Isla the mermaid......

No blogs for five months, then two in three days. I'm on fire (not literally, although if I was and had the kind of cool, British phlegm to let the emergency services know via my blog, then that probably indicates that I'm made of the right stuff).

Anyway, speaking of the right stuff, I wrote this blog a year ago in a moment of hormonally deranged pride on the arrival of my new wee lass. It was originally for a magazine column but never saw the light of day as the mag went into administration (they still owe me £450 I hasten to add). So here it is - still makes me smile.

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Well, hello Isla Grace,

Like most of us after a good long dive, when you finally had to surface I must say you looked fairly annoyed it was all over. Having had nine months suspended in a liquid world, muffled and weightless, to finally emerge to a place of bright lights and bustling figures must have been quite a shock.

But a long dive requires a long ascent and you made several stops on the way, all of which proved somewhat emotional for your mum. But emerge you finally did, and were instantly the most fabulous and beautiful thing I’d ever seen. The fact that you actually looked quite a lot like a furious, ginger Winston Churchill seems to have passed me by. You were perfect in every way, a veritable supermodel, albeit a rather petulant one who howled in outrage at the indignity of it all.

But you’re a good strong Cornish lass, and you soon got over it. The county of your birth has a boundary that is 80% coastline, so you entered this world surrounded by the sea and that’s the way I hope you’ll live your life.

So, where to begin? You are born an islander, with the blood of ocean voyagers in your veins. Your ancient ancestors almost certainly arrived with the crunch of a bow on a shingle beach, and the vast majority of your people appeared from beneath the horizon sailing on fickle currents under a temperate breeze. Your nation is a lump of rock moored at the eastern edge of a vast ocean, and at the western edge of a continent. Your relationship with the sea is already as strong as anyone in Europe, it’s in your blood. The whisper of the waves is the backing track of your life. It’s your heritage and your identity.

And so I can’t wait to wrap you up warm and carry you down the steep cliff path that leads from my door. I can’t wait to show you the sea, to watch you take that first deep breath of ozone, and to listen with you to the percussive explosions of breakers exploding on the rocks of the Lizard Peninsula beneath our feet.

You’ll grow up with sand between your toes, and I’ll watch over you as you venture further and further from shore. I’ll show you your first crab in a rockpool, like some armoured monster from another world and better than any Hollywood movie. Your first fish I’m sure will be a real event, one that will make you run shrieking through the shallows as it explodes like quicksilver before you. You’ll never have seen anything move so fast, they leave vapour trails of bubbles. We’ll take our first breath together underwater, and I’ll hold your hand as your eyes widen at the wonder of it all. And then Isla Grace, when you return to your liquid world, that’s when the fun will really start.

We’ll explore shipwrecks, heeling time-capsules emerging from the fog of the sea floor. We’ll hover together off the isolated volcanic rock of Roca Partida, five kilometres of water beneath our fin tips, and watch manta rays pirouette up from the deep blue to meet us. They are the size of vast, black dragons, two hundred times your weight, and yet they’ll sweep so close to you that all you will feel is a soft sirocco of water as they pass. They’re so gentle that you’ll never want them to leave. We’ll slip off the back of a boat in Tonga and scull towards humpbacks as they sing a melody so powerful you’ll feel it in your marrow. It’s a tune that has echo’d along thermoclines since long before our time, with lyrics we still don’t understand. Then we’ll hang in a cage in the Killing Zone beside the bedlam of Dyer Island, and watch the most impressive animal on planet earth materialize out of the gloom before us with a half smile of predatory intent.

By the time you’re a fully-fledged, adult diver, I wonder where technology would have taken you? You’ll look back on us now with our twin cylinders and boxy rebreathers and you’ll laugh. But I suspect you’ll also be a bit jealous, because we are still savouring the great adventure of a sport that is still so young, one that even today requires a whiff of the pioneering spirit. When you’re my (considerable) age, I suspect going for a dive will be like a walk in the park – all silent computers and oxygen rich gels.  

You’ll grow up in an uncertain world, with the oceans broken and beaten by those that have gone before. But for all the pessimism there is also real hope, and signs that with the right people and a little bit of precious time, perhaps your generation can halt the damage that’s been done by mine.

