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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.
Sunday, 31 January 2010
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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