Welcome to all my sleepy little listeners on this beautiful starry night.
I'm going to tell you a story that you might not have heard before.
And it's a story from long,
Long ago.
And in a land far,
Far away.
On the Wild West Coast.
Where there lived a fisherman.
He lived in a small cottage made of limestone.
With a roof of thatch straw.
It was a humbler board.
A single room with a table made of turned oak.
A bed that was made of the same.
And a chair to sit by the open fire.
Once the day's work was done.
The fisherman lived here with his black cash.
Who he had found one autumn day tangled in the brambles as a little kitten.
And who had stayed with him since that day.
Bramble was the name he gave to her.
Every morning before the first rays of the new day's sun broke the darkness of night.
The fishermen would rise.
Stoke the embers of the fire in hope it would still be glistening on his return.
Fill a little saucer with fresh milk for bramble.
Before pulling on his oilskin coach and bracing himself against the wild winds.
Down to the rocky shore he would go with little Bramble at his heels.
And in the veiled,
Dusky light of early morn.
The fisherman dragged his boat across the pebbly shore.
And followed the ebb and flow of the tide.
Before pushing the boat.
Out into the dark,
Choppy waters.
Over and under with a heave and a halt.
Over and under with a heave and a halt.
The fishermen battled against the forceful waves,
Over and under,
Over and under.
His wooden oars broke through the inky water,
Over and under,
The misty salt sea spray stinging his cheeks and little Bramble on his lap.
Until with one final heave and hold.
He turned a rocky outcrop.
To his favourite fishing place.
Here,
No matter which way the wind blew.
The ocean seemed to find stillness and the fisherman could lift his weathered hands from the oars and rest for a moment.
Well,
Here we are,
My little lucky charm.
Tis another day at sea for you and me.
He picked Bramble off his lap as he reached for his nets.
And with the first call of a lone seabird.
The fisherman gracefully cast his nets out across the ocean.
He watched as they settled like a dancer on the surface before sinking deep down into the depths below.
Here.
Everything was as it should be.
And to pass the time.
He sang a song.
A song to the sea.
I can hear you in my dreams Whispering to me And I am never more at peace than when I'm on the sea.
You commune with the moon.
And she guides your tides And I am never so free than when I'm on the sea.
No,
I am never so free.
Than when I'm on the sea.
The hours passed.
And the fisherman and his cat patiently waited.
When suddenly.
.
.
Out of the corner of his eye.
The fishermen sighted.
A strange but familiar figure.
Dipping and dancing.
Flowing and frolicking beneath the waves in flashes of silver and steely grey.
As this creature caressed the water with playful ease.
Bramble saw it too,
For she had leapt towards the edge of the boat,
Resting her paws on the side,
And was peering into the murky depths,
Watching the creatures every move with the focus of a hunter.
And in a moment of wonder,
The fisherman realized.
That this mystical creature was indeed helping him.
Encouraging the fish from the depths of the ocean.
To swim into his nesh.
And as the net effortlessly swelled.
A trickle of warmth streamed into the fisherman's heart.
And deep under the waves.
She felt it too.
As the wintry sun slipped behind the sea and the full moon rose high.
The fisherman made his way along the silver path of light,
Across the tops of the waves and back to shore.
As he dragged his heavy boat across the pebbled beach.
He stopped and paused for a moment.
For on the cool night's breeze,
He heard the faraway whisperings of music.
Laughter and song.
A strange style of song that he had never heard before.
And so following the mystical music.
.
.
He made his way to a craggy rock.
Where he and Bramble quietly hid.
You you YOUTUBE!
The music was so sweet.
Yet it seemed to cut across the crashing of the waves on the shore.
The voices were like a whispering wind as it sweeps off the sea,
And the fisherman was entranced by the sound.
He took a deep breath.
And peered over the rock.
Low and behold in front of his eyes He sighted the most beautiful men and women.
