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Tempting waves dance across the harbour, breaking, foaming, laughing as each sea, grey as a memory, sly as a neighbour, is chased, racing to the shore. The season clock ticks on to another Autumn, when eager boats should be at their fishing best. But aching back days are gone, the once lively livelihood a thought lost, the time too late. The fish discarded, dry bilges untainted by deciduous scales. Where has it all gone?
The valley village prepares for Winter. Coal stacked porches hide the doors of warm as kitten kitchens. Clovelly unaware of its future, celebrates its yesterday with bought from Plymouth herrings, frozen ready for a festival too late to save the men that have given up caring.
The Clovelly Herring Festival is on November the 12th. The harbour will sigh under the ungrateful weight of 'buy me' stalls, welcome guests returning from past years will cheer the day, locally brewed ales will bring the day cheer. An occasional 'Local' herring may make an appearance, somewhere you may find a fisherman. People will be fed, the days aims met, all will be well, the coffers replenished.
What will be next for us? This arthritic year grinds on, closing doors in its wake, sunbaked holiday postcards delayed in flight, gather dust, teasing the calendar with holidays others have enjoyed. Each day rises with a new hurdle. Someone somewhere has got it worse but doesn't know it yet. In our familiar cold stone home we cuddle up beside the fire and wait for better news.
Friday, 12 November 2010
Tuesday, 26 October 2010
From whence I came
Many months have gone by and little done to record the happenings of a stagnant pond of wallowing people. Tides creep in and out of an unwatched harbour while some boatman stand obviously superior to those that shall remain behind waiting to close the door and make sure the lights are well and truly switched off.
Boats and Lobsters. Our life blood seeps away beneath the pebbled ground mingling with the mud stained and sea washed sand. People, once loud about the harbour, leave for term time commitments or hurried, booked and far flighted, sunnier apartments. We stand waiting; waiting for another season to rise, damp like about us.
Money is our direction and our obsession, we follow it, and we accommodate it, giving it unwarranted preference over the reality of our lives. I found myself escaping from the tortuous grip of Clovelly and delivered into the cold, hard North of Orkney. in the pursuit of a fair wage for a fair days work. A friend of mine is contracted to a group known as, 'Tidal Generation Limited,' a company sponsored by, 'Rolls Royce,' who are busy developing a turbine for the generation of electricity, using the strength of the tide. I was employed as Mate aboard his vessel and spent the time doing seaman like tasks such as splicing and whipping and general ropey jobs. During our time we were successful in deploying the turbine off the island called 'Eday'. just one of the many Orkney isles. Orkney was a remarkably beautiful place, sweeping islands and rough hewn shores. The people edging more towards Norwegian than Scottish, were famously kind and friendly. The weather was as you'd expect, trying and tempestuous one minute, still and brilliant the next. I flew in and flew out, I loved every minute and hope to get back.
There is so much to do. I have to set up and establish a smoke house in Clovelly, so I may smoke some of my Clovelly herring. Boats have to be worked on, cleaned, prepared, readied for whatever may happen next. Things, events catch up, usually when you're not watching. How does it happen that one minute you are getting things in order, and the next.... well the next minute you're sat beside a hospital bed where your mother lies with a collapsed lung, following a procedure to drain some fluid from that lung that went badly wrong. Days of worry, of stress and strain follow, family arrives from all quarters, too many visitors the nurses complain, but more arrive to see her, the room fills. Now all we can do is wait. Now all we do is wait. Funny how life seems to bring me back from whence I came and never seems to let me go. Now I wait.
Thursday, 15 July 2010
Surprise Catch
Who could of known that the intense beauty of June's balmy, hot rocking days, would dissolve, sugar like, so quickly into the mire that is July! days enjoyed for their dripping summer promise and steel still waters, have been rudely cast adrift by the turbulent stream of coat soaking rain.
But things happen; events, occasions, challenges, surprises. Take the nine strapping, wholesome, elm clad and leather thole pinned Pilot gigs, arriving from the outreaches of the Westcountry and prepared to task the boundless seas and wild waters across to Lundy Island. The local club from the Torridge took the line honours, with our own bravely exhausted crew coming in an undisgraced sixth. The passion with which these people row floats evidently all about them as they carry their cherished craft along, each at one with their boat.
I had a friendly family fishing trip this week, supposedly for mackerel. But these fish can be a morsel elusive and no matter how many lines you hang over the side or how far you drift, if the water is slightly murky or the fish distracted, there is little hope of catching them. Lucky for me I have a net set for the catching of bait, intended for lobster pots. Legal and tagged, the net swings about on the tide, a mere 35 metres of hope.
The family were surprised when the first mackerel fell aboard, gleeful cheers echoing across the waters meeting each new fish, lapping up the joy as more and more barbecue ready fish were brought aboard, and there amongst the Scomber scombrus, a fish unused to these North Devonian shores, more often found in warmer climes or supermarket shelves, we had netted a Sarda sarda, a Bonito Tuna, a visiting variety of foreign favoured fish. The following day brought another of his kin to bless our catch with his fin.
News soon spread and the Bonitos had their pictures taken with many local celebrities from all the dark , damp corners of the roaring drunk lion. For a further few minutes the Tuna were the talk of the town, until the Red Lion manager bought them, cooked them and eat them. Depriving the Natural History Museum in London of a specimen.
What remains most surprising is that until now, no one else has ever mentioned they had caught one of these fish. Now all of a sudden, the flood waters have spread and it seems everyone knows someone who knows someone who knows.............. Now that is a surprise!
But things happen; events, occasions, challenges, surprises. Take the nine strapping, wholesome, elm clad and leather thole pinned Pilot gigs, arriving from the outreaches of the Westcountry and prepared to task the boundless seas and wild waters across to Lundy Island. The local club from the Torridge took the line honours, with our own bravely exhausted crew coming in an undisgraced sixth. The passion with which these people row floats evidently all about them as they carry their cherished craft along, each at one with their boat.
I had a friendly family fishing trip this week, supposedly for mackerel. But these fish can be a morsel elusive and no matter how many lines you hang over the side or how far you drift, if the water is slightly murky or the fish distracted, there is little hope of catching them. Lucky for me I have a net set for the catching of bait, intended for lobster pots. Legal and tagged, the net swings about on the tide, a mere 35 metres of hope.
The family were surprised when the first mackerel fell aboard, gleeful cheers echoing across the waters meeting each new fish, lapping up the joy as more and more barbecue ready fish were brought aboard, and there amongst the Scomber scombrus, a fish unused to these North Devonian shores, more often found in warmer climes or supermarket shelves, we had netted a Sarda sarda, a Bonito Tuna, a visiting variety of foreign favoured fish. The following day brought another of his kin to bless our catch with his fin.
News soon spread and the Bonitos had their pictures taken with many local celebrities from all the dark , damp corners of the roaring drunk lion. For a further few minutes the Tuna were the talk of the town, until the Red Lion manager bought them, cooked them and eat them. Depriving the Natural History Museum in London of a specimen.
What remains most surprising is that until now, no one else has ever mentioned they had caught one of these fish. Now all of a sudden, the flood waters have spread and it seems everyone knows someone who knows someone who knows.............. Now that is a surprise!
Monday, 28 June 2010
Harbour Dwellers
Clovellys comfortable harbour is home to a wide variety of boating types, such as the 'Lobsterman', a lonely, solitary kind, spending long distant hours away at sea, only returning home in order to mate and drink at the communal watering hole. And then there's the 'Boat Tripping Men', fussing about the Quay or leaning outside the Red Lion, picking and pulling at their daily grockle prey. The 'Charter men', parade up and down the harbour wall with their full fuel bowsers or sit gazing at their chrome covered engines, cocking a snoot at the rest. If you watch really closely you may even spot an occasional 'Trawlerman', best found either early in the morning as he disappears setting off out to sea or in the evening when he returns once more to dry land, there to join his mate at the bar.
Then there are the 'Pleasure Boaters', a hapless lot, flapping about, unsteady, unsure, and unaware. Watching and waiting, listening and learning, they are the flighty, summer visiting flocks of flotsam that fill the beach. They may have read the book, but they have usually forgotten how to tie the knot.
There are other dwellers inhabiting the harbour; the beef brigade, lazing all day in the sun, burning nicely. The quay jumping, "Look at me", and "Brave first timer", tombstoners. The floral displayed, lounging, picnicking, soul mate searching dollies, and the salt soaked, drifting along amongst the seaweed and jellyfish, in and out of the moored boats, harbour hags.
But crowning them all, we have the spider oared, multi-coursed, seperate heading, semi-serious, regatta bound gigging types, with their reigning supreme Lord oarsman tipping the balance in the bow. All together making up the colourful ensemble that fills the seasonal harbour with boats, noise and plenty of bunting.
Then there are the 'Pleasure Boaters', a hapless lot, flapping about, unsteady, unsure, and unaware. Watching and waiting, listening and learning, they are the flighty, summer visiting flocks of flotsam that fill the beach. They may have read the book, but they have usually forgotten how to tie the knot.
There are other dwellers inhabiting the harbour; the beef brigade, lazing all day in the sun, burning nicely. The quay jumping, "Look at me", and "Brave first timer", tombstoners. The floral displayed, lounging, picnicking, soul mate searching dollies, and the salt soaked, drifting along amongst the seaweed and jellyfish, in and out of the moored boats, harbour hags.
