Tenth day of July, year of grace 2021

Tom & Tina’s Tearoom, Holne, Dartmoor

Wind:- SW veering NW 3-5

Weather:- Rain later

 DOLDRUMS DONE!

After the longest period ever becalmed in the Doldums, in all the years the MALARKEY’s log records, finally we’re underway again.  Many of the crew have been laid low by fever; others clapped in irons and locked up by incomprehensible orders from the distant Admiral of the Fleet. Finally! A whisper of wind; dank lank sails that hung impotently down shivered, stirred - the whisper became a breeze, the breeze became a fair and steady wind. Surviving crew members overjoyed climbed aloft again to man their usual stations, drilled by topmast-hand Alfredo Heights.

All the buoys, opening the Festival, let rip with a rip-roaring set of shantys - halyard, capstan, and erotic. Crowds from the newly liberated populace gathered in the port of Exmouth’s Manor Gardens to celebrate - the finest party for many a year - and clapped, sang along, danced. Three HUZZAHS! for organizers The Grapevine Brewhouse and the Spoken Cafe teams who had at last minute gathered a wonderful array of alcoholic and gastronomic delights from every corner of the globe to rapture every shorebound matelot.

Billy Bow Locks serenaded the crowds with the hopefully prophetic shanty - GOOD DAY COMING! GOOD DAY TOMORROW! But his request for a woman with a great big bum was sadly declined - though after a year and a half at sea every woman present seemed beauteous beyond compare, and every man brave and handsome. The crew record their gratitude to our afterguard who kept up morale during the long doldrums, and for every man jack who today pulled their weight - the MALARKEY’s on her way again.

Seventh and eighth daies of  September, year of grace 2019
West Quay, Great Yarmouth
Wind: NW 3 or 4 backing SW
Weather: Drizzly and changeable, clearing later

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.

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.

Tenth day of February, year of Grace 2020
Galmpton hamlet, Dartside, Nr. Brixham, Devon
Weather:- Named storm Ciara – tempest rain and wind
Weather:- Severe gale becoming storm  f.9/10  W/SW

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.

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.

Twelfth day of November, year of grace 2019
Alphington Village Hall
Wind:- Var. 1-3
Weather:- Autumnal, occ. Showers

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.

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.

Night of November 7th, year of Grace 2019 / aka 1805
Britannia Royal Naval College, Dartmouth,  Junior Officers Mess
Wind: variable 3 or less
Weather: sea fret, occ. rain

For the first time for many moons the crew of the Malarkey found themselves completely back in their true 19^th 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 18^th 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.

St. Crispin’s Day, this  year of Grace 2019
The Point Bar & Grill, Exmouth
Wind: SW gale, force 9
Weather: Torrential rain

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
Bars and Taverns and Dives of the above mentioned Port
Wind:- S.W. f. 6 increasing 8 at times
Weather:- Gales; torrential rain, clearing later

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.

Twenty fourth to twentysixth daies of August, year of grace 2019
Shrewsbury Folk Festival
Wind: var. 1 to 2
Weather: Blistering – pitch melts, Jamaica rum evaporates

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  â€˜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.

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 30^th 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.

17th day of August, year of Grace 2019

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.

Freya’s Day, being ye ninth day of August, year of grace 2019

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.

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

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 (2^nd?) 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.

27^th Day of July, year of grace 2019

Dartmouth

Wind: NW 4 gusting 5

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  â€˜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.

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.

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.

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.

The 21st day of February. Year of our Lord 2019

Krakow, Poland

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.

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 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.

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.

13th day of September. Year of our Lord 2018

Inshore Waters, South Devon

Weather:- breezy

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.

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.