Standing in the sun I shade my eyes and smile as I remember. Oh yes, I remember you, treacherous cobblestones. I feel you now, prodding at the soles of my lightly clad feet. You were made for hobnailed boots, not summer sandals. I walked here, years ago; a teetering teenager with hair dressed high, dangerously balanced in four inch heels. Desperately trying for poise, succeeding only as a clown. I look up past stern grey walls to the green sweep of Plymouth Hoe, past Smeatons Lighthouse with it's red-lead and white stripes and see the sun washed spot I sat upon, eating icecream with my second love, kisses and melting strawberries mingling, one eye watching the first sail away into the dusk. Did Walter sit there too? I wonder idly. The salt-stained atmosphere of Plymouth Barbican is filled today with the calls of rowdy gulls and caterwailing karaoke contestants. Light gusts of sea cooled air dance in from the channel, brushing my skirt against sun heated legs, twisting curls into my tumbled hair before moving on to grace another observer with a moments respite from the blazing sun. Gently swaying in the light sea breeze, the reeking trawlers and the gleaming yachts sit uneasily together. Sounds from the boats jangle, discordant to my whimsical ear. At sea, the noises fade into the background, but leashed here by the dull grey quay they clatter with their seaweed skirts entangled, calling out their desire to run with the tide, to the open sea beyond St Micheals Mount. I stand, with the children, amidst a summer crowd upon historic ground, where Drakes men drank and pilgrims once sought passage. We stand in modern times too, see there? Beaten silver torques displayed in tudor shopfronts,mingled with mismatched porcelain dolls and holographic postcards. Across the footbridge towers the imposing glass walled aquarium where you can see the shark and the sea horse, the turtle and the sea snake. Today the promise of shade and air-conditioning makes it more popular than ever. Not so long ago the fresh caught silver scaled fish lay on this spot, now we back away from the intense heat of the forge to squint at the glass blower showing off his craft, where once the gutting man raised his bloody knife. Outside, we wait for the fishermen, amidst the merry thousands, all gathered for the annual Fishermans Festival. We stand enthralled and exasperated, buffeted by the careless crowds and carefree breezes alike, the sun beating down on our uncovered heads. We watch the swirling crowds bring jugglers, fire breathers, the tangled scents of candy floss, seaweed, burger bars and drunks. We wait. The rackety market stall, hastily improvised as a stage each year, is cleared of uncollected trophies for the third time today, to make way for the magician and his snakes. Scabby kneed children stare wide eyed, then surge forward at the chance to touch a real boa constrictor. They don't care for the spangly costumed assistant at all, unless it looks like the snakes might crush her. We still wait for the fishermen. The half heartedly polished trophies are out again, removed from the battered cardboard box and arranged haphazardly on a bed of grocers green plastic. Word runs round the restless crowd, a sussuration of rising whispers that crescendo in a laugh. We wait because the fishermen are all in the pub. They do not want their trophies, for best boat, best catch, best year. They want their Plymouth Gin, their Lambs Navy Rum, their beer. Bleached blonde,brunette and steel gray alike, the tipsy wives stagger up to the lonely podium, the smoke and alcohol haze that accompanies them makes it clear they have been drinking all day. Laughing raucously they randomly scoop up trophies and weave their way back to their men. As they did last year, and the year before. The fishermen hold their own festival at the bar, roughened sea dogs with sea creased faces and fresh faced boys with ocean bleached hair, all soaked in brine and alcohol. The happy crowd wanders away, to engage in light-hearted slanging matches with the hapless karaoke crowd, to gorge on fish and chips, pungent pickled eggs and sea-odoured eel. Many of the men slink away to join the fisherman in a celebratory pint or three. My feet aching, I gather my tired charges, the sticky faced, sweet blemished children. We leave the fishermen and the dancing crowds to their fun.