Thursday 30 December 2021

THE MOUSEHOLE/PENZANCE SHUTTLE BUS...

 The Mousehole/Penzance Shuttle Bus…



At twenty-minute intervals,

With habitual regularity

The Penzance to Mousehole bus,

With unique sobriety

Shuttles and hustles, 

Bustles and tussles,

Displaying placid patience 

And commendable continuity…


It peeps, then creeps almost timidly round a corner,

Tentatively making the awkward turn,

Assessing the curve for lurking encumbrances

Like oncoming traffic, pedestrians or vehicles tarrying,

Or delivering, or collecting, or procrastinating, some even obstructing,

Before edging round onto the harbour, making sluggish advances.


A wide berth for its wide girth is carefully calculated,

 Quite essential as it crawls onwards, sedately 

To its terminus for its passengers’ conveniences,

Like some who stand near the clocktower tarrying,

Or waiting, or flaunting, or flouting, some even alighting,

Before swaggering abroad to delight the onlooking audiences…


At twenty-minute intervals,

With onerous difficulty

The driver reverses the bus,

Past memorial’s sobriety,

Shuffles and hustles,

Tussles and bustles,

Displaying practised tolerance

And remarkable assiduity… 


Pete Ray

29th December 2021


From my accommodation at The Boat Watch, 2 Fore Street, the acute regularity of the buses on this short route was a sight to behold.


Rarely even a few minutes late, the buses shuttled into Mousehole and out again, the return journey’s starting forwards into Fore Street, thus making an angle for reversing almost back to the Ship Inn, from where the driver could turn back easily across the harbour front.


When delivery vans, refuse vehicles, even a fire engine parked at or near the terminus, or if there were too many folks looking at the Christmas lights, the driver simply turned the bus round at the opposite end of the harbour road.



The two black and white images show that really, in Mousehole, the bus service has transcended all adversity…




  

  

Tuesday 28 December 2021

THE FORESHORE PURPLE SANDPIPERS... (MOUSEHOLE/NEWLYN, CORNWALL...)

 The Foreshore Purple Sandpipers…



The steps, harried by loose, untidy bushes

Descended sharply to the foreshore, 

Between Newlyn and Penlee’s

Forlorn slipway, its own memorial,

Visible to the west, as a grouchy tide 

Noisily ravaged at ragged, patient rocks

And a remote section of sea-wall.

Only a rock pipit alighted there

Flitting in almost playful avoidance 

Of irritated waves with agile evasive rushes.


Whilst looking down at wild tidal pushes,

Three small birds, mindful of the ocean’s roar,

Bobbed and skittered to avoid the sea’s

Thrust and lash, their simple elegance imperial.

A pale ring around each eye was spied

 As the chunky waders trod the outcrops

And their beaks like tools held me in thrall,

As damp crannies were poked with care.

Prodding with placid gaze and extreme patience,

Their deft dodges eschewed against breaking gushes…



Pete Ray

27th December 2021…


Surprised to see the purple sandpipers on the rocky Mounts Bay shoreline, alongside a couple of oystercatchers and the aforementioned rock pipit…



They had such gentle eyes somehow…



A special sighting…


  



 

Monday 27 December 2021

CORNISH LASS, NEGLECTED AT NEWLYN...

 Cornish Lass, Neglected At Newlyn…



Built in the year of my birth,

The Cornish Lass, registered PZ 339,

Was a tender, used for unloading fish

From larger, returning vessels,

Utilising its shallower, less cumbersome girth…


Sadly the Lass is now roped to a berth

In Newlyn Harbour, unheralded, benign,

Rotting like the carcass of a discarded fish.

Against its mooring it haplessly wrestles, 

Forgotten, decaying, belying its true worth…


Innards ripped out, stripped

From its core, gored, its bleached hulk

Pleading in naked despair;

Maroon rudder, marooned and gripped

By quay mud, stood green with lichen, forsaken to sulk.

And rusting metal pervaded its disrepair…


Canary paint was flaked and scarred

But incongruous weeds and emerald rope

Offered turnstones a haven, which sparred

Amongst the detritus on its bow, now without hope…


And a spider-like tubular metal claw, like a predator upon prey

Poked Cornish Lass, as if it was diseased and had fouled Mounts Bay…



Pete Ray

27th December 2021



A very sad sight in Newlyn’s harbour recently.