I’ll travel with you for the rest of my life, tracing the blue curve of the earth, and together we’ll follow the shadows in the sea.

Can’t wait.

Lots of love, Dad xxx

I'm back!

It appears to be five months since I last did a blog. This is ridiculous, akin to some weird flexing of normal time that means a week or so suddenly extends from July to January. So sorry to anyone who happened to be following the blogs - it's been a busy old few months I must say. We've moved house, Isla has quadrupled in size, the business has boomed in what can only be described as an alarming manner, we've acquired three ducks, and I've had a new tv series commissioned. In fact, it's just dawned on me that the reason I haven't had time to write a blog is that we've moved house, Isla has quadrupled in size, the business etc etc - all great bloggery material ironically. I shall do my best to summarise....

First off - and randomly - the Olympics. Slightly late to point this out I know, but blimey they were good. I laughed, I wept, I leapt off the sofa and punched the air, I even thought One Direction were quite good in the opening ceremony. By the time the paralympics had finished I was a husk of a man, emotionally wrung out but needing soaring highs and lows just to get me through an evening. Thankfully I was saved by The Great British Bake Off (Brendan, you were robbed), which provided the type of mainlining, amphetamine style range of sensations I now required.

Anyway - the new house. Lovely old barn conversion with - slightly dauntingly - a bit of land attached neatly divided into paddocks and pens. It's daunting because although I have a mental image of myself hauling up turnips the size of basketballs, of course you have to do a fair amount of work to make that sort of thing a reality. I've been saved by the rain, which turned it all into the sort of quagmire seen only      at Ypres. No point in planting anything of course, but come the Spring I shall be a man possessed. As it's been such fine weather for ducks, we've now acquired three - Baron Greenback, Betty, and Long Distance Clara. They're Indian Runner ducks, and are greater natural comics than even Ed Miliband, although they do have a similar permanently baffled expression. Here's a piccie of the land and the ducks....

You may notice that I have a person on my back. That's Isla, two stone of sleek muscle and extensive flatulence. There are low pressure systems over Fastnet that generate less wind than my daughter. I am - of course - completely besotted with her, and much of this stems from the fact that although she's only one, she's as strong as an ox. She chinned another baby in the ball pool at Ikea the other day, and outside of no rules Mixed Martial Arts cage fighting, I've seldom seen a punch like it. The other parent glanced round at me to see me beaming in pride, before delivering a telling off to Isla that at best could be described as half hearted. Getting her into her cot nowadays is approaching a fair fight all round, a situation that I imagine will only get worse over time. She's a legend, and although not quite walking yet has learned to hang onto Reubs with pudgy fists of steel, and basically goes wherever he does. Here's a piccie....

The business has boomed. Nothing to do with me I hasten to add - I've been very lucky to employ Rach, Alana, and Sophie who essentially have entirely taken charge and run it with military precision. I roll up in the morning - well, some mornings, I'm on the road so much nowadays it's ridiculous - and am sat in a deck chair like some addled pensioner and told what's happening that day. It's great. Removing me from the administrative process means that we've had a great year, and the girls continue to come up with al sorts of bright ideas. I am essentially a walking cash point and boat driver. Lots and lots to come this summer, but I'll be telling you about that in my regular and pithy blog. Here's us all at Christmas dinner........

And finally (for now) the new series. It's a set of projects this year to seek out the mysteries in the oceans around the world - top banana. Much of the diving is technical stuff, and I always had a slight feeling that my bum isn't quite hairy enough for this sort of thing. I've been training hard though (not on the bum hair bit, turns out this is just one of those things you can't change and mine remains resolutely peachy), and am thoroughly enjoying the challenge. More to come on this, but here's a shot of me trying not to look baffled in some fairly Gucci diving gear.

 Oh, and we went diving in South Africa too.....brilliant and very sharky.....

Right, that's it for now. MUCH more to come. Hope you had a wonderful New Year, and here's to a fat, dumb, happy, blog filled 2013.

All the best, Monty

The End (sort of...)

Hi All,

Again, sorry not to post for so long. Busiest time of the year for us - madness.

The following is what WAS going to be the end of the Fisherman's Apprentice book. Just found it in a  dusty old electronic folder, and thought I'd show it the light of day at long last.

