Watchet Walking

Let us begin here, high on the windswept shoulders of the Quantock hills,
Where red deer hide in deep combes of ancient oak,
Here William, Samuel and Dorothy walked in friendship, planning new worlds.
On this bright, winter’s day, see my small town nestled below in a valley
Huddled, its back to the sea, protected from marauders.

Today, like the poets before us, we walk down the long hill westwards.
To the beach at Doniford, our footprints on the muddy shore to Helwell Bay.
Grey limestone ribs lie abandoned below receding cliffs.
Ammonites hide amongst pebbles.
Now climb long crumbling steps, and walk with me across the playing field,
Memorial to those lost lives in war.
In the long sunny days of the 60s my gang sat here in a circle of giggling,
Listening to Beach Boys harmonies on a bright red radio,
While local boys whooped and soared on bikes around us.
Today our footsteps follow pilgrims down Goviers Lane,
Hesitate at the level crossing,
Can you feel the thrumming of a steam train approaching?

We’ll dive into narrow Swain Street, with its scattering of shops
Promoting tourist nick-nacks, cream teas and common sense, head down to the sea,
The Esplanade, hub of the town, and Marina,
Dredger puttering away on a silt-clearing Sisyphean task,
Supervised by the ghost of Derek the goose, and a pepperpot lighthouse.

In the shelters and on the benches of the Esplanade
Roger, Terry, Marie and Eric sit and talk about life. They watch us pass,
Wave hello, have seen us all before,
Poets, steam train enthusiasts, seafarers, coach parties,
Middle-aged moochers dragging elderly loved dogs,
Crab and fossil hunting families
Photographers and painters.

Battered by Bristol Channel storms, raided by Vikings,
Assailed by rumours of solar panels and far too many new houses,
Often neglected by a distant local government we are regularly under siege.
Our community niggles at its own but unites in crisis.

Walk on with me, each footstep prompting memories
Past the tiny lifeboat-house-turned-Library, the stoical Day Centre
And the brand-new East Quay Arts Centre,
Flaunting its concrete walls and stripey trendy pods,
Hard fought for, dividing local opinion.

Now climb up ancient steps to Splash Point,
Turner was here painting the old harbour and fishing boats.
Let us sit and watch as the sun falls slowly into the arms of the sea,
Evening deepens towards Minehead, and the looming hills of Exmoor.
Later, we can return to warmth and companionship,
Pebbles Bar, David singing shanties of Rosabella and Shanadore,
Our local sweet sharp ciders.