Yarmouth Maritime Festival
Seventh and eighth daies of September, year of grace 2019
Far West to furthest East, to the shores where Nelson learned to sail, the Malarkey finally warped alongside at Great Yarmouth. The crew, freed form the rigours of a hard windward passage, proceeded to spread Exmouth anarchy and raucous joy .... with the chef and waitress of an Italian restaurant, and after a magnificent breakfast of local delicacies (fresh bacon and Norfolk eggs) proceeded to sing their Hearts of Oak out on The Fo’c’sle, in Horatio’s Bar, and on the raised Poop deck of a main stage opposite HMS Bangor. She let rip a fusillade of gun fire coincidentally at exactly the moment in Ank’s tragicall account of the storming of Quebec and the death of General Wolfe as the slaughter commenced.
The steam yacht SS George Stevenson, clearly moved by our obvious gusto, joined in with the loudest steam hooter and klaxon the Buoys have ever heard – a semitone off key. Many of our shanties celebrate yesterday’s triumphs and technology and the struggle to harness wind power – main course, topsail. t’gallant, jib and spanker – but now in Yarmouth, again wind-power rules, with a fleet of racing catamarans that service the hundreds of Wind Turbines and Generators growing on the North Sea’s shallow offshore sandbanks.
If like Eamon Fyre we remember seamanship that involves ‘every thumb a marlin-spike, and every finger a fid’ these new vessels seem as mysterious and futuristic as the Starship Enterprize, but truly are part of the same adventure to tame and harness the wild wind and sea to our use.
Every ship of the line has a tender – jollyboat, gig, whaler – but our utilitarian tender (a.k.a. Fordtransit) gave up the ghost halfway back home, and with a sound like gunfire (steel on stone) and a desperate hiss, the starboard bow propeller exploded.
Carpenter Cameron Nails sang lustily and gustily what was emerging as the festival’s theme song, ‘ In Yarmouth town there lived a man .... with a daughter fair, pretty little thing with golden hair’ but as to whether he found a string to pull, or anyone actually pulled his, this Log must remain forever silent.
Shantymen do their bit for Male Mental Health
Dydd Gwyl Dewi eve, year of grace 2020
The Seven Stars, Kennford
Weather:- Tempestuous sleet and hail, v. chilly
Wind:- SW storm Jorge, 7 gusting 9
The Seven Stars (Ursa MInor - pointing to Polaris, true N, and guiding generations of seamen safely home through the dark) had guided the entire hamlet of Kennford into the recently resurrected gastro-pub for a charity Shanty Night for Male Mental Health.
The bar was packed to the gunwales fuller than the Titanic’s lifeboats - saucy Pirate Molls and seductive Lady Tars crammed between diners rejoicing in every conceivable incarnation of fish or crustacea that the sea surrenders, and a fine haul of invited shanty crews.
The Jurrasix - six lively singers resurrected from the fossil beds of Dorset, bearing a huge armorial Ammonite (upside down).
Our good friends Cask - swashbuckling Steve, and Catherine transformed into the most alluring green-blue voluptuous mermaid - like to lure shiploads of unsuspecting sailors onto the ragged rocks, as “ ... the raging seas did roar and the stormy winds did blow” thanks to Jorge.
Wondering if we The Malarkey’s crew had been invited as exemplars of male mental health issues - but with background levels of friendly pub noise and frolicsome festivity shivering the pub’s timbers, the Buoys let rip with our most gustoish shantys and forebitters - and were rewarded with riotous acclamation and some not just singing, but dancing along.
Rightly top of the bill for popularity, verve, volume, and youthful enthusiasm, were a newly formed crew of local lads, Bow Movement, our hosts for the night, who conceived and launched this charity gig. We thank them for an excellent and entertaining evening, wish them well as they continue sailing the salty road of shantying, and look forward to our voyages meeting again at future splicings of the mainbrace.
ESM Sing Happy Birthday
Tenth day of February, year of Grace 2020
Galampton creek off the River Dart has seen many fine vessels slide down the slipways, and many others subside in cosy mud berths there in their declining years. The buoys on a run ashore were delighted to be invited to celebrate the anniversary of the launch of a fine trim vessel – The Sweet Ann – on this day eighty years ago.
As the wind blew, the rain rained, and the storm increased, the crew ashore were delighted to find a safe haven, and pleased to add their manly voices to the Birthday Celebration. And Anne, after a lifetime of enjoying shanties and forebitters, sang along with the best.
In our chill Northern mid-winter, the more louche of the crew fantasised about bikini-clad beauties on distant sun-kissed beaches a hemisphere away – Cococabana and the Rio Grande – but the majority were delighted to find warmth and welcome in a loving household ashore, and wish Ann & her family Fair Winds, Happy Havens, & Convivial Carousing. And so say all of us.
Lympstone New Year Concert
The Sabbath, Fifth day of January, Year of grace 2020
Communal Hall of ye People’s Republic of Lympstone
Weather:- Crisp and clear
Wind:- WSW moderate
Summoned by the Blue Peter flying from the yard arm, the Malarkey’s crew – bleary, bloated, or bright-eyed – forgathered from their Hogmanay carousing, to celebrate a New Year, and a new Decade (however decayed some felt) in the once mighty transatlantic salt-cod port of Lympstone, now declined to a genteel backwater.
Nobly piloted by Wayne the Anchorman, sailing master for the occasion, the Buoys did indeed weigh anchor, sally forth, and set sail for the first cruise of the year, and shared seasonal stories of Tall Ships and tipsy Tavern Tales with gusto, to an appreciative audience. Melodies varied from Albert Truss’ lyrical poetic evocation of his namesake Albatross, to Billy’s stomping Leaving of Liverpool, his sea-boots even louder and rougher than his voice – and the rest of a full crew covered all points on the spectrum in-between – poignant and passionate, vulgar and variegated, too many to mention in this log individually, but a good time was had by every man Jack of the Exmouth Shanty Men – and one Woman - and all agreed, an excellent shakedown cruise into a new year, whatever reefs and wrecks lie ahead.
Exmouth Town Band Christmas Concert
|Tenth day of December, year of Grace 2019|
Wind: SW full gale
Weather: Cold enough to freeze the balls off a brass monkey
Twas a dark and stormy night; the wind howled; the rain poured in torrents down; but the indefatigable citizenry of Exmouth (those who hadn’t already absconded to finer climes) filled the Pavilion for the traditional winter extravaganza. If the wind blew loudly outside, it was nothing compared to the mighty blast of trumpets, euphoniums, trombones, clarinets of the Town Band in full glorious and harmonious fortissimo; and as the vicious gale rattled riggings in the Dock and chimney pots along the Sea front, the full percussion section on stage rattled out rhythms of Christmas joy and cheerful Carols.
The Buoys, welcomed as ‘special guest performers’ were delighted to add their manly – and one woman – melodies and shantys to the overall event; and in short order Rattled Winches, remembered bairns sleeping by the fireside as they struggled home for Christmas, lamented the Hullaballoo of seduction and marriage break up (remarkably common at this season of enforced familiarity) and chorused the nearest carol to a sea-shanty they knew – I saw three ships come sailing in, with their precious cargo that is the true reason for the Season. Then off South to the Southern Ocean where the lonely Mollymauk soars, or to the sunny bikini beaches of Rio. Carol literally means ‘a dance’ but one of the Malarkey’s crew, after an unfortunate encounter with a New York dancing girl, decided he was safer round Cape Horn. The entire crew made their unique Culinary Contribution to this time of feasting and drinking, with a queer and distinctive Recipe, and a Drop of Nelson Blood.
And Lo and Behold, who should appear but the Patron Saint of Sailors, St Nicholas of Myra (oft invoked by Mediterranean colleagues caught in hurricanes) and now, slightly overweight, cruising up our aisle as Santa, distributing largesse port and starboard. And we were delighted to play own small part in supporting Exmouth Gateway Club, and wish all our shipmates, and shoremates, a Happy Christmas & Hogmanay – Splice the mainbrace!
Alphington Shed Theatre Fundraiser
Twelfth day of November, year of grace 2019
Sailing master Eamon Fyre ably led the Malarkey’s crew with the Aim (as befits ship’s gunner) of adding doubloons and ducats to the urgent rebuilding of this collapsing Community Theatre, which had become as leaky, hogged, and unsparred as a derelict hulk. As befits a theatrical charity gig, we attempted our signature two act dramatic performance – TALL SHIPS & TAVERN TALES.