The end of a great time for me in a beautiful little Cornish village....

The Magic of Little Cove:

Why is it worth saving, this bustling border of our island? Why should we get very excited indeed about the riches that lurk in the shallows, as we shade ourselves on packed beaches sporting ridiculous hats and licking over-priced ice-creams.

The answer for me is best provided by the small, stony beach the other side of the Todden, a little cove known - catchily - as Little Cove. After a days fishing I would sometimes sneak down the stone steps onto the shoreline, speargun in hand, and go in hunt of bass. These most beautiful and noble of all our inshore fish would drift in on the rising tide, appearing like grey ghosts from deeper water. They seemed less like fish and more akin to wraiths soaring over the white sand, moving in packs, sleek, deadly and full of predatory intent. They drifted on the edge of the tide, eyes bright and seeking out movement ahead, broad tails sweeping them towards forests of kelp and bladderwrack. They would move ever closer, sliding towards their hunting grounds as effortlessly as a glob of mercury, until they were positioned under the shoals of sandeels that bunched and pulsed overhead, silhouetted against a golden dusk. Once the main players were in place, the predatory drama could begin.

I would fin lazily out to meet them, floating high above and taking care not to cast my shadow on the seabed. Moving from boulder to boulder, hop-scotching along dark waving patches of weed, I would settle into stillness. My breath would rasp through the snorkel and the neoprene of my hood would enhance my pulse, a sonorous drum beating the slow rhythm of the hunt. The scene below was entirely timeless, acted out on this same stretch of seabed long before man appeared, the rising tide and fading light an irresistible trigger that summoned the predators from deeper water.

Skulking in the wings were pollock, smaller and less agile than the aristocrats who had appeared in their midst. They would dart from cover to cover, they too watching the sandeel weave patterns against the sky, occasionally darting into the shoal which would scatter before them. They seemed more opportunistic, more impulsive, relying on serendipity to bring the smaller fish in range. If their predatory runs were unsuccessful - and it seemed to me that a great many of them were - they would settle once again on the sea floor, bodies angled upward slightly, dark livery clear against the sand.

The bass were altogether more deadly, and on some simultaneous cue they would erupt, exploding into life, streaking towards the shoal that shattered before them, a shrapnel of frantic silver crystals. The bass would twist and turn, flashing broad flanks in a series of final lunges that tracked and then devoured fish after fish. I watched it all, breathless at the spectacle as the waves crackled around me, a prism that split the rays of the sun to dance on the seafloor beneath. Once the bass had torn several times through the shoal, they would settle once again into exploratory lazy circles in mid water, a cue for another predator to move towards them from the surface.

I would slip quietly under the water, away from the world of light and air, and fin gently deeper. Again and again the bass would drift away, contemptuous of my clumsy approach, until after an hour or so my angle of dive was precisely right, just in the blind spot of one of the shoals as it hovered in mid water. I settled briefly, extended one arm towards one of the bass, paused for a moment, and fired. The spear ran straight and true, hitting one of the fish broadside with a percussive thump that transmitted clearly through the water. It thrashed and heaved, twisting in it’s death throes as I ascended.

I walked back up the shore carrying the bass on the end of the spear, heading for home where lemon, garlic, and chilled white wine awaited. By now late afternoon had passed into dusk, and the surface of the water shone in the reflection of an indigo sky. A hunters moon had risen from the sea, and the first lights glowed warm in the windows of the cottages on the Todden. A wisp of wood-smoke rose from one of the chimneys, twisting into nothing as the wind whisked it away. The smell was unmistakable, stemming from the timeless ritual of another fire being lit in a grate in this tiny Cornish fishing village. The rock walls beneath and beyond the cottages loomed stark on crackling foundations of spray, whilst the waves sighed their quiet demise on the shingle of the beach.

I walked the last few yards through the fleet, past Scorpio with her battered blue hull and predatory lines, and then past Kingfisher 2 - brightly coloured, friendly, and larger than life just like her skipper. Silver Queen loomed in the darkness beyond, the chough painted on her wheelhouse door still gazing out to sea, lit eerily by the silver glow of the moon. And finally, resting in the darkness, lay Razorbill. I idly ran one hand along her weathered gunwale as I covered the last few yards up the beach, the wood scarred and marked by the rough passage of a million lines.

