The Consummate Fisherman

Shall I have another cup of tea? How many cups of tea are needed before heading off to sea? I can hear the wind freshening and the swell beginning to build, I can see the waves breaking white further across the bay, the tell tale signs of a southwest wind. Seagulls stand firm upon the harbour wall while somewhere a dog barks, it's voice carried away by the breeze. High over the village the trees roar and sway, dancing to the winds tune. Coal grey smoke curls away from the chimneys as the first damp spots of rain find the pebbles. The joys of spring!

Dressed up and bound up the shore, today I'm taking the "Little Lily" she deserves an outing. Edging offshore we come across the wind, more than enough to hoist the canvas and sail across the bay, "Lily" positively runs away, leaning into the gusting breeze, laughing as she races along, born to sail and sailing well, only the sounds of the shivering water rushing by, the flapping of the ropes and sails and the creak of the rudder and tiller. We run briskly along leaving the village behind us, heading for the eastern coast of the bay where I can start work and once more haul my waiting lobster pots.

Rain lashed and drowned by the wind, hands pull and heave on rope after rope. I am in a world of my own, working home; hauling, clearing, baiting, relaying. The distant lands lay misty and pale as constant showers pass by heading up the channel. Closing away the headlands I work my way down the shore closer and closer to Clovelly, until my attention is distracted by a faint vibration in my pocket, far below, beneath umpteen layers of waterproof and heavy clothing, a mobile phone calls me! Wondering why I carry it I delve deep beneath the layers forcing my hand to reach the buzzing box, until success; "Hello?" I enquire, wondering how important the call may be. Is somebody in trouble? Maybe an order for a lobster? A vital message I can't ignore? "Hello can I help you?"
"I just wanted to say hello," Came the reply!
"Oh!!"
There should always be time to say hello, even when the weather is unagreeable and I'm at the furthest reaches of the bay. Knowing that there's someone missing me, waiting for me to return makes me smile. The phone returns to the deepest darkest depths and I get back to my pots.

At home I have been given a little beam trawl, it's not much use now after being abandoned in someone's garden and having a tree growing through it, the beam is only 10 feet wide, the net is full of holes and the iron shoes have rusted away, but I should be able to use it as a pattern for a new one. My boats engine is only small so I can't drag anything too heavy, so a small beam trawl will suit me very well, hopefully catching fish worthy of the plate as well as being good fun. I am in no way a trawlerman and have no wish to be, trawlermen are a breed apart. But I do enjoy trying different things and the idea of catching an occasional fish from my own little trawl appeals to me, even if it is just a feed for the table. I have been gathering the elements needed for the rebuilding of the net and have asked a friend to make some new iron shoes. I look forward to not only the fishing of the trawl but also to the reconstruction; believing that if you do something it should be done to the best of your ability, learning the skills of your trade, making you a more consummate fisherman.

Finally, we prepare for the weekend; it's Whitsun and traditionally the start of our season. Clovelly is hosting an Ale and Cider festival, with many local brews on offer in both of the village pubs, the New Inn and the Red Lion. At very short notice we have been asked to take part by selling seafood of some kind. I have a brother running a very successful seafood shop close to the harbour and he will have a good selection of produce to purchase, so we have only enough time to gather together some mussels and shall be serving them up outside the Red Lion. Hopefully a successful weekend to come, the start of a successful summer and just about time for another cup of tea.

Gone to pot.

The morning breaks with promise and sunshine, the calm tide stealing its way into the harbour silent and clear, the much listened to but little trusted forecast gives an indication of fine weather, better revealed by the stunning blue sky that beckons the day. All about the activity of the harbour begins breaking out, boats crunch across the beach as eager fishermen head in anticipation for the sea. Gathered lobster pots patiently board the waiting vessels, destined for hopeful fishing grounds and a long season. One by one I place my own lobster pots aboard my boat, making sure I am armed with rubber bands for binding any snapping claws and a measuring gauge for ensuring only legal size shellfish are landed; lobster must be at least 90mm along the carapace but no berried hens of any size may be kept, the future of the fishery depends on them.

So wellied up, oil skinned, gaff and bait filled bucket in hand I climb aboard the, "Neptune," wind the engine into complaining, belching, timber rattling life; let go for'ard, pull easily back on the quarter ropes until clear of the mooring lines and head my bow up along the shore.

Along the familiar coast of the sheltered bay, trees scramble down to wet their feet at the water's edge, cliffs decorated with gorse and rhododendron and old wind twisted trees hide the watching wildlife, home for the chasing seagulls and fulmars. We pick our way amongst the kelp dressed rocks covered now by the flooding tide while Clovelly shrinks away like Brigadoon in the Atlantic mist. I watch for the tried and trusted marks that tell where the hidden lobster holes and homes lay, fathoms deep and dark.

The pots are baited with old dead fish, the smellier the better for lobster, fresh bait being more of an attraction for crab; and carefully placed where rocks line up with trees and distant windows with chimney pots. The luxury of modern electronic navigation aids and depth sounders not having reached me yet. Happy though to be back upon the water, back amongst the lobster, back along the shore.

Once my pots are set and before I can turn for home I have to haul some lobster pots which were laid a few days ago. Each one comes with the creeping expectation of a worthwhile catch; arms tautened, hands gloved pulling up eight fathom deep ropes, bringing the hoped for fruitfil basket to the surface and aboard the boat. Revealing crabs; velvet, brown and spider, a flipping prawn or two, a thrashing dogfish, a tranquil rockling and maybe if I'm lucky, a lobster of legal size to keep.

Inshore fishing can be a battle of wills between the lobster and the fisherman, where subtle changes in bait or position may help entice the languid crustacean out of its lair. You have to understand and respect your opponent. It's a way of life that's not easy when you depend on it for your living, but it's a way of fishing that suits me, giving plenty of time to appreciate and enjoy the beautiful surrounding coast and views.