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.

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.

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.