I felt completely alone, caught in the timeless passage of another day at the edge of the Atlantic. Pausing one last time, I looked out over the fishing fleet of Cadgwith Cove, then turned and rounded the corner for home. For one more evening, in one more magical rocky inlet around the British coast, the hunt was over.  

A guilty pleasure.....

There are - of course - many pleasures to be had from fatherhood. There is that first smile, and that first moment when you can convince yourself that your cherished offspring is actually saying your name. The latter came about after an Ipcress File style interrogation, where I sat in front of little Isla for an hour going “da da, da da, da da...” over and over until she eventually buckled. Glassy eyed and fatigued, she finally mumbled “da da” just to get me to stop, which gave me proper bragging rights over Tam. Unfortunate Isla had to do it all again as I had forgotten to video it. I imagine it’ll require several years of counseling for the poor wee mite to recover from the stress.

But aside from all these land-mark moments on the journey for any new parent, there is one pleasure that over-rides them all. This is the fact that you are now allowed - in fact obliged - to watch children’s tv programmes.

I dimly recall these from my own childhood of course. It’s a roll call of innocence, of a time lost that will never be reclaimed. Trumpton, The Clangers, Mr Ben, and Andy Pandy (mind you, for the latter even my four year old brain was thinking “This is garbage, I wonder what’s on the other side - ah yes, Vision On.”). It might just be the passage of time, but a lot of the kids stuff that I’m watching now makes The Magic Roundabout look like Panorama - plot lines are scant, and the animation lazily compiled on computers that don’t require painstaking manipulation of bits of plasticine. There is, however, one notable exception.

I was introduced to this by Tam, who’s giggles made it all the way to where I was attempting to work / staring out of the window idly wondering when the rain would stop. Curious, I walked into the front room to find the ladies of the house both hooting with laughter at the tv. One of them was dribbling uncontrollably too whilst periodically trying to eat the remote control although fortunately this was Isla, so I could turn my attention to what was on the screen.

It’s was a programme called “In the Night Garden”, and quite frankly after watching it for ten minutes I was dribbling and trying to eat the remote too. It’s barking mad, properly insane, utterly deranged, and quite, quite brilliant. 

I’m struggling to think of the production meeting where it was devised. Of course something mildly hallucinogenic would have been discreetly piped into the room beforehand. And everyone has to be equipped with a spliff the size of a baseball bat. How else would you explain the subsequent conversation?

“Right, we’ve got a forest as a setting, now we need a star, a strong central character around who it all revolves. A role model for kids watching. Any suggestions?”

“How about a blue half man half teddy called Igglepiggle who passes out every time something unusual happens?”

“Brilliant. Any more ideas?”

“Well - and bear with me on this - how about a train that climbs trees called the Ninky Nonk?”

Vigorous nods all round.

“And I thought three weird creatures - let’s call them the Tombliboos - whose trousers keep falling down. Oh, and a small thing called a Makka Pakka who essentially has OCD and relentlessly cleans stuff.”

“This is tv gold I tell you! Keep it coming....”

“Right, well we’ll obviously need five massive, billowy things called Haahoos that basically get in the way all the time and are just a bit sinister in a starey wide eyed way - the sort of things that would give Andy MacNab screaming nightmares.”

“Stop right there - I can smell the awards. All we need now is a narrator - someone who is down with the yoof, trendy and very much of the moment?”

“How about 73 year old classic Shakespearean actor Derek Jacobi? 

“Of course, silly of me not to think of him sooner.”

And there we have it. The result is once-in-a-lifetime tv that’ll make you laugh so hard you’ll almost certainly rupture something. Or - depending on your viewpoint - a disturbingly insane set of images that means your kids will never want to go near a forest as long as they live. Isla finds it mesmerising and baffling all at the same time, as I think the attached image illustrates. What you can’t see is that Tam and I had precisely the same expressions as we watched it too. Even the dog looked bewlidered.

I’m hoping the rain stops soon I can get back to exploring the coast, but for now “In the Night Garden” is doing a very good job at keeping us all vaguely sane. It deserves every gong it gets.   

Meeting Her Majesty (kind of....)....

