Landslips and stormfalls

By some strange miracle, it proved quick and easy to find a day when both my sons and I were free for our annual day out to Devon, so off we went, a lot earlier in the summer than is usually the case.

We were overdue a visit to Dawlish and Dawlish Warren, as the last couple of years we've headed south along the sea wall from Holcombe to Teignmouth and Shaldon, but the storm damage to the pier and the landslip on the Ness from earlier in the year had to be viewed for ourselves, so once again we set off down Smugglers Lane with a very happy little collie. 

The weather was overcast, but it wasn't too hot or wet so we were thankful.

Half way along the sea wall at Sprey Point and I've already got wet feet

The biggest flat top shell I've ever found, albeit with a broken point

We had a very pleasant lunch at The View, the cafe on the ground floor of Pavilions, which I visited for the first time last year to hear Raymond Antrobus read.

It was only the very end section of the pier that got washed away ...

... and the remainder is still open, so Sons the Elder and Younger went on to play The Tuck Shop slot machine - which was my favourite when I was a kid, back in the simpler 1960s, as well as one of theirs too - but it's not there anymore.

Even from Teignmouth, you can see the big red scrage down the dear cheek of the Ness caused by the landslip in March.

We crossed the estuary via the ferry. As further landslips can't be ruled out this soon after the first, the coast path around the Ness headland is closed, so we couldn't walk it, and instead headed up through the village, where swallows were zipping up and down the main street, to the beach beyond the road bridge.

It was good to get a distance glimpse of Buckland Beacon and Rippon Tor on Dartmoor. 

Then Son the Elder did his customary walk across the bridge and around to the ice cream shop in Teignmouth, where Son the Younger and I met him after walking back down the river beach and crossing the river by ferry.

Sadly, our ice creams were less than impressive this visit, the customarily huge dollop of clotted cream atop our cornets now reduced to a smear, so we agreed we would visit Gay's in Dawlish next time for a proper Devon treat. (I've just got to get over the shock of the brutalist replacement sea wall that so disfigures the coast there in the meantime.)

The Poetry Rollercoaster

After the lull in poetry activities towards the end of last year, while I recouped some emotional energy, things have picked up again, coinciding with the return of spring. 

First, in February, the latest reading in Bristol Poetry Institute's series of Annual Readings, this time by Mohave and Latina poet, Natalie Diaz, whom I never expected to get the chance to hear in my home city. It was a privilege to be present.

March saw the publication and launch of Dominic Fisher's pamphlet, Migrations, at the Inn on the Green, Horfield, with support readings by Matthew Barton, Emily Reynolds and me. 

(Matthew isn't a giant, by the way; he just happened to stand nearer the photographer than the rest of us.)

The audience

The Northerner

Emily and Maggie

I was also due to be reading at Berkeley Square Poetry Revue the Tuesday following Dom's launch, but my appearance had to be postponed until July because I woke up on the Sunday morning with no voice to speak of, a situation which persisted for five days. It just squeaked back by the following Sunday, in time for the launch of the resurrected 'Outposts', courtesy Devon-based poet and editor, Clare Morris, which was held in the community bookshop in Totnes.

Of course, a chance to read a few poems in Devon had to be seized, as it meant I could go the scenic route and have a quick dive across Dartmoor. 

Bennett's Cross

Riding shotgun was fellow-poet Dominic Fisher, who not only had three poems published in the inaugural 'Outposts', but was also featured in one of the original issues back in the 1980s - or possibly the 1970s. 

The 12th century clapper bridge that crosses the East Dart at Postbridge 

Hemlock water dropwort growing by the modern road bridge (built in the 1780s)

Ice cream van at Haytor

Looking towards Hayne Down and Houndtor in the middle distance

It was brief. It was bleak. It was beautiful. And then we were bowling down off the moor, re-encountering the Dart near Buckfastleigh and accompanying it almost all the way to Totnes. 

The launch was under the auspices of Word Stir, an open mic hosted by Harula Ladd and Toby Richardson in the community bookshop. 

It was a memorable event, filled with friends in poetry and poets I'd communicated with but was meeting for the first time, including Clare and Peter Roe, the editor of Jawbone Journal, which published one of my poems - 'A brief feather confession' - earlier in the year and who, along with his two fellow editors, nominated it for a Forward Prize, about which I'm still astonished and deeply grateful.  

Clare Morris

Finally, some sad news, as my publishers for the last 16 years, Ronnie Goodyer and Dawn Bauling of Indigo Dreams, have decided to call it day as far as publishing collections and pamphlets is concerned, although they will still be producing their poetry journals, Reach and The Dawn Treader. It's been my privilege to work with them all these years, and I will always be grateful that they helped me realise my life's dream - to take up a half an inch on a bookshelf somewhere - not once but seven times. I've been the luckiest poet, and I'll never forget how, through their faith in me and my writing, I was able to rebuild my life and my identity when my spirits were at their lowest ebb. Thank you to them both, always. 

Treasures of Teignmouth and Shaldon

What to do with two grown sons who want to come on our annual memorial trip to South Devon, where for decades our family had a caravan, but who are notoriously difficult to herd, even with a collie to help?

Well, when I say two sons, I actually mean Son the Younger, he's the one who's hard to organise, but with patience and persistence, we managed it about a month earlier than usual, Cwtch and I, and we both still have some hair that isn't grey and/or ripped out, so we did very well. 

Having parked in our usual spot on Windward Lane at Holcombe, we set off down Smugglers Lane to the beach, and headed towards Teignmouth.

The beach was littered with spider crab shells and leg armour, not on account of some horrible ecological disaster but because this is the time of year they moult. 

 

I also spotted a couple of small clear jellyfish washed up - these were dead, of course. Moon jellyfish, maybe.

samphire

What a difference nearly 30 years makes ... 

We walked past the cafe we were planning to have lunch in by mistake and ended up in Teign Street. I was very taken with a shop called 'Sew What?' It used to sell cheap clothing, I think, and had sun umbrellas all over the front of it, so I never really noticed the lovely frontage before.

Having retraced our steps a short way and located the cafe in question, we had lunch and then meandered in the direction of the back beach to catch the ferry to Shaldon. Cwtch was very pleased to back on board. She's almost as salty a sea-dog as her predecessor, Ted.

Instead of heading for the Ness and Ness beach this time, we walked in the opposite direction, up the river beach almost as far as Ringmore Towers, which, back in the 1960s, my sister and I knew as Teasy-Weasy's house. 

I'd hoped the tide might be low and we could go out on the tidal island, Salty, but it was coming in fast, so we wandered back down to the main part of the beach, picking up sea glass, and bits of broken pottery that must have been dumped in the river at some point, all the way. Then it was back across the ferry, an ice cream with clotted cream in what used to be Amanda's - a much smaller portion, this time, we noted - and a wander back along the sea wall to Holcombe.

We even did a spot of wave-dodging at the bottom of the slipway at Sprey Point, which was fun, although Cwtch looked a little anxious.  

It felt like we were on holiday proper, and I wasn't at all keen to leave - and even less keen to face the steepness of Smugglers Lane, but as it turned out, I got up to the top rather more easily than in recent years, so must be slightly fitter than I have been.

Back home there was lots of lovely treasure to gloat over. I feel very lucky to be able to make these return trips in such excellent company.