All posts by coradevine

A Sea-Change ~ Part One: The Wreck

cover2 26th July 2015 2

 

Finally!

The Wreck is Part One of a 169,000 word novel A Sea-Change,  which is being published as a series, soon to be followed by the release of Part Two: The Turning Tide and Part Three: Something Rich and Strange.

Quick post as getting ready to visit beautiful Cornwall tomorrow; thanks to everyone who has supported and encouraged me, or just sat around patiently on Twitter wondering if I was ever going to press the BIG RED SHINY PUBLISH BUTTON; I know many of you have despaired of me!

(And there’s a certain Twitter follower who I hope has got the strawberry laces in since he has vowed to crochet and eat his hat…)

And  now I have to go and pack for Kernow! Have a great weekend all.

 

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Risk


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 The Briar Wood, from the Briar Rose Series by Sir Edward Burne-Jones

 

To laugh is to risk appearing the fool;

To weep is to risk appearing sentimental;

To reach out for another is to risk involvement,

To expose feeling is to risk exposing your true self.

 

To place your ideas and your dreams before the crowd is to risk their loss

To love is to risk not being loved in return.

To live is to risk dying,

To hope is to risk despair,

To try is to risk failure.

 

But risk must be taken, because the greatest hazard in life is to risk nothing.

The person who risks nothing, does nothing, has nothing, and is nothing;

They may avoid suffering and sorrow,

But they simply cannot learn,

Feel change, grow, love, live.

Chained by their certitude, they are a slave,

They have forfeited freedom;

Only the person who risks is free.

 

                                                                        Author unknown

 

Although it is easy to nod and agree with the premise, I’ve been thinking about how much I really live by the philosophy of this poem/quotation (often attributed to various people, the original source is unclear). 

There are those who take risks of a physical nature; testing their boundaries and adrenalin supplies in extreme sports.  I admire them and would love to be them: the rock-climber; the surfer who seeks out that secret but dangerous break; anyone who does anything that involves jumping out of a plane!  But no matter how adventurous your life, will it not still be lacking if you are afraid to take a risk with your heart?

I know I take risks of a personal nature – a true believer that faint heart ne’er won fair, er, maid… (Yes, I would have made a damn good medieval knight), I am not afraid to make a fool of myself if I deem something to be important.  I’ll give you an example:  I once, upon impulse, sent a dozen red roses to a man I liked.  As you can imagine, I spent the next 24 hours in a state of acute anxiety, cursing myself for my rashness, and awaiting the inevitable humiliation.  What was I thinking?  What would he think?!  Pacing the floor, rocking back and forth and whining in a primeval manner doesn’t come close.  But life is too short to let fear of rejection, or even contempt, rule your decisions: even in failure, there is experience.  Even through pain, there is growth and self-knowledge.  You can go through life presenting the outer self; the controlled façade that protects against pain, but you’re not being true to your real self; to your inner self; to your heart.  In matters of the heart perhaps we take the biggest risk of all, but I am not afraid of the love letter; the heartfelt gesture.  In this instance, it worked.  He called, and it was the start of a long relationship.   I’ve not always been so fortunate, but, well, the poem says it all and better than I…

But I am not taking the risks that I need to in other areas of my life.  If there was a word that described the antithesis of ambition, that’d be me.  I create: I write and paint, but have a real block when it comes to ‘putting it out there’.  I am not a good business-woman. Words like ‘business’ ‘finance’ and even ‘career’ are somehow anathema to me.  I re-work, re-edit; concentrate on the detail.  I over-paint and over-paint. To an extent this is a good thing, but I struggle to let things go, and I hate, absolutely hate, the concept of ‘selling’.  It generally takes someone to stride forcefully up to me and demand a painting whilst slapping some hard cash in my hand.  I don’t know why I’m like this:  modesty is one thing, but this is borderline-pathological, especially when I spend so much of my time in the business of creation.

