So. Marie had booked herself onto a course on the art and business of soap-making - one of many by-products, we hope, of our notquiteyet goats. As if that wasn't exciting enough, this also happened to be in Clovelly, just across the border in Devon, home of the acclaimed herring festival. Which seemed a particularly excellent reason to transport her thither, and then to see what I could see in that splendid village.
It being a Sunday, and feeling in need of a little spiritual sustenance and of tolerant mind, I tootled down to the exquisite Norman church, next to the delightful walled gardens, high above the village and sea. No service there today, but that was all good, as the sun pouring through the trees onto the ancient gravestones was more than enough solace, peace and light.
And then down, down a new-found secret villagers' path..
..to this morning view, empty, full:
And then to this view, from the harbour wall, looking back on this perfect village - beautiful yet real, aged fishermen gruffling (gruffly chatting) over coffee on their aged balconies.
And people rowing! Ach, what a morning for it.
As I gazed out from the wall over the bay, I noticed that I was standing under a large cage to house a beacon; and this 1882 plaque on its pillar powering home the changing state of the sea, of life, and of these 6 oar gig boats, whose ancestors might well have been involved in rescuing this and many other wrecks round these shores.
As I mused my slow morning muse, a pirate appeared. Long white hair, large golden earring, well weathered face, few black teeth. Good to feel the sun on your face, I said. Aye, he said, but I can't feel it. He'd been in the Caribbean for 30 years, sailing and then working on boats. Recession hit, he came back home, and told me here's the best place in the world. Not so much gun-running, people trafficking, drug fuelled madness this side of the sea; and even more beautiful. Lovely bloke.
We watched the Clovelly Crew come ashore, and then we parted - he to the beach, and me, me to my Crew! Yes, I was off, finally, after months and decades of waiting, to row a gig myself. One of the Boscastle boats was being moved to Tamar Lake, a reservoir near Kilkhampton; so a breathy clamber up the hill, a windy drive past a remarkable random procession of 40 odd tractors, and a fortifying pasty later, there was I rowing in a gig!
It's been 12 years since I rowed a slidey seat eight on the Thames, and I felt it. No muscles, no reach, no calloused grip. The crew moved quicker and leaned further back than I was used to; and I twice broke my pins, not because I was pulling too hard, but because they stopped me catching deep 'crabs'... But it was great - a very welcoming bunch, and hugely exciting prospects - maybe not of famous, or any, victories, but nevertheless of competing in the World Championships, haha, in the Scillies in May. Can't wait! And the more local prospect of evening summer rows round to Port Isaac, past dolphins, to hear the Fishermen's Friends play on the beach, and then back under full moon and beer. It really happens! At least that's what they told me, in almost the same breath as details of circuit training..
No photos of the rowing - another time, no doubt. Thankfully it was a relatively short outing - my lungs and blisters couldn't take much more, and it was the first row of the season for everyone. And thankfully, also, because it gave me some more hours to kill to explore this part of the coast.
The first week we moved to Trelay, I went with some others to hear Satish Kumar talk at Boscastle. He's an extraordinary bloke. Editor of the environmental / arty / brilliant Resurgence magazine and author of some beautiful spiritual books; Jain monk turned fully engaged world activist; pilgrim extraordinaire (in 1963, inspired by the imprisonment of the philosopher Bertrand Russell for campaiging against nuclear weapons, he and a friend walked from their home in India, through Pakistan, to Moscow, Paris and London to present 'peace tea' to each country's premier. They carried no money, relying purely on the goodwill of people they met. They obviously couldn't walk to Washington, the final nuclear capital of the time; but the aged Russell, by now released and clearly moved, persuaded them to accept tickets on the Queen Mary! The day they boarded, they heard JFK had been shot; these 25 year olds had received a letter of invitation from him, and gave their last tea to Johnson instead. What a story to hear in a Cornish village hall..) Anyway, he is also long-time resident of the village of Hartland, near Clovelly, and founder of its 'Small School', also a remarkable ongoing achievement.
Well, my little pilgrimage to Hartland village didn't bring me to him or the school, too small to spot; but did, predictably, propel me on to the sea. I ignored signs for the lighthouse and Hartland Point, from where the south west swings down due south for a bit; rather to Hartland Quay, its quay long since battered away by endless more great gales and waves.
Today, as said, was a different kind of day; and the waves I saw were spectacular yet gentle. Straight out of the van in the car park to take this, looking south:
And this looking, well, out:
And then this, just round the corner, looking back in to the cliffs. Having considered the sea's power to batter away a quay, think of the earth's forces to create this: sediments of rock twisted and pushed almost vertical!
And another wonder of geology and the heart - Lundy island, 12 miles yonder.
Normally I might scorn at this tack; but on a day like today, I delighted in this lost hat for both the scale it gives to that slab of granite behind, and simply its sequinned shiny splendour itself. Truly blissed out!
And not only this, but a pub; and not only any old Hart, Lion or Horseshoe, but The Wreckers Retreat!! Again, sunny balm feels a long way from Jamaica Inn today, but this was also their dark dark coast...
Feeling light with a dram of Dartmoor Legend.
Good beer garden.
And then back, up, away...
...the view from the ruin of the watchtower, of Lundy and any terrible wreckers.
In case you're worried this blog has degenerated / evolved into some sickly guidebook of the WSW, fear not, no. This is very much about community living at Trelay. For, having picked up Marie, smelling of a delicious concoction of essential oils and cleanliness, we travelled back home, to be met by this:
Lots of other Trelayers had gone south a little to Trebarwith Strand, home of vast sand at low tide, smugglers' caves, infinite rockpools, and zero sewage pipes. Ideal place to get two buckets of mussels. (Not entirely sure why smugglers caves are relevant, just like mentioning it cos I'm a boy). Two buckets! We often eat well here because we're blessed with loads of great cooks, some lack of distracting alternate nightlife nearby, great bursts of communal energy, and food we grow and rear ourselves; and increasing our awareness (obvious though it may seem) that we can sustainbly forage from the sea as well as the land! Seaweed's great compost, and those mussels were way better than anything I've been fleeced for in Paris. And I got to experience the satisfaction of developing my beard ripping technique (removal of the mussels' rock clinging muscles, not my silly beast).
We're a long way from being self-sufficient, but at least we're aiming towards it. Check it: free Trebarwith mussels, free Trelay chard, free Trelay spuds and onions and herbs; plus some Cornish cream... Almost free homemade bread from a huge shared sack. Oh, and a dash of wine for the dauphinoise and the glass - very cheap English from the BWOC garage up the road. Love it. It's not always like this, and wouldn't want it to be - sometimes it's grey, cold gruel like the elements. And sometimes it's expensive convenient rubbish. But you've got to love it when it is :)
So what did I do after this hefty feast? Put on an ultra wobbly horse head to prevent me seeing, and most enthusiastically pogo stick (vi), dangerously close to small innocent bystanders.
No, not just the effects of cheap English wine, but because it was deemed to be wassail night! Ably led by Roger 'Baldric Morris' we danced and shouted and screamed and sang around our most pathetic apple tree, surely terrifying away any bad spirits and invigorating it to great new growth.
All rounded off by Ritual Sharing Of The Cider, excellently exemplified by Margot, our lovely newest member. (Cadno, our other lovely newest member, is captured several photos back strumming the hippy guitar; his hands also had strong involvement in mussel gathering and cooking, and all the fun of the fair).
On this happy note, I will end this disjointed ramble through the day. Other than to hope all this sheds some joined up joy in other days of cold and grey.