Eamon demonstrated his STAGE FIGHTING and fencing prowess too, and the previously hidden Terpsichorean Talents of the Buoys came to the fore. Cameron Nails, sounding like a would-be prime minister at election time, offered to PAY EVERYONE’S RENT (as long as they were SWEET LADIES – of which he is a connoisseur and expert). Levi Shore saluted the fair sex with ‘Good morning LADIES ALL (his chronometer only 12 hours out) and shantying lustily, helped the Buoys master the rhythm method – of pulling!
Ship’s saw-bones Doc Dai Wright, as usual up there with Will Shakespeare, shared epic tales of doom, disaster, destruction, death and TRAGEDY - The doomed Bold Benjamin and Billy o’ Shea R.I.P.Mal de Mer squeezed more double-entendres into his account of amorous encounters and their medical aftermath than an old Frankie Howard PANTO, and set the house alight with his FIRESHIP. Cam and Bish, a-roving together, shared lewd BURLESQUE, and Billy, overreacting outrageously to a slightly under-par pint, turned his chagrin into a MURDREROUS MELODRAMA with more slit throats than even the Joker contemplated.
We salute Alfredo Heights, clearly wanting a shore job as Theatre Dresser, who created mayhem with the Millinery – more Alice in Wonderland MAD HATTER than helpful. Albert Truss provided one truly POETIC & LYRICAL moment among the anarchy, invoking the magnificent MOLLYMAUK and souls of dead sailors soaring over the Southern Ocean – and unlike his fellow ANCIENT MARINER, didn’t shoot it down at the last minute. Our one woman, Helen Highwater, as always stole the show, and as a feisty Landlady in a very rough pub, had the Buoys eating out of her hand - as all agreed, HEAVEN’S A BAR.
The Village Hall was as snug, and the acoustics as excellent, as a wooden ship’s fo’c’sl – and the audience extremely kindly, assuming our moments of absent-minded silence and amnesia, or desperate IMPRO, were actually carefully crafted WAITING FOR GODOT Becket and Pinter MODERNISM.
Quill the Bosun, having whetted his whistle, finally following much classic and period Dramatalurgical Decorum, and concluded proceedings with a MORAL EPILOGUE totally unjustified by his previous behaviour. GET MARRIED INSTEAD! Spend all night in bed! (Who with!?)
But overall, the crew managed a sort of ragged MUSIC HALL mayhem, and truly delighted to share the real dramas and disasters of life at sea crafted by unknown poets “more used to holding a marlin spike than a pen” whose lusty, poignant, evocative verses survive in shantys and forebitters – and all agreed we would love another RUN ASHORE to the RE-LAUNCHING of the ALPHINGTON SHED THEATRE.
Pickle Night - Royal Navy College Dartmouth
Night of November 7th, year of Grace 2019 / aka 1805
For the first time for many moons the crew of the Malarkey found themselves completely back in their true 19th Century element – gorgeous women in corsets and coiffeurs, Marines in redcoats, dashing young Officers in various degrees of ecstasy or exhaustion after a hard-won victory, a stray shark, landsmen of rank and breeding, and lower orders gathered to celebrate the glorious and tragic news, first heard by ragged west-country sailors and fishermen like us, as HMS Pickle beat into Mounts Bay, before Captain Lapenotiere’s mad cross-country dash from Falmouth to their Lordships of the Admiralty in Whitehall.
Likewise heroically dashing from the Port of Plymouth to the Dart, Musician Griselda Sanderson set toes tapping and bosoms bouncing with wonderful jigs and reels and sailors’ hornpipes on her historical Hardanger Fiddle and Nyckelharpa – when suddenly, devastatingly, the Press Gang arrived, and all and sundry, duly Impressed, found themselves in the low and sweaty confines of a ship of the Line’s gun deck, anaesthetized there with a pannikin of grog from the barrel, and offered a square meal, each course eaten with a wooden spoon from the same bowl.
Mal de Mer shared the news and proclaimed: The Hearts of Oak have won; we’ll fight and we’ll conquer, and BRITANIA RULES! Wayne the Anchorman, desperate to be allowed off watch, pleaded with the Mate to strike the bell – but because the Malarkey had mislaid hers, was greeted with a chorus of premature ‘dongs’ on HMS Britannia’s campanological clanger.
The Buoys told and retold the perils the fleet had faced and overcome at Trafalgar: a traumatized Albert Truss told of the terror of Fire Down Below. Billy Bowlocks, reliving the roar of battle, delivered Broadsides that shook the deckhead and rattled the rigging, but prophesied a Good Day Coming Tomorrow.
Helen Highwater, crew’s sweetheart, had every matelot eating out of her hand as she declared her preference for a rolling sailor to a soldier any night. Bosun Curly Quill offered a taste of today’s nautical fare – Chicken on a Raft – but all present were well satisfied with the solid 18th century stew and duff – perfect ballast for rough weather. Gunner Eamon Fyre gave a salutary warning about over indulging in Grog – ignored by all and sundry, as more than a drop of Nelson’s Blood was tossed back.
Ship’s Chaplain Bish squeezed in (and out) a deeply disguised Parable of Resurrection from the Dead – Newfie Jack returning from the belly of the whale – and indeed the whole company, headgear removed, paused and silently remembered departed friends and crewmates as an enormous candle was lit on the top table. A remembrance of the real perils, losses, sacrifices, and courage of our forces today, as in times past. As we re-enacted the stories of Nelson, Collingwood, The Victory, Lieutenant Lapenotiere, and the speedy Topsail schooner Pickle, the crew of the Malarkey hereby thank and salute the young men and women of The Royal Navy who are their successors today, and thank them all for sharing the best Pickle Night ever.
RNLI Fundraiser - Exmouth
St. Crispin’s Day, this year of Grace 2019
A dark and stormy night, so black we can hardly see our hands in front of us; headgear is hurled seawards by storm force gusts, as this band of brothers struggle through the tempest towards Exmouth Dock.
Young courageous Lifeboatmen reach out to grasp the hands of Shantymen, inadequately clad in flapping slops rags and tatters, staggering through the chaos. Fishes normally lying safely on the sea bed, fly by in mid air borne by the hands of beauteous mermaids.
No, not an actual sinking and rescue, thank Neptune, but the annual RNLI benefit gig at the Point Bar & Grill, as Exmouth’s noble lifeboat crew members welcomed a skeleton crew of Exmouth Shanty Men to provide a bit of salty cabaret at the fish supper and banquet.
The Buoys did their best, but in the middle the lifeboat pagers suddenly went off – a shout on this dirty night? Men and women struggled into their all-weather boots, survival suits, oilies, lifejackets and helmets in record time – actually all part of the entertainment, and an excellent night was had by all. We were honoured to play our own small part in this vital event, and delighted that several diners went home grasping phonographic ESM recordings, hygienically wrapped in cellophane to avoid cross-infection, as further donations to the cause.
Three Cheers for Richard and his team at the Point for this generous fund-raiser, and loud Huzzahs for our Lifeboat Crew, who are ever ready to go out in appalling conditions, saving lives at sea.
28th & 29th daies of September, year of Grace 2019
The Malarkey out of Exmouth tacked 10 nautical miles down channel – but upwind – in the teeth of the predicted Autumnal gales, for the mouth of the Teign ... and the pubs and taverns of the ancient ports of Shaldon and Teignmouth, there to be warmly welcomed by anarchic local crew The Back Beach Boyz and loyal helpers, who had laid on a wonderful end-of-summer Shanty Festival, and gathering of Shipmates old and new from the wild Western shores of the increasingly Disunited Kingdom.
Teignmouth is still a working port as it has been for centuries with medieval ferries, exquisite pleasure boats, inshore fishing craft and huge ocean-going ball-clay freighters that squeeze alongside the quays with inches to spare; and dark low-beamed, nook-and-crannied pubs – all creating the perfect authentic venue for 27 different crews to shanty, shout, sing, and make the rafters roar, with, always, appreciative crowds squeezed around as close as pilchards in a barrel. All around too, demonstrations and workshops of maritime arts and crafts – many of which our crew could do with educating in – knotting, bends and hitches, flags, and we definitely need a crab pot or two.
The taverns were warm and welcoming, but oddly distant
powers-that-be had refused to allow singing in the streets, perhaps fearing
shantying’s subversive anarchic style and un-p.c. and occasionally vulgar
lyrics and metaphors – all of which were lapped up by audiences indoors. (The Royal
Navy, after a brief trial, likewise abolished shanties as workings songs and replaced
them with numbers, as ‘endangering discipline’ and encouraging those before the mast to satirise or parody the afterguard.)
