A few photographs of the two latest additions to our family – Aidan, aged three and a half weeks and his second cousin Rosie, who is approximately twice as old as him.
As you may be aware already, perhaps from my blog posts, “our men in orange” at Dawlish are not the Orangemen of Ulster but I’m sure they are just as exciting. Their work is so varied. Not only do they work on our sea wall repairs at nearly every low tide, more often at night (or so it seems because our bedroom is on the lower floor on the sea-side of our house) but also they bring in supplies and machinery by boat to the huge rig platform .
A couple of days ago, whilst I was painting a different coastline on a canvas, Chris, my husband and on the spot photographer, noticed some activity by men in orange on the water quite close to shore; he thought these shots might be of interest to my readers.
Even under cloudy skies the fishing village of Le Conquet, the most westerly point of Brittany (and Europe), is picturesque in grey and blue with touches of red; and when the sun comes out it becomes blue and white, and vibrant red and warm gold. Over the weekend it was mostly the former but we were treated to bursts of sunshine to warm the cockles of our heart. I may look to the likes of Whistler and Picasso and have a grey and blue period of painting…
We had deposited our luggage in the cabins and came out into the thoroughfare; we were just getting our bearings and wondering where the restaurant was when a glamorous ship-board manageress waved at us and walked over. She kissed me on either side of my cheeks and, in her lovely French accent, she said:
“I’d remember you anywhere Sally”.
“Anne-Marie!” I greeted.
“Of course, I knew you were all coming – Glyn told me to look out for you,” she added.
Glyn is Chris’s brother who lives in Le Conquet and right now I’m tapping out this blog post whilst sat at Glyn’s desk. Chris is downstairs reading his Private Eye magazine and our youngest daughter, Bobbie, and her boyfriend, Martin (who hasn’t been here before), are out exploring the town. If I turn my head to the left I can look out over the harbour.
A little earlier Chris and I took a walk down to the quayside and watched the fishing boats unloading their cargoes of live crabs and fish (not frogs or snails, thankfully). The sky was grey and the wind was brisk, and the weather may not improve over the weekend but it is wonderful to be here. We’ll be taking the day crossing back on Monday, and coincidentally, Anne-Marie, whom we met in April when last we were here, will be working on that ferry too. Jusqu’ à demain… (Until tomorrow)
It was so calm and peaceful down by the river this morning. As per usual on shopping Saturdays, we pulled into the Passage House Inn car park for a bit of blog reading (to my mum) by the Teign River. The tide was in and the river was right up to the top of the banks on either side; a family of hippos going for a swim would have burst the banks and flooded the car park. Luckily, there were no hippos, just the regular wild birds that live amongst the reeds and the same bevy of swans (if you can call a penn and her growing cygnets a bevy!).
The sun hid behind the clouds and a grey mist levitated above the river, making the tranquil scene quite magical. Then it rained.
Strange atmospherics have produced beautiful skies over the bay at sunrise and sunset…
Yesterday evening, whilst the sun was going down most beautifully out of view, yet still managing to fill our sky with magnificent pinks, mauves and blues, something just as wonderful, but on a smaller scale (about twenty inches I imagine), had already happened; thousands of miles away in Dubai a baby boy called Aidan was born. He is half Irish, part English, part Guyanese and even has a bit of Welsh blood from way back – he is a child of the world.
Aidan is the six pound fourteen ounce firstborn of the next generation down; he is the son of our eldest daughter and Chris and I love him already… We’re just a wee bit worried about what he is going to call us.
Mary and I went over to see Rosie and the dogs (Jazz, Malachi, Inca and little Sasha) on the farm this afternoon. We picked apples – eaters and cookers – in the soft light of late afternoon and, as the sun was setting and turning the clouds a coral pink, we walked up to find blackberries in the hedges bordering the upper fields that overlook the beautiful valley and the sea in the distance.
The Sunday ride to Cockwood was somewhat deflating. As you may know, it’s incredibly tiring for both the rider (me) and the pumper (Chris the stalwart) when your bike has a tyre with a faulty valve; it is a case of pump, pump, pump, then ride as fast as you can for as long as you can (until your bottom can feel every tiny stone and you begin to worry about the rims of the wheels); then all over again pump, pump, pump – and dash, dash, dash – and walk, walk, walk (up the steep hills) and so on.
It’s amazing what a difference a new inner tyre with new valve (they are integral nowadays) makes; I felt like I was riding on air, which I was at last, after months of making do with a gradually increasing emission of air from my rear tyre. Eurphoric to realise that my usual fitness had not all but deserted me, I rode like an athlete (albeit a ‘ride for fun’ style of athlete) and in next to no time we had ridden to Cockwood Harbour.
