Fowey to Meva Ferry - the last sailing of the summer

Fowey to Meva Ferry - the last sailing of the summer

The Fowey to Meva Ferry traditionally donate their last day's takings to charity, and this year they've chosen us!

A huge thank you to Skipper John Wood and to the passengers of the ferry who donated a whopping £1,200! This money will help us create new work, and make sure more people can experience Kneehigh.

Skipper John said “Kneehigh is a Cornish treasure that we shouldn’t take for granted and we’re delighted to be able to do something to support this outstandingly talented group of artists."

Annd Maria Murphy wrote a poem on board when she took the ferry as part of her Rambles walks. Here it is:

 

 

 

 

 

Fowey to Meva Ferry

 

Sailing past the Esplanade

On the Jesse James,

Pink sea buoys,

Where the trapped lobsters fight,

Past the Captains’ houses

Where mistresses

Stared out to sea.

Goodbye Readymoney

Where my dad lost his teeth and we dove

For cockle shells

And stayed too long in the sea,

Till we were almost blue,

Then wrapped in a towel

And rubbed raw,

Salty and shaking

And sea-tired,

Sand stuck to feet

In between our toes,

Sand in the bed.

Goodbye to yachting types

In red and white stripes

Canvas trousers with anchors-

To Leslie and Gwen who

Ran the B and B,

St.Austell and Fowey girls

Who met the Beatles

In the Cornwall Coliseum

And wore their hair piled high,

Leslie to shy to speak to

Ringo.

 

They’ve both seen the ghost

Of Dolly,

Who was once a servant here,

And a black cat

Who’s buried out back,

Its ribs in the wall.

They both have ball gowns

They can still fit into.

 

Gwen was in a mixed marriage

To a

Yorkshire man,

“It could never work”, she said,

And is now with a St. Dennis boy

Who understands.

 

Goodbye to the roll-up rollers

Who sit in the pleasure boat hut

Waiting for

The days passengers,

Fowey boys all,

Who once fished,

But there aren’t so many

Now a days,

They know the crags of the estuary

And where the heron hides.

 

Farewell to the Working Mens institute

Where Pearns pasties are sold,

And where last night Mrs. Palm

From her sex shop emporium up

Truro,

Held a demonstration.

 

See you later posh nick-nack shops

Selling flowery cake plates

And faux vintage radios.

 

So long to the gig rowers

Ploughing the river, the click clack

Of the oars in perfect time,

And their speed making the black shag rise.

 

Goodbye to the locals

Who mostly live on the top of the hill

And have never heard of  Cath Kidson.

 

See you next time,

Ghostly butler who used to work

The old lift in The Fowey Hotel

Circa 1920,

And the gentleman we met in the bar,

Polruan boy

Who never goes back,

Ashamed of his Dad

Who used to work the pleasure boats.

 

Crossing now on

The steely blue sea,

Past the clay

And fishermen on impossible edge of cliffs...

Careful boys.

 

Up to Pentewan,

Where the caravans

Lie like strange eggs

About to hatch families,

Who’ve saved up all year,

And burst onto the beach

With buckets and spades

And don’t care if it’s a bit grey

As they stare at the wide yawn

Of our ocean.

 

Into Meva,

Where Tom Dudley once built boats

The right shape for this harbour,

And where film stars walked

And where David Palk once

Put a seagulls egg

In a girls piled up hair-do.

 

We’ve moored up,

Here’s Meva,

Preparing for Feast,

Flags proud,

Man on his boat,

Hair of bladderack,

Barnacle beard,

Whose given up the drink for his boys,

A navigator of many storms

In love and at sea..

 

And, as Albert Hunkin said,

“The Lord is my pilot

I shall not drift.”