Foreign waters

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Motor Boat Trips

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

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

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

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

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

Ale and Cider Fest!

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

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

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

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

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

The Consummate Fisherman

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

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

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

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

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

Gone to pot.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cheer and Beer

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

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

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

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

Preparation

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

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

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

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

The Lonely Cygnet

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

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

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

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

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

"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

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

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

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.