I know all the maxims; the doctrines and mantras… I know I’m supposed to feel the fear and do it anyway.  Nobody cares, nothing to see, move along please.  People might love you, hate you or be largely indifferent.  I know all this, I know it.  And yet still I work on that new novel whilst performing the umpteenth edit on the first, when I could have self-published two years ago! So what’s stopping me?  Well, for one thing; I’m still finding things wrong.  Small things maybe, but if I can see it, then you will too, that’s for sure. These are the things that trip us up, irritate, and in some cases, completely destroy suspension of disbelief.  The offending book ends up hurled into the nearest passing skip (or cyber-equivalent).  But more than that, I believe that if you are self-publishing, and moreover, tackling all aspects of the process, including proof-reading, editing and cover design, you have an absolute duty to make it good.  Or, at least the very best you can.  Because, although many traditionally published books with their army of middle-men can still be badly edited and proof-read, it is almost MORE important for an ‘indie’ publisher to preserve the integrity and plausibility of the self-published author by being good. 

But there still comes a time when we have to let our babies go.  So why do I fear taking the risk, the leap of faith?  Maybe this will be the year I’ll learn to put this right.  As a start I have not obsessively edited or over-read this post.  But ah, there’s the rub…will I post it?

Happy New Year.

 

 

London Surf Film Festival

 

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View of the Thames from Riverside Studios

The London Surf Film Festival is almost upon us again, running this year from 11th to 14th October at Riverside Studios. Details of the line-up and tickets info at surf.http://www.londonsurffilmfestival.com/

Here is my review of last years inaugural event for A1 Surf. And why not?

London Surf Film Festival – Friday 14th October 2011

If I’m honest, I was a little perturbed when I initially heard about the first ever London Surf Film Festival. Could Surf culture be promoted from such land-locked confines? Indeed, would anybody turn up?  I needn’t have worried.

We arrived to the offer of a free glass of beer from Jeremiah Weed Brews which set the tone for the relaxed laid-back atmosphere of the night. Riverside Studios is a terrific venue for this event – no ocean, but a river… a decent selection of wines, good food and great service. It was a sold-out, packed out event, but the atmosphere was chilled and relaxed, with personal intros to the films from the organizers, and rounds of applause for the attendant Shorty filmmakers.

And so to the films: put the bit between your teeth now, but Kai Neville’s Lost Atlas left me cold. Endless shots of tricks are not for me.  But it’s modern, and I hear it’s extremely good if you’re into progressive stuff, so give it a go if you are. There’s lots of it.

Dark Fall from Alex DePhillipo had an interesting premise, following a gang of dedicated New Jersey surfers who suffer the freezing and disturbingly brown waves of their home break for the love of surf. A supposed relief trip to Tahiti is initially flat and frustrating, but Teahupo’o soon delivers. The endless roll-call of names is annoying but in the end, the love wins out.

But the star of the night, predictably perhaps, had to be Stoked and Broke. With little more than some pram-wheels, bamboo, and a knowledge of square lashing, Director Cyrus Sutton and equally endearing side-kick Ryan Burch take to the road to follow the surfari dream with no money but a lot of charm. Surfing highlights include Cyrus’s hand-plane sessions, Ryan’s polystyrene, er, float, and some great waves at Blacks Beach. Yes, it’s funny, and life-enhancing too, as the not-so-hapless duo blag, hustle and busk their way south; but there is a serious issue here too: about getting the balance right between freedom and security. Oh, and if you’re in Cali, eat at the La Jollo Cheese shop. Don’t ask questions, just do it…

Downsides? On this night, anyway, the strongest representation of women was a repeated shot of a shore-bound beauty in a pink Billabong bikini – but a lovely Tahitian man in Dark Fall shyly reminded us that according to legend the first to surf Teahupo’o was a woman.

