Foreign waters

A night time drive, a windswept, rain coated journey with a dressed to kill mermaid. Destination, the dark, distant, mysterious lands of Ilfracombe. Far beyond the comfort zoned coastal Atlantic waters, passed the light flashing, hooter bleating, metropolis of Barnstaple, entering the surging, sweeping tides of the Bristol Channel. Away from my Harbour, carparked and puddle trodden, we sought the inner temple of Ilfracombe mariner types; that seabourne, waterlogged, gin brined collection of Grenvilles descendants.

One of the pleasures of being a Harbour Master is the invitations to the various and varied dinners, functions, celebrations and general good times that the many clubs, organizations, associations, institutions and other assemblage who make use of the harbour and its convenience hold each year.
Imagine my delight when that first invitation arrived; from the Ilfracombe Pilot Gig Club.

We blew in through the door and found the sanctum, warm and welcoming. We were here for the Gig Clubs inaugural award giving night, it was to be as entertaining as it was friendly, with a dish of chilli to sustain us and plenty of flowing ale, we watched and applauded while the fantastic Dartington Glass awards were presented to their best, their finest and their most promising rowers and supporters. Continuing into the night a more alternative collection of prizes were revealed, highlighting the blushingly memorable moments you are never allowed to live down. Finally the club chairman presented a couple of gifts of his own and the night descended into a strumming of shantyesque music provided by a collection of roaming banjo and guitar playing North Devonians, known as 'Fifers Ruse'.

For me the night was made all the better for the presence of a few of my Yachties, those that weren't curled up in front of the telly in dressing gown and slippers, nearly all surprised to see me out of the harbour, a visitor to a strange land; it may well be another Spring before we meet again. Well done to all the Ilfracombe oarsmen and women, hello to all the Winter stranded Yachtsmen and thank you for the invitation and the wonderful night.

Mulled Whining

Never let it be said that the Winter comes too soon to Clovelly; it's a time when village dwellers get back their streets and have time to recoup from the seasons grockle strain. It's a time for noisy neighbour gatherings and fishwife, doorstep rows, reminding everyone just how long you've lived here and what they can do about it!!

The harbour mulls over the shaking Autumnal winds and constant swells break tirelessly upon the beaten shore. Soon the day will arrive for yet another festival, another celebration, another event, another day to drag out the bunting and step around the visiting hopefuls looking for a reason to stay. Upon the Quay we find, Barry and Norman; Clovelly's own Light Brigade, reappearing armed with cables of multi tasking light bulbs, grotesque figurines, flashing ropes cable tied to plywood stars and a 'passed it's best' rowing boat pressed into service as a grandly, if not over zealously re-christened, 'Clovelly Clipper'!

So soon the harbour shall bulge with the over-burdening expectations of a few precariously and randomly distibuted fairy lights, supermarket mince pies and warm spiced wine, designed to evoke some ahh's a few ooh's and draw the last few pennies from the cold bystanding pockets for a worthy cause.

In the meantime, over excited waves continue to splash over the Quay wall, damping the dogfish danglers and washing the wall of dogs. Winds from the South and West have left us with a residual swell that has sent the Herring seeking sanctuary in deeper water, while the omnipresent seal waits patiently off the harbour for his breakfast, lunch, tea and inbetween meal snacks.

Fishing types gather at the Red Lion windows giving advice and darning yarns about things they know little about, telling of the days they never had to anyone desperate enough to listen. While quietly the fish are still caught, the fish are still sold and the fish are still eaten and the front door hides the kettle recently boiled for that warming cup of tea. So if this is Winter, let it come and I'll gladly snuggle up next to a mermaid and wait for the sun.

See you at the switching on of the Harbour Lights on the 6th of December.

A Tale of Two Cottages

A knock on the door, lights, camera, 'Good morning Hugh, time to go to sea'. Can we just do that once more; and so it goes on, the spotlight on the 'Celebrity Chef' as another TV crew set up another shot, another angle, another episode of sustainable food made plain and simple and what's more it's good for you. This is the start of the third Clovelly Herring Festival, widely reported and extensively covered, from 'Devon Life' to the 'Western Morning News' and of course the good old 'North Devon Journal', it seems it has never been out of the press and as if by magic there are even herring being caught this year.

Down the slippery, morning dark steps into the rocking 'Lily'. Camera man with us, sound man with my brother in his little 'Bombay'. Hugh, that's Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall to you, sits in borrowed waterproofs asking questions about the fishing, the history and the possibilities of the future. We lay our nets along the coast and prepare for a drift back towards Clovelly; time for serious filming as Hugh repeats questions to himself in true opposing angled telly fashion.

