Boris’s Brexit was going to be great news for Britain’s hard-pressed fishermen. Only it isn’t. I was given an interesting insight into what’s going on by the nice man in the shed that sells lovely fresh fish on Aldeburgh’s beach. He reckons our fishing industry will be dead and buried within ten years. Already the fleet is decimated compared with twenty or thirty years ago and the Government is reneging on most of its promises now, which will probably not come as a surprise to anyone. (As a pensioner, I am fully expecting that they will find a way to weasel out of the “triple lock” manifesto guarantee). I haven’t seen it anywhere in the national press, but apparently our noble leaders have issued 1,600 licences to continental fishermen (mainly French, Dutch and Scandinavian) allowing them to fish to within six miles of our coastline. Six miles! Before we joined the Common Market our territorial waters extended to two hundred miles! For the last ten years, eighty seven Dutch boats have been using an experimental electric stun technique that has all but destroyed the flat fish stocks around our shores. They were supposed to have only three boats. It’s been stopped now, but too late. Further, our own boats are now being fitted with surveillance equipment that will stop them doing anything that’s even vaguely against the regulations that will even more inhibit them from making a living. In Eastbourne, we have a wonderful beach “shed” (it’s quite a sophisticated shed) called Southern Head, which is like a proper old-fashioned fishmongers, but it’s right on the shore where the catch is landed; it couldn’t be much fresher. I’ve become a twice or thrice a week customer and it’s wonderful. The Westminster Village needs to spend more time in places like Eastbourne and Aldeburgh to realise what a tragedy the result of their policies will be.
That was unusually soapbox-like for me, but I was appalled by what the nice man in the shed had to say and deeply disappointed. On a much more positive note, as I sit and watch the 149th Open Golf Championship from sunny Royal St Georges, I have to tell you about a true hidden gem that I had the great pleasure of experiencing last week. Gems come in different shapes and sizes, colours and worth. This one was a multi-faceted diamond with bells on. I’m talking about the James Braid designed course at Thorpeness. I used the practice ground there last year without realising what an absolute masterpiece it is. A few years ago, I was lucky enough to play Royal Melbourne and Kingston Heath on Melbourne’s sand belt. In both instances, as soon as you walk onto the grounds you realise you are on hallowed turf, where the golfing deity sprinkled its stardust to create Nirvana for those who enjoy the thwack of hickory on balata….or something. Thorpeness, whilst not a great Championship course like those, has a similar feel. It really is very special and I can’t wait to return; especially now that I have sorted out my swing and can hit the ball straight again. Well I could yesterday anyway.
MONDAY 19th JULY.
A long al fresco, sun and Pimms-drenched lunch precluded completion yesterday, although I’m struggling to find excuses for what happened between Thursday and then?!
James Braid, incidentally, was the third member of The Great Triumvirate that included Harry Vardon (six times a winner of The Open) and J H Taylor (like Braid an Open Champion five times.); all renowned British professionals who dominated the game around the turn of the 20th Century. Braid became a brilliant course designer, creating such iconic challenges as The King’s and Queen’s at Gleneagles and the 1926 re-design of Carnoustie….all great Scottish courses.
I’ve just had a net with my 6’3″ fifteen year old son showing me how he has gained a yard or two of pace recently. Either he is genuinely quicker or my eyes and reflexes are deteriorating rapidly; probably both actually. I found the middle of the bat three times, with the majority of deliveries either clipping the very edge of the willow and hastening to the virtual slip cordon or clean bowling me. It was a sobering experience. For those who say life begins at 70 please step aside while I whisper in your ear. Does anyone actually say that….?
ADayInTheStrifeOf 