I would like to have seen more of the distinctive flavour of British surfing; some Mickey Smith would have been good.  But this is where the Shorties came in, on this night ably represented by Tim Davies’ Rubber Tracksuit, Steven Clarey’s 12 months in 5 minutes and Nicky Woodhouse’s Fluid Juice; but my personal favourite of the festival (the fabulous ‘Wreckers’ notwithstanding) would have to be Shayne House’s H2R.  And on the Sunday there was the World Premiere screening of Through the Whisky Barrel, by Scottish filmmaker Allyn Harper, so there is the promise of more home-grown films to come.

I loved the vibe at the first ever London Surf Film Festival, but feared that, given its location, it might be too corporate and distanced from the real thing. There I said it. This was not true on the night, let’s keep it that way.

Thanks again to A1Surf for the tickets!

 

St Ives

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When I was a little girl, my mother asked me where I envisaged living when I was grown-up.  Straight away I said ‘a fishing village by the sea’, as if there were a great demand for the same inland.  I don’t remember where it came from; what image had so influenced my young mind.  Perhaps I had just finished reading Enid Blyton’s The Island of Adventure and was dreaming of rocky coves.  And true, my early years had been spent by the sea in Northern Ireland, but this was an altogether different place in my mind’s eye.  So clear was the image that I promptly scurried off to sketch the cobbled streets, picturesque harbour and cottages raised above fish cellars.  I saw myself sitting on granite steps leading up to a stable door, perhaps with a few pots of geraniums for company.

So no wonder when I first came to St Ives, it felt like coming home.  I’ve been here so many times since now, that I can hardly see it to write with fresh eyes…yet there is much to say.

So what can I say about St Ives that has not been said elsewhere before?  What’s left to say about the art, the surf culture and the gourmet restaurants?  I could talk about the beaches…five, yes five in the town alone, never mind the nearby beauty of Carbis Bay, Porth Kidney Sands and beyond the Hayle estuary the long stretch of towans to Gwithian and Godrevy.  Arriving by train to St Ives your first impression will be the sweeping panorama of Porthminster Beach.  To me, Porthminster embodies the spirit of the 1930s and the dash to the Cornish Riviera; the freedom of the railways; beach huts for changing and traditional B & B’s.  But move a little closer into town and the Harbour beach, thronging with tourists in the summer months, is nevertheless a working harbour, with small fishing boats still operating alongside the tourist boat trips to ‘Seal island’(actually part of group of tiny islands off the coast called ‘The Carracks’ or literally, ‘The rocks’).  Don’t be fooled by this innocent-sounding excursion; I don’t mind admitting my mettle was challenged by my first trip.  A salty-old seadog, skipper of the tiny fishing boat we had recklessly boarded to ‘go and see the seals’ gave no warning  other than a gruff and muffled ‘might be a bit rocky out in the bay’ as we turned, too late,  out of the safe harbour waters and into the heaving swell of the North Atlantic Ocean…

The trip takes you out of your seagull-cushioned comfort zone into wild nature itself; nothing but the sea and the impenetrable granite landscape.  But first, leaving St Ives, it passes Porthgwidden, a small sandy cove which offers shallow bathing and so is popular with families with young children, and my personal favourite, the beautiful surfing beach, the mighty Porthmeor, overlooked by the Tate St Ives.  And the fifth beach?  It might be easy to miss the granite steps that lead down to small rocky Bamaluz, a place to escape the crowds and walk the dog.  You can find it near the St Ives Museum.  An old galleon compared to the Tate’s commanding great white ocean liner; the St Ives Museum is a treasure trove in respect of the town’s history.  It is here that you get a real sense of the hardship endured, of a small town trying to eek a living from the land and sea, from farming, fishing and mining.  And, especially on a day when the wind and rain lash outside and the sea is wild and raging, a real sense of the danger, and the lives lost in countless shipwrecks around the coast; and the bravery of the earliest lifeboat-men, and indeed all the townspeople, who would rally to help those in peril of shipwreck.  It is these thoughts that dominate when bouncing around, in insignificance, on that tiny fishing boat.  There was a time when, back-packing around the Greek islands I would have sat on the bow of such a small boat, shrieking with carefree laughter as my bare legs were plunged into the water.  Here, on the Atlantic, many years later, I am afraid.  Perhaps it is the passing of time: I no longer have my whole life stretching before me, with the confidence and surety that brings.  But it is also a respectful awareness of the ghosts of the lives lost in these waters.

