Feasts, Festivals and Friends

Never let it be said that life in a seemingly fast asleep fishing village, content to sit out it's old age, can ever be boring or dull; with it's nocturnal wanderings and silent intrigue, where one persons drama becomes the vine of gossips delight. Sleep it may, but village life continues as each generation melts into the pot of yesterday; with the feasts and festivals of today remembered through the photographs and videos hidden in the drawers of tomorrow. We watch as we celebrate the life and colour of the village, its people, its traditions and its past; last week we enjoyed and endulged in the fish, fun filled Herring Festival with its smoked, soused, rollmop, baked, grilled, fried, bloatered and net fresh herrings, silver darlings, unrivalled kings of the sea. They come swimming down through the Irish sea year after year visiting our bay, their breeding bay, where they will spawn, beginning again the seven year life cycle that brings them back from whitebait to fully mature fish.
The festival was a day marinaded in atmosphere as people came to delight, taste and take home some fine fare, from fishcakes to fillets, from cider to cheese, even the local television came to cover the day. It is through events such as these that we learn to see the village built on fish by men and women brought up on fish; the lives of one dependent on the existance of the other. We know of some families still in Clovelly whose ancestors came here because of the sea and the
herring, stayed because of the sea and the herring and remain thanks to the sea and the herring. My own family surviving five generations as mariners and herring men. For over 20 years I have been a herring man. Today people make Clovelly their home for different reasons, having little understanding of the seasonal fishery, unaware of the night long boats drifting across the tide of the lantern lit bay, the shaking of the fishful nets in the cold, still air of the harbour, leaving the pebbled beach slippery and glistening with silver scales; where once donkeys laboured through the pannier and basket laden night. Boats no longer land the great shoals, picarooners don't line the shore, the smell of tanned nets no more hang drying from the wall. For most those days are long passed, for me it is a past still alive and will remain as long as there are still some herring being landed.
When I sit alone at sea in the cold, dark night, gently rocking with the Southerly swell, looking back at the Christmas lit village; I think of those fast asleep houses, unaware of their past and when it's time to haul in the nets, watching the fish come aboard, I think of all the men gone now and how hard it was for them as they often toiled with their heavy nets and I wonder will I be one of the last.
With the nets hauled, fish counted, customers supplied and satisfied all that remains to do is the most important part of the season; with fish and car I head into Devons hinterland, knocking, calling, visiting and surprising my most favourite people, those who have bought herring from me over the last 20 years, those who have eaten herring all their lives, who remember their parents salting in herring for the Winter, those who tell stories of herring for breakfast and herring for tea, whose lives are richer for the taste and goodness of Clovelly herring and my life shall never be boring or dull only richer for the knowing of them all.

A week to remember.

I watched them go to sea, walk down the beach, saying their farewells, they boarded their boat, the "Blue Hooker,"and headed off, rounding the Quay and away down the choppy shore, the boat dipping with the swells, the men preparing for another days fishing, just as they had the days and weeks and months before. I intended to go out myself, it was good herring weather, grey and a little blustery but not too bad, or so it seemed. I decided to have a look at the sea state from behind the Red Lion, where a motley gang of fisher types were gathering, watching the winds freshen and sea build; they were expecting to see the return of the boat, but as yet there was no sign. Two men decided to take a look from the cliff top, while the Honorary Secretary of the Lifeboat headed to the boathouse inorder to call the boat or the Coastguard and get them to return home. My decision as to whether or not I was going to sea was answered when the Coastguard requested us to launch, as helmsman I climbed aboard the Lifeboat and we slipped the boat to sea. That was ten years ago on the 12th of November; today we remember them as the great oaks of the village that they were, we remember as if it were yesterday, the loss, the fear, the guilt, the desperate need to bring them home. The endless, hopeful searching, the slow realization of tragedy, the helpless watching as the pain sets in, the numbness that hangs over a village waking to the news. Amidst this time of rememberance, when we stand in silence for the many sevice men and women whose sacrifice means we today can live in peace, we also remember those whose only wish was to earn a living, provide for their families and support their community as best they could, whose loss is our loss.
This week we also said goodbye to another local character, the Chipper Skipper, Ralph Atkinson who finally lost his long battle with cancer, he ran his charter boat the "Hooker," from Clovelly for many years and became renowned for his bacon butties, very bad jokes and bugle calls; another one gone, but Clovelly harbour has endured many ships passing throughout its long life, from storms and calms, wrecks and rescues, it is through such adversity that character forms; and these are the foundation stones of our harbour.

