Each week, 'Between the Eyes', will watch The Clovelly Shoot from a variety of perspectives - this week it's Gorrell the sea gull...

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Gorrell wheeled high above the jagged cliffs of Clovelly, his white wings catching the cold January sunlight as the wind appeared to carry him effortlessly over the sea.  Below, the waves rolling in with a slow, and rhythmic thump and crashing against the shingle beach, their frothy edges retreating silently to regather.

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Beyond the shore line, Lundy Island rose defiantly from the horizon, its rugged cliffs standing sentinel in the vast expanse of blue.  He was a frequent visitor to Lundy, joining the puffins and enjoying the lucrative feasting grounds of the island.

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Gorrell had flown these skies for years - the landscape he travelled had remained largely unchanged for centuries. Clovelly village nestled into the folds of the cliffs - it was a village as old as the oaks and woodland that surrounded it.  From his height he could see the cobbled streets snaking ilke a grey ribbon past the white cottages that seemed to cling to the steep hillside for dear life, the fishing boats bobbing up and down in the harbour and the silent life boat station.

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No cars disturbed the tranquility here, instead Gorrell often saw the patient villagers hauling their groceries, and firewood and sometimes even furniture along the aptly named street Up a Long - the donkeys had now been retired ..... he missed them.  

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As he glided lower, the scent of woodsmoke rose to greet him, mingled with the briny tang of the sea.  He had a constant eye on the empty fishing baskets and nets hoping they may secure him a prize later on that day. The village was alive with subtle activity, the boats bobbing gently, a child enjoying the timeless game of throwing rocks into the sea and a ginger and white cat sitting imperiously on the harbour wall. Nets had been spread out to dry near the quay and ready to catch their next haul of fish for the tables of nearby inns and restaurants.

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Gorrell's keen eyes scanned the woods above the village, the ancient gnarled trees standing tall and proud, their moss covered branches reaching skywards like the gnarled fingers of the old fishermen below. It was here, amongst the tangled undergrowth and the gorse that the shoot was taking place.  He had seen it all before, the line of guns, their tweed jackets blending into the landscape, the dogs working silently ahead.  Today, he saw them once again winding their way towards the famous Hobby Drive.  This narrow track, was carved into the cliffs in the 19th century to aid the passage of horse and trap from Bideford.  It offered breathtaking views of the deep valleys and sea beyond, it was here that the guns hoped for their chance to take one of the high birds soaring overhead - birds that rose impossibly high from the dense cover of the ravines and seemed to defy gravity as they crossed the sky en masse.

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He tilted his wings and soared closer (but not too close....), watching as the vehicles stopped at a clearing.   The beaters were already at work, their sticks tapping faintly through the trees.  Perching on a tall oak branch, his sharp eyes followed the scene below.  He watched the guns taking their places, their faces a mixture of concentration and anticipation.  Among them was Sam - the young gun who had spent the morning struggling to shoot his first pheasant.  Gorrell could sense his determination and the quiet resolve knowing this was his last chance of the day...

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But Gorrell's gaze soon drifted back towards the village - his home.  It was a place of stories, its very stones whispering of generations past, the donkeys, once the lifeblood of the village, the cottages with their pretty gardens and views out to the sea viewed by generations of fishermen and their families.  Then there was the sea itself - a timeless force that had shaped both the land and its people.  Although the draw of Lundy was strong, his heart brought him back to Clovelly where life was slow, simple and rich in ways the modern world had forgotten.

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As the sun began its slow descent towards the horizon, he unfurled his wings and took to the air once more. Below, the beating line was noiseless - it reminded him of a silent marching army.  Moments later, the first pheasants roared upwards, wings cutting through the crisp winter air.  The first crack of a shotgun echoed through the valley followed by triumphant shouts from the guns. He circled watching as Sam finally brought down his first bird ..... 

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The day would soon be drawing to a close, but Clovelly, untouched by time, stood as it always had - a sanctuary of tradition, beauty and quiet resilience.  And for Gorrell the seagull who had seen it all, it was simply home.....

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