But crowning them all, we have the spider oared, multi-coursed, seperate heading, semi-serious, regatta bound gigging types, with their reigning supreme Lord oarsman tipping the balance in the bow. All together making up the colourful ensemble that fills the seasonal harbour with boats, noise and plenty of bunting.
Sunday, 6 June 2010
Neptune to the rescue
The Campervan Cookbook, written by Martin Dorey is a life style collection of easy living, self sustaining recipes and ideas, designed for loving life and keeping things simple. Martin has surfed off the Clovelly coast, at times in weather I wouldn't even go out of doors! It was because of his love of this coastline he came to Clovelly to film a fragment of his 'soon to be' televised book.
Martin was sent to sea in my 'Little Lily' with local fisherman Chris Braund. Their mission, to catch a mackerel, my mission, to carry forth the camera crew and keep out of shot! It was while upon this heading that our attention was alerted towards the shore where two people had got themselves cut off by the rather inconvenient tide. They would, of course, have been quite safe, the tide was ebbing, within half an hour they could walk back to Clovelly. But panic and a lack of local knowledge don't mix. As we approached them, the frantic pair came running into the sea, where the surging waves knocked them over and increased the fear. I had no choice but to rescue them from themselves and with much undisguised relief, the dripping wet two were taken onboard and released upon the harbour.
Filming resumed, but the mackerel appeared to be camera shy so failed to show. Luckily, I had a net set, hoping to catch some fish for bait, but now to be drafted into service as the means for Martins meal. It meant we were able to return to the Quay and off load our clapper board cargo. It also meant that, with the tide slipping away, it was time for Neptune and I to go off and try and find a lobster.
The joy of lobster fishing doesn't lie only in the catch, for me it's in the thrill of the hunt, the getting to know my adversary, learning the rocks and gullies, finding my way into the lives and habits of the sea creatures that are my livelihood. It's about respect, it's about loving the way of life, it's about those days when nothing else matters. Unfortunately this day was not proving to be the most productive. A winning day for the lobsters I fear. Then came the call from my brother.
Across the bay, fishing off Mouth Mill, another beautiful stretch of North Devon coast, my brother in his little boat had incurred engine problems. He was attempting to get home by sculling his boat. Ever the lifeboatman, I left my fruitless pots and Neptune and I steamed the 5 miles across the wide mouthed bay, where I found him slowly edging his way back up along the shore. Taken in tow it was not long before everyone was safely home at anchor. A little of the afternoon remained, so I decided to try my luck and resume my search for those elusive decapods. A few more pots, a sit in the sunshine, a drift in the bay, soaking up the glassy view, why do we do this? I wonder.............
Thursday, 27 May 2010
Somethings will never change.
More yachts call into sheltered Clovelly, making use of the hospitality and the free shower, welcome friends and first time callers. Familiar berths and unsure adventurers with tangles of lines fresh from the locker. The harbour enjoys the soaring masts and tidy hulls, the clanking stays and the rubbing strakes, harking back to a day when wooden hulled luggers loaded with tarred sailors lay side by side filling the Quay pool with nautical banter and sea soaked stories.
1910; one hundred years ago over 50 houses in Clovelly were the homes of fishermen, sailors or Master Mariners, all dragged up within sight of the sea and the smell of the fish. Some were to be trawlermen, toiling in the sailing beamers, bringing home the plaice and sole, others hugged the coast seeking the crab and lobster, while other men found their calling for the open sea and went in search of other lands, proudly returning to the homes and families they loved as the Captain's of fine ocean going ships. The village dripped with the essence of the sea, every cottage bore the memory of a salt tanged tale.
2010; six houses in Clovelly remain as the homes of those hoping to find a living upon the sea. Ten boats in all work from the harbour looking for an income. Our only trawlerman keeps his vessel in nearby Appledore, four boats hug the shore still searching for lobster. The main catch of the day today being people; daily trippers or dogfish danglers, Lundy divers or bird seekers. No Masters of the deep sea crossings, or ocean bound clippers. No line crossed sailors keeping their watch. All that remains are the returning longshoremen, home from the racing waters of Hartland Point or the long stretching coast of Portledge.
An early morning in the late hours of May; the tide brings in a calm, lazy sea, as a stretching sun waves its arms over Exmoor. Fleeting gently the little red, 'Bombay' slips her moorings and quietly leaves the harbour. She is bound down the coast, picking her way amongst the long named, barnacled rocks. All day she shall haul, gather, clear and hopefully catch her living, passing by, heads the, 'Emmie Elizabeth' her place is below Hartland Point, her lobster pots waiting where the Atlantic knows no mercy, and off in the distance, that's the, 'Aurora', she's originally from far away Cromer, familiar with the crab grounds but now fights the winning tides of the North Devon Coast. Soon we will see the, 'Jessica Hettie' braving the wrecks off the Lundy Isle and the, 'Independent' huddled with anglers looking for tea. Much has changed over the years, many men and families have gone, but the heritage they created remains in the call of the sea and the fond telling of the tale. Somethings will never change.
1910; one hundred years ago over 50 houses in Clovelly were the homes of fishermen, sailors or Master Mariners, all dragged up within sight of the sea and the smell of the fish. Some were to be trawlermen, toiling in the sailing beamers, bringing home the plaice and sole, others hugged the coast seeking the crab and lobster, while other men found their calling for the open sea and went in search of other lands, proudly returning to the homes and families they loved as the Captain's of fine ocean going ships. The village dripped with the essence of the sea, every cottage bore the memory of a salt tanged tale.
2010; six houses in Clovelly remain as the homes of those hoping to find a living upon the sea. Ten boats in all work from the harbour looking for an income. Our only trawlerman keeps his vessel in nearby Appledore, four boats hug the shore still searching for lobster. The main catch of the day today being people; daily trippers or dogfish danglers, Lundy divers or bird seekers. No Masters of the deep sea crossings, or ocean bound clippers. No line crossed sailors keeping their watch. All that remains are the returning longshoremen, home from the racing waters of Hartland Point or the long stretching coast of Portledge.
An early morning in the late hours of May; the tide brings in a calm, lazy sea, as a stretching sun waves its arms over Exmoor. Fleeting gently the little red, 'Bombay' slips her moorings and quietly leaves the harbour. She is bound down the coast, picking her way amongst the long named, barnacled rocks. All day she shall haul, gather, clear and hopefully catch her living, passing by, heads the, 'Emmie Elizabeth' her place is below Hartland Point, her lobster pots waiting where the Atlantic knows no mercy, and off in the distance, that's the, 'Aurora', she's originally from far away Cromer, familiar with the crab grounds but now fights the winning tides of the North Devon Coast. Soon we will see the, 'Jessica Hettie' braving the wrecks off the Lundy Isle and the, 'Independent' huddled with anglers looking for tea. Much has changed over the years, many men and families have gone, but the heritage they created remains in the call of the sea and the fond telling of the tale. Somethings will never change.
Friday, 14 May 2010
For want of an hour
Waiting seems to be my lot in life, I seem to spend an excessive amount of time twiddling thumbs or sat in carparks while one person or another deliberates over, leaving, arriving or being on time! For me, on time means 10 minutes early, 'time and tide' and all that. Sadly not all think this way, on most occasions there is no harm done, other than a little frustration. But then again, there may be knock on effects of tidal wave proportions.
Take the other day for example, launch day for my boat, but she's not just another boat, she's been in my family for almost 40 years having been bought and worked by my father, and is considered a member of the family, she's also my livelihood, without her I would be a little lost, she's old and grumpy like many old ladies, she's slow, noisy and argumentative.
Launching off the beach at Clovelly is quite a task at the best of times, not one to relish, so it's always a wise idea to be prepared early, get ready before high water, giving yourself plenty of time, just incase any problems rear their ugly heads, and they do everytime! High water was around 5 0'clock, so I arranged to start at 4 0'clock. Loads of time!
Simple ideas are the best, but easiest to scupper. 4 0'clock came and went as the day stretched towards high water, what did I say about waiting! It was right on the top of the tide that my landroving assistance appeared. Things happen, 'Events', 'I just had to.....' you know the story. But we were now chasing an ebbing tide, and knowing we were late, the 'Tide' was not waiting around, it was off! We slipped, slid, pushed, bumped and ground to a halt. Beaten by pebbles and people. Try as we may, she was in no mood to go any further.
Cups of tea and discussions on, 'best way forwards' led to only one conclusion, a 4 AM start. Not an indearing prospect, but I am never happy when the boat is not safely tucked up in bed, so with a parting promise of early rising help, I washed up the tea cups.
01.41 am...... Eyes wide open! the rushing sounds of Northerly billow gatecrashed my bedroom, I got up with a feeling of urgency, stumbled about, gathering warm clothes, lost socks, making my way outside, it was cold, the fresh wind cut across the black bay, white topped waves rolled ashore, not reaching the boat yet, plenty of time, as long as she lifts, as long as the promised help arrives, still plenty of time. No need to worry, not yet.
04.00 am...... I'm in the boat, waiting. An occasional wave breaks over the transom, still waiting. Get the engine running, get ready, another wave, cold, better bail out that water. Another wave, another, this is getting silly now! Shut the engine off! Between bailing I call home and get my son to come out and help. Two people bailing. waves by now are breaking constantly over the back, I'm soaked, my phone is soaked, dead, cold, icy cold. We notice someone, an early riser, a local man leaving for a long drive to London, he stops and runs to help. I have enough time to run home, sopping wet clothes cling to me, shaking, I phone for help, waking up the promised and the late.