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Alfred Wallis: The Wreck of the Alba.  The ship’s boiler, easily mistaken for black rock, can still be seen at low tide on Porthmeor beach.

 

It is easy to dismiss St Ives as a ‘tourist town’, and it is, of course: apart from the many who rent holiday homes, it attracts masses of day-trippers.  A friend of mine told me that apart from his own family and an elderly lady, every other house in his Downalong (the old fishing quarters) street is a holiday rental.  My friend was born in St Ives and has a family history, a heritage, here.  But for many young people of the town it is increasingly difficult to be able to afford to stay, with house prices being so escalated by the demand for quaint, refurbished lettings.  I could argue that it is equally hard in London (it is), but many young people in St Ives work two, sometimes three jobs in the summer months just to get by.  And I cannot help but feel dismay to notice certain outlets, once intrinsic to the town’s flavour, being driven out by high rents.  Where once it might have been enough to stay in a characterful but basic fisherman’s cottage, I now see the word ‘boutique’ everywhere, and with rumours (I saw the plans on twitter) of some ‘executive beach huts’ being built on Porthmeor,  there is some danger of St Ives smothering it’s heritage and becoming a theme park; an elitist caricature of the hardened fishing and mining village it once was; to lose the memory of a time when sea views did not come at a premium, but rather cottages were built huddled in clusters with their backs to the ocean as if for protection.  The sea was a livelihood, but to be respected and feared.

Except… it isn’t. Not yet.  Despite the economical inevitability of tourism, St Ives still has a vibrant local community, which thrives not only in the arts, theatre, surfing and much more. There is a sense of freedom and an innate connection with nature and the sea; I love to see the town’s children effortlessly back-flip off the pier at high tide, or a teenager skateboard rebelliously the wrong way down the one-way system, dodging holiday traffic, with an umbrella in the rain. There is a forward thinking buzz that extends to the towns forty or so independent restaurants which on the whole (and notwithstanding the arrival of a renowned pizza chain and a Tescos in recent years) source local produce, thus supporting ethical aims and putting money back into the local economy.

But more than that, there is still something special about St Ives.  Like an unexpected kiss on the cheek, or a happy, stoked smile from a stranger.  Just the sight of sand blowing across the cobbles on a sunny evening when you return, exhausted and ravenous from a day in the ocean or walking the coast path, or of wetsuits hanging in the street where once would have been laundry or sails.  Or maybe sitting by the Arts Club in the dead of night with the black sea crashing up over the harbour wall, there is still something residual; a character that resonates through the years and the gentrification.

I love Porthmeor beach.  The first time I saw it I knew I would be back.  It is especially beautiful in the early morning or in the evening, when the summer crowds have gone home for tea and to tuck the children up for the night in their Cath Kidston-covered duvets.   Given that it is just a short distance away from the evening revelers at the 13th Century Sloop Inn and the harbor restaurants, it can be a surprisingly quiet place for an evening stroll; to watch the sunset surfers, or when the sun sets spectacularly over Man’s Head, to star watch.

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The St Ives School of Painting backs onto Porthmeor Beach, and is currently undergoing a sensitive restoration.   It is a remarkable and unique building that brings together two elements most associated with St Ives’ Culture: fishing and art.   This type of building, fisherman’s cellars and sail lofts, once ran the length of the beach, so it is lucky to have survived not being turned into holiday apartments.  The evolution into a shared existence with artist studios assuredly helped.  As darkness falls I look jealously at the glowing embers of light from within… to have a studio here would be a dream come true.  Ah, but I might only ever be able to paint the view…

 

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That Riviera Touch

 

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Victorian image of Paddington Station, London

