THE RHYME OF THE ANCIENT BODGER

We guests were met, this feast was set,
And we all went in together.
Here we have sat with much good chat
To celebrate our ancient Bodger.

Of him, who shows no signs of stopping yet,
A story I here do guild,
About a boat he once began to build:
For on the ocean his gleaming eyes were set.

He said: ‘In this boat I and my family
Our dog and cat and budgerigar
(Our Bodger’s mark was a lesser ark)
Shall sail across the harbour bar
And wander in the wide blue yonder,
Sailing at will St. David’s sea.

We’ll avoid all shock on Half-tide rock,
Be so frisky as to bathe at Porth-lysgi,
Then bounce around in Ramsey Sound
(Avoiding the Bitches like evil witches)
As we race the tide to the other side.

The cliffs will loom, the ocean boom,
The seals will stare, but I don’t care:
Into the calm of St. Justinian
We’ll safely sail, in my opinion.

And after lunch, we’ll climb the stair
Just to make sure the lifeboat’s there;
Then we’ll board again our trusty roamer,
And who knows, may sail as far as Skomer.’

He said. Then to work our Bodger went:
Tubes of steel were brought from Lucas
Which into a frame would soon be bent,
But not without many a blue cuss.

He hammered here, he welded there,
He all the tubes did link;
He cut and welded almost everywhere:
‘This boat of mine shall never sink!’

After weeks of work, night after night,
A skeleton ship made he,
And on the bones stretched canvas white –
A skinnier ship there never will be.

At which sight his spouse took fright,
And said: ‘Into your floater put a motor:
Of boats that sail I have seen many,
But one like yours, I’ve not seen any!’

Obedient he, an Adam to his Eve,
Willingly the deed was done.
Could that ever be a cause to grieve,
Might such propulsion cause revulsion?

Must nature bow to another knowing,
Must simple sail and wind quite free
Be lost to more uncertain modes of going?
As our tale soon ends, we shall see.

From the Clockhouse to the end of Wales
The family car takes each budding sailor;
Behind, the gleaming vessel sails,
Making its longest journey—on a trailer.

The locals gape at this strange shape
Which at Porth-clais slides into the water:
Upon the shore they stand aloof and stare,
‘That thing floats, but it didn’t oughta.’

Undeterred, into their vessel proudly step
Bodger, his dog and eldest son.
Let sceptics think they might get wet:
For them the journey will’ve soon begun.

The bow is gladly pointing out to sea,
The stern is set away from land,
The crew is ready, the boat is steady,
The motor started, the throttle fanned,

‘Let go the ropes’, comes Bodger’s shout.
They fall. Our proud boat then leaps and races
Backwards!—oh no, backwards!—to the beach
Not forwards to the open sea moving out,
But backwards as if dry land it would reach.
Surprised, we nearly fall upon our faces.

Then the air is blue with Bodger’s imprecation.
Must end like this many months of application?
Ashore, the chapel-folk stop their ears:
You can’t be damned for what the devil hears.

But reason soon rules a brief despair
With, ‘Forwards or backwards in a boat
What difference—if one remains afloat?’
And as calm returns to the troubled air

Towards the stern the crew all turn
And backwards we begin to go,
Slowly at first, but faster and faster
As our shipwright becomes its master.

Thus grows confidence in our motion,
And Bodger’s hopes regain the open ocean.
But from the land a cry of much emotion:
‘James, I will not have all you three
Disappearing backwards out to sea!’

And so, we’re soon home again in sunlit Halfway;
And though it never roamed beyond the haven
Our proud boat now ascends the final causeway
To rest where all ideas come true – in Plato’s heaven.

As for our ancient Bodger, he’s a traveller still;
His gaze now set upon the far horizon
On he firmly strides from hill to hill
Sleeping under the stars, and in the dawn arising.

And still to the bodging spirit is our Bodger true,
Working wonders from walnut, oak and yew;
So wide his fame, that made by his skilled hands
A royal bowl now in Windsor Castle stands