Chest deep, bailing, fruitlessly, continuously, exhaustedly, never the spectator, too well versed in helping others, now I needed help, needed that promised help. Nothing eases the pain of helplessness, no voice is heard, no reaching arm; only the ice cold reality that for want of an hour this wouldn't be happening.
Somehow it all ended, people arrived, people panicked, some finished their breakfast while deciding whether to wear shoes or boots, 'it doesn't do to get wet feet'. A bulldozer was procured, ropes found, attached, and the boat was dragged out of the sea. Gear box, reduction box, engine oil, all needed draining, flushing, cleaning away the harmful salt filled water. A shaky calm came over the adrenalin charged morning and a steaming hot shower woke me to a feeling of being completely alone. Again I waited, this time to get warm.
My boat is now afloat, in the harbour and looking a little fed up but fine. We've been through alot together and I expect alot more to come, and I expect we'll have to wait again for someone to do something, sometime. Maybe oneday someone will wait for me, but for them, the wait will be worth it.
Take the other day for example, launch day for my boat, but she's not just another boat, she's been in my family for almost 40 years having been bought and worked by my father, and is considered a member of the family, she's also my livelihood, without her I would be a little lost, she's old and grumpy like many old ladies, she's slow, noisy and argumentative.
Launching off the beach at Clovelly is quite a task at the best of times, not one to relish, so it's always a wise idea to be prepared early, get ready before high water, giving yourself plenty of time, just incase any problems rear their ugly heads, and they do everytime! High water was around 5 0'clock, so I arranged to start at 4 0'clock. Loads of time!
Simple ideas are the best, but easiest to scupper. 4 0'clock came and went as the day stretched towards high water, what did I say about waiting! It was right on the top of the tide that my landroving assistance appeared. Things happen, 'Events', 'I just had to.....' you know the story. But we were now chasing an ebbing tide, and knowing we were late, the 'Tide' was not waiting around, it was off! We slipped, slid, pushed, bumped and ground to a halt. Beaten by pebbles and people. Try as we may, she was in no mood to go any further.
Cups of tea and discussions on, 'best way forwards' led to only one conclusion, a 4 AM start. Not an indearing prospect, but I am never happy when the boat is not safely tucked up in bed, so with a parting promise of early rising help, I washed up the tea cups.
01.41 am...... Eyes wide open! the rushing sounds of Northerly billow gatecrashed my bedroom, I got up with a feeling of urgency, stumbled about, gathering warm clothes, lost socks, making my way outside, it was cold, the fresh wind cut across the black bay, white topped waves rolled ashore, not reaching the boat yet, plenty of time, as long as she lifts, as long as the promised help arrives, still plenty of time. No need to worry, not yet.
04.00 am...... I'm in the boat, waiting. An occasional wave breaks over the transom, still waiting. Get the engine running, get ready, another wave, cold, better bail out that water. Another wave, another, this is getting silly now! Shut the engine off! Between bailing I call home and get my son to come out and help. Two people bailing. waves by now are breaking constantly over the back, I'm soaked, my phone is soaked, dead, cold, icy cold. We notice someone, an early riser, a local man leaving for a long drive to London, he stops and runs to help. I have enough time to run home, sopping wet clothes cling to me, shaking, I phone for help, waking up the promised and the late.
Chest deep, bailing, fruitlessly, continuously, exhaustedly, never the spectator, too well versed in helping others, now I needed help, needed that promised help. Nothing eases the pain of helplessness, no voice is heard, no reaching arm; only the ice cold reality that for want of an hour this wouldn't be happening.
Somehow it all ended, people arrived, people panicked, some finished their breakfast while deciding whether to wear shoes or boots, 'it doesn't do to get wet feet'. A bulldozer was procured, ropes found, attached, and the boat was dragged out of the sea. Gear box, reduction box, engine oil, all needed draining, flushing, cleaning away the harmful salt filled water. A shaky calm came over the adrenalin charged morning and a steaming hot shower woke me to a feeling of being completely alone. Again I waited, this time to get warm.
My boat is now afloat, in the harbour and looking a little fed up but fine. We've been through alot together and I expect alot more to come, and I expect we'll have to wait again for someone to do something, sometime. Maybe oneday someone will wait for me, but for them, the wait will be worth it.
Sunday, 9 May 2010
May Day's
A rugged, cold high pressure draws in Northerly winds, this is the start of May. Gone the balmy days of Aprils sun showers, where the Quay filled with basking dollies and dudes, sunshaded and barely chested, blanketed out, absorbing every ounce of the sea's airs and graces.
May brings, 'paying for the visit and for a shower yachts and yachties', as my own Merchant Navy mermaid escapes my net to swim back to her other world across the sea, leaving me alone to survive the season. A season that starts with Inspecting boat surveyors with a unique perception of regulations, taking a brief look at languishing craft, nodding unknowingly and leaving before a decision had to be made.
Passing through Germans, filming a 'Travelogue' of the Westcountry, wishing to see Clovelly from the sea but not understanding why the boat wouldn't lie still. Naughty Northerly billow!! Our gig racing stars return fresh faced from the Scilly Isles, proud to have stayed the course and having helped drink the islands dry.
Ready and waiting fishermen head off to the lobster grounds with more and more pots, filling their hopes if not their boats. Ice Cream tourists shiver along the shore to gape at a waterfall dribbling to the beach; while thanks to the general election, canvasing would-be, ballot box political types leave unread leaflets in locked doorways in a vain attempt to secure our allegiance, and our Lording land owner objects at the colour of some of his householders prefered candidate.
So the month of May continues and we are carried along with it, cruising towards our destination, that is a long, hot, glorious summer; let's hope that no mistakes are made this year in the natural navigation of our passage, and we enjoy the fruits of the long laboured hours of winter.
May brings, 'paying for the visit and for a shower yachts and yachties', as my own Merchant Navy mermaid escapes my net to swim back to her other world across the sea, leaving me alone to survive the season. A season that starts with Inspecting boat surveyors with a unique perception of regulations, taking a brief look at languishing craft, nodding unknowingly and leaving before a decision had to be made.
Passing through Germans, filming a 'Travelogue' of the Westcountry, wishing to see Clovelly from the sea but not understanding why the boat wouldn't lie still. Naughty Northerly billow!! Our gig racing stars return fresh faced from the Scilly Isles, proud to have stayed the course and having helped drink the islands dry.
Ready and waiting fishermen head off to the lobster grounds with more and more pots, filling their hopes if not their boats. Ice Cream tourists shiver along the shore to gape at a waterfall dribbling to the beach; while thanks to the general election, canvasing would-be, ballot box political types leave unread leaflets in locked doorways in a vain attempt to secure our allegiance, and our Lording land owner objects at the colour of some of his householders prefered candidate.
So the month of May continues and we are carried along with it, cruising towards our destination, that is a long, hot, glorious summer; let's hope that no mistakes are made this year in the natural navigation of our passage, and we enjoy the fruits of the long laboured hours of winter.
Wednesday, 21 April 2010
Along the coast
There is always something calming about spending a peaceful few hours on the sea, especially when it's lazy calm and inviting. The crumbling coast stretching around the bay plays host to the summer laid lobster pots marked by buoys and dahn flags, close to the well known rocks and land marks with age old names, like; John Tenants, The Lilac, Scragg Ass Water, Old English Sands and Paddons Path.
Aboard the 'Little Lily' I slowly haul my way along the shore. Lilies fine bow slips through the crisp, clean, April water, surging ahead from pot to pot, surprised at every haul, though seldom rewarded. Velvet crabs nip like madmen, prawns flip away between the bars, while hermit crabs roll up pretending they're not there. The possibility of a lobster is all the incentive I need to continue.
Along the shore, perching and watching amongst the rocks the seabirds gather. The cliffs above frown with budding green trees that add colour and warmth to the cold coast. Clovelly lies behind, my departure and my destination as I sail away into another season.
The distant harbour welcomes new arrivals now; the would be sailors keen to learn and armed with enthusiasm, shackled chains and polished gelcoats, and the harbour dollies, on display following the wandering sun around the Quay.
And soon I must return to my empty house and cooling fire, to look out of my Crazy Kate window at a world I know too well.
Aboard the 'Little Lily' I slowly haul my way along the shore. Lilies fine bow slips through the crisp, clean, April water, surging ahead from pot to pot, surprised at every haul, though seldom rewarded. Velvet crabs nip like madmen, prawns flip away between the bars, while hermit crabs roll up pretending they're not there. The possibility of a lobster is all the incentive I need to continue.
Along the shore, perching and watching amongst the rocks the seabirds gather. The cliffs above frown with budding green trees that add colour and warmth to the cold coast. Clovelly lies behind, my departure and my destination as I sail away into another season.
The distant harbour welcomes new arrivals now; the would be sailors keen to learn and armed with enthusiasm, shackled chains and polished gelcoats, and the harbour dollies, on display following the wandering sun around the Quay.
And soon I must return to my empty house and cooling fire, to look out of my Crazy Kate window at a world I know too well.
