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.