I like to think that there is a bartender in a certain Paddington station bar who passes the day in keen observation of the ever-changing ebb and flow of customers.  Perhaps he is really a writer, or an actor honing his skills, but only he might notice that every six months or so, the same disparate group of men collects on the concourse – or ‘The Lawn’ as it is known – cluttering up the outside seating area with their rucksacks, and copious bags full of food and drink.   And, sure enough, here they are again, ordering pints of Guinness at this breakfast hour… only this time there is something different.  This time there is a woman with them, and she looks nervous…

There is a nauseous combination of cacophonous noise and busyness about Paddington that could easily jade the most diligent traveler.  But with Brunel’s iron and glass roof forming a tunnel through which to shoot you to adventure and the west, there is still a romance that evokes the Victorian era of exploration and escapade.  And I am so ready for adventure again after years of child-rearing.  All the same, it’s hard not to feel apprehensive as I sit cradling my half-pint of Guinness, not really wanting it, but reluctant to betray my girlishness from the off.  The boys have welcomed me on their Walk, and it wouldn’t do to complain that surely coffee would be more appropriate at this time of day before I’ve even set one booted foot upon an unmade path.  And as if the early alcohol consumption wasn’t enough, I’m now being introduced to The Whip…

No, not that kind of whip, but rather that very British and democratic method of ensuring that one of the party does not always end up buying all the rounds, or in this case, all the drinks, meals, snacks, sundry train or bus fares, and any other miscellaneous costs.  It’s quite simple: everyone contributes to The Whip, usually around twenty pounds each; and it is then used for all expenses until it runs out; at which point another twenty pounds is thrown in by each person, and so on.  The money is placed, medieval-style, in a black velvet drawstring bag (I don’t ask), and everyone must take a turn, in other words, responsibility, for carrying it.  I have mixed feelings about The Whip, as I sip at my little ‘half’, and watch the boys order their second pint; but reason that since I may make up for it by the evening – a much more natural tippling time for a wine drinker – that it may all even out in the end.

Andy has taken over as ‘Grand Poobah’ from Rod, who held this title by not previously missing a single walk, but due to personal circumstances, has had to cancel for the first time.  Late, and in possession of the train tickets, Andy, with typical insouciance eventually saunters into view giving us just minutes to dash for the First Great Western.  I had hoped for the Cornish Riviera Express, or at least something from Thomas the Tank Engine, but our train is disappointingly modern.  We are headed to the far west of Cornwall, and little then did I know what an impression this journey would have on me for years to come.  The suburbs and industrial hangers on the outskirts of London are swiftly left behind and before long we are hurtling through England’s green and pleasant vales of chalk white horses and mysterious burial mounds.  The fields are bathed in glorious May sunshine, and the railway banks soon give way to beautiful yellow gorse; so close to the train that you could reach out and touch… much as I was used to instinctively touching the head of a small child.  I inadvertently startle now and then, as though I have forgotten something.  I am so used to always looking out for a little one, it is instinctive to keep checking, checking…but the guys are doing a fine job of distracting.  Luckily, we have managed to book two adjoining table-seats in the centre of the carriage, and they are carefully and methodically arranging what looks like a small Roman feast.  There is fresh bread, fruit, cheese and wine; olives, stuffed dates, pates and cooked meats…   Jim has brought a pre-made flagon of some cocktail or other and is busy cutting fresh limes. Other passengers eye us with envy as they stumble back from the buffet car with malodorous burgers and Styrofoam-clad coffee.  Any efforts at nonchalance soon give way to unrestrained grins of excitement as the dual intoxicating effects of wine and the hot sun on our heads relax us, and I am regaled (as is the entire carriage I suspect) with hilarious stories of past walks…  but these are tales for another time.