Sunday, 18 April 2010
April Showers
The harbour fills with its daily dose of people now, an odd assortment of multi-coloured individuals visiting and revisiting, creating new or treading on old memories; laying about like washed up seals, with pints, pasties and picnics spread out and left abandonded on the wall. The same old April showered faces gather in the same old familiar places intent on claiming the sunshine.
Glorious and welcome calm seas invite boats to sea, as fishermen look for lobsters and crabs amongst the rocks, in a desperate attempt to loose the winters long grip. Not many boats have arrived here yet, charter skippers still yawn at the thought of launch days and surveyors impending visits. Out come the dusty flares and fire extinguishers, the first aid packages of damp bandages and plasters; the 'put away safely' important, random items that no boat should sail without are destined to remain lost. Slowly the realisation that a new season has started dawns upon Clovelly's unsuspecting boating fraternity.
Right on cue, as if the roar of the waking Red lion can be heard across the Bideford Bay and around the ragged points of, Baggy, Morte and Bull; the early rising yachtsmen of the great seaport of Ilfracombe, shake out their sails and arrive to plunder the bottled reserves at the salt drenched bar. Catching out the unprepared Harbour Master, guilty of neglecting the importance and value of the 'Yachtsman's Shower Room'.
Beneath the Icelandic Ash cloud we bask in the glories of sunshine and look hopefully forward to a calm and exciting summer. Soon my own boat shall be returning to the harbour and then, let the season begin.
Glorious and welcome calm seas invite boats to sea, as fishermen look for lobsters and crabs amongst the rocks, in a desperate attempt to loose the winters long grip. Not many boats have arrived here yet, charter skippers still yawn at the thought of launch days and surveyors impending visits. Out come the dusty flares and fire extinguishers, the first aid packages of damp bandages and plasters; the 'put away safely' important, random items that no boat should sail without are destined to remain lost. Slowly the realisation that a new season has started dawns upon Clovelly's unsuspecting boating fraternity.
Right on cue, as if the roar of the waking Red lion can be heard across the Bideford Bay and around the ragged points of, Baggy, Morte and Bull; the early rising yachtsmen of the great seaport of Ilfracombe, shake out their sails and arrive to plunder the bottled reserves at the salt drenched bar. Catching out the unprepared Harbour Master, guilty of neglecting the importance and value of the 'Yachtsman's Shower Room'.
Beneath the Icelandic Ash cloud we bask in the glories of sunshine and look hopefully forward to a calm and exciting summer. Soon my own boat shall be returning to the harbour and then, let the season begin.
Sunday, 4 April 2010
Clean and Tidy
From cleaning beaches to fixing ladders, holes drilled and filled, cementing, concreting, chipping and chiselling. The 'busy to be ready' harbour frets as the cold blown, wintry winds, shiver down the damp cliffs, opening the rolling mist door that lets in the disembodied days of weak spring sunshine.
We recycled the uninvited flotsam and jetsam of shore strewn plastic. Excavated the locally abandoned, fly-tipped mountain of lager lout cans. Picked through the pebble dashed debris of deserted detritus. We were a rambling collection of tabarded and bin bagged, litter picking beach cleaners, doing our bit for the enviroment, the biosphere, our own perfect beach and of course the "free for the deserving helpers, donated by the whimpering Red Lion, sausage and chip lunch" which was equally enjoyed by those who came bagless, just for the lunch! We were triumphant in our duty, victorious in our collecting; 30 bags victorious.
To help people achieve their adventurous potential, we have, on, around and about our Quay wall; twisting, climbing, clambering, hanging and descending; ladders built for unseen giants and steps laid down for unwanted ogres. Children, of all ages, can live their piratical dreams as they scale and ascend in and out of their childhood. This winter has seen another episode of repair and reconstruction, with new posts and piles, new gaps and cracks, as unlearned carpentry skills and an unachieved aptitude for masonry are dragged into use, dealing hopefully, competently with the small tasks created by the nit-picking of the Atlantic weather and the erroding of the sea.
We've also had the longshore drifting pebbles, shifted from the harbour entrance. S.E.L Clarke contractors came swing shovelling into town and within a few days, cleared the winter gale deposited shingle, sending it on its merry way to Westward Ho! An annual event, a constant expense, but ready now for the first undaunted sailors to leave the safe comfort of their homeport and brave the perils of Clovelly. Our wide mouthed harbour a welcome sight for many a Bristol Channel wanderer.
So now I sit amongst familiar things, waiting for boats to arrive and chilled sea breezes to take on a warmer air. The tide has let itself out and the sun is trying its best to please. I could almost have forgotten it was Easter, if it wasn't for the noisy, chocolate children, crunching across the beach, the winter, too slow to leave, coldly holds our hands, but at least we're clean and tidy, ready and waiting for when the season arrives.
We recycled the uninvited flotsam and jetsam of shore strewn plastic. Excavated the locally abandoned, fly-tipped mountain of lager lout cans. Picked through the pebble dashed debris of deserted detritus. We were a rambling collection of tabarded and bin bagged, litter picking beach cleaners, doing our bit for the enviroment, the biosphere, our own perfect beach and of course the "free for the deserving helpers, donated by the whimpering Red Lion, sausage and chip lunch" which was equally enjoyed by those who came bagless, just for the lunch! We were triumphant in our duty, victorious in our collecting; 30 bags victorious.
To help people achieve their adventurous potential, we have, on, around and about our Quay wall; twisting, climbing, clambering, hanging and descending; ladders built for unseen giants and steps laid down for unwanted ogres. Children, of all ages, can live their piratical dreams as they scale and ascend in and out of their childhood. This winter has seen another episode of repair and reconstruction, with new posts and piles, new gaps and cracks, as unlearned carpentry skills and an unachieved aptitude for masonry are dragged into use, dealing hopefully, competently with the small tasks created by the nit-picking of the Atlantic weather and the erroding of the sea.
We've also had the longshore drifting pebbles, shifted from the harbour entrance. S.E.L Clarke contractors came swing shovelling into town and within a few days, cleared the winter gale deposited shingle, sending it on its merry way to Westward Ho! An annual event, a constant expense, but ready now for the first undaunted sailors to leave the safe comfort of their homeport and brave the perils of Clovelly. Our wide mouthed harbour a welcome sight for many a Bristol Channel wanderer.
So now I sit amongst familiar things, waiting for boats to arrive and chilled sea breezes to take on a warmer air. The tide has let itself out and the sun is trying its best to please. I could almost have forgotten it was Easter, if it wasn't for the noisy, chocolate children, crunching across the beach, the winter, too slow to leave, coldly holds our hands, but at least we're clean and tidy, ready and waiting for when the season arrives.
Friday, 19 March 2010
Sunny Steve
How many people living or visiting Clovelly today would of heard of Stephen Adams Headon? From 1817 until 1987 there was always a Stephen Headon living in the village. The first was the son of John Headon and Mary Ann Adams, whose surname was to continue for many generations of Headons as a middle name. Who today knows anything about, 'Sunny Steve,' the donkey boy? Born on the 6th of October in 1908, Steve was the son of John Josiah (Jack) Headon, he was great grandson of that first Stephen Headon and great, great grandson of John and Mary Ann. On Thursday the 10th of July in 1941 an article appeared in the, 'News Chronicle,' written by John Devon, entitled, 'The Boy who loved the Sea,' it went on to detail how at the age of 14, Steve and a brother owned and worked two donkeys, 'Gunter,' and 'Daisy,' but the draw of the sea was too strong and Steve reluctantly, sold his share in the donkeys and left Clovelly for the, 'Red Ensign Club,' in London.
Steve was taken under the wing of the Club Commander; Commander Loder, who was able to find him an apprenticeship on a good shipping line. Having been more prone to teasing the local Policeman than concentrating on his studies, Stephen was to find difficulties in mastering the mysteries of the more complicated mathematics involved with navigating a ship, but determination and hard work earned him a proud reward when the whole of Clovelly rejoiced and flew flags on hearing he had become a Second Officer. It had been many years since a Clovelly man had passed as a Master Mariner, Clovelly had high hopes for its son.
Voyages around the world calling in at many exotic, foriegn ports were to follow, until at last he passed as a Chief Officer with only the coveted Masters Ticket left before him. Sunny Steve had to wait while War and Oceans kept him from his goal. Finally the day came when his chance arose to sit his last exam and he excitedly wrote to his father telling him he was coming home. On the 17th day of February in 1941 while crossing the Atlantic, German U-Boat 69 struck Steve's ship the, 'Siamese Prince,' it left no survivors; Sunny Steve was only 32.
Friday, 12 March 2010
Back to the trees
Trees, I first noticed the trees, leafless, crowded, gathering together, comfortable in their surroundings, yawning branched, solid English trees. It's so obvious that, other than a six hour day trip to France last year, I have never been abroad, let alone flown before.
Englands irregular, haphazard, abstract landscape unravels below, leaving behind a seemingly more ordered Continent to this mornings memory. I was returning from my first ever flight and my first ever visit to the beautiful city of Venice where the streets are paved in water.
A few weeks ago I was putting in the bottom of a withy lobster pot when I was visited by the searing, burning pain of a misbehaving back, leaving me to hobble home and come to terms with weeks of discomfort. Knowing that in a few weeks I would be expected to travel abroad, I had no choice but to surrender my bank balance and visit an Osteopath. For those that suffer the unjust slings of back pain, you'll appreciate the melodrama of indecision that was to follow, to pay or to put up with pain. I paid. The lobster pot had to wait.
