Stephen Perham

What's next?

2010-11-12T00:26:00.000-08:00

Tempting waves dance across the harbour, breaking, foaming, laughing as each sea, grey as a memory, sly as a neighbour, is chased, racing to the shore. The season clock ticks on to another Autumn, when eager boats should be at their fishing best. But aching back days are gone, the once lively livelihood a thought lost, the time too late. The fish discarded, dry bilges untainted by deciduous scales. Where has it all gone?

The valley village prepares for Winter. Coal stacked porches hide the doors of warm as kitten kitchens. Clovelly unaware of its future, celebrates its yesterday with bought from Plymouth herrings, frozen ready for a festival too late to save the men that have given up caring.

The Clovelly Herring Festival is on November the 12th. The harbour will sigh under the ungrateful weight of 'buy me' stalls, welcome guests returning from past years will cheer the day, locally brewed ales will bring the day cheer. An occasional 'Local' herring may make an appearance, somewhere you may find a fisherman. People will be fed, the days aims met, all will be well, the coffers replenished.

What will be next for us? This arthritic year grinds on, closing doors in its wake, sunbaked holiday postcards delayed in flight, gather dust, teasing the calendar with holidays others have enjoyed. Each day rises with a new hurdle. Someone somewhere has got it worse but doesn't know it yet. In our familiar cold stone home we cuddle up beside the fire and wait for better news.

From whence I came

2010-10-26T03:15:00.000-07:00

Many months have gone by and little done to record the happenings of a stagnant pond of wallowing people. Tides creep in and out of an unwatched harbour while some boatman stand obviously superior to those that shall remain behind waiting to close the door and make sure the lights are well and truly switched off.

Boats and Lobsters. Our life blood seeps away beneath the pebbled ground mingling with the mud stained and sea washed sand. People, once loud about the harbour, leave for term time commitments or hurried, booked and far flighted, sunnier apartments. We stand waiting; waiting for another season to rise, damp like about us.

Money is our direction and our obsession, we follow it, and we accommodate it, giving it unwarranted preference over the reality of our lives. I found myself escaping from the tortuous grip of Clovelly and delivered into the cold, hard North of Orkney. in the pursuit of a fair wage for a fair days work. A friend of mine is contracted to a group known as, 'Tidal Generation Limited,' a company sponsored by, 'Rolls Royce,' who are busy developing a turbine for the generation of electricity, using the strength of the tide. I was employed as Mate aboard his vessel and spent the time doing seaman like tasks such as splicing and whipping and general ropey jobs. During our time we were successful in deploying the turbine off the island called 'Eday'. just one of the many Orkney isles. Orkney was a remarkably beautiful place, sweeping islands and rough hewn shores. The people edging more towards Norwegian than Scottish, were famously kind and friendly. The weather was as you'd expect, trying and tempestuous one minute, still and brilliant the next. I flew in and flew out, I loved every minute and hope to get back.

There is so much to do. I have to set up and establish a smoke house in Clovelly, so I may smoke some of my Clovelly herring. Boats have to be worked on, cleaned, prepared, readied for whatever may happen next. Things, events catch up, usually when you're not watching. How does it happen that one minute you are getting things in order, and the next.... well the next minute you're sat beside a hospital bed where your mother lies with a collapsed lung, following a procedure to drain some fluid from that lung that went badly wrong. Days of worry, of stress and strain follow, family arrives from all quarters, too many visitors the nurses complain, but more arrive to see her, the room fills. Now all we can do is wait. Now all we do is wait. Funny how life seems to bring me back from whence I came and never seems to let me go. Now I wait.

Surprise Catch

2010-07-15T02:28:00.000-07:00

Who could of known that the intense beauty of June's balmy, hot rocking days, would dissolve, sugar like, so quickly into the mire that is July! days enjoyed for their dripping summer promise and steel still waters, have been rudely cast adrift by the turbulent stream of coat soaking rain.

But things happen; events, occasions, challenges, surprises. Take the nine strapping, wholesome, elm clad and leather thole pinned Pilot gigs, arriving from the outreaches of the Westcountry and prepared to task the boundless seas and wild waters across to Lundy Island. The local club from the Torridge took the line honours, with our own bravely exhausted crew coming in an undisgraced sixth. The passion with which these people row floats evidently all about them as they carry their cherished craft along, each at one with their boat.

I had a friendly family fishing trip this week, supposedly for mackerel. But these fish can be a morsel elusive and no matter how many lines you hang over the side or how far you drift, if the water is slightly murky or the fish distracted, there is little hope of catching them. Lucky for me I have a net set for the catching of bait, intended for lobster pots. Legal and tagged, the net swings about on the tide, a mere 35 metres of hope.

The family were surprised when the first mackerel fell aboard, gleeful cheers echoing across the waters meeting each new fish, lapping up the joy as more and more barbecue ready fish were brought aboard, and there amongst the Scomber scombrus, a fish unused to these North Devonian shores, more often found in warmer climes or supermarket shelves, we had netted a Sarda sarda, a Bonito Tuna, a visiting variety of foreign favoured fish. The following day brought another of his kin to bless our catch with his fin.

News soon spread and the Bonitos had their pictures taken with many local celebrities from all the dark , damp corners of the roaring drunk lion. For a further few minutes the Tuna were the talk of the town, until the Red Lion manager bought them, cooked them and eat them. Depriving the Natural History Museum in London of a specimen.

What remains most surprising is that until now, no one else has ever mentioned they had caught one of these fish. Now all of a sudden, the flood waters have spread and it seems everyone knows someone who knows someone who knows.............. Now that is a surprise!

Harbour Dwellers

2010-06-28T21:51:00.000-07:00

Clovellys comfortable harbour is home to a wide variety of boating types, such as the 'Lobsterman', a lonely, solitary kind, spending long distant hours away at sea, only returning home in order to mate and drink at the communal watering hole. And then there's the 'Boat Tripping Men', fussing about the Quay or leaning outside the Red Lion, picking and pulling at their daily grockle prey. The 'Charter men', parade up and down the harbour wall with their full fuel bowsers or sit gazing at their chrome covered engines, cocking a snoot at the rest. If you watch really closely you may even spot an occasional 'Trawlerman', best found either early in the morning as he disappears setting off out to sea or in the evening when he returns once more to dry land, there to join his mate at the bar.

Then there are the 'Pleasure Boaters', a hapless lot, flapping about, unsteady, unsure, and unaware. Watching and waiting, listening and learning, they are the flighty, summer visiting flocks of flotsam that fill the beach. They may have read the book, but they have usually forgotten how to tie the knot.

There are other dwellers inhabiting the harbour; the beef brigade, lazing all day in the sun, burning nicely. The quay jumping, "Look at me", and "Brave first timer", tombstoners. The floral displayed, lounging, picnicking, soul mate searching dollies, and the salt soaked, drifting along amongst the seaweed and jellyfish, in and out of the moored boats, harbour hags.

But crowning them all, we have the spider oared, multi-coursed, seperate heading, semi-serious, regatta bound gigging types, with their reigning supreme Lord oarsman tipping the balance in the bow. All together making up the colourful ensemble that fills the seasonal harbour with boats, noise and plenty of bunting.

Neptune to the rescue

2010-06-06T23:51:00.000-07:00

The Campervan Cookbook, written by Martin Dorey is a life style collection of easy living, self sustaining recipes and ideas, designed for loving life and keeping things simple. Martin has surfed off the Clovelly coast, at times in weather I wouldn't even go out of doors! It was because of his love of this coastline he came to Clovelly to film a fragment of his 'soon to be' televised book.

Martin was sent to sea in my 'Little Lily' with local fisherman Chris Braund. Their mission, to catch a mackerel, my mission, to carry forth the camera crew and keep out of shot! It was while upon this heading that our attention was alerted towards the shore where two people had got themselves cut off by the rather inconvenient tide. They would, of course, have been quite safe, the tide was ebbing, within half an hour they could walk back to Clovelly. But panic and a lack of local knowledge don't mix. As we approached them, the frantic pair came running into the sea, where the surging waves knocked them over and increased the fear. I had no choice but to rescue them from themselves and with much undisguised relief, the dripping wet two were taken onboard and released upon the harbour.

Filming resumed, but the mackerel appeared to be camera shy so failed to show. Luckily, I had a net set, hoping to catch some fish for bait, but now to be drafted into service as the means for Martins meal. It meant we were able to return to the Quay and off load our clapper board cargo. It also meant that, with the tide slipping away, it was time for Neptune and I to go off and try and find a lobster.

The joy of lobster fishing doesn't lie only in the catch, for me it's in the thrill of the hunt, the getting to know my adversary, learning the rocks and gullies, finding my way into the lives and habits of the sea creatures that are my livelihood. It's about respect, it's about loving the way of life, it's about those days when nothing else matters. Unfortunately this day was not proving to be the most productive. A winning day for the lobsters I fear. Then came the call from my brother.

Across the bay, fishing off Mouth Mill, another beautiful stretch of North Devon coast, my brother in his little boat had incurred engine problems. He was attempting to get home by sculling his boat. Ever the lifeboatman, I left my fruitless pots and Neptune and I steamed the 5 miles across the wide mouthed bay, where I found him slowly edging his way back up along the shore. Taken in tow it was not long before everyone was safely home at anchor. A little of the afternoon remained, so I decided to try my luck and resume my search for those elusive decapods. A few more pots, a sit in the sunshine, a drift in the bay, soaking up the glassy view, why do we do this? I wonder.............

Somethings will never change.

2010-05-27T12:31:00.000-07:00

More yachts call into sheltered Clovelly, making use of the hospitality and the free shower, welcome friends and first time callers. Familiar berths and unsure adventurers with tangles of lines fresh from the locker. The harbour enjoys the soaring masts and tidy hulls, the clanking stays and the rubbing strakes, harking back to a day when wooden hulled luggers loaded with tarred sailors lay side by side filling the Quay pool with nautical banter and sea soaked stories.

1910; one hundred years ago over 50 houses in Clovelly were the homes of fishermen, sailors or Master Mariners, all dragged up within sight of the sea and the smell of the fish. Some were to be trawlermen, toiling in the sailing beamers, bringing home the plaice and sole, others hugged the coast seeking the crab and lobster, while other men found their calling for the open sea and went in search of other lands, proudly returning to the homes and families they loved as the Captain's of fine ocean going ships. The village dripped with the essence of the sea, every cottage bore the memory of a salt tanged tale.

2010; six houses in Clovelly remain as the homes of those hoping to find a living upon the sea. Ten boats in all work from the harbour looking for an income. Our only trawlerman keeps his vessel in nearby Appledore, four boats hug the shore still searching for lobster. The main catch of the day today being people; daily trippers or dogfish danglers, Lundy divers or bird seekers. No Masters of the deep sea crossings, or ocean bound clippers. No line crossed sailors keeping their watch. All that remains are the returning longshoremen, home from the racing waters of Hartland Point or the long stretching coast of Portledge.

An early morning in the late hours of May; the tide brings in a calm, lazy sea, as a stretching sun waves its arms over Exmoor. Fleeting gently the little red, 'Bombay' slips her moorings and quietly leaves the harbour. She is bound down the coast, picking her way amongst the long named, barnacled rocks. All day she shall haul, gather, clear and hopefully catch her living, passing by, heads the, 'Emmie Elizabeth' her place is below Hartland Point, her lobster pots waiting where the Atlantic knows no mercy, and off in the distance, that's the, 'Aurora', she's originally from far away Cromer, familiar with the crab grounds but now fights the winning tides of the North Devon Coast. Soon we will see the, 'Jessica Hettie' braving the wrecks off the Lundy Isle and the, 'Independent' huddled with anglers looking for tea. Much has changed over the years, many men and families have gone, but the heritage they created remains in the call of the sea and the fond telling of the tale. Somethings will never change.

For want of an hour

2010-05-14T06:33:00.000-07:00

Waiting seems to be my lot in life, I seem to spend an excessive amount of time twiddling thumbs or sat in carparks while one person or another deliberates over, leaving, arriving or being on time! For me, on time means 10 minutes early, 'time and tide' and all that. Sadly not all think this way, on most occasions there is no harm done, other than a little frustration. But then again, there may be knock on effects of tidal wave proportions.

Take the other day for example, launch day for my boat, but she's not just another boat, she's been in my family for almost 40 years having been bought and worked by my father, and is considered a member of the family, she's also my livelihood, without her I would be a little lost, she's old and grumpy like many old ladies, she's slow, noisy and argumentative.
Launching off the beach at Clovelly is quite a task at the best of times, not one to relish, so it's always a wise idea to be prepared early, get ready before high water, giving yourself plenty of time, just incase any problems rear their ugly heads, and they do everytime! High water was around 5 0'clock, so I arranged to start at 4 0'clock. Loads of time!

Simple ideas are the best, but easiest to scupper. 4 0'clock came and went as the day stretched towards high water, what did I say about waiting! It was right on the top of the tide that my landroving assistance appeared. Things happen, 'Events', 'I just had to.....' you know the story. But we were now chasing an ebbing tide, and knowing we were late, the 'Tide' was not waiting around, it was off! We slipped, slid, pushed, bumped and ground to a halt. Beaten by pebbles and people. Try as we may, she was in no mood to go any further.

Cups of tea and discussions on, 'best way forwards' led to only one conclusion, a 4 AM start. Not an indearing prospect, but I am never happy when the boat is not safely tucked up in bed, so with a parting promise of early rising help, I washed up the tea cups.

01.41 am...... Eyes wide open! the rushing sounds of Northerly billow gatecrashed my bedroom, I got up with a feeling of urgency, stumbled about, gathering warm clothes, lost socks, making my way outside, it was cold, the fresh wind cut across the black bay, white topped waves rolled ashore, not reaching the boat yet, plenty of time, as long as she lifts, as long as the promised help arrives, still plenty of time. No need to worry, not yet.

