march to, music to rave to, too loud. Multi-coloured teams of T-shirts gather, declaring their allegiance, a varnished forest of oars line up along the wall. The gigs are here.
Cast off, haul on the halyard, lean on the tiller, not too heavy. Course set, compass corrected, around the Capstone, passing the outfalls, keep the coast to port. Ilfracombe drops away as the Bristol Channel widens to the slumbering Atlantic. There's Brandy Cove, goodbye Lee Bay. Happy handicapped sailors, full and by and bound for Clovelly. Old Bull watches them pass, soon be crossing Rockham ready to round the feared Morte Stone, the Rum Race is on.
A hum of noise fills the salt tanged air as keen and expectant crews talk tactics and strokes and cox. Gaggling groups set up their seperate camps keeping a watchful eye upon the placcid sea and spy the distant course, waiting for the racing. 'Buy a burger, only a pound a strip', for the raffle.' Support the gig club,' More people fill the empty spaces, more people wander in wonder, more people shuffle about the harbour. Giggers are called to man their boats, giggers are called to their oars, giggers are called to say farewell to their friends and off upon the mighty ocean, so they might pull for glory or forlorn.
There's Barricane, there's Woolacombe, Baggy stands out, a sheltering arm for surfing Croyde. Entering the great Bideford Bay, Lundy lies sentry off to starboard, far away. White, dotted, washed cliff cottages of Clovelly stand ahead waiting. Kathleen and May moors off, the perfect back drop for a busy day.
'To your boats,' 'Ship your oars' Crews lean to the task, bending their backs, 'Pull away nicely,' ' pull away together,' the harbour wall fills with watchers, fills with crowds, fills with pride. Commentators announce the order of positions, spectators cheer the boats along.
White sails bear down across the bay, gaining seconds waiting to tack, looking for breezes no matter how light. Haze battles bravely, Eliannes in flight, Shamaras coming on strong, Gracies making it a fight. Sails up helm down, time for a cuppa, break open the biscuits, we'll be in time for tea.
Around the buoys, pulling strong, oars in the thole pins, leather on the gunnel, bows lick the salt, rudder makes the wake, cox shouts encouragement, screaming at the crews, sweating, aching, faster along the straight.
Kathleen and May watches them coming, leader crosses the line, honours to the victor, Wierd Fish back a mile, Haze takes the glory, nothing unusual there, sails dropped and anchors, the Rum is won the race is done. Congratulations to them all.
There's nothing now between them they're all pulling hard and strong the horns are soon to blast as the winner comes along. The first of many races, many prizes to be won, a long day of fun and shouting, of cheering, drinks and Rum.
Cast off, haul on the halyard, lean on the tiller, not too heavy. Course set, compass corrected, around the Capstone, passing the outfalls, keep the coast to port. Ilfracombe drops away as the Bristol Channel widens to the slumbering Atlantic. There's Brandy Cove, goodbye Lee Bay. Happy handicapped sailors, full and by and bound for Clovelly. Old Bull watches them pass, soon be crossing Rockham ready to round the feared Morte Stone, the Rum Race is on.
A hum of noise fills the salt tanged air as keen and expectant crews talk tactics and strokes and cox. Gaggling groups set up their seperate camps keeping a watchful eye upon the placcid sea and spy the distant course, waiting for the racing. 'Buy a burger, only a pound a strip', for the raffle.' Support the gig club,' More people fill the empty spaces, more people wander in wonder, more people shuffle about the harbour. Giggers are called to man their boats, giggers are called to their oars, giggers are called to say farewell to their friends and off upon the mighty ocean, so they might pull for glory or forlorn.
There's Barricane, there's Woolacombe, Baggy stands out, a sheltering arm for surfing Croyde. Entering the great Bideford Bay, Lundy lies sentry off to starboard, far away. White, dotted, washed cliff cottages of Clovelly stand ahead waiting. Kathleen and May moors off, the perfect back drop for a busy day.
'To your boats,' 'Ship your oars' Crews lean to the task, bending their backs, 'Pull away nicely,' ' pull away together,' the harbour wall fills with watchers, fills with crowds, fills with pride. Commentators announce the order of positions, spectators cheer the boats along.
White sails bear down across the bay, gaining seconds waiting to tack, looking for breezes no matter how light. Haze battles bravely, Eliannes in flight, Shamaras coming on strong, Gracies making it a fight. Sails up helm down, time for a cuppa, break open the biscuits, we'll be in time for tea.
Around the buoys, pulling strong, oars in the thole pins, leather on the gunnel, bows lick the salt, rudder makes the wake, cox shouts encouragement, screaming at the crews, sweating, aching, faster along the straight.
Kathleen and May watches them coming, leader crosses the line, honours to the victor, Wierd Fish back a mile, Haze takes the glory, nothing unusual there, sails dropped and anchors, the Rum is won the race is done. Congratulations to them all.
There's nothing now between them they're all pulling hard and strong the horns are soon to blast as the winner comes along. The first of many races, many prizes to be won, a long day of fun and shouting, of cheering, drinks and Rum.
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