It was during this anti-inflammatry drug fuelled period of inactivity that the Lord of the Manor, the Hon. John Rous and I were invited to the auspicous event of the Ilfracombe Yacht Club's annual dinner and presentation evening. The humour was at my expense as I came to mistake the date of the evening and consequently visited Ilfracombe twice, it pays to read the invitation properly.
More used to seeing these fellows waterproofed, sail wrapped and afloat, it took a moment to recognize them handsomely dressed, bow tied and accompanied by their wives. I had the greatest pleasure of sitting between the Commodore's wife and that yachtsman of great dignity, John Clements. I first met John when I took on the role as Clovelly's Harbour Master, he arrived with an eclectic squadron of various Ilfracombe parts, his opening salvo was, 'Where do you want us?' while proceeding to organize and berth his fleet. When he visits I always refered to John as the Harbour Master as he has a natural understanding of the way things work and where things go. At the opposite end of the table sat John's wife, Ann, the lady behind the yacht, the face of the name I have so often heard, the matriarch.
Many other welcoming faces swam about the room, the kind Tony Reeves, Mark, who shall always be remembered for showing the stern of his yacht, Haze, to the many who may chase him and the few who may catch him, also it was a pleasure to see, addicted to love Bert, who has visited Clovelly with as many women as he has yachts and hopefully many more to come. Missing from this crazy gang was the irrepressible Mr Duffin, my longest visiting sailor, whose sense of humour is as boundless as the sea, I have no doubt he will be amongst the first visiting boats of the soon to start season. Thank you all for a most pleasant evening.
As the weeks passed my back improved enough for my Venetian visit, where waiting for me was my mermaid, who at present is working aboard and helping to oversee the completion of her new cruise ship, the 'Nieuw Amsterdam' on which she shall be its amazing Second Officer.
It never ceases to amaze me that a maritime nation such as ours has no shipyard capable of building a ship of this magnitude. So much for our maritime heritage! We were given a tour of the ship and yard, its sheer size hard to comprehend, along way from my own little motor boat in Clovelly.
Coming from a simple village background, used to cobbles, narrow lanes and tumbling down cottages, more seaward looking than land grabbing, I was delighted with Venice, though surprised that this national treasure was shabby, ragged, decayed, graffitied and litter strewn at the same time as being magnificent in its old age, noble, proud and beautiful, so overflowing with history it's impossible to breath in its splendour. A land rather like my own, full of visitors and yesterdays ghosts while waiting patiently for another tomorrow.
Too soon I had to turn away from my first foriegn trip and return to England, sadly leaving my mermaid behind. As she returns to her ship I must board the plane and wait as the land unfurls from country to country until at last I see the trees.
With the springtime sun edging its way into our lives, finally it's time for us to grasp the point of what we do, lobster pots, boat trips, is that a yacht heading this way? It's time to go out upon my Quay once more.
Englands irregular, haphazard, abstract landscape unravels below, leaving behind a seemingly more ordered Continent to this mornings memory. I was returning from my first ever flight and my first ever visit to the beautiful city of Venice where the streets are paved in water.
A few weeks ago I was putting in the bottom of a withy lobster pot when I was visited by the searing, burning pain of a misbehaving back, leaving me to hobble home and come to terms with weeks of discomfort. Knowing that in a few weeks I would be expected to travel abroad, I had no choice but to surrender my bank balance and visit an Osteopath. For those that suffer the unjust slings of back pain, you'll appreciate the melodrama of indecision that was to follow, to pay or to put up with pain. I paid. The lobster pot had to wait.
It was during this anti-inflammatry drug fuelled period of inactivity that the Lord of the Manor, the Hon. John Rous and I were invited to the auspicous event of the Ilfracombe Yacht Club's annual dinner and presentation evening. The humour was at my expense as I came to mistake the date of the evening and consequently visited Ilfracombe twice, it pays to read the invitation properly.
More used to seeing these fellows waterproofed, sail wrapped and afloat, it took a moment to recognize them handsomely dressed, bow tied and accompanied by their wives. I had the greatest pleasure of sitting between the Commodore's wife and that yachtsman of great dignity, John Clements. I first met John when I took on the role as Clovelly's Harbour Master, he arrived with an eclectic squadron of various Ilfracombe parts, his opening salvo was, 'Where do you want us?' while proceeding to organize and berth his fleet. When he visits I always refered to John as the Harbour Master as he has a natural understanding of the way things work and where things go. At the opposite end of the table sat John's wife, Ann, the lady behind the yacht, the face of the name I have so often heard, the matriarch.
Many other welcoming faces swam about the room, the kind Tony Reeves, Mark, who shall always be remembered for showing the stern of his yacht, Haze, to the many who may chase him and the few who may catch him, also it was a pleasure to see, addicted to love Bert, who has visited Clovelly with as many women as he has yachts and hopefully many more to come. Missing from this crazy gang was the irrepressible Mr Duffin, my longest visiting sailor, whose sense of humour is as boundless as the sea, I have no doubt he will be amongst the first visiting boats of the soon to start season. Thank you all for a most pleasant evening.
As the weeks passed my back improved enough for my Venetian visit, where waiting for me was my mermaid, who at present is working aboard and helping to oversee the completion of her new cruise ship, the 'Nieuw Amsterdam' on which she shall be its amazing Second Officer.
It never ceases to amaze me that a maritime nation such as ours has no shipyard capable of building a ship of this magnitude. So much for our maritime heritage! We were given a tour of the ship and yard, its sheer size hard to comprehend, along way from my own little motor boat in Clovelly.
Coming from a simple village background, used to cobbles, narrow lanes and tumbling down cottages, more seaward looking than land grabbing, I was delighted with Venice, though surprised that this national treasure was shabby, ragged, decayed, graffitied and litter strewn at the same time as being magnificent in its old age, noble, proud and beautiful, so overflowing with history it's impossible to breath in its splendour. A land rather like my own, full of visitors and yesterdays ghosts while waiting patiently for another tomorrow.
Too soon I had to turn away from my first foriegn trip and return to England, sadly leaving my mermaid behind. As she returns to her ship I must board the plane and wait as the land unfurls from country to country until at last I see the trees.
With the springtime sun edging its way into our lives, finally it's time for us to grasp the point of what we do, lobster pots, boat trips, is that a yacht heading this way? It's time to go out upon my Quay once more.
Tuesday, 23 February 2010
Take twelve stout rods
There upon the grey Quay, beside the skybound, hawser wrapped cannon, cold from the East wind, the fisherman stands, surrounded by his army of lobster pots, waiting for sea day. Fabricated steel, plastic coated, dressed in black netting and defended from the rocks by rubber belting. Modern day, today's parlour pots.
There back in his garden, woodland shelter or stockholm tarred dark cellar, surrounded by the worth of his life and the remnants of his past, the old sepia fisherman once stood. Gathering in his age crippled hands the winter willow withies with which to bend and twist the disregarded skill of making the traditional basket lobster pot.
An almost forgotten art, kept alive by a mere handful of diehard enthusiastic willow weavers and long in the past fishermen. Though rarely used nowadays, it is still nice to have the knowledge of how to weave a lobster pot, to have that connection with the past and if you do use one for fishing, that complete sense of achievement when you reach in and pull out your first lobster.
You'll need a round block to start with, about 9 or 10 inches diameter and 2 inches thick, a series of 12 small holes make the size of the mouth, my own has three sets of holes, 5, 6 and 8 inches. there is a 2x2 inch hole in the centre for the pot stand, which is a length of wood about 3 feet long with 6 pieces of string at the far end.
Gather your rods, you'll need some approximately 6 to 8 feet long, these are your, firsts, seconds and thirds, others about 4 feet long which will be the mouthing and small, thinner rods of about 3 feet for use as ringing. Today if making a lobster pot I buy withies from across the English border into the level lands of Somerset and this year I delighted in the discovery of the fourth generation premier growers of Musgrove Willows at Westonzoyland, well worth the journey, certainly worth a visit.
Take 12 stout rods and place them firmly in the block, weave a mouth until about 7 inches deep. Next firmly push 24 rods down either side of your first main sticks, making 36 in all. With a pair of secateurs snip up any untidy ends, and with a piece of string put a binding or two around the mouth. You are now ready to turn down.
Fit the stand into the 2x2 hole with the strings at the far end. Turn down two sets of 3 rods, careful not to buckle as you bend them, lash off the ends together; alternate sides until all the rods are turned down.
Sharpen to a point the ends of two of the smaller, 3 foot ringing rods and choosing the middle of the main pot sticks, push firmly down alongside. Bending one over and one under, weave the ringing around the pot, adding more ringing when necessary, bringing the first ring off to the crown of the pot, building up to about three good ringers each. As you begin the second ring, you should keep about 7 inches between rings, you'll need to start putting in the thirds. From the same pile as the firsts and seconds but preferably a smaller sample, you'll need 18 thirds, slype the ends and as you continue to weave, ease off the lashings to give the pot its shape, feed in the thirds following every second rod until all 18 are in place.
