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.

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.

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.