04.00 am...... I'm in the boat, waiting. An occasional wave breaks over the transom, still waiting. Get the engine running, get ready, another wave, cold, better bail out that water. Another wave, another, this is getting silly now! Shut the engine off! Between bailing I call home and get my son to come out and help. Two people bailing. waves by now are breaking constantly over the back, I'm soaked, my phone is soaked, dead, cold, icy cold. We notice someone, an early riser, a local man leaving for a long drive to London, he stops and runs to help. I have enough time to run home, sopping wet clothes cling to me, shaking, I phone for help, waking up the promised and the late.

Chest deep, bailing, fruitlessly, continuously, exhaustedly, never the spectator, too well versed in helping others, now I needed help, needed that promised help. Nothing eases the pain of helplessness, no voice is heard, no reaching arm; only the ice cold reality that for want of an hour this wouldn't be happening.

Somehow it all ended, people arrived, people panicked, some finished their breakfast while deciding whether to wear shoes or boots, 'it doesn't do to get wet feet'. A bulldozer was procured, ropes found, attached, and the boat was dragged out of the sea. Gear box, reduction box, engine oil, all needed draining, flushing, cleaning away the harmful salt filled water. A shaky calm came over the adrenalin charged morning and a steaming hot shower woke me to a feeling of being completely alone. Again I waited, this time to get warm.

My boat is now afloat, in the harbour and looking a little fed up but fine. We've been through alot together and I expect alot more to come, and I expect we'll have to wait again for someone to do something, sometime. Maybe oneday someone will wait for me, but for them, the wait will be worth it.

May Day's

2010-05-09T03:28:00.000-07:00

A rugged, cold high pressure draws in Northerly winds, this is the start of May. Gone the balmy days of Aprils sun showers, where the Quay filled with basking dollies and dudes, sunshaded and barely chested, blanketed out, absorbing every ounce of the sea's airs and graces.

May brings, 'paying for the visit and for a shower yachts and yachties', as my own Merchant Navy mermaid escapes my net to swim back to her other world across the sea, leaving me alone to survive the season. A season that starts with Inspecting boat surveyors with a unique perception of regulations, taking a brief look at languishing craft, nodding unknowingly and leaving before a decision had to be made.

Passing through Germans, filming a 'Travelogue' of the Westcountry, wishing to see Clovelly from the sea but not understanding why the boat wouldn't lie still. Naughty Northerly billow!! Our gig racing stars return fresh faced from the Scilly Isles, proud to have stayed the course and having helped drink the islands dry.

Ready and waiting fishermen head off to the lobster grounds with more and more pots, filling their hopes if not their boats. Ice Cream tourists shiver along the shore to gape at a waterfall dribbling to the beach; while thanks to the general election, canvasing would-be, ballot box political types leave unread leaflets in locked doorways in a vain attempt to secure our allegiance, and our Lording land owner objects at the colour of some of his householders prefered candidate.

So the month of May continues and we are carried along with it, cruising towards our destination, that is a long, hot, glorious summer; let's hope that no mistakes are made this year in the natural navigation of our passage, and we enjoy the fruits of the long laboured hours of winter.

Along the coast

2010-04-21T15:26:00.000-07:00

There is always something calming about spending a peaceful few hours on the sea, especially when it's lazy calm and inviting. The crumbling coast stretching around the bay plays host to the summer laid lobster pots marked by buoys and dahn flags, close to the well known rocks and land marks with age old names, like; John Tenants, The Lilac, Scragg Ass Water, Old English Sands and Paddons Path.

Aboard the 'Little Lily' I slowly haul my way along the shore. Lilies fine bow slips through the crisp, clean, April water, surging ahead from pot to pot, surprised at every haul, though seldom rewarded. Velvet crabs nip like madmen, prawns flip away between the bars, while hermit crabs roll up pretending they're not there. The possibility of a lobster is all the incentive I need to continue.

Along the shore, perching and watching amongst the rocks the seabirds gather. The cliffs above frown with budding green trees that add colour and warmth to the cold coast. Clovelly lies behind, my departure and my destination as I sail away into another season.

The distant harbour welcomes new arrivals now; the would be sailors keen to learn and armed with enthusiasm, shackled chains and polished gelcoats, and the harbour dollies, on display following the wandering sun around the Quay.

And soon I must return to my empty house and cooling fire, to look out of my Crazy Kate window at a world I know too well.

April Showers

2010-04-18T11:31:00.000-07:00

The harbour fills with its daily dose of people now, an odd assortment of multi-coloured individuals visiting and revisiting, creating new or treading on old memories; laying about like washed up seals, with pints, pasties and picnics spread out and left abandonded on the wall. The same old April showered faces gather in the same old familiar places intent on claiming the sunshine.

Glorious and welcome calm seas invite boats to sea, as fishermen look for lobsters and crabs amongst the rocks, in a desperate attempt to loose the winters long grip. Not many boats have arrived here yet, charter skippers still yawn at the thought of launch days and surveyors impending visits. Out come the dusty flares and fire extinguishers, the first aid packages of damp bandages and plasters; the 'put away safely' important, random items that no boat should sail without are destined to remain lost. Slowly the realisation that a new season has started dawns upon Clovelly's unsuspecting boating fraternity.

Right on cue, as if the roar of the waking Red lion can be heard across the Bideford Bay and around the ragged points of, Baggy, Morte and Bull; the early rising yachtsmen of the great seaport of Ilfracombe, shake out their sails and arrive to plunder the bottled reserves at the salt drenched bar. Catching out the unprepared Harbour Master, guilty of neglecting the importance and value of the 'Yachtsman's Shower Room'.

Beneath the Icelandic Ash cloud we bask in the glories of sunshine and look hopefully forward to a calm and exciting summer. Soon my own boat shall be returning to the harbour and then, let the season begin.

Clean and Tidy

2010-04-04T11:17:00.000-07:00

From cleaning beaches to fixing ladders, holes drilled and filled, cementing, concreting, chipping and chiselling. The 'busy to be ready' harbour frets as the cold blown, wintry winds, shiver down the damp cliffs, opening the rolling mist door that lets in the disembodied days of weak spring sunshine.

We recycled the uninvited flotsam and jetsam of shore strewn plastic. Excavated the locally abandoned, fly-tipped mountain of lager lout cans. Picked through the pebble dashed debris of deserted detritus. We were a rambling collection of tabarded and bin bagged, litter picking beach cleaners, doing our bit for the enviroment, the biosphere, our own perfect beach and of course the "free for the deserving helpers, donated by the whimpering Red Lion, sausage and chip lunch" which was equally enjoyed by those who came bagless, just for the lunch! We were triumphant in our duty, victorious in our collecting; 30 bags victorious.

To help people achieve their adventurous potential, we have, on, around and about our Quay wall; twisting, climbing, clambering, hanging and descending; ladders built for unseen giants and steps laid down for unwanted ogres. Children, of all ages, can live their piratical dreams as they scale and ascend in and out of their childhood. This winter has seen another episode of repair and reconstruction, with new posts and piles, new gaps and cracks, as unlearned carpentry skills and an unachieved aptitude for masonry are dragged into use, dealing hopefully, competently with the small tasks created by the nit-picking of the Atlantic weather and the erroding of the sea.

We've also had the longshore drifting pebbles, shifted from the harbour entrance. S.E.L Clarke contractors came swing shovelling into town and within a few days, cleared the winter gale deposited shingle, sending it on its merry way to Westward Ho! An annual event, a constant expense, but ready now for the first undaunted sailors to leave the safe comfort of their homeport and brave the perils of Clovelly. Our wide mouthed harbour a welcome sight for many a Bristol Channel wanderer.

So now I sit amongst familiar things, waiting for boats to arrive and chilled sea breezes to take on a warmer air. The tide has let itself out and the sun is trying its best to please. I could almost have forgotten it was Easter, if it wasn't for the noisy, chocolate children, crunching across the beach, the winter, too slow to leave, coldly holds our hands, but at least we're clean and tidy, ready and waiting for when the season arrives.

Sunny Steve

2010-03-19T15:12:00.000-07:00

How many people living or visiting Clovelly today would of heard of Stephen Adams Headon? From 1817 until 1987 there was always a Stephen Headon living in the village. The first was the son of John Headon and Mary Ann Adams, whose surname was to continue for many generations of Headons as a middle name. Who today knows anything about, 'Sunny Steve,' the donkey boy? Born on the 6th of October in 1908, Steve was the son of John Josiah (Jack) Headon, he was great grandson of that first Stephen Headon and great, great grandson of John and Mary Ann. On Thursday the 10th of July in 1941 an article appeared in the, 'News Chronicle,' written by John Devon, entitled, 'The Boy who loved the Sea,' it went on to detail how at the age of 14, Steve and a brother owned and worked two donkeys, 'Gunter,' and 'Daisy,' but the draw of the sea was too strong and Steve reluctantly, sold his share in the donkeys and left Clovelly for the, 'Red Ensign Club,' in London.

Steve was taken under the wing of the Club Commander; Commander Loder, who was able to find him an apprenticeship on a good shipping line. Having been more prone to teasing the local Policeman than concentrating on his studies, Stephen was to find difficulties in mastering the mysteries of the more complicated mathematics involved with navigating a ship, but determination and hard work earned him a proud reward when the whole of Clovelly rejoiced and flew flags on hearing he had become a Second Officer. It had been many years since a Clovelly man had passed as a Master Mariner, Clovelly had high hopes for its son.

Voyages around the world calling in at many exotic, foriegn ports were to follow, until at last he passed as a Chief Officer with only the coveted Masters Ticket left before him. Sunny Steve had to wait while War and Oceans kept him from his goal. Finally the day came when his chance arose to sit his last exam and he excitedly wrote to his father telling him he was coming home. On the 17th day of February in 1941 while crossing the Atlantic, German U-Boat 69 struck Steve's ship the, 'Siamese Prince,' it left no survivors; Sunny Steve was only 32.

Back to the trees

2010-03-12T07:06:00.000-08:00

Trees, I first noticed the trees, leafless, crowded, gathering together, comfortable in their surroundings, yawning branched, solid English trees. It's so obvious that, other than a six hour day trip to France last year, I have never been abroad, let alone flown before.
Englands irregular, haphazard, abstract landscape unravels below, leaving behind a seemingly more ordered Continent to this mornings memory. I was returning from my first ever flight and my first ever visit to the beautiful city of Venice where the streets are paved in water.

A few weeks ago I was putting in the bottom of a withy lobster pot when I was visited by the searing, burning pain of a misbehaving back, leaving me to hobble home and come to terms with weeks of discomfort. Knowing that in a few weeks I would be expected to travel abroad, I had no choice but to surrender my bank balance and visit an Osteopath. For those that suffer the unjust slings of back pain, you'll appreciate the melodrama of indecision that was to follow, to pay or to put up with pain. I paid. The lobster pot had to wait.

It was during this anti-inflammatry drug fuelled period of inactivity that the Lord of the Manor, the Hon. John Rous and I were invited to the auspicous event of the Ilfracombe Yacht Club's annual dinner and presentation evening. The humour was at my expense as I came to mistake the date of the evening and consequently visited Ilfracombe twice, it pays to read the invitation properly.

More used to seeing these fellows waterproofed, sail wrapped and afloat, it took a moment to recognize them handsomely dressed, bow tied and accompanied by their wives. I had the greatest pleasure of sitting between the Commodore's wife and that yachtsman of great dignity, John Clements. I first met John when I took on the role as Clovelly's Harbour Master, he arrived with an eclectic squadron of various Ilfracombe parts, his opening salvo was, 'Where do you want us?' while proceeding to organize and berth his fleet. When he visits I always refered to John as the Harbour Master as he has a natural understanding of the way things work and where things go. At the opposite end of the table sat John's wife, Ann, the lady behind the yacht, the face of the name I have so often heard, the matriarch.

Many other welcoming faces swam about the room, the kind Tony Reeves, Mark, who shall always be remembered for showing the stern of his yacht, Haze, to the many who may chase him and the few who may catch him, also it was a pleasure to see, addicted to love Bert, who has visited Clovelly with as many women as he has yachts and hopefully many more to come. Missing from this crazy gang was the irrepressible Mr Duffin, my longest visiting sailor, whose sense of humour is as boundless as the sea, I have no doubt he will be amongst the first visiting boats of the soon to start season. Thank you all for a most pleasant evening.

As the weeks passed my back improved enough for my Venetian visit, where waiting for me was my mermaid, who at present is working aboard and helping to oversee the completion of her new cruise ship, the 'Nieuw Amsterdam' on which she shall be its amazing Second Officer.
It never ceases to amaze me that a maritime nation such as ours has no shipyard capable of building a ship of this magnitude. So much for our maritime heritage! We were given a tour of the ship and yard, its sheer size hard to comprehend, along way from my own little motor boat in Clovelly.

Coming from a simple village background, used to cobbles, narrow lanes and tumbling down cottages, more seaward looking than land grabbing, I was delighted with Venice, though surprised that this national treasure was shabby, ragged, decayed, graffitied and litter strewn at the same time as being magnificent in its old age, noble, proud and beautiful, so overflowing with history it's impossible to breath in its splendour. A land rather like my own, full of visitors and yesterdays ghosts while waiting patiently for another tomorrow.

Too soon I had to turn away from my first foriegn trip and return to England, sadly leaving my mermaid behind. As she returns to her ship I must board the plane and wait as the land unfurls from country to country until at last I see the trees.
With the springtime sun edging its way into our lives, finally it's time for us to grasp the point of what we do, lobster pots, boat trips, is that a yacht heading this way? It's time to go out upon my Quay once more.

Take twelve stout rods

2010-02-23T05:00:00.000-08:00

There upon the grey Quay, beside the skybound, hawser wrapped cannon, cold from the East wind, the fisherman stands, surrounded by his army of lobster pots, waiting for sea day. Fabricated steel, plastic coated, dressed in black netting and defended from the rocks by rubber belting. Modern day, today's parlour pots.