This log is delighted to record that a couple of buskers, inspired by the Buoys’
performance, set off to have a go in the streets outside
ESM tacked merrily between The Ice-Factory, The Ship Inn, The King Billy, Molloys, Ye Olde Jolly Sailor (and it really was) and the waterside New Quay Inn, where the organizers had laid on a free feast to gladden the hearts and fill the bellies of visiting crews – honest down to earth-grub, the best of the West, warm enough to keep the chilly autumn winds out, generous and plentiful enough to anchor us to any heaving and pitching deck (a welcome change from salt horse, Boston beans and hard-tack) and tasty enough to die for. Talking of which, an excellent one-off ale – Teign Shanty – specially brewed for the Festival in its second year.
The crew unite with this log in recording their warmest thanks to the organizing committee and team and we look forward to heaving-to or dropping our hook again in the Teign next year.
Shrewsbury Folk Festival
Twenty fourth to twentysixth daies of August, year of grace 2019
The Malarkey, after a brief spell hove to, is now headed 100 leagues northward. Like Ulysses we barely escaped the enchantments and spells woven by Incubus Succubus luring us to the dreamy south - Penzance - where they had invoked the Spirit of SABRINA – we love her, we fear her, she’s never tame. But lo and behold, on our arrival further N. than we had ever penetrated before, our first haven was... SABRINA marquee. Tack by tack, punching through traffic, oft becalmed by motorway madness, we has made it to windward from the mouth to well nigh the source of the mighty Severn, Sabrina herself, who coiled serpent-like around the grassy almost islands and hillocks where, with thousands around us, we rigged our temporary bivouacs ashore.
To our delight and astonishment, in a marquee big enough to contain the entire hull of HMS Victory (minus topmasts ) a capacity crowd cheered us on. Every man jack (and one woman) did their utmost, and many agreed it had been our finest hour. Nelson’s gun crews had practiced and drilled to perfection over long hours at sea, and likewise, our long winter nights in The Beach practicing (and imbibing) finally paid off, and the Buoys delivered their BROADSIDES, BALLADS and SHANTYS with perfect timing, pace, and aim, without deviation, hesitation, or desertion. Truly a memorable series of performances – Huzzah! Invidious to name any, for each and every one of the buoys (and one handsome cabin ‘boy ’) gave of their utmost. The afterguard and officers of the SV Malarkey hereby wish their gratitude and appreciation to be formally recorded in the Log – honourable mention in despatches for the entire crew who exhausted, under fire, yet DID THEIR DUTY.
Furthermore, at two crowded workshops following, we were delighted to inspire others to have a go. Inspired by Helen Highwater’s lament for Lord Franklin, two delightful young ladies sang ‘Northwest passage’- the words, as befits a new generation, were mysteriously concealed inside a newly invented mechanical glass memory mirror, rather than hid in balding heads and behind shaggy beards.
At a final children’s workshop a young volunteer signalman hoisted the immortal message DUTY HIS DO TO MAN EVERY EXPECTS ENGLAND (he got it upside down first time) as we recounted Trafalgar and persuaded them “A drop of Nelson’s blood (and various otter delicacies) wouldn’t do them any harm.” And Lorelli, age 9, composed and sang a brand new shanty, splicing together shipwreck, disaster, loneliness and the mysteries of the sea – shades of Terror, Erebus, and Marie Celeste. Chorus: The wind will blow and the waves will crash and the sea will sing when I’m drowning ...”
This Log is pleased to report that even as today’s shanty crews are scuttled by anno domini or broached-to by amnesia, the future of shantying is in safe hands, and the good ship Malarkey will sail on victorious.
Inkubus Sukkubus South West Tour
|16th day of August, year of Grace 2019|
(also decreed to be National Rum Day – Huzzah say all of us)
The Cavern Club, Exeter
Wind: Southerly gale f. 8
Weather: Unseasonable autumnal storm and tempest.
The Buoys had been invited from a chance meeting in Gloucester Docks - ships that pass in the night – to be the warm-up act Inkubus Sukkubus ... a “Dark Goth neo-Pagan” post punk folk-rock ensemble on their 30th anniversary tour of the South West. Their many fans in flowing black robes, black lace, top-hats, black bodices, buckled black boots and dangling silver jewellery contrasted dramatically with the Malarkey’s crew in their washed-out sea-stained sun- bleached white canvas Slops and Tatters.But as the fog, thick as a Newfoundland Grand Banks haar cleared (actually the night-club smoke machine) cleared, we were warmly welcomed with our repertoire of Shantys and Forebitters - many of them telling stories as dark and desperate and decadent as any Gothic romance. Betrayal, danger, hanging, death, lustful and catastrophic encounters with bewitching women.As Inkubus Sukkubus’ set continued, we realized their music too, as shanties do, grew from the naked encounter with the mysterious, terrifying, awesome, magnificent forces of nature – be it hurricane and high seas, seed time and harvest, the dynamo of fecundity deep in earth or ocean ... or churning in each puny human belly, Goth or Shanty-man, powerless in the grip of forces beyond our control – passion, the mighty Severn in spate, Cape Horn – as the Inkies sang “constantly the Wild and Free”, “We love her and we fear her”. We realized both our musics – Candia’s haunting chants, with spell-binding fiddle, mandolin and thrumming drum; or the Buoys a-capella gusto and rudery – came from the same deep well. And that was the real magic.
17th day of August, year of Grace 2019
A fast passage to furrin parts - Boscastle, Cornwall
Wind: W/SW f. 4 to 6Weather: Intermittent showers
Day two of the IS 30th Anniversary Tour finds a crowd as jam-packed as steerage on an emigrant ship squeezed into Boscastle’s tiny village hall, which had survived the catastrophic floods here on this exact August date 15 years ago, to enjoy an evening of Magik and mayhem with the wondrous and melodious Pagan/Goth coven Inkubus Sukkubus – and us. The buoys, as sailors ashore ever do, did a pre-concert warm-up and pub crawl of the tiny harbour’s three taverns – and in the Napoleon rattled the antique rafters with GO DOWN YOU BLOOD RED ROSES.
A magical evening was had by all – strange sea fogs were conjured up from nowhere for ‘JACK, EV’RY INCH A SAILOR’, braving the impenetrable pea-soupers of the Grand Banks of Newfoundland. Mal de Mer, recovered not from what his moniker might intimate, but from a nasty bout of contagious amnesia the night before, gave a wonderous and riotous rendition of ‘NEW YORK GIRLS’. Sam and Billy leaping to the fore, proved whatever New York girls can’t do, Cornish Lassies and Witching Girls can – as they danced the polka the length and breadth of the village hall. Billy twirled so enthusiastically that he vanished completely from sight, and strange to tell, when he eventually reappeared his partner had been transformed from a lissom ladye into a strapping man! Well, it was billed as an evening of magic and wonder. Transmogrification the order of the day, and even more the night. The entire crew of SV Malarkey tired, replete and happy, tacked back to Exmouth in the dark after midnight watch.
Sidmouth Folk Week Concert
Freya’s Day, being ye ninth day of August, year of grace 2019
Manor Pavilion Theatre
Wind: Southwesterly Gale force 8, occasionally severe gale 9, backing S.Weather: everything
Storm survivors huddled into the welcoming Pavilion Theatre, the plush seats a welcome relief after rain, mud, and flapping canvas – tent or square-rigger! A full crew of the Buoys – and one woman – gave a final full-throated and swashbuckling performance of their signature two-part Show of Shanties and Forebitters – Tall Ships & Tavern Tales.
The theatre was equipped with proper flies, as well as brilliant lighting and sound, and traditional blocks and tackles – so soon a panoramic age-of- sail square- rigger canvas backdrop was hoisted aloft and belayed, and the voyage began. Part One, work songs and Shanties – first outward bound, then homeward. Alfredo Heights lamented the hardships and horrors of the ‘Greenland Whale Fishery’, but indeed conditions outside seemed as Arctic and stormy as anything the Northern latitudes could throw at us. Bosun Curly Quill vowed he would ‘Go to sea no more’ and ‘go sleeping with no whores’ – sensible advice in the conditions. We will watch his resolve with interest. Albert Truss, restored to full health, vowed to hang everyone and everything in sight, tho’ his ‘Hanging Johnny’ owes as much to the hard sweat of hoisting and hanging sails aloft as to any shenanigans of Jack Ketch.