The third ring should level out your spiral and be ready to be taken off the stand and put on the buffers. We use larger willow or hazel sticks to form the buffers, which is the bottom edge of the pot. Here we have to seperate the rods into bunches once more, this time 9 bunches of 6 rods. Start with one over one under, outside 6 rods, inside 6 rods, building up a good handful of buffers. When you are happy with the amount of buffers you have in it's time to turn down the bottom. Select a rod wide enough to cross the width of the bottom, this will be your holder downer, continuing with your hazel or willow, now to be used as bottom rods, turn down the first bunch while continuing to weave over and under, try to keep weaving with three good bottom sticks at all times. Use the holder downer to hold each bunch as you turn down. Continue around the pot until the last bunch, you shouldn't need the holder downer anymore.
Putting in the bottom is simply a matter of weaving around and around, feeding in new rods and working in older rods, making sure to keep the bottom flat and tight with no gaps for the lobsters to escape through, until you've worked down to 9 ends, these ends must be plaited in 3s, lashed off and turned back inside the pot where they can be secured and that as they simply say is that.
Why not give it a try.
There back in his garden, woodland shelter or stockholm tarred dark cellar, surrounded by the worth of his life and the remnants of his past, the old sepia fisherman once stood. Gathering in his age crippled hands the winter willow withies with which to bend and twist the disregarded skill of making the traditional basket lobster pot.
An almost forgotten art, kept alive by a mere handful of diehard enthusiastic willow weavers and long in the past fishermen. Though rarely used nowadays, it is still nice to have the knowledge of how to weave a lobster pot, to have that connection with the past and if you do use one for fishing, that complete sense of achievement when you reach in and pull out your first lobster.
You'll need a round block to start with, about 9 or 10 inches diameter and 2 inches thick, a series of 12 small holes make the size of the mouth, my own has three sets of holes, 5, 6 and 8 inches. there is a 2x2 inch hole in the centre for the pot stand, which is a length of wood about 3 feet long with 6 pieces of string at the far end.
Gather your rods, you'll need some approximately 6 to 8 feet long, these are your, firsts, seconds and thirds, others about 4 feet long which will be the mouthing and small, thinner rods of about 3 feet for use as ringing. Today if making a lobster pot I buy withies from across the English border into the level lands of Somerset and this year I delighted in the discovery of the fourth generation premier growers of Musgrove Willows at Westonzoyland, well worth the journey, certainly worth a visit.
Take 12 stout rods and place them firmly in the block, weave a mouth until about 7 inches deep. Next firmly push 24 rods down either side of your first main sticks, making 36 in all. With a pair of secateurs snip up any untidy ends, and with a piece of string put a binding or two around the mouth. You are now ready to turn down.
Fit the stand into the 2x2 hole with the strings at the far end. Turn down two sets of 3 rods, careful not to buckle as you bend them, lash off the ends together; alternate sides until all the rods are turned down.
Sharpen to a point the ends of two of the smaller, 3 foot ringing rods and choosing the middle of the main pot sticks, push firmly down alongside. Bending one over and one under, weave the ringing around the pot, adding more ringing when necessary, bringing the first ring off to the crown of the pot, building up to about three good ringers each. As you begin the second ring, you should keep about 7 inches between rings, you'll need to start putting in the thirds. From the same pile as the firsts and seconds but preferably a smaller sample, you'll need 18 thirds, slype the ends and as you continue to weave, ease off the lashings to give the pot its shape, feed in the thirds following every second rod until all 18 are in place.
The third ring should level out your spiral and be ready to be taken off the stand and put on the buffers. We use larger willow or hazel sticks to form the buffers, which is the bottom edge of the pot. Here we have to seperate the rods into bunches once more, this time 9 bunches of 6 rods. Start with one over one under, outside 6 rods, inside 6 rods, building up a good handful of buffers. When you are happy with the amount of buffers you have in it's time to turn down the bottom. Select a rod wide enough to cross the width of the bottom, this will be your holder downer, continuing with your hazel or willow, now to be used as bottom rods, turn down the first bunch while continuing to weave over and under, try to keep weaving with three good bottom sticks at all times. Use the holder downer to hold each bunch as you turn down. Continue around the pot until the last bunch, you shouldn't need the holder downer anymore.
Putting in the bottom is simply a matter of weaving around and around, feeding in new rods and working in older rods, making sure to keep the bottom flat and tight with no gaps for the lobsters to escape through, until you've worked down to 9 ends, these ends must be plaited in 3s, lashed off and turned back inside the pot where they can be secured and that as they simply say is that.
Why not give it a try.
Saturday, 20 February 2010
What the Devil!
A clanging, clanking, crashing can cacophony as Clovelly children race and cheer, rattling empty baked bean, tomato soup, spaghetti hooped tins and bins down the echoing cobbled orchestrated street of unearthly din.
All towns and villages have their dark age traditions, their legends, beliefs and myths. Each has its own way of seeing out the old dead winter, ushering in the swept clean spring. Of ridding homes and shadowed lanes of murky, mayhem and mischief, of freshly beginning anew; opening windows on a shiny clear day and breathing fresh dewy air.
Some places race about with burning, scorching tar barrels, others masquerade as dancing hobby horses and parade about their drunken town, for many it's May poles that get them laughing. Throughout the spring, men, women and children take part in archaic rituals whose origins have slipped the memory of time. Here in Clovelly we have Lanshard.
The springtime hungry gap of Lent is a time for fasting, giving up for atime the over indulgences and vices we take for granted today and looking closer at what spiritually, should be more important; for letting in faith and driving out temptation. In forgotten days here in Clovelly, the clearing of winter remnants, the banishing of dark day ills and in expectation of the 40 long days ahead became known as Lent shard, from the smashing of empty pots and storage jars that once held the winter provisions, preventing the merry mischief making Devil from finding a hiding place and enticing the householders to stray from their fast.
So today, from the gluttony of a lemon squeezed and sugar sprinkled pancake tea, the local children with the unneeded excuse for making a noise, rattle their tins, bang their bins and chase the Devil down the street, off the Square, away from Back Lane, along Independent Street, through Fish Street, out onto the Quay and away into the sea to be washed up on someone else's unsuspecting shore. Keeping Clovelly free of the Devil for one more year.
It is a tradition I look back on with fondness, remembering the hunt for the biggest drum, searching through the old village rubbish tips for the loudest barrel, the occasional old lady who complained of the din, so we ran passed her house just once more for fun. Watching as my own children grew to take part and mothers gathered to cheer as another generation felt the joy of 'Tin Night'.
Sadly times change. This year saw only three children take part, my nephew and nieces, only three to keep alive a tradition that each past generation has laughing stories to tell of; that is as much apart of living in Clovelly as cobble stones and donkeys. A tradition wanes, a village pales, for what is a village that forgets its myths and legends, what is a village without the people with the passion to take part in its rituals. Where are the mothers and fathers, hiding from tradition, where are the children, safely wasting away in front of a flickering screen.
For me, my brother, sisters and friends, my children and families children, we have our memories and are glad we have our Lanshard.
All towns and villages have their dark age traditions, their legends, beliefs and myths. Each has its own way of seeing out the old dead winter, ushering in the swept clean spring. Of ridding homes and shadowed lanes of murky, mayhem and mischief, of freshly beginning anew; opening windows on a shiny clear day and breathing fresh dewy air.
Some places race about with burning, scorching tar barrels, others masquerade as dancing hobby horses and parade about their drunken town, for many it's May poles that get them laughing. Throughout the spring, men, women and children take part in archaic rituals whose origins have slipped the memory of time. Here in Clovelly we have Lanshard.
The springtime hungry gap of Lent is a time for fasting, giving up for atime the over indulgences and vices we take for granted today and looking closer at what spiritually, should be more important; for letting in faith and driving out temptation. In forgotten days here in Clovelly, the clearing of winter remnants, the banishing of dark day ills and in expectation of the 40 long days ahead became known as Lent shard, from the smashing of empty pots and storage jars that once held the winter provisions, preventing the merry mischief making Devil from finding a hiding place and enticing the householders to stray from their fast.
So today, from the gluttony of a lemon squeezed and sugar sprinkled pancake tea, the local children with the unneeded excuse for making a noise, rattle their tins, bang their bins and chase the Devil down the street, off the Square, away from Back Lane, along Independent Street, through Fish Street, out onto the Quay and away into the sea to be washed up on someone else's unsuspecting shore. Keeping Clovelly free of the Devil for one more year.
It is a tradition I look back on with fondness, remembering the hunt for the biggest drum, searching through the old village rubbish tips for the loudest barrel, the occasional old lady who complained of the din, so we ran passed her house just once more for fun. Watching as my own children grew to take part and mothers gathered to cheer as another generation felt the joy of 'Tin Night'.
Sadly times change. This year saw only three children take part, my nephew and nieces, only three to keep alive a tradition that each past generation has laughing stories to tell of; that is as much apart of living in Clovelly as cobble stones and donkeys. A tradition wanes, a village pales, for what is a village that forgets its myths and legends, what is a village without the people with the passion to take part in its rituals. Where are the mothers and fathers, hiding from tradition, where are the children, safely wasting away in front of a flickering screen.
For me, my brother, sisters and friends, my children and families children, we have our memories and are glad we have our Lanshard.
Sunday, 31 January 2010
Party Politics
Happy faces, drunken glances, slurred chances, misconstrued passes. Clovelly people leave their inhibitions tucked up behind closed doors and venture out to the wrecked Red Lion, taking part and making themselves apart of the, oh! how exciting, RNLI, SOS fund raising, curry and quiz night.
The curry is released upon the public at a bargain for some £5.00, while the questions are unleashed pouring fluidly onto and into an already volatile collection of quick drinking, quicker thinking, rather too serious quizzers.