The Old Fisherman

He sits in his damp, dark workshop, surrounded by the debris of a long fishing past, both his and that of his never to be forgotten ancestors; a variety of fish boxes, buoy's and floats,ropes, anchors, nets, trawls and lobster pots all fill the air with the salt stained smells and distant memories of better days at sea. He listens, collecting forecasts, choosing whichever one is best or worst, adding them together to make a gale. Tourists love him, with his 18th Century beard, his age old charm, he wouldn't look out of place in a tired portrait. He wears the dusty uniform of the ancient seadog, weathered, worn and windblown. His early days were spent at sea, the Bristol Channel trade, Bridgwater, Swansea, Appledore were all familiar ports to him before returning home to fish and drink. With his encyclopedic memory he can tell you of all the ports around the world and he takes an interest in the few remaining ships that ply their wares from Bristol bound for Spain, watching as they pass on by, from his seafront bedroom window.
Take his photograph, many do; for if he had a pound for every picture taken, he'd be a wealthy man today; from Nova Scotia to New Zealand his face is found. Newspapers, magazines, films, adverts and television, he's done them all.
Ask him about the fishing and you'll receive a history of the industry, ask him about the village and he'll take you back in time, but don't ask him about the weather, it's never quite right, ask him about the future, "What future!" He comes from a time when a son learned the skills of the trade from his father or grandfather, when men relied on themselves in order to net a days fish and usually did. He looks forward to a time full of rules and regulations, paperfull days on shore, replacing the hope of a catch and no one listening to the man that just wants to make a living.
Will there be another like him? The tides recede from his world, the echoes of his day are waves rushing by and fish already caught, they cannot be caught again. He is one in a million, the last of his kind, he is a character, there are no characters like him, there are no characters.

Our first time

It had to happen eventually, the temptation was too great, you can't put it off any longer, it's obvious she's just been waiting for the time we can be alone, just her and me, together; of course I wanted things to be right, but I'm a fisherman, for us theres always something wrong, like the weather, it's rarely how we want it; for once though, there was no excuse, no choice but to do it. So, dressed for the occasion, armed with the knowledge that this was her first time and I would have to take things very slowly, we went out, together, "Little Lily," and I.
Oh! alright the "Little Lily," is a boat, but not any old boat, she's a Clovelly Picarooner, a herring boat, built by students at the Falmouth Marine College, from the lines of the "Little Mary," an 1898 original, now in the care of the National Maritime Museum at Falmouth, but what a boat, with her fine entrance and rounded bilge and a wine glass transom to die for; she's a little lugger, a dipping lugger at that, suntan sailed and herring scaled, there was a time this small harbour would have been home to many Picarooners and herring craft but following the shrinking of the shoals and the arrival of fantastic reinforced plastic, the traditional boats have disappeared, sold or left to rot in some disused, brambled corner.
With nets aboard we headed out onto the lazy calm water, with just enough teasing breeze to move her along, we cast our nets into the sea, Lily working as if she was born to it, like she knew the ropes, she felt like she had been here before, like she was home. With the nets set and tide still flooding we decided to have a play, and setting sails cruised effortlessly along the nets, a sight once familiar in the Bideford Bay, now a snap shot of the past as the "Little Lily," is the first new Picarooner to fish for herrng off Clovelly for over 40 years.
Did we catch any fish? Well thanks to the inevitable intervention, of a slippery, pleased with himself, blubbery seal! Not many. But it was a carefree afternoon, a pleasant escape from the half term village, with not a care in the world we drifted along watching the evening lights appear. The catch was small, but what's important, it was Lily's first, but not by any means her last.