Past Exmouth and it’s The Brunel Show all the way, as the train swings along the very edge of the English Channel for a brief but sensational sea-front ride.  Cutting through the cliffs and along the sea wall, before lurching inland again towards Newton Abbot, The South Devon Railway was opened in 1846 and originally intended as an ‘atmospheric’ railway. But in less than a year the gauge was converted and it became part of the Great Western railway. Ever at risk from a breach of the sea or a land-slip (not to mention an errant wave) it may be something of an expensive folly, but I love Brunel’s imagination and audacity in building, against logistical reason or regard for maintenance, a line that enthralls.  At least, that is, to those of us still stirred by that first childish glimpse of the sea.  I have travelled this way many times now and am still befuddled at the number of passengers who pay no attention to this treat; who do not have their noses pressed to the window, but sit ensconced in technological absorption or enshrouding broadsheet, willing the long journey over.

To me, the five and a half-hour train ride to west Cornwall has become an important, integral part of my visits.  And not just because I like trains, and people watching, and bucolic views; time traversed is a reminder of entering another country, another world.  As if to emphasise this ritual, the train slows to a stately crawl as it passes over that other wonder of Brunel engineering, the Royal Albert Bridge. Naturally this is entirely to do with safety, and not to give those of us who care time to reflect on the River Tamar, dotted with tiny boats far below, and almost, but for three miles, separating Cornwall from England.  Yet, in my fanciful mind there is something ceremonial in this passage, a respectful recognition of transition, a feeling compounded when there is just enough time to read the sign at Saltash on the western side of the river before the train picks up speed again: ‘Kernow a’gas dynnergh’.  Welcome to Cornwall.

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Boats under Saltash Bridge (Royal Albert Bridge) by St Ives artist Alfred Wallis

White horses give way to crumbling abandoned engine houses, those relics of the Cornish tin mining industry, and in time we arrive in St Erth, where we are due to change for the branch line to St Ives.  St Erth is a very pretty brick-built station with a tea room, that has somehow managed to resist alteration since its 1877 construction, and already I know I’m in another place as a gentle summer breeze sways palm trees and unfamiliar early summer flowers.  The St Ives branch line is a single track upon which the train carriages run the four miles back and forth to St Ives, and there is not long to wait for the next one.  But no; there is, apparently time for a quick sprint to the nearby Lamb and Flag.  Once again I cunningly hide my desire to preach sense, and go with the flow; fie thee prudence, I cast my fate to the wind! But the wine is taking its toll and my rucksack feels very heavy on my shoulders as I struggle to keep up the pace, which is presumably set at ‘beer’ mode.  It does not bode well for the walk ahead.

Half an hour later, on the branch line train and lulled into a happy drowsiness, we roll past the Hayle estuary mudflats, home to many rare bird species.  But as the river-mouth opens to the sea and the expanse of Porth Kidney Sands and the long stretch of beach to Gwithian and Godrevy lighthouse, we are startled to our feet again at the carriage window, silently captivated by the sublime beauty.  This is one of the most beautiful train journeys in the country, but too quickly it passes by Hawkes point and Carbis Bay via clifftop and viaduct, before settling at journey’s end, overlooking Porthminster Beach at St Ives.  This is the journey of a bygone age, reminiscent of beach huts, Betjemen and sand in the sandwiches.   And then there is the first view of St Ives itself.  No wonder the early railway posters advertised it as The Cornish Riviera.

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Before long, we are sitting at a table outside the ancient Sloop Inn where we are staying, supping a pint of Doom, and watching the incoming tide gently slap against the harbour boats.  In early May there are no crowds and I’m personally delighted by the abundance of handsome ruddy-faced locals in fisherman’s jumpers…

Later, at a harbour-front restaurant, the journey, or rather the alcohol consumption takes it toll, and I cannot eat the scrumptious mushroom fettucine or drink the delicious Viognier.  All the weeks of preparation, the miles of hill-walking and becoming fit and hydrated for the walk ahead have been undone in a single day, and I dread the sixteen miles of steep cliffs that lie ahead in the morning.  But as I bid goodnight to the guys and make my way back along the deserted wharf to my room, heady with the sea air, the black ocean beats more insistently against the harbour wall, and I know there is a connection with this place that will not easily be broken.

