Where all manner of human nature takes place, away from modern life

COME the dawn, he is there, hoodied, booted, his hands in the deep pit of the frontal pockets of the sweater, stamping the hard sand to keep the circulation going in his feet.

He’s all set up, his two fishing rods rooted in the beach, standing in slanted parallel, waiting for the sea to deliver.

No bait-gatherers this morning. Too early in the season for that. But the fisherman comes at the weekend in the most bitter of weather and circles in the sand until he makes a catch. No curiosity about the old smuggler’s cave; this is work, not leisure. Food, not sport.