All this happened in the frenzy of the Jubilee by the way, so forgive the delay. The piccie is of Tam and Isla (a.k.a Kate Middleton and a small Princess) on the beautiful boat The Fairmile (a.k.a. their personal Royal Barge) as part of the Dartmouth Jubilee procession. Very nice it was too.....

Anyway.......

There are a great many benefits of having a dog. One of the main ones of course is that you are absolutely and unconditionally adored. This unfettered loyalty and relentless enthusiasm for pretty much anything you do is unbending.  Go out for ten minutes, and you’ll return to find the dog pogo’ing in delight in the hallway, surrounded by a scene that says “You went out, and I didn’t think you were ever, ever, ever, ever coming back. So I panicked and ate the sofa.” It’s hard to stay annoyed though - many’s the time I’ve been putting up a wonky shelf or cooking one of my famously inept meals only to glance round and see Reubs staring at me with that look that says “That is simply the greatest thing I’ve ever seen, you are a talent beyond measure and I respect, admire and love you for it.” This is diametrically opposed to cats by the way, who would look at you doing the same thing with an expression that unequivocally says “Call that a shelf? Jesus, what an incompetent prat” before stalking off to find small mammals to murder. 

One of the other great peripheral benefits of the dog thing is that you are forced to go out at least twice a day. Reubs is the size of a respectably plump timber wolf, and would not look kindly on me sitting at home watching the world go by when there are squirrels to be chased and large expanses of ocean to be barked at. Having a dog certainly keeps you fit, and so one of the real pleasures for me and big hairy fella is running along the path that leads from the house, winding its way along the coast through many an echoing cove and ancient wood.

My runs nowadays are fairly calculated affairs. Gone are the days of the pronking gazelle of youth, to be replaced by the gut-shot buffalo of middle age – I wheeze and stumble along, puce of face, heart vibrating like a bag of jam left on top of a spin-dryer, all the while leaving vapour trails of shining spittle in my wake. It’s not a good look, and I’m always keen to find reasons to stop. So as I ran along a quiet lane towards Dartmouth Castle, I needed no excuse to skid to a halt next to house tucked away in a shady hollow.

The image that had caught my attention was a really quite substantial picture of the Queen on the front door of the house. This wasn’t a photo that had been cut out of a magazine and casually stuck to the panelling, it was colossal – in fact it was pretty much life size. For one faintly panicky moment – as I blinked away the sweat that had streamed into my eyes - I thought it actually WAS the Queen. This would have been one of those classically awkward social situations, particularly as Reubs – untroubled it seemed by the presence of royalty - took the opportunity for a quick toilet stop. Suffice to say that he’s a very large dog indeed, so this is invariably a flamboyant affair involving apocalyptic smells, the occasional deafening noise, and a pile that can reach knee height. The fact that he was doing this directly in front of Her Majesty filled me – as I trust it would any stout hearted Englishman – with horror. Happily a closer look at the door revealed that it was HRH in 2D, and not the 3D version which would have seen me marched off to the Tower to be beaten senseless by furious Beefeaters. 

Having cleaned up (one of the other joys of dog ownership) I carried on running to the castle to finally stand on a grass bank that led down to the seashore, the green slope before me alive with primroses and bluebells. The cove below us shone in the morning sunshine, the waves rustling and chuckling into the loose stones of the beach after their journey across a wide sea. The castle was built to keep out the invaders from beyond the horizon, and stands as a monument to a time when being a Royalist could mean the difference between life and death. Such sentiments are of course long gone, but it seems to me that coastal communities – the front line for invasion in days of yore - always had to rely on an established Monarchy at their back as they faced such uncertainty to their front.  

We duly stumbled home, with me tugging a respectful forelock as we passed the door on the return journey. I know we all have mixed views on the Monarchy, but I reckon the Jubilee was a pretty good thing as it got us all buntingly-flutteringly happy for a wee while, before the spectre of double dip recessions and free-falling Euro's reappeared. Yep, I enjoyed the Jubilee. Let's do another one soon..... 

The Man Cave.....

Hi All,

So sorry that it's been a while since I last posted. I've been charging about like a man possessed, Isla tucked under one arm, keys for the boat, the house, the car, the safe, and the shop all lost or mislaid at one time or another, my boxer shorts on backwards and wearing odd socks. Blimey. But I have had a little refuge, somewhere I can go to re-connect with my basest self, so I thought I'd write about that as I'm assuming everyone has such a place.

