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.