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.