Drinking Golden Plover in the Old Repeater Station ...

We waited, chilled and dripping, whilst Penny rang the doorbell of the Old Repeater Station - 

The heavy rain continued to fall - I wondered if our bags had been delivered to this remote house -

My spray jacket was saturated - I'd worn it last on board The Indian Wizard - the Bora had been blowing - the yacht was keeled right over, quivering like a passionate animal - 

The door opened - Les beckoned us inside - he had the grizzled beard of an old salt - there were pictures of Merchant Navy ships upon the walls - 

We hung up our waterproofs inside the drying room - we drank scalding reviving northern tea - I peered at a barometer and at maps of the Wall - 

Les was a man of few words - he regarded us with his calm appraising seafarer's gaze - 

He recommended I try some Golden Plover - I drained the bottle within moments, ready then for fish pie and sticky pudding - bumpers of northern red followed, then stories and laughter - 

I recalled the words in the guide book, describing our host - 

- the affable laconic Les ... never less than generous with his teapot - 

And, I thought, with his Golden Plover - 

8 July 2014

Lolling in The Old Repeater Station