Part Two, safe on shore (temporarily) in a typical tavern, the Buoys sang, boasted, exaggerated, caroused. The lovely but strict landlady, Helen Highwater, welcomed the crew with ‘Heaven’s Bar’, and the entire crew hymned the mythical ‘ Betty Stoggs’- an ale as rich, rounded and unputdownable as a hobnail-booted Cornish fish-wife.
Eamon Fyre lamented he’d lost everything – clothes, shoes, wife – with his predilection ‘for his Grog’. Mal de Mer polkad passionately with a local floozie, and barely escaped with his life. Our Anchorman, after an earlier punch-up with a policeman, and in a rare moment of sobriety, prayed ‘God be by my side.’ And so say all of us.
Festival du Chant de Marin - Paimpol
Deuxième et troisième jours d'août, année de grâce 2019
Port de Paimpol, Bretagne
Vent: faible force sud-ouest 1 – 2
Météo: chaud et ensoleillé
LA MANCHE comme un Millpond so even the greenest members of the crew arrived at the delightful port of Paimpol more or less their normal colour (rose tacheté.) Assembled therein for the Festival, Breton fishing boats with the buxom bows, lucscious curves, incomparable buttocks and circus-bright paint-patterns as colourful as every sailor’s lonely erotic fantasy. The harbour jam-packed as in days of yore for the tunny run, the cod fishery, the herring haul – so close you could walk dry-shod across.
The Malarkey’s crew had difficulty entering – security was tight. In what may have been a dry-run for Brexit Border Control, we could not enter to collect our promised passes and documents awaiting us within, without the said entry documents and passes in order to enter. Kafka rules OK! After complex negotiations in Franglais and Semaphore, we finally made safe harbour.
Our Anchorman and Navigator Ank piloted us flawlessly through the reefs, rocks, shoals and winding sea-ways and interstices of the French transport system, to our desired haven – with only one vessel of the three in the fleet being lost, who turned a Nelsonic eye on documented Sailing Orders, and attempted a daring night raid on Paris and points East.
Wayne himself made a brief foray to the Land ‘East of the Sun and West of the Moon’ but retuned unharmed to warm plaudits and much relief, and sang, appropriately, ‘ROLLING HOME’ to a packed and cheering Officers’ Mess.
Ships that meet: the fine Brig PHOENIX out of Charlestown, and the MALARKEY out of Exmouth. We were welcomed on board to sing and haul, to Chantyman Sam Minella’s new-made shout ‘ HAULEY I-OH’, and all aboard Yoicked with gusto. As we prepared for our first quayside set a Samba Band armed with oil drums, a marching platoons of Breton Bombard and Bagpipe players (the bagpipes as continuo while the apple-cheeked Bombad players recovered and prepared for their next acoustic bombardment) and another band warming up nearby, all struck up simultaneously - and the overall PA system on nearby lampposts joined in with Shantys in a different key from Mission Control headquarters, all at our designated station. As at Trafalgar, our lads kept their courage and cool, climbed aloft on their old sea chests, and like BRAVE NANCY PERRIMAN of Exmouth, performed superbly under fire, and gave themselves 120 percent to a gathering crowd.
Quatrième et cinquième jours d'août, année de grâce 2019
Wind: Renforcement du vent d'ouest, f.3 ou 4
Weather: Pluie occasionnelle
Among the midnight big-name mega-amplified French bands on the main stages; omnipresent drum and bass modern and traditional ( electronics or marching brass and sousaphones) Dancers bottom-waggling exotic or Breton stately, variously in feathers and body paint or lace head-dresses and traditional tail coats; the painted ladies and performance artistes; the Celtic- Punk Folk-Rock fusion; an escaped gorilla - King Kong hoisting a bombarde player aloft; and the hallucogenic steam-punk fusion of man machine and beast, mechanical monsters, levitating sea horses, brontosaurus-big pecking flamingos ... and ever flowing excellent Breton Du Vin et la bière et du cidre, with genuine tradional Pecheurs and Shipwrights and Caulkers all hard at work, the Buoys own modest contribution of ACTUAL Sea-Shanties and Forebitters was warmly welcomed as a vital and authenic part of the exotic mix that is the biennial Paimpol Festival.
Our rough and ready crew are often at their best Busking and interacting with crowds – making up for their lack of sophistication or linguistic skills (Anglais typique) by grabbing volunteers with the same horny hands and finesse they use for hauling halyards and heaving cargoes. Notable exception, the most educated man aboard, our ship’s surgeon, Mr Dai Wright, who not only sings in tune, but speaks excellent French, and wowed the crowds with ‘LA CAPITAINE DE SAN MALO’, ‘PIQUE LA BALENE’ (apparently about harpooning a lover rather than a whale??) and ‘DU RHUM, DES FEMMES, ET D’LA BIER ....’ we are delighted to report that ESM, beside consuming rum and beer, has an actual FEMME, the crew’s sweetheart Helen Highwater, aboard for this trip, who tells the touching story of THE HANDSOME CABIN BOY. (You can probably guess the outcome.)
The entire crew, each man-jack – and woman – warmly thank the chefs, les boulangers, les pâtissiers, les pêcheurs, les agriculteurs, les cuisiniers de Paimpol pour la meilleure Festival Food the crew ‘ve experienced – a welcome change from ‘Salt-horse cracker-hash and Boston beans that make us sore’. We fear mutiny among the Buoys unless such standards can be maintained at forthcoming English festivals. Led by topsail hand Alfredo Heights (always high and happy) we attempted to sing our thanks to the kitchen staff. ‘ WE’LL SING AND WE’LL DANCE, AND BID FAREWELL TO FRANCE ...’ the first two with tipsy gusto, the latter with regret as we rowed on our way.
Last-night late-night survivors sang aboard the magnificent (2nd?) fastest Le Havre 1894 Pilot Cutter MARIE-FERNAND, and wished them and rival JOLIE BRISE ‘jolly breezes’- fair winds indeed. Nous remercions les bonnes personnes de Paimpol pour leur hospitalité, leur accueil chaleureux, et pour nous faire à une petite mais importante partie du festival biennal fantastique. Au revoir, jusqu'à la prochaine fois.
Britannia Royal Naval College- Dartmouth
Day of July, year of grace 2019
Wind: NW 4 gusting
Weather: sunny intervals
A rare day, a rattling day – the gates thrown open of the most beautiful college of the greatest Royal Navy in the finest natural all-weather harbour in Devon. Therein performed and demonstrated magnificent Wind Orchestras, a Military Wives choir, Commandos in Combat, the Royal Marines Band formation marching and beating the retreat, a Bomb Disposal Unit, antique tractors and cars, Transatlantic rowers, Helicopters, Naval Picket boats breasting the waves, smart young Officers in training – and us.
Albert Truss, oarsman (?) posing with 4 young heroes about to row the Atlantic, launched into ‘Hard on the beach oar, she moves too slow!’ (A CD the crew will surely throw overboard before halfway across!?)
Bosun Curly Quill sang his signature ‘Chicken on a raft’ to the first audience ever to actually understand what the words mean.
Surrounded by the smartest sailors, male and female, with impeccable uniforms and haircuts, Billy Bow Locks let loose his rampant erectile beard and gale force rendition of his vicious barbering techniques in days of yore –‘ I grabs ‘em by the noses oh, and scrapes ...’
Chaplain Canon Fodder was raptured by the voluptuous 12 feet tall figurehead of Britannia herself – at last a bosom to clutch as elevated as his fevered imaginings of his roving encounter with a Maid in Amsterdam, and she was mistress of her trade .... (Don’t tell the Bishop)
Levi Shore, despite his name, equally raptured by the delicious craft bobbing on the Dart nearby, lamented his lack of pay or prospects, and please ’Pay me my money down’ – but succeeded in transmitting an almost simultaneous outbreak of infectious clapping all around.
Helen Highwater, in the very establishment where Duke Philip proposed to Princess, now Queen, Elizabeth, proved how feisty, independent, and powerful women can be, as she described elopement with Shallo Brown in ‘Hullabaloo Belay.’
Our noble leader Sam Minella, without any consultation with their eminences the Lords of the Admiralty, himself appointed a dashing young trainee officer as ADMIRAL OF THE FLEET – complete with a truly Nelsonic cocked hat and gold braid – ‘Pretty work brave boys, I’d rather be an Admiral aboard a man o’war’ – and demanded all ranks around salute him duly. And they did.
