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.