Our house looks fairly standard from the outside. Perhaps the presence of a small baby and large dog means that there is slightly more rubbish than usual out front (we’re trying to adhere to the massively complex recycling rules of modern life as best we can, the result being ninety seven bins of varying shades containing the detritus of our existence). But generally we have the veneer of pretty much the standard home. Walk inside and there is – just like any other place - a certain level of bedlam. You’ll probably step on a squeaky toy as you pass over the threshold. Reuben will bark ferociously, every inch the timber wolf defending the pack, until you scratch him behind one ear at which point he’ll roll over and gaze at you adoringly whilst waggling his legs in the air. If only the moose in the Klondike knew this about wolves, their lives would be considerably lengthened I imagine. Baby Isla will be sitting on the floor, drooling like an escaped maniac and trying very hard to eat a cushion, and Tam will be multi-tasking in that sort of “playing a vigorous solo on a one man band outfit” manner that is the new mum preparing for the day ahead.

Walk through the chaos, side-stepping bags and babies, all the while being followed slavishly by Reuben, and you’ll come to a door under the stairs. A non-descript door, just like any other, and yet behind it lurks the very essence of my manhood. Turn the handle, and there’s every chance you’ll be overwhelmed by the musky whiff of testosterone that emerges as the door swings ajar. For this is a portal to that essential of modern life - my man-cave.

As your eyes adjust to the gloom you’ll be able to make out the murky shapes of spear guns, diving equipment, tools (oh yes, lots and lots of tools), and crouched in the corner like some hormonal silverback, me. As you enter I may well glance up with a primal grunt. In my more exuberantly masculine moments I may even stand and vigorously pummel my own chest. I have even been known to mock charge those who enter the man-cave, as Tam whispers in the background “Just stay calm, don’t run, and whatever you do don’t look him in the eye. He’s sees it as a challenge you know.” After a few moments I’ll return to whatever I’m doing, which involves a variety of different tools but always, always a very large hammer.

Here's a piccie. To get the full effect whilst viewing this image you need to go and get a whiff of a stag in the midst of the rut, or a bull elephant in musth. But I'm sure you get the general idea.....

I’ve heard it said that modern society is noting the gradual eradication of that peculiar creature that is a man. The thinking goes that the difference between the sexes has become blurred as we become an androgynous monoculture – you only have to stand Orlando Bloom next to Fatima Whitbread to see that this argument has merit. The days of the hunter are behind us, which neatly removes that particular daily test of virility. If you were the chap who thundered first down the hill ahead of the tribe, waggling your pitiful sharp twig at a lavishly tusked mammoth, you were held in high esteem. Or you were messily and immediately dead (which also means that the buffoons were invariably removed from the gene pool by the way, which is something that is again lamentably in the distant past).

May I say on behalf of at least half of the world’s population that it’s not easy being a modern chap. The normal tests of man-dom have been removed by the march of civilisation, and now we have to convince our respective partners that we could – if the chips were down – wrestle a sabre tooth tiger into submission, but the modern life means that we have this discussion whilst taking out a pink recycling bin. I know that society today applauds the delicate, sensitive man, and so it should. But inside, deep inside, I’m sure there’s a tiny voice in every woman that is saying “I wonder if my man could wrestle a sabre-tooth tiger into submission? Yeah, I bet he could…..”

Glance across at your man now, and you’re looking at the greatest predator that has ever walked planet earth, a magnificent uber-animal that can run all day and bring home the bacon. The passage of time, pasties and pies may have taken their toll, but inside there’s a snake hipped Apache warrior (possibly two now I think about some of my more generously upholstered mates).

And so let’s celebrate the man-cave, the shed, the garage, the study, the den and the fug. It’s here that your man can convince himself that he’s still got it, that he could still flit across the Kalahari in the shimmering heat, that he can kick a lion in the family jewels, and stare down a grizzly. The fact that from the within his cave he’ll occasionally bellow “Darling, could I have a cup of tea please? Not too strong. Oh, and with my sweetners please, not sugar. Oh, and with soya milk too, you know that dairy makes me a tad gassy….” should be quietly, and benevolently, forgiven.      