Their skin glistening and gleaming in the light of the moon as they combed their long wavy locks of ebony hair in the quiet of the cove.
All the while singing their own song of the sea.
These were a mystical people of both land and sea.
And on this very night They had chosen to don their seal skins.
And come to shore.
To sing and dance under the light of the full moon.
Following the rhythm of his beating heart.
The fisherman stepped from behind the rock.
And in the shadow of the moon.
He took one of the skins.
And entwined it amongst his nets.
And with the first lone call of a seabird.
As the ribbons of new light stretched across the horizon.
The mystical people reached for their skins and slipped back into the lapping waters back to their saltier boats.
Take my hand swim with me Follow me back to the sea.
Take my hand Swim with me.
Follow me back to the sea.
But there was one,
However.
Who searched and searched.
And indeed could not find her skin.
As she stood alone on the shore.
Her feet in the lapping waves.
She felt the chill of the sea air on her skin.
And as she hugged herself tight.
The fisherman stepped forward.
And wrapped his warm coat around her bare shoulders.
And Bramble wove her silky black tail.
Around her pale and salty ankles.
Bye.
Ooooooooooooooooooooooo Thank you.
And with a loving glance.
And a knowing,
Subtle smile.
Together they made their way.
Back to his cottage made of limestone.
With the roof of that straw.
And here they built a happy home.
Now as the seasons passed,
They were blessed with a child.
His hair was as black as newborn seal skin,
Just like his mother's.
And his little heart was overflowing with the wisdom of the sea.
Just like his fathers.
And as time passed,
Their little babe grew to become a fine,
Strong boy.
A lover of all animals and a great little storyteller himself.
Not to mention a fine fisherman too.
He could often be heard reminding his black cat Bramble.
That birds were not food,
But friends.
Talking to the trees or singing to the stones and the flowers.
He would spend his days out on the boat with his father,
Learning the ways of the sea.
And he would spend his nights listening to his mother tell tales of faraway lands as she combed his locks of ebony hair by the fire.
He knew how to mend the nets.
Could tell which way the wind was blowing by tracking the low or high flight of seagulls and swallows.
He knew the mackerel were in when the water appeared to boil or shimmer as dense shoals of these fish chased sand eels and sprats.
He knew to wait for the lowest spring tides,
Which pull the sea far back.
To expose deep rocky areas.
For that was when to harvest the kelp.
In spring and autumn,
The cutting and gathering happened,
And the young lad knew how the land and sea worked together.
For they used the harvested kelp.
To fertilise potato ridges in the garden.
His mother and father taught him these ways.
And when he became a fine young man.
He travelled the seven seas teaching people the forgotten ways of the land and sea in story and song.
Asha wasn't either very same as a young lad.
The fisherman would say to his dear wife.
Always with my head in the clouds.
But she was often gazing into the distance and would not hear him.
And he knew that her heart yearned for her ocean home.
Every morning as the first ribbons of sun would stretch across the sky.
She could be found at the Pebbly shore.
Gazing out to the horizon.
Her pale fish in the cool lapping waves,
Whispering a song.
That travelled across the tops of the waves like the wind.
And every evening as the moon would rise and the stars begin to shine.
She could be found at the bay window of the cottage.
Singing that very same song.
Take my hand swim with me follow me back to the sea.
Take my hand and swim with me Follow,
Be,
Play to the sea The fisherman felt her longing.
And deep in his heart he understood.
And he could not bear to see her sadness.
So one morning.
With the first lone call of a seabird.
He returned.
What was truly hers.
And with a heart full of joy,
She made a promise that on every silvery full moon,
She would surely return to her fisherman.
Her true love on the land.
I can hear you in my dreams whispering to me and I am never more at peace.
Then when I'm on the sea You commune with the moon.
And she guides your tides.
And I am never so free than when I'm on the sea.
No,
I am never so free than when I'm on the sea.
Good night to all my sleepy little listeners,
And sweetest dreams to you.