To top it off the tide was in and the sun came out to welcome us, and the members of Cockwood Boat Club were out in force (well, there were four of them). One gentleman had made it out on a tender to his fine-looking catamaran and another chap paddled over in his rowing boat to a larger boat, which was moored close to the edge of the harbour wall above which Chris and I had parked our bikes and were walking.
“Is this your boat?”I asked as the man stepped on board.
“No, it’s for sale. I’m just inspecting it,” he replied with a smile (it seems that most boating people are friendly and happy to talk about boats).
“How much is it?”
“One thousand two hundred pounds,” he came back.
At that moment another small rowing boat, bearing two men, came onto the scene;a man with a cap rowed to one of the many sets of steps on the harbour wall and the two got out and sat on the railings at the roadside where they opened a flask.
“I hope you don’t mind that I took photographs of you coming in,” I said, “But you looked so picturesque.”
“No, we don’t mind,” the man in the cap looked at me with a smile of recognition, “you took some photos of me before…”
“That’s right,” I remembered him too (although he appeared quite different in his cap and high green waders), “I still have the photographs – you were picturesque then too”.
“Why don’t you buy a boat yourself?” asked the friend of the man with the cap and he pointed to the boat that was for sale. “That’s a lovely Orkney Long-Liner!”
“An Orkney Long-Liner? I’m not in the market for a big boat. (A rowing boat is more the ticket!) I wonder if the owner would take less than twelve hundred pounds for it,” I pondered.
“One thousand – without the outboard motor,” his eyes twinkled with glee.
“How do you know? (he chuckled) Is it your boat?”
“One thousand two hundred with the engine,” he continued to chuckle.
“I suppose it’s expensive to moor a boat in the harbour?” I queried.
The two friends looked at each other and laughed.
“Twenty-two pounds a year,” they agreed.
“Wow, that’s cheap,” I looked at Chris.
Chris smiled in his quiet negative way and said nothing.
“You can have my boat for one hundred and seventy-five pounds,” Den said (he’s the man in the cap).
“I could afford that! I could go fishing in it,” I turned to Chris who was still smiling negatively.
“Or, you could join the club for ten pounds a year and take out the club tender for a bit of fishing – there are plenty of eels and the mackerel come right in here” suggested Alec (the man without a cap).
“I could sell them to the pubs,” I had it all planned out in two seconds flat.
“But,” said Den, “if you take the tender out you have to bring it back whenever club members need it to take them to their boats…”
As you can tell, readers, this all needs some consideration. For now I’m going to settle for joining the Cockwood Boat Club – the man who inspected the Orkney Long-Liner came along and he just so happens to be the Vice Lord Admiral (or something like that) of the club. The forms will reach me in a few days and my membership will begin in January. I can hardly wait till next year to go fishing in the harbour with Chris (apparently he can be my guest). It is my hope that the other members will be equipped with their own tenders by then (Den could sell someone his) so that I’ll have enough time to catch a few nice flat-fish such as plaice.
Oh, speaking of flat-fish, that reminds me, the tyre stayed up and I’m buoyant about it!
And here are the words to Messing About on the River, written by Tony hatch.
When the weather is fine then you know it’s a sign
For messing about on the river.
If you take my advice there’s nothing so nice
As messing about on the river.
There are long boats and short boats and all kinds of craft,
And cruisers and keel boats and some with no draught.
So take off your coat and hop in a boat
Go messing about on the river.
There are boats made from kits that reach you in bits
For messing about on the river.
Or you might want to skull in a glass-fibred hull.
Just messing about on the river.
There are tillers and rudders and anchors and cleats,
And ropes that are sometimes referred to as sheets.
With the wind in your face there’s no finer place,
Than messing about on the river.
There are skippers and mates and rowing club eights
Just messing about on the river.
There are pontoons and trots and all sorts of knots
For messing about on the river.
With inboards and outboards and dinghies you sail.
The first thing you learn is the right way to bail.
In a one-seat canoe you’re the skipper and crew,
Just messing about on the river.
There are bridges and locks and moorings and docks
When messing about on the river.
There’s a whirlpool and weir that you mustn’t go near
When messing about on the river.
There are backwater places all hidden from view,
And quaint little islands just awaiting for you.
So I’ll leave you right now to cast off your bow,
Go messing about on the river.
Of course I mean the view from our bedroom window, curtains drawn back to greet the morning, and nothing but sea before us; if you peeped your head around from the other side you would see Chris and me sat in bed, and enjoying our cups of tea. Well, there’s not always nothing but sea, sometimes a passing fishing boat catches our attention; or canoeists, or sailing boats that come in close to shore.
On this grey, misty morning a relatively large vessel, accompanied by a smaller boat, chugged into view and lingered in the patch of sea right in front of our window; we wondered what they were doing. At first I thought they were fishermen. I rushed upstairs and grabbed my Canon camera with the telephoto lens. The best of the shots are below.