Light fills the sky, bringing on the morning, I look for my accurate morning light indicator to tell me if the light is sufficient enough for me to haul the nets in, actually I'm waiting for the street lights to switch off but it sounds good. The moment of truth, time to haul. Time to be nervous.

It all started with the 'Observer' newspaper, a moody picture of a lonely boat on a flat sea, to follow we had, fishing news, Country File, Rick Stein, we became a Taste of the West, we carried on with Marco Pierre White, looked good on Radio 4 when Kipperman, aka Mike Smylie, won a prestigious award for his book promoting the herring industry and radio 4 thought it appropriate to interview him while actually out fishing for herring, local newspapers, Belgium newspapers, all came wanting a taste of the famous Clovelly Herring and now we have Hugh.

Herring are notoriously camera shy. Having taken the River Cottage advance party out to sea a couple of days before and caught nothing in the morning drift, we had no choice but to venture out again on the evening tide, luckily this time returning with a healthy catch in time for last orders.
As we began the task of bringing in the nets, I more than half expected to find nets empty of fish, just the silent snigger of hiding herring and the pleased with himself, breakfasted seal belching contented Omega 3. Imagine my surprise when we actually caught some fish. Not many I grant you, a token catch, an offering, but enough, not for me, but enough for Mr Whittingstall to demonstrate his culinary cheffy skills.

The harbour was emptying of tide and filling with stalls, the Quay bulged with an array of caterers, gift sellers, fruit and fish carts, pickles and jams, homemade cards for sending and painted pebbles for admiring, and a gathering of gloriously fishy decorated cupcakes. Somewhere a Cornish contingent of salty Shantymen piped up and visiting festivallers gathered to watch as Mr River Cottage cooked up some delicious herring alongside our own 'Auntie Irene' actually my sister Rachel, who is the chef at the Bucks Cross 'Merry Harriers', well worth a visit.

The day continued with its fishy flavour, more TV crews filed by to fill vacant news slots, the Red Lion overflowed with ale and drunks, the carpark struggled to cope, the locals waited for the day to end. The day ended. Hugh and his crew departed heading up another river, all that's left is just the embarrassment of another poor TV appearance to look forward to. One thing is for sure though, I shan't be watching it. The day River Cottage met Crazy Kates Cottage.

A late night shake

By 3.00 am the weary need for a glass of port had set in, a true sign that Christmas can't be that far off. Assisted amiably by friends and family, I had been standing on the beach steadily shaking my nets of the vast shoal of herring they had just become entangled with, a dark night liason that the herring now regret and one that meant plenty of hours of unpicking enmeshed, scaley, slippery, silvery, darling fish.

The Little Lilly and I had slipped out of the harbour at 7.00 the previous evening, the light was changing as the early dusk spread its hands across the sky, the sea was calm but a stiff breeze was making itself noticed as it pawed across the bay. I cast my nets across the flooding tide in a way that would make them fall in towards the growling shore and entrap the unsuspecting fish as they swam away from the rocks chasing the last of the dying days light.

At 9.00 I dragged my son from the 'Wrecked Lion' and his triumphant game of Pool and with his unsuspecting but willing friends, a gathering of neighbours and family the daunting task of clearing the nets began. it wasn't long before boxes filled with fish, the beach was littered by boxes and the pebbles were decorated with deciduous scales, we dug in for a long watch.

A seals head appeared shortly following the nets entering the water, he sniffed the air and blew his approval that his teatime had arrived, I sniffed and blew my dispair as his arrival could spell disaster to my fishing expedition. I made the decision to hang on for the rapidly changing light and then haul for home, I had little expectation of much reward; little did I know.

Swimming down the Irish sea, calling in at the Isle of Man where they pick up the name, 'Manx herring'. Leaving all that behind to cross the Bristol Channel and enter the Bideford bay, where they remain full and filling with roe and healthy oils for several weeks before spawning and uping sticks to head off back upon their migration. It takes a Southwest stir and a boat load of luck to come across the playing shoals these days, the sepia views of a herring full harbour are firmly confined to the past as the men and skills of those men are buried in the local churchyard. But just once in a while as luck will have it, a boat, its nets and the fish are in the same place at the same time.

Over 4000 fish and half a night later, fish boxed, iced and stored, justly deserved port drained, unending thanks to the weary help and a bed calling. Tonight is done, tomorrow, given a fair wind and sea, it's back upon the water, back upon the herring.

Remember Clovellys Herring Festival on the 15th of November starting at 10 am where the Quay will be full of stalls and of course Herring.