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.