Cuxhaven Shanty Chor
|45 TAG DER SHANTY-CHORE - CUXHAVEN|
LOG of the S.V. MALARKEY
13th and 14th daies of June, Year of Grace 2019
Overland and Undersea to N. German Waddenzee coast
Wind: - Veering NE 2/3
Weather:- UK drizzle clearing to Baltic sunshine
The previous craft on which we had planned to embark having been scuppered by Economic Piracy, the Buoys set off heroically to travel overland and undersea to the mouth of the mighty Elbe for Europe’s oldest Shanty Festival. There, dockside, we finally hove-to (30 hours later) at the Shanty-Chor Messe - ‘tiz the nearest we’ve seen to Fiddlers Green - local Shantymen had created their own haven with free beer, and ship models, nets, nauticalia, and brass lamps hanging from the low ceiling, and where a delightful crowd at trestle tables, some real old salts among them, received each shanty with rapturous enthusiasm.
Although linguistically limited - most of the Buoys international vocabulary limited to “Bier bitte” and “auf wiedersehen pet” the Euro-crowd, whose grasp of English put our illiteracy to shame, were marvelously accepting. “Our shanty-chores could learn a thing or two from you,” said a kindly woman - not I suspect melody, harmony or rhythm - maybe simply our trademark GUSTO - and the sense (made real by our two-day red-eyed sleepless beat to windward to arrive) - that we really could’ve been shipwrecked mariners washed ashore we knew not where from another country and century, singing our hearts out that we’d arrived anywhere.
This Log notes our appreciation for Ank’s meticulous and watertight travel plans - a document to rank with the Admiralty Pilot for those who would navigate these furrin’ parts, and for Connie Beckmann, and who first, mermaid-like, entranced us, drew us closer and made our passage possible.
S.V. MALARKEY - Log continues:
15th day of June, Year of Grace 2019
Cuxhaven seaside, pleasure-park and theatre.
Wind:- NE 3
Weather: - Sea-mist: viz. poor. Showers
Our two biggest sets. Beside the Waddenzee, as huge container ships and busy tugs rode the Elbe ebb seawards till sea fret and mist hid them, on a wind-swept open plaza. As audience sheltered under oilies and brollies, we lured them forward, reassuring them (some of) the Shantymen had washed, and no notifiable infections had been reported - till finally the Buoys were able to do what they love best - engage the audience eye-ball to eye-ball, and steal the odd embrace and kiss as they act-out our sad and salty ballads, or lusty phantasies of goodtimes awaiting ashore. Notably supported by friends we’d made of German and Dutch shanty crews who shared our passion for earthy and strong songs finally we worked the true Shanty magic - the clouds parted and bright beams of sunshine shone on the survivors - just in time for the REAL wedding that followed the concert, and egged on by our exhortation to ‘get married instead and spend all night in bed ...”
In the evening Gala Concert in the Kugelbake-Halle theatre we were amplified: Eamon Fyre’s grog-induced burb echoed round the 800 seat auditorium, Billy’s “Leaving of LIverpool” rattled the rafters, but Bosun Curly Quill’s heartfelt, soulful and profound ‘MIngulay Boat Song” was the most most moving song of the evening, with prolonged and rapturous applause - perhaps touching deep feelings in a town that still is a major seaport and fishing harbour (most of Europe’s fishfingers land here) and knows the reality of ‘wives are waiting’ and the true struggle and joy of the voyage home.
We were presented with a huge crate of delicious smoked, dried, pickled, tinned local fish, and a model of the iconic medieval timber seamark and tower that marks the safe passage into the haven. Fearing Customs and police sniffer dogs might apprehend our fish, we enjoyed a late night fish party with new-found friends in our hostel. The sea-tower will stand tall in Exmouth
S.V. MALARKEY - Cuxhaven Log concludes
16th day of June, Year of Grace 2019
Haunts, dives, bars, and open-air stages of Cuxhaven
Wind: - Var. 1 / 2
Weather:- Monsoon: Sunshine & rainstorms clearing later
Several of the crew ventured (appropriately) into the MUSEUM of OLD WRECKS, but managed to escape in time to perform in an “Eight hour non-stop concert” - which the programme advised “will surely need some endurance.” It’s our middle name. We had been complimented not for singing but for acting-out our shantys. As our Anchorman sang ‘Leave her Johnny leave her” a sudden monsoon downpour caused almost the entire audience to act-out - and leave at a rate of knots, We carried on regardless. Later Wayne the Anchorman saved the day - the final All Hands / all Crews / all Shanty-chors Finale appeared to have been scuppered by thunderstorms that jiggered the electrics - live microphones liable to electrify the performers, levitate shanty men, and fry more than fish - our noble Ank, unaccompanied and unplugged, struck-up “Rolling Home” - thus encouraged, all hands damp but unbowed blasted out the shanty known to seafarers the wide world over - first North then South to the huddled masses who’d stayed to the bitter end. So together, in genuine Euro-harmony, we rolled home, be it to dear old Hamburg, or dear old England.
DRUNKEN SAILORS COMEUPPANCE - an ESM first! In Die Klein Kneipe, bribed by copious quantities of Schnapps & Aqua-Vitae, and egged on by all the company - an ocean tugboat crew, tourists, locals - we broke our 12 year taboo, and sang, despite the better judgement of some, melodiously and lustily WHAT SHALL WE DO WITH THE DRUNKEN SAILOR? (Some of the ship’s company had already done the necessary research earlier in the festival.)
And so finally rolling home ourselves, singing as we went, in hostel and restaurant, on platform and in railway-carriage, and back in Blighty in the Mad Bishop & Bear and on the midnight train - surprisingly both in Germany and England, to warm encouragement, applause and smiles. And so to bed.
Farewell Terry Firma (Eric Horwell)
|Terry Firma crosses the bar.|
10th day of June, year of Grace 2019
Wind: SW f. 4
Weather Chill, changeable, occasional heavy showers.
With a heavy heart, this log records the loss of the oldest member of our crew - Terry Firma.
Our good friend, our shipmate, companion of many sorties far and near, white-bearded ESM poster-boy and most photogenic of an otherwise motley crew, with his twinkling eyes, battered straw hat, and repertoire of songs, often sad and poignant, that melted hearts - and often remembered as the highlight of our performance.
The Buoys turned out in force to remember Terry, to celebrate his life, and to surround his passage from this world to the next with chanty and song - may he surely have crossed the bar, passed safely through the deep waters of death - and find safe haven, harbour and homecoming in Fiddlers Green, with a pint of his favourite Otter, on that further shore where all hurts are healed, all things made new, and the love of Jesus in whom he trusted, shine brightly upon him.
A full company of shantymen sang and processed: Wey hey Stormy! Now Terry Firma has gained the day, Walk him along John, carry him along, But our dear shipmate has passed away - Carry him to his burying ground ... Now Terry Firma will always stay ... Here in our ranks boys, not fade away - Carry him to his burying ground.
As we said goodbye to the Silver Fox The Farewell Shanty echoed round the rafters of St John in the Wilderness where the ancient Nave roof beams (same word as ship) are for all the world like a wooden square rigger’s oak ribs: HAUL AWAY TO HEAVEN, GOD BE BY MY SIDE. The Malarkey’s ships Company wish to record our loving thoughts and condolences for Ruby and all Eric’s family, who laid on a generous Wake for all in the Beach Pub, our home tavern where Eric so often had shared shanties and libations, and as dusk drew in we shared the stories and songs he knew and loved.
Topsham Brewery Tap Room
Tenth day of May, Year of Grace 2019
Maclaines Warehouse, Exeter Quay
Wind: SW f.2/3 veering NW.
Weather; crisp and clearing.
At the end of Britain's oldest ship canal (1563) in a derelict stone warehouse, the buoys were delighted to be asked to participate in the resurrection of an ancient quayside building into a new pop-up pub. The cobbled pavements, sweating stone walls, trestle tables, timber benches, and actual barrels with taps behind the bar, could have been any seaman's favorite dive back in 1830 when Maclaine built the said building, and perfect;y matched the period our lustiest shanties and most poignant ballads were first chanted, chortled, shouted - or in the case of the lovely Helen Highwater, actually sung in tune.