Also a lifeboat man

We are all part of the fabric of where we live, we become, slowly, members of the community; we join, we belong, we help, we organize, eventually we are at home with where we are.
I am not only Clovelly's Harbour Master, I attempt to fish for a living, or at least a small part of a living; I try to catch lobster during the Summer months and now as Autumn winds blow we wait for the herring to arrive. I'm also a boatman, doing what boatmen do best, toiling with tourists throughout the season, doing whatever it takes to get people on my boat and then off again. In my spare time, I'm also a lifeboat man. Since Clovelly's station was established in 1870 a member of my family has been involved with the boat, I myself have been on board for almost 20 years.
Being a lifeboat man is of course so much more than just going to sea on a fast boat; it's being a part of a tradition, it's about dedication and commitment, it's about putting others first whatever the weather, regardless of the cost, it's being one amongst many, proud to be involved, proud to serve, proud just to be. You follow the blue jersied, salty bearded sailors and sons that look out from the dark and dusty corners of days passed, men that took the oar and gallantly braved billow and swell; hour following exhausted hour of hard pulling and sailing to reach, help and save a stranger in distress. Being part of the lifeboat is about doing your best, preparing for the worst, whether that comes from wind or sea or the unknown lost or drowned; you must be the saviour, the comforter, the reassurance, the guiding hand, the one to trust. We are really, little different from the oar and compass men before us, we may have computated, engined, highly technical, over powered, self righting, everything you could wish for, singing, dancing, don't ask the price lifeboats, but we are up against the same elements, facing the same conditions, at the mercy of the same foe, we are still people; competence based trained, routinely assessed, regularly inspected, constantly evaluated, people. We carry the best equipment, have the best support, enjoy the finest Christmas dinners, but over the years I have searched in vain, recovered the lost, waited for tide, collected the abandoned but never abandoned hope, I've been on fruitless, endless errands and brought home the "So pleased to see us." Why do we do it? We do it because it's what we do. because we hope there's others that will be there for us, we do it because we can.
The lifeboat needs the community, the community needs the lifeboat, they belong to each other. Soon it will be Christmas and our merry crew shall be helping Father Christmas deliver small gifts of thank you's to those that support the station throughout the year, to those who without their support there may not be a lifeboat, to those who before us were the lifeboat, were and still are Clovelly.

The loneliness of command

I stand upon the old Quay wall, my stationary command, my static ship, my voyageless craft; sat upon its landheld shore with course and bearing set, full ahead for Autumn, bound for Winter.
I look back at all the quiet houses sitting, sleeping, each with their own history, their own reasons, their characters, their tales to tell; once the homes of fishermen and sailors, familiar with these stones and steps and groaning of the shore, now undisturbed doors remain closed.
Less tourists embark now and remark upon the birds and gulls still picking and choosing at old discarded plastic bags, searching for pasties, wishing for fish. The boats that so recently fought and jostled for space beside the steps, for the queueing trippers and anglers, divers and camping site survivors, are now seen heading across the bay destined for the bar and if lucky, a fresh coat of anti-fouling.
I keep a compass corrected, weather eye upon approaching gales or lulls, watch keeping, waiting for the breaking seas; I keep a dogwatch for the night time passing ships on course for other shores unseen. This is Clovelly's Quay, the place I work, the place I live, the place I stand alone, the place I battle storms and cruise through calms, where I walk the well worn walls, my unchartered, uncharted dominion, where it's no good sitting on the rocks waiting for a mermaid to swim by.
Now I must make my heading known, I must write my passage plan, the place remains the same , the destination changes; our next port of call is the "The Clovelly Herring Festival," which is here on the Quay on the 16th of November, a time to celebrate the king of fishes, the silver darlings, to eat, to drink, to be happy and reflect. I'll be there selling fish, I hope you'll join me.

Grockleogue

Gone now the Sheffield Smiths, the huddersfield Hathers, the Applegarth Orchards, gone the pretty sighted sight seers, the been befores and come agains, the sat about enjoying the views; the tourist, the visitor, the grockle, the walking ramblers, campers, holiday camp themed parkers. Gone the sunny families, fresh faced from work and school and motorway, bottle tanned, seeking out the well worn weathered corners of the long discovered village too familiar with the questions and the comments, getting greeted with a smile and a scowl and a fee. Gone also the much stopped coach trippers, geriatric, cattle trucked and shuffled through; "Don't forget to send a postcard," nice card, local scenes, views of the neighbourhood. Gone are the six-pack, sat back, heat-stroked, need an ice-cream grockles; the bad shorts, loud shirts, buggy pushing fathers; the higher heeled, lower cut, need a sit down and a cup of tea, mothers; the "Don't throw stones!" throwing, Quay wall clambering, boat rock and rolling on the cobbled sea shore, seagull chasing, children.
The harbour is quieter now as boats stay moored, no more trips to run, no more views of the neighbourhood, no more "See the village from the sea," no more "15 minutes of pleasure with a sailor!" The rumbling Red Lion sleeps now, busy bustling pints and pasty lunch times over, replaced by time to think.
We that live by the grockle must die by the grockle, ones' season's disease, another season's cure as many a grockle makes a local happy; many a grockle visits year after year, grand parents who came with their children, who now come with their own children; strangers that become friends for a day. Day trippers, weekend breakers, long stayers, hotel dwellers and bed and breakfasters, season's enders, still braving the Autumn chill, back packed picnic hardy, crowd dodgers, late break takers, all thats left of the annual crop, the yearly stock. It's time for the village to hibernate, as tourists return home to snooze and visitors go back to sleep, until next year and once more we wait for the grockles to return.