There back in his garden, woodland shelter or stockholm tarred dark cellar, surrounded by the worth of his life and the remnants of his past, the old sepia fisherman once stood. Gathering in his age crippled hands the winter willow withies with which to bend and twist the disregarded skill of making the traditional basket lobster pot.

An almost forgotten art, kept alive by a mere handful of diehard enthusiastic willow weavers and long in the past fishermen. Though rarely used nowadays, it is still nice to have the knowledge of how to weave a lobster pot, to have that connection with the past and if you do use one for fishing, that complete sense of achievement when you reach in and pull out your first lobster.

You'll need a round block to start with, about 9 or 10 inches diameter and 2 inches thick, a series of 12 small holes make the size of the mouth, my own has three sets of holes, 5, 6 and 8 inches. there is a 2x2 inch hole in the centre for the pot stand, which is a length of wood about 3 feet long with 6 pieces of string at the far end.

Gather your rods, you'll need some approximately 6 to 8 feet long, these are your, firsts, seconds and thirds, others about 4 feet long which will be the mouthing and small, thinner rods of about 3 feet for use as ringing. Today if making a lobster pot I buy withies from across the English border into the level lands of Somerset and this year I delighted in the discovery of the fourth generation premier growers of Musgrove Willows at Westonzoyland, well worth the journey, certainly worth a visit.

Take 12 stout rods and place them firmly in the block, weave a mouth until about 7 inches deep. Next firmly push 24 rods down either side of your first main sticks, making 36 in all. With a pair of secateurs snip up any untidy ends, and with a piece of string put a binding or two around the mouth. You are now ready to turn down.

Fit the stand into the 2x2 hole with the strings at the far end. Turn down two sets of 3 rods, careful not to buckle as you bend them, lash off the ends together; alternate sides until all the rods are turned down.

Sharpen to a point the ends of two of the smaller, 3 foot ringing rods and choosing the middle of the main pot sticks, push firmly down alongside. Bending one over and one under, weave the ringing around the pot, adding more ringing when necessary, bringing the first ring off to the crown of the pot, building up to about three good ringers each. As you begin the second ring, you should keep about 7 inches between rings, you'll need to start putting in the thirds. From the same pile as the firsts and seconds but preferably a smaller sample, you'll need 18 thirds, slype the ends and as you continue to weave, ease off the lashings to give the pot its shape, feed in the thirds following every second rod until all 18 are in place.

The third ring should level out your spiral and be ready to be taken off the stand and put on the buffers. We use larger willow or hazel sticks to form the buffers, which is the bottom edge of the pot. Here we have to seperate the rods into bunches once more, this time 9 bunches of 6 rods. Start with one over one under, outside 6 rods, inside 6 rods, building up a good handful of buffers. When you are happy with the amount of buffers you have in it's time to turn down the bottom. Select a rod wide enough to cross the width of the bottom, this will be your holder downer, continuing with your hazel or willow, now to be used as bottom rods, turn down the first bunch while continuing to weave over and under, try to keep weaving with three good bottom sticks at all times. Use the holder downer to hold each bunch as you turn down. Continue around the pot until the last bunch, you shouldn't need the holder downer anymore.

Putting in the bottom is simply a matter of weaving around and around, feeding in new rods and working in older rods, making sure to keep the bottom flat and tight with no gaps for the lobsters to escape through, until you've worked down to 9 ends, these ends must be plaited in 3s, lashed off and turned back inside the pot where they can be secured and that as they simply say is that.
Why not give it a try.

What the Devil!

2010-02-20T00:35:00.000-08:00

A clanging, clanking, crashing can cacophony as Clovelly children race and cheer, rattling empty baked bean, tomato soup, spaghetti hooped tins and bins down the echoing cobbled orchestrated street of unearthly din.

All towns and villages have their dark age traditions, their legends, beliefs and myths. Each has its own way of seeing out the old dead winter, ushering in the swept clean spring. Of ridding homes and shadowed lanes of murky, mayhem and mischief, of freshly beginning anew; opening windows on a shiny clear day and breathing fresh dewy air.

Some places race about with burning, scorching tar barrels, others masquerade as dancing hobby horses and parade about their drunken town, for many it's May poles that get them laughing. Throughout the spring, men, women and children take part in archaic rituals whose origins have slipped the memory of time. Here in Clovelly we have Lanshard.

The springtime hungry gap of Lent is a time for fasting, giving up for atime the over indulgences and vices we take for granted today and looking closer at what spiritually, should be more important; for letting in faith and driving out temptation. In forgotten days here in Clovelly, the clearing of winter remnants, the banishing of dark day ills and in expectation of the 40 long days ahead became known as Lent shard, from the smashing of empty pots and storage jars that once held the winter provisions, preventing the merry mischief making Devil from finding a hiding place and enticing the householders to stray from their fast.

So today, from the gluttony of a lemon squeezed and sugar sprinkled pancake tea, the local children with the unneeded excuse for making a noise, rattle their tins, bang their bins and chase the Devil down the street, off the Square, away from Back Lane, along Independent Street, through Fish Street, out onto the Quay and away into the sea to be washed up on someone else's unsuspecting shore. Keeping Clovelly free of the Devil for one more year.

It is a tradition I look back on with fondness, remembering the hunt for the biggest drum, searching through the old village rubbish tips for the loudest barrel, the occasional old lady who complained of the din, so we ran passed her house just once more for fun. Watching as my own children grew to take part and mothers gathered to cheer as another generation felt the joy of 'Tin Night'.

Sadly times change. This year saw only three children take part, my nephew and nieces, only three to keep alive a tradition that each past generation has laughing stories to tell of; that is as much apart of living in Clovelly as cobble stones and donkeys. A tradition wanes, a village pales, for what is a village that forgets its myths and legends, what is a village without the people with the passion to take part in its rituals. Where are the mothers and fathers, hiding from tradition, where are the children, safely wasting away in front of a flickering screen.

For me, my brother, sisters and friends, my children and families children, we have our memories and are glad we have our Lanshard.

Party Politics

2010-01-31T12:43:00.000-08:00

Happy faces, drunken glances, slurred chances, misconstrued passes. Clovelly people leave their inhibitions tucked up behind closed doors and venture out to the wrecked Red Lion, taking part and making themselves apart of the, oh! how exciting, RNLI, SOS fund raising, curry and quiz night.

The curry is released upon the public at a bargain for some £5.00, while the questions are unleashed pouring fluidly onto and into an already volatile collection of quick drinking, quicker thinking, rather too serious quizzers.

Like most nights in the gathered bar, there is always one that has had that one more than enough and ends up legless, trouserless and unless someone sorts him out, homeless!

With thanks to someone who shall remain nameless, the night was double booked with a fine collection of ladies darters who enjoyed the full moon spectacle put on show by a tipsy quiz team member. The dark, star blessed night rollicked on under a mess of unheard questions raising a pretty penny for a worthwhile cause.

Hardly a night passes before the hallowed, ale stained floors of the ready for anything Lion bears witnesses once more to the ever so, regret it in the morning, drunken sailor, sing song, collateral damaged drunks. It was the night of the Clovelly Estate Companies staff party.

The night began with the gathering staff collecting together at the red hot, fire side watering hole, tempered by concessionary full glasses, with thanks to the Lord of the Manor, and gradually spreading out to fill the bars in search of food and music. A few unwelcome deposits with limited baseline programming arrive to find drinks and retreat into a darker corner, while our Alpha male, Lord of all he surveys, wanders amongst his subjects, some of which, unaware of rhythm have found the dance floor and are intent on making a good night of it.

Surrounded by local people enjoying the fruits of village life, coming together for a night of fun and belly chuckling laughter, seeing old friends. With the parish hierarchy blending seamlessly with the lower and even lower classes, realizing that this is what being part of a community is all about, the living, working, struggling and playing together, where our children share the experience of school and the elderly have the company of the young. For some it maybe just a place to live for many others it's home. Party on.

Going up Telegraph Hill coming Down!

2010-01-15T01:29:00.000-08:00

It was about 10.15 at night, the cold of the snow damp air bit into my lungs as I tried in vain to run after the car. She couldn't stop, if she had she'd never get going again without another push and I had just about pushed myself out. Vehicles lined up behind us slowly edging themselves away from the long night behind. Men with 4x4's and good old Land Rovers were waiting at the top for those, like us that got into difficulty, good men.

It was a winters day, cold, biting cold in the wind, we left the sea behind and went to Exeter, the Mermaids car needed a service, and when you have one of those cars that speak to you, you have to take them to those garages with carpets and lots of glass windows, where they offer you coffee while telling you the cost. It was getting colder.

My baby boy, Charlie, lives at Teignmouth with his young lady, so while in the area I thought it would be nice to call upon them, after all Teignmouth is not far from Exeter, just up and over Telegraph Hill. Why does that all sound so simple?

Having no transport for the rest of the morning; it was going to take the garage all morning to shampoo and condition the car, we Parked and rode into the city, where we were at the mercy of the Sales!! I prefered the book shop option and was lost for an hour or more in Waterstones. The cold became damp as rain began to filter its way down, the impending forecast for snow looked doubtful, but you never know just what's around the next bend.

Time slips by and it was back to the garage we went, the Mermaid handed over her purse and cried a little, or was it cursed a little, every sailor knows the power of a mermaids curse! Off we went looking for the coast.

At first it was just rain but as we climbed towards Ashcombe Cross it was snow, a little, a bit more and then a settling, traffic faultered as the slip road to the coast was closed, cars began to creep, warily along, while others blazed passed in an almost irreverent fashion, destined for insurance claims and apologies. We switched the radio to BBC Radio Devon, hoping for updating forecasts. The Mermaids newly serviced car did a little sliding act so we took the brave decision to forego Teignmouth and head back to the Northern end of the county, which meant another scale of Telegraph Hill.

If everyone had remained in the left hand lane and steadily climbed the hill then maybe, just maybe.... but it wasn't to be. Some people just wanted to get there quicker than the rest, wherever there may have been. Slowly we ground to a halt, an icy, snowbound, chillingly silent halt.

Radio Devon announced to all that were listening that two hills outside of Exeter, Halden Hill and Telegraph Hill, had become blocked due to the snow. Hundreds of cars, vans, lorries and whatever else were unable to move, the conditions were bad, the snow was still falling, the emergency services were on their way. We sat and sat and sat and while we sat we listened and waited. The cars behind waited. Those ahead waited, we all waited.

Some people can just sit and wait, content to worry away the night, tapping on their mobile phones letting the loved ones into the secret of their predicament, while others wrap in hats and coats and sleep, hoping to wake when it's all over and they're home in the warm. Meanwhile Radio Devon gallantly gathers the troops and settle down for a long night of exposure, keeping up the war spirit with a constant flow of updates and text messages from family to loved ones and loved ones to family.

Not being one of those, happy to wait types, I did a 'Captain Oates' and just went outside, I may be sometime,' I left the mermaid in the warm of her car and went in search of answers. I first found a rather excited police officer, who laughingly said, "We don't get a disaster very often, we've got to make the most of it.' I wondered about him. The only other officer on scene had his finger in his ear attempting to listen to, 'Silver Commander,' our unseen hero. This officer, from a hesitant start became the lifeline of the night, a true to life, on the freezing scene saviour. Together we walked back down the hill knocking on peoples windows explaining the situation as it was and battled to free up the right hand lane of vehicles so that the snow ploughs could save the day.

Mermaids need water. Being sat in a car for hour after hour tends to upset their inner balance, they begin to really need the loo!! and on occasion, especially when the opportunity arises, they tell everyone through Radio Devon of their plight! Thank goodness for the dark.

Six and a half hours into the night we were flooded by blue and amber flashing lights, Ploughs, gritters, mountain rescue, unmarked police Range Rovers, swept by like a trailer from an American disaster movie, 'Terror on Telegraph Hill!!' One by one vehicles began to move off, waved out by important, high viz tabbarded highway men. The end was sighted. Just the long journey across the wilds of Devon to navigate. It's a good job I had a mermaid on the helm.

Winter

2010-01-15T00:58:00.000-08:00

Autumn rained, with rain came wind, with wind came growing seas, sending them uninvited upon the solid, cold, stony shore. Shadows of a best forgotten summer fell dark and long across the turning tide with only the noise of fish hungry seagulls gathering at the waters crashing edge. Winter has come to call.

The Harbour, empty now of summers visitors; the pebbles are left to grind alone, leaving only the sad Christmas dangling display to wind along the green, grey walls with their lights falling upon the foaming tide. Little warmth fills the day as the Peeping Tom sun hides below the naked treetops, slipping slowly into another year, into another tomorrow. Once more a cloud full year falls behind the wake of what may have been; days turn over damp new leaves and we just have to wait and see.

Boats are put to bed, nets hung out to dry; sleeping tight until the distant spring returns. Our inevitable course is set as signs of Russia's terrible icy blast loom dark and gloomy across the slow, steel sea, like the ever changing dreams of the ever changing locals, the waiting for the bar to open locals, the hoping for the storm to die down locals, the playing in the childhood snow locals.

Frost grips the inside of the blind morning cottage as the ill-fitting winter windows protest against the lazy east wind. Draughts shiver under doors and find unsuspecting necks. Homes and curtains remain closed, with only smoking chimneys telling of the whereabouts of the warm inside. Soon the chilled days will lengthen and the clinging cold will strengthen and we will wait beside the kettle until the sun tips its hat over far Saunton Sands once more.
Throughout the village the put away festive cheer and needle dropping days pass relatively, thankfully undisturbed, this is a village in winter, this is Clovelly in winter.

