Fishermen at Dungeness
The road hugs the higher land at the western edge of the Marsh and deep in the mid-Summer dusk farmhouse lights speckle the land’s accurate geometry. Tonight, in this splendid pink light, I am to have my first experience of fishing, but I am not excited. The duty of driving in this vast heat annoys me and I long to stop at some welcoming pub to while away the long night discussing the agenda of the world.
But no, I have arranged to meet my fisherman neighbour and his cronies at Dungeness and so round the flicking corners of Romney Marsh I rush - the night flattening out behind me. Gradually the sweet smell of the Kent countryside becomes tinged with the Channel’s salt: stronger and stronger it becomes until the secret scent of wild garlic passes from memory and the pronounced tang of sea dampens the nostrils, swims in the brain.
The night settles quickly. I’m crunching over the shingle searching for their lights. Two, four, six different encampments all equally spaced along the ridge nearest the water’s edge. A faint hum from the power station tumbles over the beach and rolls headlong into the crashing sea. The solid buildings behind the fences are lit by pale orange lights and despite the humidity, they appear cold, lonely and still.
I spot the glow of even light where my friends hide under large green umbrellas. They are enjoying a brew-up. The sandwiches taste of sea and the lug worms put me off anyway. Along the beach young boys fidget with their rods - anxious to use the large knives on the white undersides of helpless fish. Throughout the night the hiss of the paraffin lamp, the swishing of a fresh casting.
For long hours I sit on the chilled pebbles watching the upright white-tipped rods bend through the grey dark of low cloud. The fishermen check the movement of the rods regularly and the fish seem to act accordingly.
The Channel’s dull water slowly climbs the shingle banks, the lighthouse despatches its brilliant circling beam out over the bay and on to France, the fishermen count what few stars are visible. I ask if there’s any danger attached to that sport. Yes, they reply, you could quite easily lose several weights in a night’s activity, or the drift of the sea could carry your line way off course to be tangled with another’s, you could prick your fingers on the sharp hooks, a sea creature could wade ashore and devour you.
I close my eyes tight and wriggle deep into the cold pebbles - one day an archeologist may find me.
Page(s) 6-7
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