Hell and High Water, and why there'll always be an England.....

Morning All. At last another chance to sit and scribble a brief note about the trials and travails of the Great Escapes. Going well I must say, if only as a monument to the resilience of human nature if nothing else. To explain....

We finally ran our first Ultimate Taste of Devon trip the other day - this is notionally a trip out over gilded water to bob sedately off Jurassic cliffs, looking at charismatic large animals, followed by landing on a white beach to consume a feast of local produce, before a shorewalk with a marine biologist then and five mile trek home along the cliff path. All to take place in the burnished sunshine of a classic Devon Spring. Our happy, contented punters would then retire to the pub to proclaim very loudly how splendid we were.

As the day approached, so did a gigantic, spiralling low pressure system from the mid Atlantic. These two seismic events - the Ultimate Taste of Devon, and the storm of the decade - met on the 29th April at 11 am in Dartmouth, with the centre of the weather system - basically a whirlpool of violently spinning cold air - sitting precisely over the chimney of the shop building. I walked to work that day at 45 degrees, eyes slitted against the driving rain, with the gulls flying backwards and people packing their possessions into their cars whilst shouting "It's the end of all things, grab the children" at passers by. It was, in a word, bad.

When I got to the shop, Andy was in the process of putting on more protective clothing than Sir Ranulph Fiennes, as the door rattled and groaned on it's hinges. The town itself was utterly deserted, as scirrocos of  rain span down the street. Pub signs creaked and swung on their hinges, and no living thing was out in the open, as to do so would mean certain death. My thoughts at this stage was that only a deranged lunatic would pay money to sit in an open boat on a day like today, and then, hunched and staggering through the maelstrom, came five of them.

At that exact point, I loved being British. Such a refusal to accept the blindingly obvious is the reason we once had an Empire. It wasn't quite charging the cannons in the Crimea, but I'd venture it was fairly close. As Julia and Robin - our first guests - came through the door they did that special "stamp the water off the wellies" dance and muttered "Blimey, it's a bit fresh." As they said this a yacht went past upside down in the street and a van with an American typhoon chaser was seen speeding past as it ran for cover. Soon our other guests appeared, and we had a full complement of mad people.

And so to the boat. Literally nothing else was moving on the river, except for the odd duck cowering in the lee of a marker bouy quacking in alarm and paddling like a wind-up toy to stay in the same place.

Everyone cheerily climbed on board, piling into the stern to huddle together like Emperor Penguins in a blizzard as seen in one of the more lavishly funded wildlife documentaries.

"RIGHT" I hollered above the shriek of the wind, "WE'RE JUST GOING FOR A LITTLE CRUISE UP THE RIVER."

Everyone nodded with the look of the imminently doomed, and we moved sedately away from the quay. Backwards and then sideways as the wind took charge. Happily we had the horsepower to turn up-river, although unhappily this meant we were now going directly into the wind. To replicate this sensation it's probably best to stand directly behind a jet engine with someone hurling small ice cubes at our face.

"AND OVER THERE IS THE NAVAL COLLEGE. BUILT IN 1905." I roared, like it was a nice day and everyone on board was stone deaf.

We finally admitted defeat, and turned so we were going with the wind. I slowed the engines to idle as essentially we were being pushed along at a neat ten knots by the gale up our rear end. Here's a picture of us all in action. Please note the utterly deserted waters behind us and the shuttered frontage of Dartmouth.

We duly landed in the lee of the castle, and everyone piled ashore in good order. The nature walk was one of the shortest in history, the slight snag being that the beach was under about eight feet of foaming, heaving water. The seashore talk was along the lines of "There's the beach. Now, run, save yourselves."

Back to the shop, and a feast of bliblical dimensions laid on by Helen and Danii at the Dart to Mouth Deli. I could go into detail, but the best way to put it is - as ever - in a picture. Clotted cream from local farms, crab from the local fleet, smoked chicken from the local smokehouse - food so good it made you want to burst into song.

And that was it - a day that was truly epic and yet about as much fun as it's possible to have with your clothes on. Andy you played a blinder, and as for Kate and Matt, Bruce, Julia and Robin, well - you are the stuff of legend.

Next one on 13th May when the sun will definitely shine.

Cheers, Mont