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."