Surprise Catch

Who could of known that the intense beauty of June's balmy, hot rocking days, would dissolve, sugar like, so quickly into the mire that is July! days enjoyed for their dripping summer promise and steel still waters, have been rudely cast adrift by the turbulent stream of coat soaking rain.

But things happen; events, occasions, challenges, surprises. Take the nine strapping, wholesome, elm clad and leather thole pinned Pilot gigs, arriving from the outreaches of the Westcountry and prepared to task the boundless seas and wild waters across to Lundy Island. The local club from the Torridge took the line honours, with our own bravely exhausted crew coming in an undisgraced sixth. The passion with which these people row floats evidently all about them as they carry their cherished craft along, each at one with their boat.

I had a friendly family fishing trip this week, supposedly for mackerel. But these fish can be a morsel elusive and no matter how many lines you hang over the side or how far you drift, if the water is slightly murky or the fish distracted, there is little hope of catching them. Lucky for me I have a net set for the catching of bait, intended for lobster pots. Legal and tagged, the net swings about on the tide, a mere 35 metres of hope.

The family were surprised when the first mackerel fell aboard, gleeful cheers echoing across the waters meeting each new fish, lapping up the joy as more and more barbecue ready fish were brought aboard, and there amongst the Scomber scombrus, a fish unused to these North Devonian shores, more often found in warmer climes or supermarket shelves, we had netted a Sarda sarda, a Bonito Tuna, a visiting variety of foreign favoured fish. The following day brought another of his kin to bless our catch with his fin.

News soon spread and the Bonitos had their pictures taken with many local celebrities from all the dark , damp corners of the roaring drunk lion. For a further few minutes the Tuna were the talk of the town, until the Red Lion manager bought them, cooked them and eat them. Depriving the Natural History Museum in London of a specimen.

What remains most surprising is that until now, no one else has ever mentioned they had caught one of these fish. Now all of a sudden, the flood waters have spread and it seems everyone knows someone who knows someone who knows.............. Now that is a surprise!

Harbour Dwellers

Clovellys comfortable harbour is home to a wide variety of boating types, such as the 'Lobsterman', a lonely, solitary kind, spending long distant hours away at sea, only returning home in order to mate and drink at the communal watering hole. And then there's the 'Boat Tripping Men', fussing about the Quay or leaning outside the Red Lion, picking and pulling at their daily grockle prey. The 'Charter men', parade up and down the harbour wall with their full fuel bowsers or sit gazing at their chrome covered engines, cocking a snoot at the rest. If you watch really closely you may even spot an occasional 'Trawlerman', best found either early in the morning as he disappears setting off out to sea or in the evening when he returns once more to dry land, there to join his mate at the bar.

Then there are the 'Pleasure Boaters', a hapless lot, flapping about, unsteady, unsure, and unaware. Watching and waiting, listening and learning, they are the flighty, summer visiting flocks of flotsam that fill the beach. They may have read the book, but they have usually forgotten how to tie the knot.

There are other dwellers inhabiting the harbour; the beef brigade, lazing all day in the sun, burning nicely. The quay jumping, "Look at me", and "Brave first timer", tombstoners. The floral displayed, lounging, picnicking, soul mate searching dollies, and the salt soaked, drifting along amongst the seaweed and jellyfish, in and out of the moored boats, harbour hags.

But crowning them all, we have the spider oared, multi-coursed, seperate heading, semi-serious, regatta bound gigging types, with their reigning supreme Lord oarsman tipping the balance in the bow. All together making up the colourful ensemble that fills the seasonal harbour with boats, noise and plenty of bunting.

Neptune to the rescue

The Campervan Cookbook, written by Martin Dorey is a life style collection of easy living, self sustaining recipes and ideas, designed for loving life and keeping things simple. Martin has surfed off the Clovelly coast, at times in weather I wouldn't even go out of doors! It was because of his love of this coastline he came to Clovelly to film a fragment of his 'soon to be' televised book.

Martin was sent to sea in my 'Little Lily' with local fisherman Chris Braund. Their mission, to catch a mackerel, my mission, to carry forth the camera crew and keep out of shot! It was while upon this heading that our attention was alerted towards the shore where two people had got themselves cut off by the rather inconvenient tide. They would, of course, have been quite safe, the tide was ebbing, within half an hour they could walk back to Clovelly. But panic and a lack of local knowledge don't mix. As we approached them, the frantic pair came running into the sea, where the surging waves knocked them over and increased the fear. I had no choice but to rescue them from themselves and with much undisguised relief, the dripping wet two were taken onboard and released upon the harbour.

Filming resumed, but the mackerel appeared to be camera shy so failed to show. Luckily, I had a net set, hoping to catch some fish for bait, but now to be drafted into service as the means for Martins meal. It meant we were able to return to the Quay and off load our clapper board cargo. It also meant that, with the tide slipping away, it was time for Neptune and I to go off and try and find a lobster.

The joy of lobster fishing doesn't lie only in the catch, for me it's in the thrill of the hunt, the getting to know my adversary, learning the rocks and gullies, finding my way into the lives and habits of the sea creatures that are my livelihood. It's about respect, it's about loving the way of life, it's about those days when nothing else matters. Unfortunately this day was not proving to be the most productive. A winning day for the lobsters I fear. Then came the call from my brother.

Across the bay, fishing off Mouth Mill, another beautiful stretch of North Devon coast, my brother in his little boat had incurred engine problems. He was attempting to get home by sculling his boat. Ever the lifeboatman, I left my fruitless pots and Neptune and I steamed the 5 miles across the wide mouthed bay, where I found him slowly edging his way back up along the shore. Taken in tow it was not long before everyone was safely home at anchor. A little of the afternoon remained, so I decided to try my luck and resume my search for those elusive decapods. A few more pots, a sit in the sunshine, a drift in the bay, soaking up the glassy view, why do we do this? I wonder.............

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.

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.