Happy New Year

2010-01-02T09:51:00.000-08:00

The hotel residents arrived in their new and ever so nearly new vehicles, emptying their boots of wheeled trunks, laptop bags and just in case cases. Managing to find the reception desk, they booked in with the bored and 'tired from the night before' receptionist whose mind wanders between, 'what to cook for tea and the dogs need a walk', while Shuffling couple by couple into their allotted rooms. Where 'she' finds a hanger for that special (expensive) dress and 'he' lays out his best (only) suit. Happily ensconced in their rooms she finds the bathroom and a mirror and he perches himself on the edge of the too soft bed to, 'work' on his laptop, or flicks on the TV to keep abreast of the breaking world news. He's already craving the ciggie he intends giving up tomorrow and she'll just be happy with plenty of gin in her ice and tonic. Outside, the grey harbour lays unseen and beautiful.

Rolling into the carpark, high above the 'heritage' village, pouring out of their vehicles, arrive the, 'day visitors' dressing for an Arctic expedition in hats, gloves, scarves and thermal lined, gortexed, breathable, waterproofed and wind cheating jackets and displaying a multi-coloured array of Christmas present wellies. An over excited, keen as mustard dad tries to hurry them up; while a never been rushed, never going to be rushed mum makes certain everyone, including dad, is tucked in and the rather be Playstationed or Xboxed, kids gather in a muddle, jostling, not looking forward to, the route march ahead.

Local types tired of having to walk around and about people, hide behind closed doors and growl at the rude, peering, leering, window pressing, door nosing visitors. "We used to have the village to ourselves in the winter." Attention deficit kids hang off railings, "Don't do that dear," and plastic bagged dog pooh gets deposited behind flower pots! The sanctuary of the bar stool is disturbed by back packed and ruck sacked leaners, asking too many questions while ordering too few drinks. Oh! for the dead of winter when the bar stools stand vacant and the bar staff have time to read the gossip monthlies.

Between pouring best brewed pints and serving plates of chefs finest, harassed bar staff wait patiently for minds to be made up, decisions to be kept, the smallest change to be counted out and, "Mine was the chips with! not the chips without!!" Waiting only for that much needed whisky at the end of shift.

Hotel residents dressed in their finery and stuffed with yet more turkey, drink the health of the 'local ale' as the night draws on, witnessing the locals badly trying to dance at the New Year disco. The evening banter develops into a brooding brawl, spilling out onto the Quay wall, giving more meaning to, 'fireworks at midnight.' Which by the way, were very well received, when midnight did arrive and the New Year, 2010, began.

The hung-over rumble of wheeled cases over cobble stones, disturbed the morning and the hatch-back clunk prised opened the eyes of the new day as the remnants of the night before were deposited safely into the waiting cars. The time to depart throbbed and the smile on the face of the receptionist hid the pain of that last large white wine. Another year, another hangover, another good night in Clovelly.
Happy New Year everyone, welcome to 2010

Foreign waters

2009-11-30T07:59:00.000-08:00

A night time drive, a windswept, rain coated journey with a dressed to kill mermaid. Destination, the dark, distant, mysterious lands of Ilfracombe. Far beyond the comfort zoned coastal Atlantic waters, passed the light flashing, hooter bleating, metropolis of Barnstaple, entering the surging, sweeping tides of the Bristol Channel. Away from my Harbour, carparked and puddle trodden, we sought the inner temple of Ilfracombe mariner types; that seabourne, waterlogged, gin brined collection of Grenvilles descendants.

One of the pleasures of being a Harbour Master is the invitations to the various and varied dinners, functions, celebrations and general good times that the many clubs, organizations, associations, institutions and other assemblage who make use of the harbour and its convenience hold each year.
Imagine my delight when that first invitation arrived; from the Ilfracombe Pilot Gig Club.

We blew in through the door and found the sanctum, warm and welcoming. We were here for the Gig Clubs inaugural award giving night, it was to be as entertaining as it was friendly, with a dish of chilli to sustain us and plenty of flowing ale, we watched and applauded while the fantastic Dartington Glass awards were presented to their best, their finest and their most promising rowers and supporters. Continuing into the night a more alternative collection of prizes were revealed, highlighting the blushingly memorable moments you are never allowed to live down. Finally the club chairman presented a couple of gifts of his own and the night descended into a strumming of shantyesque music provided by a collection of roaming banjo and guitar playing North Devonians, known as 'Fifers Ruse'.

For me the night was made all the better for the presence of a few of my Yachties, those that weren't curled up in front of the telly in dressing gown and slippers, nearly all surprised to see me out of the harbour, a visitor to a strange land; it may well be another Spring before we meet again. Well done to all the Ilfracombe oarsmen and women, hello to all the Winter stranded Yachtsmen and thank you for the invitation and the wonderful night.

Mulled Whining

2009-11-27T09:32:00.000-08:00

Never let it be said that the Winter comes too soon to Clovelly; it's a time when village dwellers get back their streets and have time to recoup from the seasons grockle strain. It's a time for noisy neighbour gatherings and fishwife, doorstep rows, reminding everyone just how long you've lived here and what they can do about it!!

The harbour mulls over the shaking Autumnal winds and constant swells break tirelessly upon the beaten shore. Soon the day will arrive for yet another festival, another celebration, another event, another day to drag out the bunting and step around the visiting hopefuls looking for a reason to stay. Upon the Quay we find, Barry and Norman; Clovelly's own Light Brigade, reappearing armed with cables of multi tasking light bulbs, grotesque figurines, flashing ropes cable tied to plywood stars and a 'passed it's best' rowing boat pressed into service as a grandly, if not over zealously re-christened, 'Clovelly Clipper'!

So soon the harbour shall bulge with the over-burdening expectations of a few precariously and randomly distibuted fairy lights, supermarket mince pies and warm spiced wine, designed to evoke some ahh's a few ooh's and draw the last few pennies from the cold bystanding pockets for a worthy cause.

In the meantime, over excited waves continue to splash over the Quay wall, damping the dogfish danglers and washing the wall of dogs. Winds from the South and West have left us with a residual swell that has sent the Herring seeking sanctuary in deeper water, while the omnipresent seal waits patiently off the harbour for his breakfast, lunch, tea and inbetween meal snacks.

Fishing types gather at the Red Lion windows giving advice and darning yarns about things they know little about, telling of the days they never had to anyone desperate enough to listen. While quietly the fish are still caught, the fish are still sold and the fish are still eaten and the front door hides the kettle recently boiled for that warming cup of tea. So if this is Winter, let it come and I'll gladly snuggle up next to a mermaid and wait for the sun.

See you at the switching on of the Harbour Lights on the 6th of December.

A Tale of Two Cottages

2009-11-19T10:05:00.000-08:00

A knock on the door, lights, camera, 'Good morning Hugh, time to go to sea'. Can we just do that once more; and so it goes on, the spotlight on the 'Celebrity Chef' as another TV crew set up another shot, another angle, another episode of sustainable food made plain and simple and what's more it's good for you. This is the start of the third Clovelly Herring Festival, widely reported and extensively covered, from 'Devon Life' to the 'Western Morning News' and of course the good old 'North Devon Journal', it seems it has never been out of the press and as if by magic there are even herring being caught this year.

Down the slippery, morning dark steps into the rocking 'Lily'. Camera man with us, sound man with my brother in his little 'Bombay'. Hugh, that's Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall to you, sits in borrowed waterproofs asking questions about the fishing, the history and the possibilities of the future. We lay our nets along the coast and prepare for a drift back towards Clovelly; time for serious filming as Hugh repeats questions to himself in true opposing angled telly fashion.

Light fills the sky, bringing on the morning, I look for my accurate morning light indicator to tell me if the light is sufficient enough for me to haul the nets in, actually I'm waiting for the street lights to switch off but it sounds good. The moment of truth, time to haul. Time to be nervous.

It all started with the 'Observer' newspaper, a moody picture of a lonely boat on a flat sea, to follow we had, fishing news, Country File, Rick Stein, we became a Taste of the West, we carried on with Marco Pierre White, looked good on Radio 4 when Kipperman, aka Mike Smylie, won a prestigious award for his book promoting the herring industry and radio 4 thought it appropriate to interview him while actually out fishing for herring, local newspapers, Belgium newspapers, all came wanting a taste of the famous Clovelly Herring and now we have Hugh.

Herring are notoriously camera shy. Having taken the River Cottage advance party out to sea a couple of days before and caught nothing in the morning drift, we had no choice but to venture out again on the evening tide, luckily this time returning with a healthy catch in time for last orders.
As we began the task of bringing in the nets, I more than half expected to find nets empty of fish, just the silent snigger of hiding herring and the pleased with himself, breakfasted seal belching contented Omega 3. Imagine my surprise when we actually caught some fish. Not many I grant you, a token catch, an offering, but enough, not for me, but enough for Mr Whittingstall to demonstrate his culinary cheffy skills.

The harbour was emptying of tide and filling with stalls, the Quay bulged with an array of caterers, gift sellers, fruit and fish carts, pickles and jams, homemade cards for sending and painted pebbles for admiring, and a gathering of gloriously fishy decorated cupcakes. Somewhere a Cornish contingent of salty Shantymen piped up and visiting festivallers gathered to watch as Mr River Cottage cooked up some delicious herring alongside our own 'Auntie Irene' actually my sister Rachel, who is the chef at the Bucks Cross 'Merry Harriers', well worth a visit.

The day continued with its fishy flavour, more TV crews filed by to fill vacant news slots, the Red Lion overflowed with ale and drunks, the carpark struggled to cope, the locals waited for the day to end. The day ended. Hugh and his crew departed heading up another river, all that's left is just the embarrassment of another poor TV appearance to look forward to. One thing is for sure though, I shan't be watching it. The day River Cottage met Crazy Kates Cottage.

A late night shake

2009-11-01T03:54:00.000-08:00

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.

Thomas Spearman

2009-10-15T05:18:00.000-07:00

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.

A colourful day

2009-10-15T04:01:00.000-07:00

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.

A racket of Salt and Mariner

2009-10-03T07:58:00.001-07:00

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.

All things being equal

2009-09-14T04:32:00.000-07:00

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.

Lobster and Crab Feast

2009-09-03T11:55:00.000-07:00

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.

Rum do at the Regatta

2009-08-27T02:04:00.000-07:00

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.

Summertime

2009-08-07T20:51:00.000-07:00

It all began with June, Oh! So happy June, sun tanned, sun blessed, undressed June, when days melted and forecasters didn't need to invent reasons to be cheerful, Oh! So cheerful June. Balmy, barmy days of dusted off barbecues, unpacked shorts, sockless sandals and toes bared and dared in the water. Languid seas rippled with the play of teasing porpoise and the shoaling of early mackerel. Bargain buys of sunburnt factor screens, lotions and potions are sprayed on, rubbed in and scrubbed off, we all smiled.

Then it rained! It kept on raining, a bad tempered wind blew, chasing off the mackerel and those better, longed for, soon to be forgotten days. July filled to the brim with fury, tempest, deluge and flood. Positively over flowed with, Pac a macked, umbrella bashed, slippery booted, unsuitably footed tourists intent on weathering out the storm, " After all we are on holiday!" The father announced and the little child cried. Tearooms, shops and doorways rustle with steaming, damp and musty travellers, seeking shelter and a shoulder to moan on. Throughout its long, dank, drowned days of sodden cobbles and badly bruised, uninvited clouds, July rained.

Busily, scarily, exhaustedly prepared and arranged maritime themed events and festivals had to be hurriedly withdrawn or hastily relocated or just scraped through with. Padstow and Scilly bound yachts became weather bound, enjoying the Clovelly hospitality so much they became pub bound. The month was slipping by.

But it is still summer, people still brave the days, boats slide to sea with whooping, cruising crews and hopeless, happy fishing parties waving rods as they wave good bye. Seasick gulls pilfer and peck at pasty crumbed, discarded bags, leaving a mess and not caring less. Burdened bar staff announce numbers across the hungry harbour holding arms of plated, frozen chips. Tombstoning, wet suited youngsters show off before throwing themselves off the, "Seen it all before," Quay wall.

Summers long, dampened days fall into evenings as crowds of smouldering smokers keep guard at the bar doors, while pleased with themselves drunks wake the, "Trying to sleep," village with dangerous, under the influence nocturnal dips. Rows of unclaimed, too heavy to return, empty glasses line the Quay waiting for the morning. Curtains twitch as the last orders chorus stagger their rambling, grumbling way home.

Summertime slips into August and a promise of better weather and bettered totals as Clovellys 'Lifeboat day and sponsored swim' embarks upon its annual voyage of rediscovery. Hosted as normal by Sharon, our very own celebrity treasure chest and featuring the furtive locals, the engaging tourists and with special guest stars the cast of Bristol Iron men and accompanying ensemble; with the weather holding fast and a generous filling of stalls, barbecues, games and aeronautic displays by the brave and daring crews of Chivenor Air Sea Rescue helicopter and our own lifeboat, a grand day was had by all.

The harbour continues to fill with its semi-diurnal tide of tourists. I wait as ships pass unseen, on passage for shores beyond my horizons, as waves come crashing, washing the salt, kelp rocks, delivering unheard messages from distant mermaids and carrying the thoughts and smiles of those whose glance is missed and longed for. I wait for the summer.

Kathleen and May

2009-06-22T12:11:00.000-07:00

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

2009-06-08T08:32:00.000-07:00

"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!

2009-06-01T07:38:00.000-07:00

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

2009-05-20T23:28:00.000-07:00

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.

2009-05-07T10:40:00.000-07:00

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

2009-04-24T03:56:00.000-07:00

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

2009-03-21T14:50:00.000-07:00

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!

The Lonely Cygnet

2009-03-14T06:58:00.000-07:00

A skeletal mast stripped of sail motored into view as the first yacht of the year, the "Cygnet," came bound down channel for Clovelly. As they made good their approach they fendered down their starboard ready to lay alongside, but unaware, thanks to the winters gales, of a bank of stones built up across the harbour entrance, and late on tide, the yacht taking a wide berth in order to have a look into the unfamiliar harbour ran in and grounded before any communications could be made as to the vessels draught. Oh dear!!