A packed audience for the weekend launch included master mariners, meteorologists, university lecturers, a psychiatric nurse (useful!) students and dogs - and each bought their own fair share of gusto to add to the buoys quotient - aided we suspect by the excellent products of Topsham Micro Craft Brewery bubbling away next door. And the decor - unchanged since 1830 - perfectly matched the more knackered looking of the shantymen.
Alfredo Heights, topsail hand, at home on the highest yard
arm, must also sing those highest notes inaudible to ordinary mortals - clearly
delighting the canine contingent, who joined in with gusto too.
Aware of the rumour BIlly Rowlocks might be one of the crew, the brewery had added a specially strengthened new floor - huge timbers atop granite cobbles. Even so Billy's sea-boots rattled the rafters, and roused the adjacent table likewise to pogo, stomp, and go.
Levi Shore achieved a first - getting an entire pub AND crew to CLAP simultaneously (statistically unlikely as winning the lottery.) The most enthusiastic patron, in full-bottomed wig, tricorn hat, armed with a naked cutlass, and a fetching pirate moll in pantaloons by his side, turned out to be the world's expert on cumulus clouds: a scientist from the Met Office carrying on Admiral Beaufort's noble endeavour to make seafaring safer, and forcasting preciser. Hereby a toast to all ye Weather-Men in Topsham's finest ale!
The ragged and ageing crew of the MALARKEY, who have felt for the last decade they've sailed alone on uncharted seas, now began to discover, astonishingly, paradisial islands where YOUNG men and women from the future took unashamed and unabashed delight in the raucous and randy, and sweet and sentimental ditties that we and our fellow ancient mariners have preserved from centuries past. Shantying ( and its companion sisters, ale-quaffing and square-rig sailing) is suddenly popular - and the crew were hugged, kissed, and egged on by those living in a mysterious future of cybernetics, robotics, apps, and virtual reality - when the only webs we knew were spiders'; global communications meant, literally, sailing there tack by tack; the net was something you hauled, not surfed, and if lucky might find full of silver darlings; and reality ALWAYS real, and oft wet, windy, and on the nose. We wish TOPSHAM MICRO BREWERY MEGA-SUCESS in their endeavours (old ways sometimes really are the best) and a fine haul of happy imbibers, and we look forward to returning to the Tap-Room as soon as wind and tide permitting.
Stoke Cannon Pub Fund Raiser
Twentysixth day of March, Year of Our Lord 2019
St, Mary Magdalene Church, Stoke Canon
Weather: unseasonably warm.
Wind: f. 1-2 var.
The buoys are attracted to pubs like moths to lighted lanterns, pirates to plunder., and Yarmouth sailors to bits of string. Imagine their delight to be asked to rescue a besieged pub, whose building piratical owners were seeking a king’s ransom for. Desperate their beloved inn would be plundered, scuppered, and sold, heroic villagers have rallied round to raise the ransom.
Ever gallant and patriotic, their hearts of oak stirred to the core by this act of gold lust and calummny, The Malarkey urgently sailed to the rescue. They fired forbitters, shot salvoes of shanties, and let loose two broadsides of ballads, all for to win, hopefully, the necessary dubloons, ducats, pieces of eight and gild moidores to liberate the noble Stoke Canon Inn.
Holy ground Once more – the concert was in the local church, where the good priest of the port had opened her heart and church for us. We made the rafters roar, where the welcoming wooden interior had as wonderful an acoustic as a wooden ship’s fo’c’sl. Overcome by the unusual venue, Anchorman Wayne was moved to reverently remove his hat, before producing a fine forebitter that could as well be a holy hymn as a pub sing-around – Row on Row on. Some of our ballads were less devout – dodgy adventures with ladies of easy virtue ,like Maggie May, and losing hats, trousers, waistcoats, money, and something less mentionable to the same. But a profoundly penitent Bosun Quill, vowing to go to sea no more, assured us he would ‘go sleeping with no whores, but get married instead, and spend all night in bed ...’ - the Vicar could not have put it better.
Then well into the Night Watch, the buoys did their best to keep the Pub afloat by drowning countless pints, all in the course of duty. Thank you Stoke Canon, and may your endeavours be richly rewarded.
Fisherman's Friend Film Premier
15th day of March. Year of our Lord 2019
Picture House Cinema, Port of Exeter
Weather:- Troubled and stormy
Wind:- West Norwest f. 5 to gale 8, occasionally 9.
THE BUOYS have been present at many launches of vessels small and large - but this is the first time they have been asked to assist at the launch of a CINEMATOGRAPHIC FILM - a newly invented species of magic lantern show where the figures actually MOVE and TALK - as jerkily as the Malarkey's crew after a night on the sauce. From the obscure recesses of little Cornish fishing ports and the smoky snugs of West Country bars shantying has set sail, and conquered the folk world - and foremost among the crews to do so, the Fisherman's Friends from Port Isaac, who have done so much to share our salty heritage with foreigners (that's anybody not from Cornwall.)
On this occasion the Fisherman's Friends were 2 dimensional, on the silver screen, and ESM assuredly 3 dimensional, especially Cameron Nails (from any angle.) Fortified by free PINTS & PIZZA (a foreign concoction apparently of hard tack and hard cheese - remote cousin of our own Welsh Rabbit - tho' you must never use that word afloat - bad luck!) We were warmly received by the crowded cinema cafe, and like to think we didn't let the side down, but showed the gusto, humour, passion, earthiness and sauciness of all good Shanties, as of course do the Fisherman's Friends. But we must admit, all credit to them, they not only sing great, but as actual seafarers sailors lifeboatmen and fishermen, have experienced the realities, and sometimes the tragedies, for real, which most of us just sing about. If you have a chance me hearties, heave-to near a cinema near you, clamber aboard, pay your ducat or doubloon, and enjoy a superb seafaring drama about much more than shanties. And we wish Fisherman's Friends good success - with creels and pots and nets on the high seas, as well as on vinyl and celluloid.
Miedzynarodowy Festiwal Piosenki Zeglarskiej Shanties
The 21st day of February. Year of our Lord 2019
Weather:- Chlodny chlód i oczyszczac
Wind:- f.0 - f.2 Zmienny / zachód
Departure from the Port of Bristol much delayed. Swabbie Mal apprehended (again) with piratical knives accidentally concealed about his person; and Canon Fodder strip searched with a haversack load of steel screws. (Screwing of course forbidden to Chaplains whilst on duty) Both items useful aboard in case of emergency, but apparently unwelcome aboard our air-ship setting sail to Slavonic skies.
The buoys welcomed with open arms - literally! - and hugs and kisses. Unlikely as it seems our female fan base is here in Central Europe. In a basement restaurant where ale is served by the metre (for sailors = 0.561666 of a fathom) egged on by waitresses; in the underground Stary Port Tavern, centre for Polish sail training, and where a ship’s bow and bowsprit appears to have crashed through the ceiling, and we were billed to shanty till the wee small hours; and in the huge 1000 seater theatre, we sang our hearts out. A typical shanty concert here is 5 hours - and the Polish and international audience join in with gusto in every seafaring tongue, and applaud each crew with shrieks and whoops and whistles.
22nd to 24th daies of February, Year of Grace 2019.
Weather - unchanged
Exmouth expects every crew member to acquit themselves as expected!? - once on shore they did:-
Billy Rowlocks, our Krakow virgin, was not devoured by the fire-breathing Krakow dragon as tastier virgins had been in the past - his boots. buckles, buttons, beard (and booming bass voice) proving indigestible to the most ferocious monster - but he nearly suffered asphyxiation when a Stary Port lady demonstrated smother (rather than mother) love.
Levi Shore entranced a delightful and dishy Pirate moll in full fig - though whether it was his jokes, his Steve Knightly look-alike hair do, or sheer personality, none could tell.
Our Anchorman, having shipwrighted wonderfully watertight travel plans and set lists, single handedly saved the faltering Polish economy - quaffing prodigious quantities of ale, served here 6 glasses at a time - and appropriately curtain-called our final theatre set with Rolling Home.
Our gunner Eamon Fyre, avoiding salvoes of deadly cherry brandy, acted out with impeccable swordsmanship (RADA meets Morris dancing) bloody ballads of sea battles to loud acclaim - and demonstrated thumbs like marlin spikes, and fingers like fids.
Bosun Curly Quill was followed from bar to bar by those desperate for second helpings of his Chicken on a Raft - where his agonisingly extended longest lowest loudest note beat local favourites ‘The Pirates’ by a gasp and a half.