Like most nights in the gathered bar, there is always one that has had that one more than enough and ends up legless, trouserless and unless someone sorts him out, homeless!
With thanks to someone who shall remain nameless, the night was double booked with a fine collection of ladies darters who enjoyed the full moon spectacle put on show by a tipsy quiz team member. The dark, star blessed night rollicked on under a mess of unheard questions raising a pretty penny for a worthwhile cause.
Hardly a night passes before the hallowed, ale stained floors of the ready for anything Lion bears witnesses once more to the ever so, regret it in the morning, drunken sailor, sing song, collateral damaged drunks. It was the night of the Clovelly Estate Companies staff party.
The night began with the gathering staff collecting together at the red hot, fire side watering hole, tempered by concessionary full glasses, with thanks to the Lord of the Manor, and gradually spreading out to fill the bars in search of food and music. A few unwelcome deposits with limited baseline programming arrive to find drinks and retreat into a darker corner, while our Alpha male, Lord of all he surveys, wanders amongst his subjects, some of which, unaware of rhythm have found the dance floor and are intent on making a good night of it.
Surrounded by local people enjoying the fruits of village life, coming together for a night of fun and belly chuckling laughter, seeing old friends. With the parish hierarchy blending seamlessly with the lower and even lower classes, realizing that this is what being part of a community is all about, the living, working, struggling and playing together, where our children share the experience of school and the elderly have the company of the young. For some it maybe just a place to live for many others it's home. Party on.
The curry is released upon the public at a bargain for some £5.00, while the questions are unleashed pouring fluidly onto and into an already volatile collection of quick drinking, quicker thinking, rather too serious quizzers.
Like most nights in the gathered bar, there is always one that has had that one more than enough and ends up legless, trouserless and unless someone sorts him out, homeless!
With thanks to someone who shall remain nameless, the night was double booked with a fine collection of ladies darters who enjoyed the full moon spectacle put on show by a tipsy quiz team member. The dark, star blessed night rollicked on under a mess of unheard questions raising a pretty penny for a worthwhile cause.
Hardly a night passes before the hallowed, ale stained floors of the ready for anything Lion bears witnesses once more to the ever so, regret it in the morning, drunken sailor, sing song, collateral damaged drunks. It was the night of the Clovelly Estate Companies staff party.
The night began with the gathering staff collecting together at the red hot, fire side watering hole, tempered by concessionary full glasses, with thanks to the Lord of the Manor, and gradually spreading out to fill the bars in search of food and music. A few unwelcome deposits with limited baseline programming arrive to find drinks and retreat into a darker corner, while our Alpha male, Lord of all he surveys, wanders amongst his subjects, some of which, unaware of rhythm have found the dance floor and are intent on making a good night of it.
Surrounded by local people enjoying the fruits of village life, coming together for a night of fun and belly chuckling laughter, seeing old friends. With the parish hierarchy blending seamlessly with the lower and even lower classes, realizing that this is what being part of a community is all about, the living, working, struggling and playing together, where our children share the experience of school and the elderly have the company of the young. For some it maybe just a place to live for many others it's home. Party on.
Friday, 15 January 2010
Going up Telegraph Hill coming Down!
It was about 10.15 at night, the cold of the snow damp air bit into my lungs as I tried in vain to run after the car. She couldn't stop, if she had she'd never get going again without another push and I had just about pushed myself out. Vehicles lined up behind us slowly edging themselves away from the long night behind. Men with 4x4's and good old Land Rovers were waiting at the top for those, like us that got into difficulty, good men.
It was a winters day, cold, biting cold in the wind, we left the sea behind and went to Exeter, the Mermaids car needed a service, and when you have one of those cars that speak to you, you have to take them to those garages with carpets and lots of glass windows, where they offer you coffee while telling you the cost. It was getting colder.
My baby boy, Charlie, lives at Teignmouth with his young lady, so while in the area I thought it would be nice to call upon them, after all Teignmouth is not far from Exeter, just up and over Telegraph Hill. Why does that all sound so simple?
Having no transport for the rest of the morning; it was going to take the garage all morning to shampoo and condition the car, we Parked and rode into the city, where we were at the mercy of the Sales!! I prefered the book shop option and was lost for an hour or more in Waterstones. The cold became damp as rain began to filter its way down, the impending forecast for snow looked doubtful, but you never know just what's around the next bend.
Time slips by and it was back to the garage we went, the Mermaid handed over her purse and cried a little, or was it cursed a little, every sailor knows the power of a mermaids curse! Off we went looking for the coast.
At first it was just rain but as we climbed towards Ashcombe Cross it was snow, a little, a bit more and then a settling, traffic faultered as the slip road to the coast was closed, cars began to creep, warily along, while others blazed passed in an almost irreverent fashion, destined for insurance claims and apologies. We switched the radio to BBC Radio Devon, hoping for updating forecasts. The Mermaids newly serviced car did a little sliding act so we took the brave decision to forego Teignmouth and head back to the Northern end of the county, which meant another scale of Telegraph Hill.
If everyone had remained in the left hand lane and steadily climbed the hill then maybe, just maybe.... but it wasn't to be. Some people just wanted to get there quicker than the rest, wherever there may have been. Slowly we ground to a halt, an icy, snowbound, chillingly silent halt.
Radio Devon announced to all that were listening that two hills outside of Exeter, Halden Hill and Telegraph Hill, had become blocked due to the snow. Hundreds of cars, vans, lorries and whatever else were unable to move, the conditions were bad, the snow was still falling, the emergency services were on their way. We sat and sat and sat and while we sat we listened and waited. The cars behind waited. Those ahead waited, we all waited.
Some people can just sit and wait, content to worry away the night, tapping on their mobile phones letting the loved ones into the secret of their predicament, while others wrap in hats and coats and sleep, hoping to wake when it's all over and they're home in the warm. Meanwhile Radio Devon gallantly gathers the troops and settle down for a long night of exposure, keeping up the war spirit with a constant flow of updates and text messages from family to loved ones and loved ones to family.
Not being one of those, happy to wait types, I did a 'Captain Oates' and just went outside, I may be sometime,' I left the mermaid in the warm of her car and went in search of answers. I first found a rather excited police officer, who laughingly said, "We don't get a disaster very often, we've got to make the most of it.' I wondered about him. The only other officer on scene had his finger in his ear attempting to listen to, 'Silver Commander,' our unseen hero. This officer, from a hesitant start became the lifeline of the night, a true to life, on the freezing scene saviour. Together we walked back down the hill knocking on peoples windows explaining the situation as it was and battled to free up the right hand lane of vehicles so that the snow ploughs could save the day.
Mermaids need water. Being sat in a car for hour after hour tends to upset their inner balance, they begin to really need the loo!! and on occasion, especially when the opportunity arises, they tell everyone through Radio Devon of their plight! Thank goodness for the dark.
Six and a half hours into the night we were flooded by blue and amber flashing lights, Ploughs, gritters, mountain rescue, unmarked police Range Rovers, swept by like a trailer from an American disaster movie, 'Terror on Telegraph Hill!!' One by one vehicles began to move off, waved out by important, high viz tabbarded highway men. The end was sighted. Just the long journey across the wilds of Devon to navigate. It's a good job I had a mermaid on the helm.
It was a winters day, cold, biting cold in the wind, we left the sea behind and went to Exeter, the Mermaids car needed a service, and when you have one of those cars that speak to you, you have to take them to those garages with carpets and lots of glass windows, where they offer you coffee while telling you the cost. It was getting colder.
My baby boy, Charlie, lives at Teignmouth with his young lady, so while in the area I thought it would be nice to call upon them, after all Teignmouth is not far from Exeter, just up and over Telegraph Hill. Why does that all sound so simple?
Having no transport for the rest of the morning; it was going to take the garage all morning to shampoo and condition the car, we Parked and rode into the city, where we were at the mercy of the Sales!! I prefered the book shop option and was lost for an hour or more in Waterstones. The cold became damp as rain began to filter its way down, the impending forecast for snow looked doubtful, but you never know just what's around the next bend.
Time slips by and it was back to the garage we went, the Mermaid handed over her purse and cried a little, or was it cursed a little, every sailor knows the power of a mermaids curse! Off we went looking for the coast.
At first it was just rain but as we climbed towards Ashcombe Cross it was snow, a little, a bit more and then a settling, traffic faultered as the slip road to the coast was closed, cars began to creep, warily along, while others blazed passed in an almost irreverent fashion, destined for insurance claims and apologies. We switched the radio to BBC Radio Devon, hoping for updating forecasts. The Mermaids newly serviced car did a little sliding act so we took the brave decision to forego Teignmouth and head back to the Northern end of the county, which meant another scale of Telegraph Hill.
If everyone had remained in the left hand lane and steadily climbed the hill then maybe, just maybe.... but it wasn't to be. Some people just wanted to get there quicker than the rest, wherever there may have been. Slowly we ground to a halt, an icy, snowbound, chillingly silent halt.
Radio Devon announced to all that were listening that two hills outside of Exeter, Halden Hill and Telegraph Hill, had become blocked due to the snow. Hundreds of cars, vans, lorries and whatever else were unable to move, the conditions were bad, the snow was still falling, the emergency services were on their way. We sat and sat and sat and while we sat we listened and waited. The cars behind waited. Those ahead waited, we all waited.