Working for the Stevenson Company around 2001 and according to the website, ‘Through The Gaps!’ which records Newlyn’s fishing news, the Cornish Lass, originally built in 1950 was relaunched in 2016…



At least the turnstones were enjoying the remaining sections of deck… 



Saturday 25 December 2021

MY CHILDHOOD CHRISTMAS DAY...

 My Childhood Christmas Day…


Each year was the same,

Or so it seemed.

A hunched pillow-case of white linen,

Bulky, its contents making sharp angles,

Simply begged to be investigated.

And I dreamed

Each year for the same,

Or so it seemed…


Toffees nestling in tins,

More than one ‘selection box’;

A gun in its holster,

Fruit stuffed inside socks.


Plastic cowboys or army figures,

Dinky Toy car reproductions;

Liquorice replicas of smokers’ pipes, 

Metal puzzles with crass instructions.


A fixed set of annuals,

Desperately sought

But disappointment was palpable

If any hadn’t been bought…


A pathetic compendium of games,

Sweet cigarettes tight in a packet;

But no golf-club for me it seemed,

Or even a tennis racket…


The awful painting by numbers,

Truly tedious, a terrible bore,

Always abandoned unfinished:

A long and intricate chore.


I hated too those awful figures

For rubber moulds mildly quaint,

To be messily filled with wet plaster

Then when dry being forced to paint.


But the horror for me was to unwrap

What caused total mental destruction:

Something technical, or mechanical,

Which entailed any kind of construction… 


Yet I guess the most acceptable

Gift of all for me was a ball:

A present simply to kick and head

Against the back-garden wall…


And so each year was the same,

Or so it seems now.

The stripped wrap of garish colours

Strewn, the contents making strange piles,

Simply begging to be investigated.

And I dreamed

Next year for the same,

Or so it then seemed…


Pete Ray

(Revised) Christmas Day 2021…


PAINTING BY NUMBERS: OMG...
NEVER FINISHED ONE.

It really did seem to be the same year after year.

It wasn’t, I’m sure.


LOVED THESE...

Charles Buchan’s Soccer Gift Book, the Roy of the Rovers Annual and the Dennis the Menace Annual were the must-have books.


Dinky Toy cars, model soldiers, cowboys and American Native Indians were welcome.


DINKY TOYS.
MANAGED TO RE-COLLECT MY FAVOURITES...

PLAYED FOR HOURS WITH THESE...

Liquorice and toffee were good. Selection boxes were cop-outs for buyers but those construction kits, such as Bayko, or Meccano were mind wrecking gifts of hell for me. 


NOOOOOOOOO!

Left-handed, you see… 

(My excuse and nothing will shake that.) 


A ball? Great stuff. 


AH, YES...

Presents left in piles and I was going outside whatever the weather, to kick my new ball. 


It’s what I did… 

Friday 24 December 2021

MY POEM FOR CHRISTMAS EVE: 'SOLACE IN THE TRENCH...'

 Solace In The Trench…


There was a lull.

A truce. An acceptance

As the filthy sky

Hovered, black and sullen

Leering over his trench.

And silence.

And a sense

That the God he had been urged

To fear,

Was for him no longer near

For his faith had been purged,

And his chest wept.

Yet the tears

Failed to wrench 

From eyes smarting and dull…


There was a melody.

A hymn. An incongruence

As the smoky air

Lurked like a maladie,

Peering over his trench.

And innocence.

And a sense

Of peace was being merged

 With fear

Sung by the enemy near.

And his faith, severely purged,

Into his chest crept.

And his tears

Fell on the stench

Of battle, such a sweet tragedy…


And Stille Nacht haunted

No Man’s Land

And all was calm

Although not bright.

And then more voices, undaunted,

Rose, as infantrymen began to stand,

The beauty a balm,

The battle a blight… 


Pete Ray

December 2021…


World War 1, Christmas Eve 1914.


PATERNAL GRANDFATHER, WHO WAS APPARENTLY STATIONED NEAR WHERE THE 'TRUCE' HAPPENED ON CHRISTMAS EVE, 1914...

I would like to think that this might have been felt by at least one soldier, German, or English…

MATERNAL GRANDFATHER, SEATED ON A CHAIR, CENTRE: A REGIMENTAL SERGEANT MAJOR...

  
THE TRUCE MEMORIAL, NATIONAL ARBORETUM, ALREWAS...

I'M POINTING TO THE ROYAL WARWICKSHIRE LOGO ON THE MEMORIAL...