I brush my way through whisps of white cirrus cloud. My wigs glide effortlessly through the air. The wind brings the turbulent flicks of ruffled feathers. I look down on all I survey. The specs of people milling through the crowded streets. The rippling waters of the River Camel, lapping at the weathered stone harbour walls. Pinpricks of orange speckle the quayside; children gleefully brandishing their crabbing nets and buckets of water, cheering in excitement at their catches and near-misses.

I descend down from my scouting mission, perching on a lamppost for a closer look.  The green-blue sparkle of the Summer-waters reflect the distorted silhouettes of the harbourside boats, moored as fishing trawlers unload their catches into waiting delivery vans, scraps thrown out for the likes of you and me. I swoop down, jostling for pole position as a Mackerel is tossed my way, freshly caught from the Southwest coast, a Bass, too small to sell, from further out in the Atlantic Ocean. Food acquired, a take flight, heading out onto the far-side wall, away from the risk or scavenger rivalry. Pecking away, a curious toddler with hands outstretched interrupts my meal, sending me back skywards.

The treetops dance in the wind as I make my way over St. Petroc’s Church, rooftops of solid brown slate patched like paving stones along the winding streets of Padstow. With a final circle over the woodlands, I head East, back over the harbour and landing, following the river North, out of the bay and towards the frantic waters of the Bristol Channel, adventures and opportunities await.

But first, lunch.

Only Happy Days.

~ A ~