When I was a child we camped every Summer weekend and the two weeks away from home on the beach next to Portland Harbour (that’s right, where the 2012 Summer Olympics are going to hold their sailing events). My memories of that time are of fish and shellfish – we lived on them. Cockles five times bigger than the ones you buy from beach huts, with the occassional razorfish. Conger, bass, mackerel, pollock, wrasse, bream, whiting, pout, gurnard, flatties, garfish – all featured on the menu during that time.

Now I live in Scotland, and the mackerel are not to be seen until late July, apart from the odd scouting party. It has been more than twenty years since I have done any serious fishing, but the arrival of my Dad with his spinning rod and willingness to look after our dogs whilst spending a fortnight spinning for two mackerel (large ones though) tempted me down to the garage to find some tackle. Two quick lessons and no fish later (the lessons consisting of the statements “you’re still bloody cack-handed – use the other hand!” and “Don’t do it like that”) and I came to the conclusion it was a lot of work for little benefit.

Two weeks later Terri and I were down on the beach, a little after high tide, when the terns started diving within 25 feet of the shore – nothing except bigger fish would force the small fry to stay close to the surface when they are being dive-bombed by terns. After a hurried discussion I popped home to fetch my rod – ten minute return trip in the car.

Within thirty minutes I had the three mackerel above, all around the 38 cm mark, and was hooked myself. From the Thursday night to the Sunday, my tally was 6 mackerel, 1 sea trout and 1 lost sea trout. Now I am busy studying cookery again…

Tight Lines!

Ken