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.