Some people can just sit and wait, content to worry away the night, tapping on their mobile phones letting the loved ones into the secret of their predicament, while others wrap in hats and coats and sleep, hoping to wake when it's all over and they're home in the warm. Meanwhile Radio Devon gallantly gathers the troops and settle down for a long night of exposure, keeping up the war spirit with a constant flow of updates and text messages from family to loved ones and loved ones to family.
Not being one of those, happy to wait types, I did a 'Captain Oates' and just went outside, I may be sometime,' I left the mermaid in the warm of her car and went in search of answers. I first found a rather excited police officer, who laughingly said, "We don't get a disaster very often, we've got to make the most of it.' I wondered about him. The only other officer on scene had his finger in his ear attempting to listen to, 'Silver Commander,' our unseen hero. This officer, from a hesitant start became the lifeline of the night, a true to life, on the freezing scene saviour. Together we walked back down the hill knocking on peoples windows explaining the situation as it was and battled to free up the right hand lane of vehicles so that the snow ploughs could save the day.
Mermaids need water. Being sat in a car for hour after hour tends to upset their inner balance, they begin to really need the loo!! and on occasion, especially when the opportunity arises, they tell everyone through Radio Devon of their plight! Thank goodness for the dark.
Six and a half hours into the night we were flooded by blue and amber flashing lights, Ploughs, gritters, mountain rescue, unmarked police Range Rovers, swept by like a trailer from an American disaster movie, 'Terror on Telegraph Hill!!' One by one vehicles began to move off, waved out by important, high viz tabbarded highway men. The end was sighted. Just the long journey across the wilds of Devon to navigate. It's a good job I had a mermaid on the helm.
Winter
Autumn rained, with rain came wind, with wind came growing seas, sending them uninvited upon the solid, cold, stony shore. Shadows of a best forgotten summer fell dark and long across the turning tide with only the noise of fish hungry seagulls gathering at the waters crashing edge. Winter has come to call.
The Harbour, empty now of summers visitors; the pebbles are left to grind alone, leaving only the sad Christmas dangling display to wind along the green, grey walls with their lights falling upon the foaming tide. Little warmth fills the day as the Peeping Tom sun hides below the naked treetops, slipping slowly into another year, into another tomorrow. Once more a cloud full year falls behind the wake of what may have been; days turn over damp new leaves and we just have to wait and see.
Boats are put to bed, nets hung out to dry; sleeping tight until the distant spring returns. Our inevitable course is set as signs of Russia's terrible icy blast loom dark and gloomy across the slow, steel sea, like the ever changing dreams of the ever changing locals, the waiting for the bar to open locals, the hoping for the storm to die down locals, the playing in the childhood snow locals.
Frost grips the inside of the blind morning cottage as the ill-fitting winter windows protest against the lazy east wind. Draughts shiver under doors and find unsuspecting necks. Homes and curtains remain closed, with only smoking chimneys telling of the whereabouts of the warm inside. Soon the chilled days will lengthen and the clinging cold will strengthen and we will wait beside the kettle until the sun tips its hat over far Saunton Sands once more.
Throughout the village the put away festive cheer and needle dropping days pass relatively, thankfully undisturbed, this is a village in winter, this is Clovelly in winter.
The Harbour, empty now of summers visitors; the pebbles are left to grind alone, leaving only the sad Christmas dangling display to wind along the green, grey walls with their lights falling upon the foaming tide. Little warmth fills the day as the Peeping Tom sun hides below the naked treetops, slipping slowly into another year, into another tomorrow. Once more a cloud full year falls behind the wake of what may have been; days turn over damp new leaves and we just have to wait and see.
Boats are put to bed, nets hung out to dry; sleeping tight until the distant spring returns. Our inevitable course is set as signs of Russia's terrible icy blast loom dark and gloomy across the slow, steel sea, like the ever changing dreams of the ever changing locals, the waiting for the bar to open locals, the hoping for the storm to die down locals, the playing in the childhood snow locals.
Frost grips the inside of the blind morning cottage as the ill-fitting winter windows protest against the lazy east wind. Draughts shiver under doors and find unsuspecting necks. Homes and curtains remain closed, with only smoking chimneys telling of the whereabouts of the warm inside. Soon the chilled days will lengthen and the clinging cold will strengthen and we will wait beside the kettle until the sun tips its hat over far Saunton Sands once more.
Throughout the village the put away festive cheer and needle dropping days pass relatively, thankfully undisturbed, this is a village in winter, this is Clovelly in winter.
Saturday, 2 January 2010
Happy New Year
The hotel residents arrived in their new and ever so nearly new vehicles, emptying their boots of wheeled trunks, laptop bags and just in case cases. Managing to find the reception desk, they booked in with the bored and 'tired from the night before' receptionist whose mind wanders between, 'what to cook for tea and the dogs need a walk', while Shuffling couple by couple into their allotted rooms. Where 'she' finds a hanger for that special (expensive) dress and 'he' lays out his best (only) suit. Happily ensconced in their rooms she finds the bathroom and a mirror and he perches himself on the edge of the too soft bed to, 'work' on his laptop, or flicks on the TV to keep abreast of the breaking world news. He's already craving the ciggie he intends giving up tomorrow and she'll just be happy with plenty of gin in her ice and tonic. Outside, the grey harbour lays unseen and beautiful.
Rolling into the carpark, high above the 'heritage' village, pouring out of their vehicles, arrive the, 'day visitors' dressing for an Arctic expedition in hats, gloves, scarves and thermal lined, gortexed, breathable, waterproofed and wind cheating jackets and displaying a multi-coloured array of Christmas present wellies. An over excited, keen as mustard dad tries to hurry them up; while a never been rushed, never going to be rushed mum makes certain everyone, including dad, is tucked in and the rather be Playstationed or Xboxed, kids gather in a muddle, jostling, not looking forward to, the route march ahead.
Local types tired of having to walk around and about people, hide behind closed doors and growl at the rude, peering, leering, window pressing, door nosing visitors. "We used to have the village to ourselves in the winter." Attention deficit kids hang off railings, "Don't do that dear," and plastic bagged dog pooh gets deposited behind flower pots! The sanctuary of the bar stool is disturbed by back packed and ruck sacked leaners, asking too many questions while ordering too few drinks. Oh! for the dead of winter when the bar stools stand vacant and the bar staff have time to read the gossip monthlies.
Between pouring best brewed pints and serving plates of chefs finest, harassed bar staff wait patiently for minds to be made up, decisions to be kept, the smallest change to be counted out and, "Mine was the chips with! not the chips without!!" Waiting only for that much needed whisky at the end of shift.
Hotel residents dressed in their finery and stuffed with yet more turkey, drink the health of the 'local ale' as the night draws on, witnessing the locals badly trying to dance at the New Year disco. The evening banter develops into a brooding brawl, spilling out onto the Quay wall, giving more meaning to, 'fireworks at midnight.' Which by the way, were very well received, when midnight did arrive and the New Year, 2010, began.
The hung-over rumble of wheeled cases over cobble stones, disturbed the morning and the hatch-back clunk prised opened the eyes of the new day as the remnants of the night before were deposited safely into the waiting cars. The time to depart throbbed and the smile on the face of the receptionist hid the pain of that last large white wine. Another year, another hangover, another good night in Clovelly.
Happy New Year everyone, welcome to 2010
Rolling into the carpark, high above the 'heritage' village, pouring out of their vehicles, arrive the, 'day visitors' dressing for an Arctic expedition in hats, gloves, scarves and thermal lined, gortexed, breathable, waterproofed and wind cheating jackets and displaying a multi-coloured array of Christmas present wellies. An over excited, keen as mustard dad tries to hurry them up; while a never been rushed, never going to be rushed mum makes certain everyone, including dad, is tucked in and the rather be Playstationed or Xboxed, kids gather in a muddle, jostling, not looking forward to, the route march ahead.
Local types tired of having to walk around and about people, hide behind closed doors and growl at the rude, peering, leering, window pressing, door nosing visitors. "We used to have the village to ourselves in the winter." Attention deficit kids hang off railings, "Don't do that dear," and plastic bagged dog pooh gets deposited behind flower pots! The sanctuary of the bar stool is disturbed by back packed and ruck sacked leaners, asking too many questions while ordering too few drinks. Oh! for the dead of winter when the bar stools stand vacant and the bar staff have time to read the gossip monthlies.
Between pouring best brewed pints and serving plates of chefs finest, harassed bar staff wait patiently for minds to be made up, decisions to be kept, the smallest change to be counted out and, "Mine was the chips with! not the chips without!!" Waiting only for that much needed whisky at the end of shift.
Hotel residents dressed in their finery and stuffed with yet more turkey, drink the health of the 'local ale' as the night draws on, witnessing the locals badly trying to dance at the New Year disco. The evening banter develops into a brooding brawl, spilling out onto the Quay wall, giving more meaning to, 'fireworks at midnight.' Which by the way, were very well received, when midnight did arrive and the New Year, 2010, began.
The hung-over rumble of wheeled cases over cobble stones, disturbed the morning and the hatch-back clunk prised opened the eyes of the new day as the remnants of the night before were deposited safely into the waiting cars. The time to depart throbbed and the smile on the face of the receptionist hid the pain of that last large white wine. Another year, another hangover, another good night in Clovelly.
Happy New Year everyone, welcome to 2010
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