What's next?

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.