Next time: St Ives.

As part of a recent restoration project, Patrick Baty of Papers and Paints in London was asked to make a paint analysis in order to ascertain the original colour of the Royal Albert Bridge. You can read more about this here: http://patrickbaty.co.uk/2010/11/25/royal-albert-bridge-cornwall/

THEY PAVED PARADISE

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One of the great pleasures of ‘writing’ is afternoons spent idly surfing the internet…   I mean research… research!  I’ve blogged before about how going off on a tangent often leads to little gems which I cannot resist incorporating into my writing, if only as a passing reference.  A few years ago I came across the Skewjack Surf Village.  I can’t remember exactly how, but it may very well have been via an interview with founding member Chris Tyler on Alex Wade’s Surf Nation blog from 2008 (which you can read here); either way it stuck in my imagination. 

Skewjack was created in the early seventies, the concept of a collection of individuals, including Chris Tyler and Chris South.  Although somewhat inevitably coming to an end in the mid-eighties, it remains Britain’s only ever surf ‘village’. Based in the far south west of Cornwall, near Porthcurno, it was a community of chalets, bistro, swimming pool and bar; and offered surf lessons at nearby Sennen beach; ferrying holidaymakers there and back in a converted ambulance named ‘Amy’.  Coupled with what can only be described as wild partying in the on-site disco in the evenings, Skewjack was a one-off. 

Go to ex-Skewjack surf instructor and lifeguard Graham Shephard’s website here for a browse around.  It is here, particularly in respect of the fond memories posted, that will give the best impression of the antics that went on.  And you can also view the rest of the original and now wonderfully retro brochure.  Ironically it may have been exposure on the Holiday ’76 television programme that provided the tipping point that spiraled into Skewjack’s eventual demise.  The village may have been unable to meet the demands of increasing attention, but at least it never became an institutionalised holiday camp.  When it was all over, the Skewjack premises were demolished, and the site reverted to the more prosaic purpose of a telecommunications ‘switching station’ for the transatlantic cables that come in at Porthcurno. Former adherents could only make pilgrimage to stand in dismay outside the newly installed fencing and gates, and wonder where it all went.  You don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone…

I incorporate the legend of Skewjack, a small tribute, if you will, into my current novel/work in progress, but that said, I cannot help feeling that its story would make a fun novel in itself (perhaps I’ll write it one day?), or even better, an amusing film on the fledgling and very idiosyncratic British surfing scene.  But what really strikes me is that Skewjack serves as a reminder of how straitjacketed and puritanical our society has become: partying aside, the village was a rare cultural hub for enthusiasts at a time when surfing was still relatively counter-culture. Sadly, I suspect that fusty attitudes and increasing curbs on freedom made by those shackles Health and Safety mean that (whilst there will still be surf schools) we will never see the like of Skewjack again.  It surely deserves its place in British surfing history. 

Indeed memorabilia from Skewjack has been donated to the Museum of British Surfing which opens its doors tomorrow, 6th April 2012, in Braunton, North Devon, with its inaugural exhibition ‘The Art of Surf.  http://www.museumofbritishsurfing.org.uk/

 

  

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I’m waiting for the Day

Not everyone remembers  Gary Valentine, one of the founding members of Blondie.  He went on to pursue his more esoteric interests in the occult, but left the band with a humdinger of a song in (I am always touched by your) Presence, Dear.  (Which would itself make an apt, but perhaps slightly creepy valentine for these cybernaut times, so perhaps not…). But love this early video of Blondie in which he features, along with Chris Stein, Jimmy Destri and Clem Burke.   As we all know, BLONDIE IS A BAND, and here they take a foray into surf culture (The Bleach boys?).  Oh, and of course, there is super-cool Debbie, showing effortlessly, how to properly dance.  Take note, Madonna, Beyonce et al.

In the sun, it’s for everyone.