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.