Mr Hocking

The secret ingredient
In Mr. Hocking’s case
Was a thick West Country accent
And the crystal clear conviction
That it was the seaweed above all else
Which made his ice cream the best,
In Devon if not in the whole of England.

But to me, and my young, small, greedy hands,
And eager tongue,
It was not the seaweed,
Nor the fresh, sharp tang of the sea air in my nostrils,
Nor the hours spent at the slot machines
Losing, winning, then losing again, my handful of two pence pieces,
Which made it undoubtedly the best ice cream
I had ever tasted.

It was the simplicity;
The feeling that, in Westward Ho!
(the only town in the U.K. to have an exclamation mark in its name)
There were no clocks or watches,
No minutes, hours, days, weeks, months or even years
Which asked for their dues to be paid.
To my little blue eyes
Time stood still.

I could see no sunsets, Christmases or New Year’s Eves,
While I walked across the Burrows,
The seagulls calling behind me in the distance,
The waves breaking upon the quiet shore.

And although I have grown,
And my hair is longer, and darker,
And though the amusements have been replaced,
By empty glass houses,
I know that time stands still
And time forever will
Forget to ravage this one corner of Devon,
Where once a young man cried:
‘Westward Ho!’