Strolling Along Bideford Quay
When strolling along Bideford Quay, I like to try to identify the flags on the visiting ships. As a boy I used to know the lot. Since most ships now use Panamanian flags of convenience they are not now always an indication of the ships origins. Nowadays I don’t seem to know my Riga from my Puntas Arenas and mix Jamaica with Estonia: in flags that is. Strangely countries that have been occupied seem still to fly their own flags. About twice a year I spot ‘blue skies on white snow’, the flag of Finland. “W.W. black and blue; nothing to eat and plenty to do” – the flag of William Williamsen from Norway. One day my favourite “The Dannabrog”, white cross on red background the national flag of Denmark was testing the Torridge breeze on a little ship from Marstal, near Copenhagen, called The Vibby. I still remember how to speak a little Danish, so I hail them in the hope that I will be invited on board.
Encouraged by the aroma of Danish coffee I chat to the crew and explain that I had spent some time in their country. There is only a crew of four or five. Most crew have heard each other‘s life stories over a dozen times so they seem happy to talk of home. They offer me an Easter beer. I am cautious there as I am now used to weaker British beer. I ask after their voyage. South Sjealand in Denmark up the Øresund to the Kattegat into Oslo Fjord; over to the Fair Isles, down the North Sea over the a bit of Atlantic joining the Irish sea, after a stop off into some small Scottish ports Liverpool beckons The Vibby. Barry in Wales next, over to Bideford, collect some clayŒoff again, perhaps the Caribbean or off around Lands End.
Orders for Rotterdam, so across the bottom end of the North Sea again, on into the Kiel Canal (no need to go up The Elbe any more).
Morning in The Stor Belt, evening on The Øresund back home to Marstal. Such a trip for this brave little ship would have commanded no more mention by the crew than that of the Bidefordians on the quay outside talking about taking the bus to Barnstaple. After an exchange of news and mention that Chopes was the best on route for denim and men‘s underwear, I was invited to have a ‘little something’ in the way of lunch. Most Danes are never far away from food and just as much pride is taken is in its presentation as consumption. They take turns in the preparation. Cooking is part of the Danish seaman’s certificate. Glancing through the storm proof glass I could see the Wimpy Bar on Jubilee Place, so choosing to accept the proffered salver containing sild pickled in pepper and quince; goose paté, rolled meats cured in herbs; sliced, then served on medium rye bread trimmed with thin slivers of Cornichons (I once asked for those in Safeway and got referred to the foot care section).
I choose to defer mention of the fate of Hubba the Viking laid in his grave at the Northam roadside or the fact that the fleas on Braunton Boroughs are the surviving descendants of the last Viking invasion.
Especially since I was now offered finely sliced lægered cheese on fresh baked flute with slices of radish, fennel and a drizzle of sweet mustard. Læger, by the way, means stored and it gave name to a type of beer which is much consumed in Bideford, yet these Danish sailors just call in beer. A Tuborg had accompanied this meal and fresh coffee added to the sense of elation. Lastly, a small glass of Gammel Dansk (Old Danish) Bitters was taken in a Skål to the little white town on the Torridge. On thanking them for the meal and company, my friend’s reply was that ‘my appreciation of their humble fare was thanks enough’. The Captain called down that he had been loaded early and had tide enough in the estuary to get underway. Hasty farewells and I left. The Vibby went up the channel as straight as a dye, the Dannabrog waiving its farvel into the distance.
Dave Horley
