After nearly forty years in Wales, I am accustomed to a wet, warm windiness in the weather.
I breathe it, my skin expects it, my work-pattern stacks up against it.
I have had a enough of Easterlies.
We can work outdoors as every day is dry, and every day’s tasks give rise to more.
They get a lot of this weather in Europe.
At this rate, our yard will end up as tidy as Germany.
When the East Wind goes, it is like a spell is broken. The birds sing sweeter, less pinched songs, the earth warms and softens to sponge if the frost has been hard.
The fishes have no interest in doing much in such a fitful pitch of Easterlies.
I had my first lobster from the new pots a week ago, but nothing since.
I put the next pair out today, a long way out. They have a dense, small mesh, so will move all too easily in a Sea, but should give me prawns if I can get them into the boat quickly enough, when it warms up. Six such pots set close in used to give me many a bowlful of prawns. The worst thing is not being able to poke a finger in through small mesh to hold the bait-string open. I must take time to tie some twine on... .
I tried a net further out, on the sand and the dreaded string of dogfish was only seven mouth-stretched minions, that gave way to a scattering of small whiting.
What a ghostly, anaemic looking fish that is. As if traumatised by being born.
Surprisingly good eating, fried whole.
Not worth fishing for as the Main Thing though.
Only one sand crab, and no lightnings to have to squash.
I needed the dogfish. A badger had peeled the lid off my bait bucket and eaten the rotten lot. A penalty of fishing from such a wild place.
I bet he was popular back in the sett, with that stink on his breath.
Are all scavengers gourmets of putrescence?
An Easterly puts the sea on hold.
Great weather to set new gear in, but not to make it work.
We need a Westerly, to press Play.
