Fairy Tree Topps.

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

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.

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

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

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"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

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

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

"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

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.