Oh the old school- house Hostel that Godfrey called home, for a year in his travels.. he almost put roots down, he almost stayed. For he welcomed the travelers, made sure they paid, cleaned the Loo and the mud-room each day, he directed the desperate where they could go , to pray that it would stop raining..
..Twas a very small hamlet, Rai at the head of a bay. And when not doing chores like clean towels and sheets, he hung a sign in the entrance and kitchen- NO PASERAN BEETS. Then donning his wooly hat and raincoat, Godfrey set out to fish in The Whelk, his rowboat.
“There is joy”, he wrote me, on the Jadey smooth water. There is freedom in each strong pull of the oar. Every creak, the leak we plug up with my socks, the scent of damp bush hills, the sea-lions reeking as we glide past their rocks.
Out in The Whelk we sing- though nothing rhymes, hot sun comes slanting through the clouds to warm us, cast out your line, reel in the memory of these happy times.
There is joy in trudging home at tea time with our catch. We make Cullen Skink, (Ma’s Recipe) a big batch. There are onions to chop and spuds to pare, hostelers throw in what they have to share.
With wine in the teapot, clever hidden from the manager, there was always someone who could play the guitar, someone who could sing and play well. The stories came out then, the kind Godfrey loved, that travelers tell the Whirled Over.
There is joy, he wrote me, in this house of harmony. In the welcomes and farewells, and the one’s who say they will come back again.
There is joy in the leaky old row boat The Whelk, where Godfrey can be found, out fishing in the rain..