“You won’t catch no mackerel.”
Given we had booked this outing with fisherman Harry months before with exactly that in mind, this was a perplexing statement. Still, it was a glorious day on the Dorset coast, and the breakfast mimosas on the train down had us going rather easy.
“Now, I’m gonna bait you for whiting. You won’t catch no mackerel this time of year—I promise you. You’re not paying attention! You WON’T. I reckon it’s to do with the warming of the s . . .”
“Got one,” interrupted Tom, as he and Oly reeled in their first line of the day.
A single, shimmering mackerel—truly the first of the season. Harry stared at it, covetously.
He took us to his favourite spot over by an old shipwreck, where we necked a few local ciders and pulled a shit load of whiting out of the sea, before calling it a morning.
We were ushered back to shore by a dolphin. No, really. It kept pace with us for some time, pirouetting under the boat and sometimes breaking the surface, as though trying to warn us of something . . .
Perhaps it sensed that Harry (Houdini? The bastard? Doesn’t mind if he doesn’t make the scene?) was about to steal all our fish, along with what little innocence we had left, before mysteriously drifting out of earshot.
Farewell, Captain, you arch sultan of swing. We salute you.
We returned to the beach empty handed, but only briefly, as Charlie and Angus from Sea Sisters greeted us with canapés made with seafood from their own conservas.
These included mussels with chilli and garlic, served with salted crisps and pickled chilli, and a bruschetta topped with cuttlefish caponata, basil and pine nuts—Angus, being ex-Rochelle Canteen, believes in letting the ingredient shine, and with this kind of quality, it’s hard to argue.
They chatted to us about craft canning, about themselves, gave us some insight into the disconnect we as British consumers have with our native produce, and the broken rationale behind this. They made us rethink.
Meanwhile, Rhys had red mullet cooking on the braai. See? We can plan ahead.
We started with a refined bouillabaisse; it’s clean notes were given sudden lift by the cultured butter on the sourdough when dipped. The fish was then served with a wild garlic aioli, those foraged late spring and coastal flavours combining throughout the menu:
- Roasted beetroot, dill, seed dukkah
- Sea kale, asparagus and dandelion salad, tahini dressing
- Jersey royals, seaweed butter
The meal was earthy, instinctual and excellent—a banquet on a pebble carpet.
We spent the rest of the afternoon together in our little Indian camp—drinking, listening to Georgie’s playlist, some even braving a swim—before drifting into Lyme Regis for an evening pub-crawl.
Dimpsey is the west-country word for the special light left behind just as the sun dips below the horizon, melding the two points into something hazier and less defined. It’s also a state of mind.
Back at the inn, we dwindled one by one, only a few lasting long enough to watch two would-be milkmen flick their hair insipidly while butchering Free Bird.
The well-nourished miscreants blinked slowly, and the incantation was complete.