A hurried attempt to get a small local boat off its moorings and out to assist was heavily watched by those quicker to condemn than to help, but with purposeful endeavour and a sharp knife! Lines were freed and............Too late! The yacht had freed itself of its pebbly burden and put out into deeper water. Sensibly deciding that a safer option was to re-enter on the top of the following tide, in the meantime they took a mooring and came ashore, pub bound, in their tender.

The night settled peacefully with calm seas and still winds lulling the bay; until a phone call from another cruising yacht, requesting assistance for a sick crew member threatened to ebb away the peace. The tide had drained from the harbour so I was unable to get out to them myself and with the added worry of the crew developing chest pains, they decided it would be prudent to contact the Coastguards.

The Lifeboat crew mustered quickly, responding to every call with equal dedication, whether a calm sea and simple evacuation or terrible gale and night long ordeal, the training, the commitment, the service, is why they turn up night or day, wind or wet. With the tide at low water it meant a clanking, shaking launch over boulder and stone, but when afloat the Lifeboat sped quickly to the grateful casualty and rendered assistance. Such is the start of another season and the duties of the mariner, to be ready to assist others at all times.

The "Cygnet" eventually made good her entry and remained weather locked for the next four days. Her crew enjoying the roaring Red Lion delights, until the briefest of lulls saw them make good their escape. Plymouth being their destination, a long passage down around the land; and a pleasant summer cruising, their intention.

Our first yacht of the season, our first shout of the season. No one knows what the season will bring, no one knows what adventures are yet to be had, but as we wave farewell to one yacht you can rest assured that there will be another one heading our way very soon.

Spring Cleaning

2009-03-05T23:41:00.000-08:00

Now as we settle into the arrogant youth of spring we look forward to the impending heady days of tourists, ice cream and sunshine, the slow waking harbour creaks as the tides wash away the winter blues, bringing with them the first promise of white sails on the horizon. Fishermen talk as if an imminent departure is looming, long forgotten paint brushes find a use once more and the smells of varnish, tar and glass fibre fill the air. Lobster pots are dusted off, meticulously repaired and prepared for sea, fathoms of rope are pulled, measured, stretched, cut, knotted and spliced; buoys, flags, balls and floats find themselves galvanized into action. Engines are discussed, inboards, outboards, horse power, fuel consumption, fuel costs, winters overhaul and summers expectation. Who's got enough bait to start fishing and who hasn't? How much per kilo? How much per pound? Will Lobster be sold locally or shipped off to France? Fishermen lean against the Red Lion and gaze longingly out to sea; but for now, who's got the kettle on? It must be time for a cup of tea.

It's not only the fishermen who get excited, the hibernating, long time no see boatmen, the Code of Practice Coastal Skippers, Ocean Masters and Charter boat men are also stirring, rubbing the sleep from their eyes as they forage around claiming territory, talking of Nominated Depature Points and Lundy Island, Wrasse off Welcombe, Bass off Hartland, Conger on the wrecks and dogfish everywhere! Of how many trips already booked and how many were cancelled last year and will there be enough car parking spaces and are there too many boats and not enough passengers, anglers, divers, survivors! Liferafts are ordered, charts corrected, pyrotechnics are examined, inspectors inspect and licences proudly displayed like badges of honour; and everybody moans as the harbour dues are called for, £6.50 per foot plus VAT. Final checks on the chains, moorings renewed, shackles tightened, Kettles boiled, you can feel the excitement.

Of course there are also those who have a boat just for fun; they start off brimming like school children, making best laid plans for summer voyages and bountiful catches; supplying the poor, starving locals with their proud mackerel haul. Filling their craft with rods and lines, boxes and bags, sun cream and glasses, lifejackets in their packets. But who forgot the paddles, the anchor has no warp and where do they put the outboard? The boats are usually destined to lie upon the beach all summer long, filling with green rainwater and rocked by picnicking visitors who row across the beach for photographs. They'll be left sad and abandoned, forgotten dreams until next spring.

Spring is always the same, the same hopes, the same dreams, the same doubts, the same sense of longing, the same wish to belong. After such a poor summer last year we poor boatmen and poorer fishermen can only hope for better this year; and maybe we'll even see you out on the water. But for now, isn't that kettle boiled yet?

Conserve or Sustain

2009-02-27T04:02:00.000-08:00

I am only a simple fisherman, no great sailor, no outward bound, leave the land behind voyages, just lobster pot hugging along the shore, working from a small, passed its prime boat, and rarely late home for tea. But fishermen come in all sizes and many guises; you have your, "Netter's," gill and drift, your, "Longliners," your "Handliners," "Lobster, Crab and Whelk potters," "Mussel picker's and Oystermen," even"Trawlermen," though they are a breed apart; in all a very varied species, each trying to survive by doing what he thinks is best. For some it is a business, others just a job, but for many it's away of life with it's own kind of rewards.

Apart from the pub time talk of great catches and missed chances, there is a change blowing in on the cold, chill wind and no fisherman shall be untouched by it's arrival, it's time to batten down and prepare for the blow. The question is, conserve or sustain?

Conservation is marvellous, but not for the faint hearted; regardless of what you may hear, fishermen will have to change or die, some may tie up and go ashore forever. Because, conservation implies, "No Take Zones," where areas of coastline are closed off from all fishing activity, including Mr Hopeless, weekend beachcaster with his shiny new gear, thermos and empty bucket. Or possibly, "Marine Protected Zones," where a certain amount of fishing activity is allowed but under tighter administration, all this being designed to reinstate the flourishing garden wilderness, that we believe are shores once were.

Or sustainable fishing?
For a fishery to be sustainable it must be financially viable, which means it's in the fishermans own long term interest to manage the fish stocks in such a way that he can catch today but leave enough for tomorrow. A financially viable fishery is a greater asset to the community as a whole.

Fishing methods can be, "Destructive," such as, "Beam trawling," which acts as a plough on the seabed and can be very damaging. Or, "Selective," such as, "Long lining," where usually only targeted fish are caught. Other fishing methods have their advocates and their opposers; Gill netter's target certain species, though they have been known to foul the occasional small Cetacean. Nobody can deny that things have to change, if we want a fishery in the future we have to do something now, but I fear it is the scent of a wounded industry that has the baying hounds of conservation chasing down the limping fisherman.

The best way for all of us to celebrate our fishing heritage, is not by being over sentimental about its past, but by insuring it has a future.

Snow business

2009-02-05T07:46:00.000-08:00

I awoke to find the harbour white and soft edged from a nightfull of snow, eagerly slipped on warm clothes and boots and grabbing my camera ran outside to capture the untouched moment, the Quay white, the beach white, the roof tops and the boats all white; unsure of her footing and unfamiliar with the snow my spaniel, "Rene," plodded on behind me. Clovelly sat waking and stretching like a true Winter wonderland.

Gathering my family together we decided to venture to the top and see the snow capped fields, a formidable task given the treacherous covered paths that lay before us, but adventurers to the end we carried on. Our first battle was with the back road, so often exploited by summertime landrovers carting up the hooting tourists, now a downhill slalom of unsteady steps, I stopped at my garden to gather a couple of plastic sacks, transport for the journey home.

On reaching Higher Clovelly we were met by glistening roads and gleaming fields, smiling people intent on having some fun, a child sat laughing in a plastic box, was being towed along by her brother on his quad bike, the flakefull air was quiet of the noise of traffic, beaming faces peered from behind curtains and the evidence of the desperate traveller lay abandoned at the roadside.
I found my nephews and nieces, snowballed, cherry cheeked and red nosed, we recovered with a cup of tea and complete with brother and sister and an endless supply of children, we began retracing our slipping, sliding and slewing steps back down the road.

Our destination was our childhood, so many years have left home since we last braved harm and humiliation on the fast toboggan slopes of the "Peace Park," with its views across the Bideford Bay it's usually the haunt of aging picnickers and tired sightseers, but today, for one day only, it was transformed into an "Off piste extraordinaire;" Crisp, clean, unmarked, I took my plastic sack, sat down and forgiving all others, hurled myself downhill, uncontrolled, unreserved, unashamed and laughing all the way, it just had to be done! Children followed, my brother followed, racing, crying, falling, rolling, whooping. People gathered, others arrived armed with body boards, a modern addition, and launched head first, forsaking danger for the brief moment of excitement, down, down,down the slope of fun. Children from 3 to 50+ threw off the shackles of propriety, put away the worries of the world and succumbed to the happiness that was a snow filled Clovelly.

The time came to continue further down to the Quay, the last leg of our adventure. Snowballs were thrown, some from great heights making contact with the unsuspecting below, a collective well aimed barrage followed and brought flight to safety and home, signalling an end to our foray to the past, we close the door and find the kettle welcoming, warming our hands and laughing, we know that for some the snow is an inconvenience, but soon it will thaw and today will be just another happy memory.

Catherine

2009-01-31T09:37:00.000-08:00

Catherine Lysle would often sit at her bedroom window watching the boats out at sea, her house over looked the harbour, so much so it was known as, "The house over the water." She knew the fishermen, she had grown up with most of them, she had married one.
James Lysle hauled his nets and was satisfied with the catch, it was cold, it was November, it was 1780 when men relied on fish and luck and knowing the weather. Clouds were building in the West, a blow was coming, with a fair catch it was best to head home; around the bay other boats had set sail and were bound back to the shelter of the harbour.
From her window Catherine could see the darkening sky, she felt a cold chill upon her back but remained watching, waiting for the familiar figure of her husband to come sailing around the Quay head. The tide was slipping away, boats were gathering, men, home and safe looked out at the remaining boats as they were met by the freshening breeze.

Things happen when you're in a hurry, when you least expect, when one thing on your mind takes over for a second from the things you should be concentrating on, the things you would normally do automatically. Just for a second James looked away; Catherine was at the window, just for a second he saw her, she was looking, searching out to sea, just for a second he didn't notice the gust of wind, the cracking billow, the loose rope, just for a second, a second too long.

Catherine could see a boat just off the Quay, she thought something looked wrong, was that a man in the water? was that James? she froze at the window unable to look away. The crew of the boat hauling at the heavy wet lug sails were trying to bring the boat about, but were drifting away from the man in the water, lines thrown failed to reach him. Other boats noticing that something was wrong were bearing down, frantically men were launching small boats from the shore intent on reaching him.
Catherine watched, she didn't see the boats heading in, she didn't notice the men pulling out, she was unaware of the changing weather, the screaming gulls, the breaking seas or the cruel rain just starting. She saw only the man in the water, she saw only James.

James never saw the boats heading towards him, his own boat drifting away or the lines thrown too short towards him, he never heard the calls of the men or the gulls or the seas as they broke around him, James only saw Catherine. Catherine cried.
Catherine was buried on the 15th of May in 1830, she was 90 years old. For the passed 50 years she had mourned her James and been labelled as a "Lunatic." She had loved her James.
Catherine's cottage has since been known as "Crazy Kates Cottage." Today it is my home but it will always be her home first.

SHOCK HERRING NET THEFT

2009-01-31T08:53:00.000-08:00

"It was never like it in my day!" How often have you heard your father or grandfather say that? and how many times have you said you'll never say it, but found yourself repeating it continually to your own children? I have lived endlessly in Clovelly, I have fished and tripped my years away, never earning a living but slowly blending into my surroundings, slowly becoming my father. It is now I can say, "It was never like it in my day!" Things don't seem to change for the better, the respect, the values and the principles of the village, the open door, the watching eye, the places you did not go and the things you just did not do. Why is it we have to be shaken into reality at the cruel hands of some sneak in the dark thief!

This last week I removed my Herring nets from my boat, finally signalling the end of another season, the nets were put into an open shed, with the intention of moving them to a safer place soon after, though as it appears not soon enough! Somebody or somebodies unknown have taken it upon themselves to take five of the nets leaving me with three; maybe I should be grateful for the three, but I find I am angry, with myself for not having moved them sooner. The nets are not new, I look after the nets, washing, mending, repairing them each year, most were over ten years old, but they each had a story; like the day I caught a 13 foot basking shark and had to tow it back to the harbour so we could free it from the nets and release it back to sea, it took two weeks of mending to fix the nets then!! Or the day the nets sunk under the wieght of 3000 fish, the largest catch of herrings since 1976, or of the celebrities like Rick Stein, Marco Pierre White, Mike Smylie and most recently BBC's Countryfile that have helped haul the nets.

But they are gone, probably sold for beer money or worse money! Someone feels satisfied with their nights work, I hope they are happy. For me it means I have to find £400 in order to replace them before the next season, unless of course any of you hear anything and kindly let me know; and I really can say without fear of contradiction, "It was never like it in my day!"

Early days

2009-01-20T05:32:00.000-08:00

The sounds of the sea rushing into the harbour, chorused by the pleading cries of the greed hungry seagulls opens the year, opens this January; the herring shoals are spent and sparse, no longer the fishermans prey, as they pack their bags and leave the bay, having played and spawned they swim back up along the Irish Sea, until next Michaelmas, when nets and boats shall go out again.

Now the days are cold and thin of people. Jobs to do mount up, waiting in line for that warmer day, that drier day, that one day soon. We fish still the chilled waters, if any fish remain; this is the time for cod and sole with nets set upon the bottom, gill nets, trammel nets. Nets set close to rough ground to catch those feeding cod, if they're lucky enough to escape the busy trawlers roaming outside the bay. Trammel nets set on muddier ground for door mat Dover sole and pleasant plaice, but all too often a pack of always hungry dogfish, huss, murgies, hound the nets, caught by collar and cuff, yellow nosed, mud sniffing, bottom hounds. Why is it that what we need to see, that we try to catch, any fish worthy of the plate, we fail to find?
Clearing East winds have swept the bay and left it empty of fish, with only an occasional whiting or sand dab as a sacrificial offering.

