At the end of the harbor we saw a couple of chefs in white smocks and blue checkered trousers deep in conversation. Suddenly they stopped talking and made their way to the wooden stairs, something had caught their attention, all we could hear was the soft soggy swish of gold brown seaweed that clung to the underside of the stairs, then from around the sea wall, we heard what they must have heard, a soft hum and popping gurgle of an engine. A moment later, a small red hulled tug-like fishing boat came into view with an entourage of seabirds squawking and squealing at one other.
On the prow of the boat, one of the crew stood holding a couple of flat fish and a striped silver fish.
“What yer got?” one of the chefs yelled out.
“Got any sole?” asked the other chef.
“No sole. Got plaice.” The fisherman yelled back.
As the boat bobbed up and down, the engine gurgled, idling in place.
“Is that bass?” asked the first chef.
“Don’t want bass.”