Boatman's dream 7

Weekday mornings are a joy in this corner of Somerset.  Few people make it this far even during busy holiday periods, preferring the attractions of Weston a mile or so north or Brean Sands to the south.  Even the few that know of the beach access turn right for the expanse of empty sand that fringes the golf course.

The plank jetty of the landing is further secreted by dunes that form the corner of bay and river-mouth.   Passing dogs sniff around the upturned hulls of tenders – mostly scruffy old rowing boats being slowly buried by the perpetually shifting dune – but the dog-walkers are generally locals, familiar with the roughly-painted mooring numbers on the hulls.  A stranger would never know the landing was there, which is fine with the boatmen.

Across the River Axe, beyond the extended finger of the Down, lies Brean Sands.  It’s a seasonal town of caravan sites and amusement parks reaching almost all the way to Burnham-on-Sea.  It might as well be on the moon, the only evidence from the river being a slowly rotating metal arm in the distance. 

The opposite bank of the Axe is accessible only to waterfowl and any unfortunate boatman blown there on the estuarine wind.  It’s been that way since the ferryman gave up the trade.  The road from Weston to Brean Sands is a winding detour of several miles across what was once salt marsh.  A remote dairy farm squatting under the quarry-scarred slope of the Down is the only neighbour.  No one else bears witness to the comings and goings on the landing.

I walked behind Merlin’s jeep as it bumped along the track through the dunes to the boatyard.  A small huddle of men stood waiting.  One stood out among the rest.