But with the weather frostfull and icy still, the clear air gives perfect views of the sheltering bay, the hard brown leafless cliffs, the fresh watered waterfall dropping to the beach. This is the prize of fishing, the scenes unseen by most, the life that's not rich in pennies but worthy of a look. Early days for catching fish but perfect days for appreciating where we live.

This is our time of preparation, of getting ready, sorting, repairing, making anew, for too soon the time will run away and other seasons shall fall fast upon us; skate will find the mud, it is their breeding bay aswell and we'll be keen to catch some. Lobster pots, saved from last years service, will be pressed again, looking for rich reward. So though the harbour rolls with Atlantic swells and quiet are the village steps, in hidden corners, lofts and sheds, Clovelly fishermen still knot and splice and scheme and dream.

New resolve

2009-01-15T00:15:00.000-08:00

So here we are, close hauled and bound for the shelter of the harbour, our safe haven from the winter gales. I expect by now many of the resolutions convincingly made, are now to be found washed up broken and discarded upon the grey cruel shore of the New Year. We've survived, just! the Red Lion and festive indulgence to stagger into the irresponsible youth of January, fishing empty nets for no profits, with frozen hands and wet boots, watching spring tides raging through the bay, rattling windows with the icy, numbing East winds. Soon it will be time to set to and repair the ravages of gale and storm, wind and wave, as the Centuries old Quay wall succumbs to the constant finger picking of the sea, small holes becoming larger holes becoming noticeable; so bucketed and trowelled, armed with sand and cement, I come to fill, shore up, restore, replace, repair; putting right as best I can, the elements reclaiming wrongs and prolonging the life of the Quay.

What next? A whole untouched year ahead, full steam ahead; brimming with potential delights, events and festivals, a harbour of entertainment, lobster feasts, maritime extravaganzas, gig racing regatta's, showing off lifeboat day's. The "fit for a film set harbour," welcoming in visiting yachts, returning friends and first time explorers, a welcome sight and a sad farewell. People shall sit lining the wall with pint and picnic looking back at a village ignoring time; others will swim and leap, faith bound into the full Quay, while fishing boats continue doing as they've always done and head out and return home, work done, as for those of us that live here, we go into the new year with new resolve and take each day head on, we are fishermen, we are boatmen and this is our home.

Passing the baton

2009-01-02T04:10:00.000-08:00

Following Chief Coast guard, "John Bumby's," rescue of the crew of the "Odone", in 1869, the RNLI established a station at Clovelly. In 1870 the first appointed Coxswain was Master Mariner, "John Elliot." John Elliots daughter,"Susan," married local fisherman and lifeboat man,"Thomas Jenn," they had three sons and a daughter, "Alice." Alice Jenn married a Bucks Mills fisherman named, "Bert Braund" and they settled in Clovelly where Bert fished and took his seat onboard the lifeboat; they also had a son, "Tom," who followed in his father's footsteps and became a fisherman and lifeboat man. Tom was to have six sons, four of which, over the years, became involved with the lifeboat; the youngest son, "Edward," served on the offshore 70 ft Lifeboats before the station was closed by the RNLI in 1988, he then became a crewman on the independant lifeboat until the RNLI re-established the station in 1998; Edward then took on the role of a deputy launching authority, rising to become the stations "Honorary Secretary," or as it's titled today the "Lifeboat Operations Manager," a role he held until this Christmas when he decided to pass the baton onto the very capable station mechanic, "Nigel Eveliegh." Edward though, has not left the station completely, he has only resumed his position as a deputy launcher and will be as active as before about the station. Edwards brother "Christopher," is also involved with the lifeboat, previously a crewman and Helmsman, today he is one of our most important launching tractor drivers and has had to put the boat out in some harrowing circumstances. So from 1870 up to the present day a member of Edwards family has been involved with Clovelly's lifeboat.

The foundations of stations like Clovelly are laid by people like Edward, whose unquestioned service and dedication are an example for us all to admire. Lifeboat stations like Clovelly are not about the RNLI, they're about the people who man the boat, the people who patiently wait behind; the people who stand scarved and gloved on the cold streets waving collection boxes, the people who stop what they are doing and think when they hear the boat has been launched, who wait at vantage points gazing at the restless sea, for it to return, it's about the village, the small huddled community, the traditions, new and old, that hold them altogether; and it's people like Edward, ordinary, everyday people that make us proud to be a part of the station.

Edward may be moving sideways in his role within the lifeboat, but as an employee of the Clovelly Estate Company, he will never be far from the village, Edward is another of those great oaks that make up the woodland that is our village, he's funny, he's gracious, a great father and he's the best friend anyone could have.
We wish Nigel luck and the best ever wishes in his New Year new role, he knows he has the unstinting support of the station, the complete trust of the crew but much more importantly, he has the love and support of his family; who could wish for more.

Fairy Tree Topps.

2008-12-26T11:01:00.000-08:00

It should have been so easy, the planning had been done, gifts bought, cards written, everyone involved informed of what was required, the time was set; but then everything went "Clovelly!" Father Christmas let me down, the sleigh was locked away, nobody was to be found and there were still cards to be delivered, and this was Christmas Eve!

For the past 20 years the Clovelly Lifeboat crew have been delivering small gifts to the more Senior moments of the village, a way of expressing thanks and good wishes for all the support and assistance they receive throughout the year. Huddled at the head of the hill the crew gather with a suitably robed Father Christmas and festively adorned sledge, they make their way merrily through the village, getting more and more merry and generally louder as they descend. Occasionally they are thanked, at times even refreshed, until they reach the landmark of the New Inn, half way, and New Inn hospitality takes some beating, too soon it's bon voyage and down a-long the long passage to the Quay.

So it is with a "stand in," Father Christmas suited up, unfortunately more Yo ho ho! than Ho ho ho! Poor kiddies!! The Sleigh finally liberated, cards hurriedly deposited and crew collected the night time Christmas Sleigh can finally begin its long trip down through the houses.

Walking down the cobbled village the half asleep night time houses with their doors closed to the cold outside and half pulled curtains revealing the seasonal glow of prized Christmas tree, people within watch the television and the shadows waiting for........ Well, waiting anyway.
But have you ever wondered about their decorations, the first Christmas together baubles, the babies first crib, the gifts so lovingly wrapped, the lights twinkling bright, each hung in a familiar way year after year, have you ever wondered..................

The tree is up, the tired and trusty decorations hung, balls and baubles, bells and bows, high upon the top sits the same old Star, dull and fading, wanting only to hang upon the back branches away from the limelight, and below him the Angel-in-Waiting, happily chomping on chocolates and sweets as she waits for her turn on top; while far far below sat on the edge of the tree trunk bucket with her broken string sits Fairy Tree Topps. Fairy Tree Topps wants the top job but there's a lot of tree between them, she decides to ask the other decorations for their help. Beside her a lonely tin soldier swings on parade, he says he'll help only if she helps him find his lost troupe, Fairy Tree Topps promises and off they climb. On the next branch they come across a Shepherd whose lost his flock, with a promise to help find the missing sheep the Shepherd joins the Fairy and the Soldier as they continue up the tree. It was a worried looking Reindeer that stopped them next, he'd lost the Sleigh and was afraid of spoiling Christmas, the Fairy promised to find the Sleigh if he would help her, so on they went. Three lost Kings that couldn't see the fading Star were on the next branch, afraid they'd missed the birth, the Fairy agreed to lead them to the Star if in return they'd help her. "It's a sign of the times," said the Chubby Cherub, "No one falls in love the old way any more!" So with a promise from the Fairy to help set up an online dating agency; bowandarrow.com, they all carried on. The cool sounds of Christmas drifted down through the branches as The Fairy and her friends came across the coolest man on the tree, the Snowman, sat in the Sleigh surrounded by sheep listening to the Drummer boy and the Trumpet Major and above them the Angel-in-Waiting!
She'd waited since she'd been bought from the shop, it seemed like ages and now it was her turn, no stuck up Fairy was going to take it from her; Fairy Tree Topps tried to push by, but the Angel stood in the way, side to side they went rocking the tree, back and forth, back and forth until tipping and toppling, wibbling and wobbling, the tree fell over! down went the decorations tumbling to the floor including the Star who'd never had so much fun, he laughed and laughed and positively shone, brighter than ever before.

The Lifeboat crew and Father Christmas find the lamp lit harbour quiet and still, the gifts all given the carols sung, the Red Lion warm and welcoming. Another Clovelly tradition upheld as locals and hotel residents join together for a merry night of celebration, for tomorrow shall be Christmas day.

If you wonder what became of Fairy Tree Topps and the Star, well when the family awoke in the morning they were met by a glorious tree and on the top a bright shiny Star. Where was Fairy Tree Topps? Well she was where she belonged, on the bottom; and who put them all back? Well that would be telling.................

Happy Christmas

2008-12-21T03:35:00.000-08:00

One thing about Clovelly is it lends itself to Christmas, the two go together like Christmas pudding and clotted cream; throughout the closed wooded valley wisps of smoke from the coal lump chimneys gently odour the air with that cosy Victorian Christmas card appeal. Lights decorate the cottage fronts with trees winking from behind the nosey curtains, each house waiting for that magical arrival, each hotel buzzing and rocking with party excitement, a carol sung atmosphere hangs over the village.

We each make the effort to enjoy the season, taking our share of Chapel songs, meeting the faces we only see rarely once or twice a year, feasting on mince pies, sausage rolls and rich yule food washed away with strong dark tea; gathering the spirit of the time, making each day apart of the whole day, apart of the season.

Christmas has a habit of haunting you, it brings the childhood village into mind, glorious snow filled adventures into the parks and woodland with our father and a landrover full of fir trees and holly bagged bushes prickling knees all the bumpy way home, with a tree for the neighbours and a tree for the school and a tree for the pub and holly, berry red to be tied to all the boats.

Year follows year as last years dance leaves "that song," embedded in the box of "not to be," memories. Families grow older, children return as people, Clovelly settles down, comfortable with her valley gathered about her like a glorious grandmother; and as the last chorus of another Silent Night ebbs away, it's who we are with today that matters, the friends, family, wherever in the world they maybe; and ones we share the hot buttered fireside toast and opened tins of chocolates with; and with whom, like Clovelly herself, we shall wait for Christmas. To each and everyone of you Happy Christmas.

That Christmas moment.

2008-12-09T23:36:00.000-08:00

Of course it's not really just about the lights, the low budget that funds them or the capable volunteers who uncomplainingly support them, it's not even about the RNLI or the Clovelly Estate Company that benefit from them. This is not a High street show designed to match the seasonal celebrations or parties that rock the homes and hotels; or encourage the hurried shoppers looking for those little festive extras, the buy one get one free, store for war deals, under the influence of dated Christmas hits played repeatedly by loudspeaker, busker and band.

It's not about that one cold day in December when the whispering Northerly winds bite into the gathering, chattering people, excited and expectant, cuddled in woollen hats and scarves with mittened fingers clasping plastic mugs of hot chocolate or mulled punch.

It's not the Dickensian charm of the Hartland Town Band or the male voice choir that leads the huddled mass in hymn and carol, or the fine voiced readers who repeat the well rehearsed lessons of Christmas past.

Not the Father Christmas, dressed up and jolly, the children believing, the parents needing something to believe; the meeting of Christmas card friends, rarely seen from one Winter to the next. Or the grand firework finale that explodes into the night sky adding sparkle and colour to the lights, combining with the clear night sky stars, falling over the harbour to gasps and delight.

It's about that one moment, the switch on second, the time when nothing else matters, other than to be here, when no one cares who you're stood beside, when for once everybody wants the same thing and everyone waits, with the night ending with that peaceful satisfaction that we have all been part of something special.

Two men and a thousand light bulbs

2008-12-04T00:05:00.000-08:00

Take two men, hundreds of metres of cable, thousands of light bulbs and the odd plug or two. Mix with a generous amount of nails, a handful of screws, a bucket of clips, several bits of string and a pinch of rope. Using a hammer, screwdriver, drill or pebble, fix to bits of batten, bits of aluminium frame, bits of crumbling wall, bits of tree and bits of house. (Please remember, permission should be sought from tenants before attaching anything to property.) Fixing while climbing, clambouring, or balancing on a precariously leaning ladder is not recommended by the Health and Safety executive!
Stand back at a suitable distance, admire, rearrange; stand back a bit further, arrange back; stand back with a female perspective and completely alter.
nb. Don't forget to test all appliances before fixing in unreachable and dangerous places, to avoid unneccessary, costly and time consumming delays.
Drink copious amounts of tea or coffee, with or without milk and sugar. Take down and replace all faulty appliances. Stand back once more at a suitable distance, preferably in the dark and admire. Rearrange!
Finally when all hope is lost and time has run away screaming; prepare for the day when all the hard work, wiring, pluging in and pluging out, bulb changing and finger crossing has to be switched on. This is the preparation that blends the Clovelly Harbour lights together.
Over the last few years many men and women have been involved with the lights, joined in with the happy banter, voiced an opinion, had a better idea; all while holding the ladder bottom and passing cable ties to the same old fools that end up clinging on for dear life while fixing lights by their teeth! Most happy helpers have fallen by the Wintery wayside, unable to cope with the light intrigue that goes side by side with seasonal designing; or simply moved on up the cobbled street to bless the village cottages with festive neon. But two men Norman Saunders and Barry Perham, have stayed the course, setting the example to continue alone dressing the harbour and bringing joy and delight to all those that brave the cold wind chill factor and cheap toddies, to sing the carols and read the lessons, meet Father Christmas and gasp at the great switch on, which this year shall be on Sunday 7th of December.
It only takes two men, hundreds of metres of cable and thousands of bulbs to make a chorus of blue-nosed, well wrapped, cosy-spirited, carol singers smile. Happy Christmas lights.

