As the water abates on the ebb a momentary hollow is filled within seconds by a powerful, Atlantic flow. Effervescent spray hangs in the air and slaps down on the rocks with the sound of but a seconds rapturous applause.

Perched alone on the third tier of a tilted, metamorphic gallery I am the sole spectator of a quiet, humble fisherman. I follow the arc of his glittering lure as he expertly casts it sailing into the fringes of the grey-blue froth. Only fifteen minutes pass before his first catch is landed. Small fry are released to give them a chance to grow into a more appetising meal.

A young couple, with rods in their car, spot our fisherman as they drive past. I hope they are less successful than he. I'm annoyed that they selfishly parked in an essential passing place on this treacherous, serpentine, cliff-top road. Our first man took the time to sensibly park his camper van in a lay-by a quarter mile to the north. After first scoping out his perch he walked back with rod and reel.

The couple have gone. No patience for parking, let alone fishing.

Our man, satisfied with his lot, packs up and, slightly damp from the spray, heads back to his wife.

A fine pollock his reward.

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