Bish happily squeezed his concertina, while the rest of the crew likewise experienced squeezes and hugs from the most wonderfully welcoming Polish shanty lovers. We eagerly await our next invite.
Sam Minella, our noble captain, was commended for bravery in baring his fine legs, calves, feet etc etc. in subzero temperatures in the open air concert in the Medieval Market Place, where our torn 18th Century cutty sarks and pantaloons and weskits stood out among a scarved and fur-hatted and anoracked crowd. And lo and behold, on the last day, he recieved on our behalf the Stan Hugill Trophy for ‘The Most Authentic Shanty Crew’ - a fine bronze anchor and plaque.
25th day of February. Year of our Lord 2019
Weather: Polska i UK wykapal sie w Wesolosci
Mal, minus knife, was raptured by Leonardo’s ‘Lady with a Ferret’
(visiting locally) and added to Krakow’s buzzing artistic and international
vibe by a roof-raising Rule Britannia in our final midnight set - where
we enthusiastically waved Polish flags to show our European committement. Which
only goes to prove that just as the Krakow Dragon was overcome not by brute
force but by intelligence, so The Sea, Sailors, Ships, and Shanties do more to
unite Europe and the World as one, that ever the follies of politics or
boundaries do to divide.
St Ives Shanty Shout
24th day of November. Year of our Lord 2018
Harbourside Taverns & Alehouses of the above haven.
Weather:- Squally showers
Wind:- North Easterly, f.4/5
England had just beaten Australia (37/18) so we floated into 'The Lifeboat Inn' on a wave of raucous goodwill - and proceeded to share shantys from The Caribbean, Labrador, Louisiana (ships' crews were always polyglot and multinational, and shantys too) as well as 'dear old England' - but Alfredoe finished with a heartfelt patriotic "Hearts of Oak". Imagine our surprise when by a miracle of the newly invented Magic Lantern, animated images of the Buoys appeared on the same screens where moments before our heroically battling and magnificently muscled 15 had disported themselves.We created a scrum of sorts in the heaving pub as we press-ganged unsuspecting punters to heave and haul and sing and dance and ship temporarily aboard The Malarkey, where your ‘tackle’ has totally different connotations.
We enthusiastically downed and sank copious quantities of hot mulled cider (it was rough outside) and good Cornish ale (and sea-cook Sam duly lilted lyrically his homage to Betty Stoggs) - all this in order to help raise and lift up Cornwall's recently invented "Aire Ambulance"- a sort of levitating sky-lifeboat, that can swoop like a seagull and soar like an albatross, powered by what appear to be spinning windmill sails fore and aft. Apparently this "Heli - Kopter", as she's christened, is able to rescue and succour the distressed and injured in Cornwall's wildest and remotest coves and cliffs and hamlets and moors.
Our final shout was in 'The Castle', where drinkers and singers were jammed and packed together as cosily as a barrel of pilchards - and shanty crews provided the salt. We were delighted to meet up with our old friends from up North, Kimbers Men: and Neil, John, Gareth and Steve added Cape Horn strength harmonies and Double-bass sonority to our own Anchorman's not insignificant rendition of 'Rolling Home.' We raised the low rafters, and hopefully helped the "Heli - Kopter" likewise rise and take-off even more.
RNLI Charity Evening
|16th day of November. Year of our Lord 2018|
Ye Point Bar & Grill, Exmouth Dock
Weather:- Drizzle and mist
Wind:- Easterly, 4
SHIPS THAT MEET IN THE NIGHT: S/V Malarkey and RNLB R and J Welburn. The ageing crew of the former, and the youthful crew of the latter joined in a delightful fund-raising festivity, the generous project of ‘The Point’ restaurant, where diners were treated to a superb fish supper, met some of Exmouth’s lifeboat team; and (to add a sense of maritime disaster and foreboding to the evening?) salty shanties and forebitters from the buoys - and of course our one lady, Helen Highwater.
In the middle of one of our more lecherous ballads (‘A Roving’) suddenly the pagers went off! Just at the point Jack Tar vainly hoped to start undressing his moll, floozie, doxy, maid of Exmouth, the recently volunteered lifeboat crew had to leap into action in seconds, strip off, struggle into sea boots, armpit trousers, and RNLI oilies to be ready for a ‘shout.' Competitive Strictly Come Kitting Up! The real crew I suspect were much quicker.
All good fun - and a reminder of the realities of the lifeboat service, to be ready at a moment to put to sea in storm, tempest, wreck, cliff fall, medical emergency ... to save the lives of fishermen or merchant seamen, windsurfers or dinghy sailors, mariners or holidaymakers - or even dogs! Albert Truss, oarsman, reminded us of all those lost at sea in the haunting ‘Mollymauk’ - albatrosses, the souls of dead sailors.
Old and young - Terry Firma, octogenarian oldest member of our crew, sang plaintively ’Time ashore is over’ - but we were delighted our fund raising was for the training and equipping of young Tom (17) not much older than a cabin boy, the newest member of Exmouth's Lifeboat Crew - and who unlike us, literally will have to leave the shore and set out whenever there’s a shout.
Our thanks and best wishes to the staff at The Point, and all who supported the event, and The Malarkey dips her ensign , fires a salvo, salutes, and raises a cheer for our heroic volunteers who man Exmouth's 2 lifeboats, and our best wishes go with Tom and all the gallant crew who’ll set out whenever the need is greatest for 'those in peril on the sea.'
Bridgewater Guy Fawkes Festival
|3rd day of November. Year of our Lord 2018|
Ye High Street & Angel Place
Weather:- Chilly and autumnal: rain incipient.
Wind:- NE 3 to 4
With the crew of the Malarkey decimated by disease, dissolution, and injury, a small heroic remnant sallied N. across the Lowlands low, the soggy Somerset Levels, to the County's only inland seaport, summoned to muster thereto as one of the warm-up acts for Bridgwater's legendary Carnival.
In the shadow of Admiral Blake (who some historians rank alongside Nelson) we took our turn between Punch & Judy shows, Acrobats, Jugglers, and Steel Bands - but surprisingly gathered a reasonable crowd each time. The good Admiral looked on impassively, shrouded in corrugated iron lest Carnival revellers should damage his dignity (or other bits.)
Equally surprisingly, no mishaps befell us:- Billy Rowlocks demolished no microphones; Eamon Fyre's anti-Napoleon rant incited no visiting French or 'Remainer' revenge; Sam Minella's enthusiastic press-ganging of little children excited no police suspicions; Curly Quill didn't collapse with asphyxiation during 'Chicken on a Raft'; Canon Fodder didn't fall overboard during his foolish attempt to mimic a bowsprit, and wonderfully, Alfredo Heights inspired an outbreak of dancing mania during a toe-tapping 'Bonny Ship the Diamond'.
Helen Highwater, as always, entranced the crowd with her charms, and luckily affirmed her love for British Sailors NOT Soldiers - just as well in Bridgwater where bitter memories remain of the Redcoats' terrible reprisals and slaughter of Monmouth's pitch-fork rebels at the recent Battle of Sedgmoor, and Judge Jeffreys and the Bloody Assize have neither been forgiven nor forgotten.
As noble Shantymen the Buoys were pleased to play a small part in the fantastical Fire-Festival that is Carnival, and without which, locals know, women will not get pregnant, grass not grow next Spring, the dying old Sun never resurrect, and darkness will consume the land eternally.
Stoke Gabriel Community Concert
13th day of October. Year of our Lord 2018
Church of St. Mary & St. Gabriel
Weather:- Brief eye of Storm Callum
Wind:- Southwest f. 10 forecast / var. 3
The Malarkey's full crew disembarked in the ancient Church House
Inn to warm up, next to a mummified sacrificial cat built into the walls
- a foundational pagan sacrifice? (we are now in deepest darkest Devon) or a
dire warning as to what happens to those who yowl out of tune? Worrying. The
nave of the ancient church itself, with its wooden walls and deck beams, and
lit by oil lamps, was reassuringly similar to a ship's fo'c's'le.
Some of the more credulous members of the crew, more used to a heaving foredeck than a church, were anxious lest the Almighty might be offended by the more lusty and lecherous of their imaginings, or words not usually heard from the pulpit (tho' frequent in the denunciations of the Prophets) However no thunderbolts of Divine displeasure zapped the buoys, and in fact the wonderful acoustics of the old church enabled the crew to perform their best, with both trademark gusto, and exquisite and melodious harmonisations. Not quite 'angel voices ever singing' but the congregation, more used to chamber music and motets, responded politely and warmly.