Feasts, Festivals and Friends

2008-11-29T12:32:00.000-08:00

Never let it be said that life in a seemingly fast asleep fishing village, content to sit out it's old age, can ever be boring or dull; with it's nocturnal wanderings and silent intrigue, where one persons drama becomes the vine of gossips delight. Sleep it may, but village life continues as each generation melts into the pot of yesterday; with the feasts and festivals of today remembered through the photographs and videos hidden in the drawers of tomorrow. We watch as we celebrate the life and colour of the village, its people, its traditions and its past; last week we enjoyed and endulged in the fish, fun filled Herring Festival with its smoked, soused, rollmop, baked, grilled, fried, bloatered and net fresh herrings, silver darlings, unrivalled kings of the sea. They come swimming down through the Irish sea year after year visiting our bay, their breeding bay, where they will spawn, beginning again the seven year life cycle that brings them back from whitebait to fully mature fish.
The festival was a day marinaded in atmosphere as people came to delight, taste and take home some fine fare, from fishcakes to fillets, from cider to cheese, even the local television came to cover the day. It is through events such as these that we learn to see the village built on fish by men and women brought up on fish; the lives of one dependent on the existance of the other. We know of some families still in Clovelly whose ancestors came here because of the sea and the
herring, stayed because of the sea and the herring and remain thanks to the sea and the herring. My own family surviving five generations as mariners and herring men. For over 20 years I have been a herring man. Today people make Clovelly their home for different reasons, having little understanding of the seasonal fishery, unaware of the night long boats drifting across the tide of the lantern lit bay, the shaking of the fishful nets in the cold, still air of the harbour, leaving the pebbled beach slippery and glistening with silver scales; where once donkeys laboured through the pannier and basket laden night. Boats no longer land the great shoals, picarooners don't line the shore, the smell of tanned nets no more hang drying from the wall. For most those days are long passed, for me it is a past still alive and will remain as long as there are still some herring being landed.
When I sit alone at sea in the cold, dark night, gently rocking with the Southerly swell, looking back at the Christmas lit village; I think of those fast asleep houses, unaware of their past and when it's time to haul in the nets, watching the fish come aboard, I think of all the men gone now and how hard it was for them as they often toiled with their heavy nets and I wonder will I be one of the last.
With the nets hauled, fish counted, customers supplied and satisfied all that remains to do is the most important part of the season; with fish and car I head into Devons hinterland, knocking, calling, visiting and surprising my most favourite people, those who have bought herring from me over the last 20 years, those who have eaten herring all their lives, who remember their parents salting in herring for the Winter, those who tell stories of herring for breakfast and herring for tea, whose lives are richer for the taste and goodness of Clovelly herring and my life shall never be boring or dull only richer for the knowing of them all.

A week to remember.

2008-11-15T01:24:00.000-08:00

I watched them go to sea, walk down the beach, saying their farewells, they boarded their boat, the "Blue Hooker,"and headed off, rounding the Quay and away down the choppy shore, the boat dipping with the swells, the men preparing for another days fishing, just as they had the days and weeks and months before. I intended to go out myself, it was good herring weather, grey and a little blustery but not too bad, or so it seemed. I decided to have a look at the sea state from behind the Red Lion, where a motley gang of fisher types were gathering, watching the winds freshen and sea build; they were expecting to see the return of the boat, but as yet there was no sign. Two men decided to take a look from the cliff top, while the Honorary Secretary of the Lifeboat headed to the boathouse inorder to call the boat or the Coastguard and get them to return home. My decision as to whether or not I was going to sea was answered when the Coastguard requested us to launch, as helmsman I climbed aboard the Lifeboat and we slipped the boat to sea. That was ten years ago on the 12th of November; today we remember them as the great oaks of the village that they were, we remember as if it were yesterday, the loss, the fear, the guilt, the desperate need to bring them home. The endless, hopeful searching, the slow realization of tragedy, the helpless watching as the pain sets in, the numbness that hangs over a village waking to the news. Amidst this time of rememberance, when we stand in silence for the many sevice men and women whose sacrifice means we today can live in peace, we also remember those whose only wish was to earn a living, provide for their families and support their community as best they could, whose loss is our loss.
This week we also said goodbye to another local character, the Chipper Skipper, Ralph Atkinson who finally lost his long battle with cancer, he ran his charter boat the "Hooker," from Clovelly for many years and became renowned for his bacon butties, very bad jokes and bugle calls; another one gone, but Clovelly harbour has endured many ships passing throughout its long life, from storms and calms, wrecks and rescues, it is through such adversity that character forms; and these are the foundation stones of our harbour.

The Old Fisherman

2008-11-07T07:27:00.001-08:00

He sits in his damp, dark workshop, surrounded by the debris of a long fishing past, both his and that of his never to be forgotten ancestors; a variety of fish boxes, buoy's and floats,ropes, anchors, nets, trawls and lobster pots all fill the air with the salt stained smells and distant memories of better days at sea. He listens, collecting forecasts, choosing whichever one is best or worst, adding them together to make a gale. Tourists love him, with his 18th Century beard, his age old charm, he wouldn't look out of place in a tired portrait. He wears the dusty uniform of the ancient seadog, weathered, worn and windblown. His early days were spent at sea, the Bristol Channel trade, Bridgwater, Swansea, Appledore were all familiar ports to him before returning home to fish and drink. With his encyclopedic memory he can tell you of all the ports around the world and he takes an interest in the few remaining ships that ply their wares from Bristol bound for Spain, watching as they pass on by, from his seafront bedroom window.
Take his photograph, many do; for if he had a pound for every picture taken, he'd be a wealthy man today; from Nova Scotia to New Zealand his face is found. Newspapers, magazines, films, adverts and television, he's done them all.
Ask him about the fishing and you'll receive a history of the industry, ask him about the village and he'll take you back in time, but don't ask him about the weather, it's never quite right, ask him about the future, "What future!" He comes from a time when a son learned the skills of the trade from his father or grandfather, when men relied on themselves in order to net a days fish and usually did. He looks forward to a time full of rules and regulations, paperfull days on shore, replacing the hope of a catch and no one listening to the man that just wants to make a living.
Will there be another like him? The tides recede from his world, the echoes of his day are waves rushing by and fish already caught, they cannot be caught again. He is one in a million, the last of his kind, he is a character, there are no characters like him, there are no characters.

Our first time

2008-10-31T06:59:00.000-07:00

It had to happen eventually, the temptation was too great, you can't put it off any longer, it's obvious she's just been waiting for the time we can be alone, just her and me, together; of course I wanted things to be right, but I'm a fisherman, for us theres always something wrong, like the weather, it's rarely how we want it; for once though, there was no excuse, no choice but to do it. So, dressed for the occasion, armed with the knowledge that this was her first time and I would have to take things very slowly, we went out, together, "Little Lily," and I.
Oh! alright the "Little Lily," is a boat, but not any old boat, she's a Clovelly Picarooner, a herring boat, built by students at the Falmouth Marine College, from the lines of the "Little Mary," an 1898 original, now in the care of the National Maritime Museum at Falmouth, but what a boat, with her fine entrance and rounded bilge and a wine glass transom to die for; she's a little lugger, a dipping lugger at that, suntan sailed and herring scaled, there was a time this small harbour would have been home to many Picarooners and herring craft but following the shrinking of the shoals and the arrival of fantastic reinforced plastic, the traditional boats have disappeared, sold or left to rot in some disused, brambled corner.
With nets aboard we headed out onto the lazy calm water, with just enough teasing breeze to move her along, we cast our nets into the sea, Lily working as if she was born to it, like she knew the ropes, she felt like she had been here before, like she was home. With the nets set and tide still flooding we decided to have a play, and setting sails cruised effortlessly along the nets, a sight once familiar in the Bideford Bay, now a snap shot of the past as the "Little Lily," is the first new Picarooner to fish for herrng off Clovelly for over 40 years.
Did we catch any fish? Well thanks to the inevitable intervention, of a slippery, pleased with himself, blubbery seal! Not many. But it was a carefree afternoon, a pleasant escape from the half term village, with not a care in the world we drifted along watching the evening lights appear. The catch was small, but what's important, it was Lily's first, but not by any means her last.

Also a lifeboat man

2008-10-24T13:37:00.000-07:00

We are all part of the fabric of where we live, we become, slowly, members of the community; we join, we belong, we help, we organize, eventually we are at home with where we are.
I am not only Clovelly's Harbour Master, I attempt to fish for a living, or at least a small part of a living; I try to catch lobster during the Summer months and now as Autumn winds blow we wait for the herring to arrive. I'm also a boatman, doing what boatmen do best, toiling with tourists throughout the season, doing whatever it takes to get people on my boat and then off again. In my spare time, I'm also a lifeboat man. Since Clovelly's station was established in 1870 a member of my family has been involved with the boat, I myself have been on board for almost 20 years.
Being a lifeboat man is of course so much more than just going to sea on a fast boat; it's being a part of a tradition, it's about dedication and commitment, it's about putting others first whatever the weather, regardless of the cost, it's being one amongst many, proud to be involved, proud to serve, proud just to be. You follow the blue jersied, salty bearded sailors and sons that look out from the dark and dusty corners of days passed, men that took the oar and gallantly braved billow and swell; hour following exhausted hour of hard pulling and sailing to reach, help and save a stranger in distress. Being part of the lifeboat is about doing your best, preparing for the worst, whether that comes from wind or sea or the unknown lost or drowned; you must be the saviour, the comforter, the reassurance, the guiding hand, the one to trust. We are really, little different from the oar and compass men before us, we may have computated, engined, highly technical, over powered, self righting, everything you could wish for, singing, dancing, don't ask the price lifeboats, but we are up against the same elements, facing the same conditions, at the mercy of the same foe, we are still people; competence based trained, routinely assessed, regularly inspected, constantly evaluated, people. We carry the best equipment, have the best support, enjoy the finest Christmas dinners, but over the years I have searched in vain, recovered the lost, waited for tide, collected the abandoned but never abandoned hope, I've been on fruitless, endless errands and brought home the "So pleased to see us." Why do we do it? We do it because it's what we do. because we hope there's others that will be there for us, we do it because we can.
The lifeboat needs the community, the community needs the lifeboat, they belong to each other. Soon it will be Christmas and our merry crew shall be helping Father Christmas deliver small gifts of thank you's to those that support the station throughout the year, to those who without their support there may not be a lifeboat, to those who before us were the lifeboat, were and still are Clovelly.

The loneliness of command

2008-10-18T00:15:00.000-07:00

I stand upon the old Quay wall, my stationary command, my static ship, my voyageless craft; sat upon its landheld shore with course and bearing set, full ahead for Autumn, bound for Winter.
I look back at all the quiet houses sitting, sleeping, each with their own history, their own reasons, their characters, their tales to tell; once the homes of fishermen and sailors, familiar with these stones and steps and groaning of the shore, now undisturbed doors remain closed.
Less tourists embark now and remark upon the birds and gulls still picking and choosing at old discarded plastic bags, searching for pasties, wishing for fish. The boats that so recently fought and jostled for space beside the steps, for the queueing trippers and anglers, divers and camping site survivors, are now seen heading across the bay destined for the bar and if lucky, a fresh coat of anti-fouling.
I keep a compass corrected, weather eye upon approaching gales or lulls, watch keeping, waiting for the breaking seas; I keep a dogwatch for the night time passing ships on course for other shores unseen. This is Clovelly's Quay, the place I work, the place I live, the place I stand alone, the place I battle storms and cruise through calms, where I walk the well worn walls, my unchartered, uncharted dominion, where it's no good sitting on the rocks waiting for a mermaid to swim by.
Now I must make my heading known, I must write my passage plan, the place remains the same , the destination changes; our next port of call is the "The Clovelly Herring Festival," which is here on the Quay on the 16th of November, a time to celebrate the king of fishes, the silver darlings, to eat, to drink, to be happy and reflect. I'll be there selling fish, I hope you'll join me.

Grockleogue

2008-10-07T11:37:00.000-07:00

Gone now the Sheffield Smiths, the huddersfield Hathers, the Applegarth Orchards, gone the pretty sighted sight seers, the been befores and come agains, the sat about enjoying the views; the tourist, the visitor, the grockle, the walking ramblers, campers, holiday camp themed parkers. Gone the sunny families, fresh faced from work and school and motorway, bottle tanned, seeking out the well worn weathered corners of the long discovered village too familiar with the questions and the comments, getting greeted with a smile and a scowl and a fee. Gone also the much stopped coach trippers, geriatric, cattle trucked and shuffled through; "Don't forget to send a postcard," nice card, local scenes, views of the neighbourhood. Gone are the six-pack, sat back, heat-stroked, need an ice-cream grockles; the bad shorts, loud shirts, buggy pushing fathers; the higher heeled, lower cut, need a sit down and a cup of tea, mothers; the "Don't throw stones!" throwing, Quay wall clambering, boat rock and rolling on the cobbled sea shore, seagull chasing, children.
The harbour is quieter now as boats stay moored, no more trips to run, no more views of the neighbourhood, no more "See the village from the sea," no more "15 minutes of pleasure with a sailor!" The rumbling Red Lion sleeps now, busy bustling pints and pasty lunch times over, replaced by time to think.
We that live by the grockle must die by the grockle, ones' season's disease, another season's cure as many a grockle makes a local happy; many a grockle visits year after year, grand parents who came with their children, who now come with their own children; strangers that become friends for a day. Day trippers, weekend breakers, long stayers, hotel dwellers and bed and breakfasters, season's enders, still braving the Autumn chill, back packed picnic hardy, crowd dodgers, late break takers, all thats left of the annual crop, the yearly stock. It's time for the village to hibernate, as tourists return home to snooze and visitors go back to sleep, until next year and once more we wait for the grockles to return.

