I think I can honestly say that I’ve held a genuine obsession for lobsters for the whole of my life. I first handled a live one, probably aged about 5, hunted for them at low-tide with my Father (at not a lot older), and constructed my first homemade pot a few years later, having been shown how to use a netting needle by dear old Dougie.
And here I am, forty-odd years adrift from my first ever catch and still relishing the memory and excitement of that wonderful sense of anticipation, of the contents held, by the weedy and barnacled creel that approaches the surface, the saturated and slippery rope spooling onto the boards of my dinghy as I haul away. The moment of truth, the opening of the door, the discarding of the bycatch: shore crabs, hermits, starfish, a blenny.
Old bait removed, a fresh plaice-frame is doubled over and secured on the string. Door closed and the pot rests briefly on the stern before returning to the sea bed, accompanied by the clattering of the cork line, as it pays back out and the splash of the dahn as it remarks the target.
A sea of glass, the July sun-sparkle shimmering radiantly away to the East’ard horizon. The gentle slop and lap as I pull……..