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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.
Thursday, 27 August 2009
Friday, 7 August 2009
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.
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.
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