A random trip

2008-09-18T11:58:00.000-07:00

"Are you coming with us?" Clive Pearson, affable skipper of the charter boat, Jessica Hettie, asked as I stood drowning in the rain! "Oh! put on some oilskins and get on with it!" He told me, and so I found myself all aboard and bound for the Isle of Lundy.
It was a pleasant crossing, the sea was uncomplaining as were the passengers, heaped, huddled and happy as the Island came into view. We undertook the mandatory watches for the passage, radio watch, radar watch, dolphin watch, mind you don't spill your tea watch, we even missed a few ships that purposefully tried to run us down, give or take a mile or three! Some of the intrepid travellers had journeyed miles and undertaken great feats of bravery to join this trip, such is the attraction of Lundy and of course Clive who was taking some of them swimming with the seals.
For me the trip meant I could see my eldest daughter Emmie, serving her time in the Marisco Tavern, she was unaware of my impending arrival. I trudged the long beach road passed the Millcombe house, passed the cold bleak church and called into the Tavern. To my dismay Emmie was not at work yet, so I decided to conquer the Island, with my best foot forward and a chocolate bar in hand I started out.
The beauty of Lundy is in its remoteness, its still silence, its aching gales, its lack of crowds, its absence of supermarkets, its Tavern, its Lundy ale and lamb pasties! Lundy is a place of windswept acres, turbulent coastlines, of unsmiling granite carved cliffs, but also sheltering harboured headlands that offer welcome protection to troubled mariners. A grave place of sorrow, yet the salvation of the wrecked and the wretched.
As I bound along the ever growing island, it seems longer than the stated three miles! I pass Baa baa black sheep and his family, I pass walkers, watchers, birders, climbers, clamberers and ramblers, all doing their best despite the weather, which had dried up, sorry! it's drizzling again! A landmark was reached when I discovered Tibbets, an isolated outpost where a jolly jersied lady appeared from within, waved her arm in the air and declared, "What a wonderful day!" I walked swiftly on; continuing passed granite markers, treading my way through heather and bracken, gorse and goats, until it was there, the unreachable North end, I had made it, an unequalled achievement, with noone to witness my success bar a few seagulls and terns. It is from a point such as this that you can look back at what Lundy is, the timeless Isle, a symbol of strength and the cause of peril, a two sided land, Atlantic faced or Bristol channelled, both have claimed their fair share of ghosts.
Time for the Tavern, I head back leaving behind the crying shame remains of old forgotten homes, stone blank and staring out to sea, inhabited only by jackdaws and the past. The looming towers of the old lighthouse and church beckon me on, leading me to a well earned pint of Lundy ale and Emmie, surprised and happy and working. Following good food and catching up and just one more pint, I spent the rest of the day exploring parts of Lundy I'd only ever seen from the sea before, Brazen Ward, Mousehole and Trap, the silent quarries where a tablet lies beside a fading wreath in memory of a lost son. I see the Knoll Pins half submerged and Gannets Coombe, I wonder at the slugs and beetles, are they so different from their mainland cousins or are they a breed apart, is it this that makes them so good to eat!!
So soon it is time to leave the pretty treacherous, cliff worn walks and find my way back to my waiting ship, with hugs and goodbyes for Emmie we departed for Clovelly, where it was back to radio watch, radar watch..... See you soon watch.

A veritable feast

2008-09-10T09:52:00.000-07:00

We must have looked a sight, making absolute and complete pigs of ourselves, we devoured, partook, scoffed, guzzled on lobster, gorged on crab, feasted on mussels, breakfasted, lunched and suppered; delighted in all the produce on display throughout the day. There was; Laughing Lobster fish cakes, scrumptious cheeses, intoxicating local ales, subtle wines for tasting, live shellfish, cooked shellfish, wet fish, smoked fish, fresh caught, cooked in Clovelly, on a plate with a bread roll fish, a day full of and for local products. This was the Clovelly Lobster and Crab feast.

We even let in the French connection, with their cider and bread, their olives and garlic, their crepes and their proud Tricolour, a little corner of France.

Lobster lunches were available and greedily consumed at the Roaring Red Lion Hotel, while local celebrity fisherman, "John Tuna Ad Glover," was seen dressed as a chef, serving lobster risotto and lobster bisque to eager, hungry, customers,

Hope Coves' Sue Morgan, willow lobster pot maker was displaying her craft and her wares, using skills once common amongst small fishing communities, now the creation of the old and the enthusiast. few fishermen remain that have the traditional skills and knowledge of the bygone lobsterman.

The day continued with people keen to join the magic show, interested in the maritime bird boxes on sale, browsing along the Clovelly Silversmiths stall, fascinated by the hypnotized lobster, Intrigued by the lobster quadrille, a Wonderlandful experience with children and parents led by Alice on a merry dance around the beach.

Seabourne melodies with haunting nautical lyrics float across the quay pool, filling the day with a sense of tradition while remembering that the fish that are caught are hard won and fought for, through endless, thankless days of summer winds and winter storms, many the fisherman lost, many the widow left behind.

But everyone that came went home the better, everyone that visited left happy, contented, full of the atmosphere of the day, brimming with shellfish, stuffed with crustacea, satisfied by molluscs, bloated by indulgence, pleasantly exhausted with the lively, jovial, end of season happiness, that filled the harbour and the village. It was a successful day, a good day, and one that we wait expectantly for next year.

Remembering Lifeboat day

2008-09-05T07:57:00.000-07:00

Slowly the Summer that almost was ebbs away, leaving us with tide fresh memories of the places we have been and the events we held. We have time to recall and reflect on the many celebrations that are held throughout the season in order to delight and enlighten the paying, attentive tourist and local alike, for us harbour rats, the celebration of our Lifeboat has to be the focus of the year. She sits within her house, a quiet and unassuming craft, waiting patiently for the call that may take her onto the finest sea or into the cruellest gale.
Salty and damp the day began, eager to please, eyes full of long lost sleep, yellow booted men huddle together waiting, talk of coconut shies, barbecues and long sponsored swims, flow alongside Lifeboats, heroic deeds and bunting hung up the night before by the girls. This is lifeboat day; a day to praise and raise a fund of; "Thank you's," "Bless you's," and "We alway's support you's." A day of fun and games, showing off and flying flags. Our organizer appears, our Sharon, with her hair, her bosom, her voice and that way about her that no man says no! she points and she directs, like a Hollywood mogul she activates the huddled crowd to construct the day. The day begins; stalls of treats, stalls of sweets, balloons, second hand books, unwanted clothes, unplayed with toys that'll soon be replaced, contests, so many contests; guess the lifeboat station, over 220 to choose from, Compromising photographs in the "caption competion," 'Don't let Mrs Dunn enter, she's alway's winning it.' Hook the ducky everyone's lucky, cake stalls, tea stalls, cuddly toy stalls, don't miss a bargain you'll regret it in the morning stalls, somebody battered the rat, buy a burger in a bap, try a hot dog, make sure it's not your dog, kids stalls, lifeboat guild stalls, something for all stalls.
Now the day has begun, warmer now, Sharon loud upon the microphone, welcoming all the unsuspecting, visiting crowds as they pour cheerily down the cobbled street into this day, this lifeboat day. Lifeboat men and lifeboat women are at hand to lend a hand, answer a question or just be proud; this is their day. You can see the lifeboat, Spirit of Clovelly, humbly sat upon the slipway, on display, keen as a mackerel, ready and willing, the reason for the day, the reason behind the laughter, as men tug of war and race rafts and sell themselves as slaves, "All in a good cause," with Sharon above them all, cheering them on, geeing them on. The day continues as the time arrives for the rescue demonstration, a Seaking helicopter appears overhead and the boat is launched, "Inshore boat she is," "Semi-rigid, goes at it at 30 knots," "That's fast that is." Trained crew onboard, fully dry suited, head to toe, brave crew, seabound and safe; she's away, faster now faster, see her go, tourists gasp as she turns amongst the lain at anchor yachts, yachtsmen watch and wave and rock, roll and wave once more, the helicopter flies passed, crew waving at the quay full crowd, "Aren't they in for a special treat," lifeboat and helicopter set about a merry chase of cat and mouse, men lowered down into the lifeboat then raised again, displaying all the skills and seamanship of well trained members of the RNLI and the RAF. A crowd pleaser, collection box filler, the proof of what we do, the truth of who we are; volunteers, lifeboat men.
Slowly the day is ending, as a shower of rain, lightly, politely tells the people it's time to go home, sending them wearily back up the slope, so we can; dismantle, pack up, bag up, fold, pick, sweep, shovel, clean, throw, hide and finally sit down, the last offerings of the barbecue going cheap, "Come and get it while we got it!" The Red Lion bar fills, the harbour empties, Sharon soon to hibernate, her day done, glad it's over, look forward to next year when we do it all over again. Thanks to all those who help, to all those who support our little station, to those who come such a long way and those who live close by, to those who donate, who contribute. Always too many to mention, too many to forget, but they know who they are and we are grateful. See you all next lifeboat day, a day to remember.

Glassfibre Armada

2008-09-01T12:33:00.000-07:00

"Wierd Fish," "Elianne," "Shamara" and many more,white plastic hulled, crisp, pristine sails, curled and furled, Westerlies, moody's, Beneteau's, bilge keelers, fin keelers, long keelers galore, round the Quay head bound for ladders and steps and a berth for the night. How could the summer be complete without our hearty compliment of fresh faced and rugged Bristol channel wanderers? Following in their ancestors wake, navigating the tidal reaches of the Atlantic coast. Modern day adventurers, heading white sailed, down wind and down tide from channel ports; Ilfracombe and Instow, "The bar men," "Taree," "Pearl of Colne," "Gemini," others from far flung distant and exotic Wales, David Williams arrives on the "Catalyst," while the "Owen Glendower" the "Nellie of Neath" and the "Welsh Dragonet" are amongst the many "Red Dragon" flying shipmates that come spilling into the Quay pool,where cobweb coiled lines are thrown ashore, securely moored and fendered to bollards and posts, "welcomed home" and comfortably settled.
Some race; the Ilfracombe to Clovelly "Rum race" is an annual highlight of canvas indulgence where men sail for pride more than prizes with a bottle of Rum the bonus. Others come from far and distant ports, marina's and harbours, looking for escape or the familiar landfall of a safe haven, because Clovelly is a safe and sound, neat and tidy haven, sheltered from prevailing blows, tucked beneath those wooded cliffs, Clovelly hides and sleeps. Its Quay wall familiar with fishing craft, accustomed now to visiting craft and passers by that "never knew you were here." Yachts fill the harbour while yachtsmen fill the bar, singing songs that fill the tide. Each day brings more yachts, more boats, more people, some may venture off into the woodland above and explore the paths and lanes that entangle the Estate, finding secrets that have lain hidden for many years and discovering just why it is that they come here. There are those whose destination is the shower room, damp and mouldy but cleanly welcoming following their epic voyage, so they may freshen up, intent on a lusty meal, a carousing night and a morning hangover.
Those who haven't been before approach nervously, taking a wide berth before entering, looking for help and encouragement, glad of someone to take their lines while directing them to a safe berth, pleased to be here they soon notice the Red Lion guarding the Quay. Most will return again, many will become as familiar to us as the pebble filled sea, as regular as the tides. Others have been visiting for decades, remembering previous Harbour Masters, remembering when they came with their fathers or when their children were small and yachts smaller. They all fill the harbour with their boats and their humour, they bring a sense of fun and each and everyone enjoys their stay, leaving with sad farewells and "be back soon's". Now as September skies turn grey leaving summer behind we wait for the "Winkle race," Ilfracombe's final race of the season when once again they'll battle down the channel and batten down for Clovelly, their final destination, until next year when freshly waxed and polished, anti-fouled and varnished, they once again will plot their course, cast off their lines and set sail.

Being Harbour Master

2008-08-26T06:48:00.000-07:00

I suppose it would make sense to start at the beginning, where I am from is Clovelly, I am a Clovelly man, born to a family sepia rich in crumpled memories, a lineage creeping back through the dusty albums of time, from a cob, cobbled and white washed cottage clinging to the side of Clovelly’s slippery slope, my father fished and my mother paints, my childhood was one of summers and boats, mackerel and marmite, hidden long lost camps and knock down ginger.
I became a boatman more by evolution than by design, my home became my work became my life, slowly I watched as the salt cracked, sea stained, blue jersied fisher folk slept away, one by one taking their place in the ground far from the harbour and the cry of the sea. I edge my way towards the gaps they leave behind, nervously realizing that you are what’s left of what once was a collection of memories. I took the honorarium as Harbour Master more for my father than myself (his short tenure ended after only a couple of years due to his failed battle with cancer). Many may believe that being Harbour Master of a pretty, tired, picturesque, fishing village whose glory days are its heritage and its future uncertain would be stress free and lazy, but that is only true if you have never met its fishermen and never dealt with its boatmen! Men can be worse than children, more complicated than women, more stubborn than politicians where sea and fish and boats are their toys, each in turn needs careful handling, delicate persuasion and copious amounts of tea, coffee and biscuits, my kitchen is my office, my cafe, and my consultation room.

But fishermen are nothing compared to yachtsmen, weather proofed, storm wracked, wind bound, global positioned, sea weeded and bar propped, keen as a sailor, proud as a mother, their yachts their children, their voyages their adventures, their glorious tall tales, lantern swinging hours of drinking, sea shantied and shanghaied, each night is drunken sailored and leave her Johnny leave her, each day is cast off and bound for the Rio Grande. But who could wish for more, I live upon the shore in a dusty cobweb cottage rich in ghosts, too close to the sea for comfort, watching through its salt grimed windows at the constant changing tide, listening to the seagulls, waiting for the day to begin and boats to arrive, I shall probably spend my days here while dreaming of ocean voyages, I shall gather a collection of memories like an old album that one day I can open and remember it wasn’t all bad. But in the mean time there’s a yacht trying to moor up I’d better go and in the finest traditions of Harbour Masters lend a hand and take a line.