And verily our Bosun Curly Quill finished the evening with what could count as an admirable sermon worthy of any clerical pulpit, exhorting " ... don't do sleeping with no W----s, get married instead, and spend all night in bed ...". The Archbishop of Canterbury could not have put it better. As we set sail on 'The Roseabella’ we were delighted to have been of assistance in raising funds for charitable and good works for the more unfortunate, lonely, and destitute of those shipwrecked by the headwaters of the Dart at Totnes. Canon Fodder, ship's chaplain, earnestly hopes to see the crew embarking again on the (for them) unlikely vessels of piety and mercy and charity.
Jurassic Coast Cruise
13th day of September. Year of our Lord 2018
Inshore Waters, South Devon
Wind:- SW 3 gusting 5
Undiscouraged by distant hurricane warnings out in the Atlantic, or embarking on the thirteenth, the crew shipped aboard the good ship 'Pride of Exmouth' for the fabled Jurassic coast Cruise. The vessel was loaded with geologists, geomorphologists, paleontologists, fossil hunters, pre-historians - and us.
Undeterred by radio-active nodules, contorted strata, or the fact the biggest extinction of life on planet earth is precisely marked by Exmouth, the Buoys demonstrated on the return trip what the lecturers had discoursed of so eloquently outward bound - what old fossils, dinosaur DNA, and Neanderthal men (and grateful women) were capable of. As the 'Pride' rolled gently into the sunset, we proved that genuine sea shanties, like fossils, are almost indestructible, however hammered about, and still have the power to resurrect lives and struggles long past, and (thanks to ESM and all our fellow shanty crews) not quite extinct.
Bromyard Folk Festival
8th Day of September, Year of Grace 2018
Far Northeast of Herefordshire
Weather:- Constant Drizzle
Wind:- Variable 0-2
A pre-dawn raid to the interior. The Malarkey, skilfully piloted by Bosun Curly Quill and foredeck lookout Levi Shore, lurched northward. Despite our apprehensions of furrin parts, the natives received us kindly. Our first shantying was in the sweaty bar of the local Foote-balle Club. (Foote-balle - a barbaric northern sport played with inflated pigge's bladder or enemie's head.) Alien beers however - all nobly and personally tested by our ever-ready anchorman Ank - proved effective lubricants for Exmouth shanties and tonsils, as we aimed, and occasionally hit, high notes and harmonies.
We were then shanghaied and seduced into taking part in a strange local art form and initiation ritual - "Ye Olde Tyme Musik Hall". Skippered by a chairman with a large hammer (less terrifying than a mate with a belaying pin) and firing salvoes of dated blue(ish) jokes; and repartee where the audience gave as good as they got. The Buoys, joining in the raucous spirit of the occasion, discovered their earnest and solemn acting out of erotic and tragicall maritime catastrophes, were received as totally in keeping with the event.
After a final late night concert under canvas (as befits hardened sea-dogs) the Malarkey headed south with her snoring crew all asleep (bar the helmsman hopefully) to pick up her home mooring in the middle of a pitch-dark middle watch at about 3 bells.
Lost Quays Visit to Exmouth
2nd & 3rd daies of September, Year of our Lord 2018
Exmouth foreshore & assorted taverns
Weather:- warm & clear
Wind:- SW 2-3
Like two ships that meet in mid-ocean from opposite corners of the globe - the Lost Quays out of Fremantle, West Australia, and the Malarkey, crewed by Exmouth’s finest. Greeting each other like long-lost brothers and sisters (we quite probably shared delinquent ancestors) we shared an open-air concert on Exmouth’s new sea-front pyramid stage, followed by two rollicking nights in the Bicton and in the Beach, joined by shipwrecked sailors and sea-song lovers from other furrin parts who turned up to greet our salty antipodean friends.
It wasn't meant to be a competition, but like the Rugby and the Ashes, each crew gave of their best. Honours were even.
Lost Quays - won on excellence of beards.
Each crew had precisely ONE genuine, qualified deep-sea Captain & navigator: a fine Australian Scot beside our own Albert Truss (now reduced to oarsman) Most of our qualifications, like those provided by the notorious Paddy West, are more fake than factual.
The Women - our ‘Ladies who Launch’ excelled themselves in a wonderful welcome banquet for the expected rugged, handsome, beach-bodied, tanned Australians - and the rest of us.Their redoubtable women-folk - the She-Shanties - responded with a feisty ballad about precisely what (or who) they twiddle with while their men are away at sea.
Singing with gusto - honours even. Each crew raised the rafters, but the Lost Quays specialised not just in toe-tapping chantying, but in unique “body-percussion”. (We've humped our sea chests round the points of the compass, but never dreamed of using our own as drums.) Honours to the Lost Quays, climaxed by their performance of Esiquibo River where every man jack sang and played a different percussion instrument in every verse. ESM are mostly incapable of multi-tasking, leaving that to wives and sweethearts.
But truly delightful for both sides to hear how the same chanties we share have diverged and developed creatively 13337 nautical miles apart. And finally, to close what had been a wonderful weekend, a stirring double-headed rendition of (of course) South Australia, alternate verses led by an Ozzie and English shantyman, both equally magnificently bellied, bearded, and bass-voiced.
We’re angling for an (all expenses) invitation back to Freeo!
Sidmouth Folk Festival
10th day of August. Year of our Lord 2018
The Manor Pavilion Theatre,
Weather:- Intermeittent Showers
Wind:- SW f 4
TALL SHIPS & TAVERNS. Some of the Malarkey’s crew had spent the entire week carousing and chortling in the ale-houses, streets, and canvas pavilions of the normally genteel waterfront of Sidmouth - all of it vital research and rehearsal for the crew’s headline billing (or at least the final event of the last night of the festival before the flaming torchlight procession) where the buoys had prepared a two part Extravaganza of shanties and forebitters. A packed house responded enthusiastically, as first the crew shipped them across the briny, with outward bound capstan shanties; sail-setting heave and haul shouts and grunts; lecherous shipboard imaginings of sailors far out at sea; and catastrophic tales of death, disaster and amputation (Mr Dai Wright, ship’s surgeon, specialises in such blood curdling ballads) and then homeward bound shanties, never sung till indeed our ship was.
Part Two saw the buoys ensconced in a dockside tavern, where the sailors' sweetheart, Miss Helen Highwater proved her pub was the nearest most Jack Tars would ever get to heaven, as she dispensed beer and grog to home-at-last-sailors blowing their pay in a night of revelry. As a woman she of course could multi-task ... simultaneously dispensing pints, keeping order, singing, and proving Lympstone girls could dance the polka as well as any transatlantic sailor's moll. And even sea-sodden shanty men managed to at least drink, jest, and sing at the same time. A good time was had by all, except new hand Billy Rowlocks, who convinced his beer was off, began blasphemously invoking the Almighty to send a razor-winged dove to cut the throats of those what sold bad beer, and he at at least determined to head off seawards again insanter.
The Almighty didn't respond - but the other invisible powers who made the whole night possible were superb. The super-helpful lighting and sound crew; and all those who laboured mightily to make Sidmouth an unforgettable and rapturous week not only for Shantymen, but every conceivable kind of Singer, Musician, Story-teller, and Dancer, The Malarkey’s log hereby notes our grateful thanks.
14th day of July. Year of our Lord 2018
Lat: 51° 23'19" North. Long: -3° 83' 06" West
Weather:- fine & bright.
Wind:- Southwest f. 3
IN A SPIN IN LYNMOUTH. The finest setting for a regatta: the tiny
harbour, the towering cliffs, the white-capped Bristol Channel, and there
waiting for us, the finest collection of real deep-sea square rig gear,
torpedos, old rope - and including a magnificent capstan. The buoys abandoned
the stage to seize the bars (capstan-bars - they'd already located the other
sort) and began full-throated to Stamp and Go! and holler capstan chanties as
they were meant to be.
Their more feeble efforts to dance the Polka (lusty New York gals presumably excel at it) were completely upstaged by the couple who spun and danced magnificently to Mal's sorry tale of his seduction and narrow escape - "you're safer round Cape Horn."
Still spinning, Bosun Curly Quill navigated a spiral course home through never-before-seen backwaters. Thank you Lynmouth: and we hope we helped the Sailing Club and the Devon Air Ambulance stay afloat and airborne too.