That was a long Winter
There was a gale, ferocious. Middle of November I think. Northerly of course, that effectively erased fishing effort from my map of the knowne groundes and reefs adjacent to Hescwm, near the Port of Fishguard, for the Year 2008.
Larger boats with more gear lost, and more to lose, pulled what was left in this winter.
When it let up, the sea no longer seemed such an attractive place to be. There was a cold, cruel edge to it. No doubt huge shoals of bass swam past the bay chuckling at their luck. Lobsters must have gone into some close crevice or deeper water.
I set to land tasks. What fills the short days in the winter months is good essential stuff, mostly to do with keeping warm and dry and fed.
Of course I had gazed out for lost buoys and peered into coves for familiar bits of pot before I had turned away.
One valiant red buoy hung around off the main rock in a place where a fleet had got so stuck in the silt, that I had got Paul from Fishguard to tease it out with his hauler the summer before.
That meant I’d probably lost the other six pots. I sent for some cheaper, twisted net, rather than black braided, on the wisdom that pots on this coast don’t roll up in a ball on a beach, chased in by the prevailing wind, worn but OK, but get lost, presumed dead.
I started appreciating the different designs of bakery tray stacked outside local shops for their pot-base potential in a misery, gollum sort of way.
There is a rush of creative relief for a trapper when all his gear is accounted for, whether it is safely home or lost in action.
There is something idyllic and pure about the Season ahead. Unsullied by Real Life.
Man has always indulged in virtual reality. Its called the Future.
The Winter went into a quiet long before it warmed up.
Often a Welsh winter has been pulse after pulse of wet, warm, ocean soft storms. No frost, or sun, instead mud everywhere.
Now a cold, clear dry, stony Spring seems more usual.
Its great for getting out on the sea and land. For farmers to play at tractors, and lobster men to put out gear. Calm seas and dry land.
But nothing’s really happening.
The sea feels like it has lost its breath.
The farmers’ nitrate granules sit on the hard ground.
The birds sing conditionally.
