No matter how busy I am, I can always find some time for fishing when the opportunity presents itself. Admittedly, last Sunday wasn’t the sunniest of days for fishing (I’m usually a fair weather fisher-woman – not to be confused with “fishwife”!); in fact it was grey, windy and drizzly – especially out on The Point where several members of our family and some friends had agreed to meet up at two o’clock.

Luckily, I didn’t have £4.50 on me for The Point car park so I wasn’t tempted to be ripped off. It was two-thirty but were not late – in our family we always agree a time and add at least half an hour. Roland went off with his rods to the beach while I drove to Mary’s house where I deposited the car and together we sisters walked on down to the beach an hour or so later. Well, there was no rush as there weren’t enough rods for everybody and we didn’t anticipate that anyone would catch anything anyway.

We enjoyed the walk even though Mary’s broken leg still isn’t completely back to normal after her accident last year; perhaps I should say that I liked the walk while my sister endured the trek but enjoyed our chat. By a patch of grass at the end of the seafront we observed a couple laughing and taking photographs of what appeared to be a pile of rubbish in black plastic, which had been arranged into a form resembling a giant caterpillar.

“What is it?” I asked as we approached.

“Just look at the sign,” the young man sniggered into his hand.

I, too, chuckled and took out my camera.

“You make us feel normal,” I called over my shoulder as we went on in opposing directions.

Still laughing, they waved.

We resisted the temptation to throw something at the plastic “sculpture” and heartily approved of the illiterate, yet discerning, seagull that landed on top of the caterpillar.

Shortly, we were on the beach and putting on our raincoats and scarves (like just about everyone else except for the hardiest of children). In the distance was a huddle of paraphernalia: a picnic table and folding chairs; bags, Tupperware boxes and blankets were propped against a colourful pram; and, above the collection, the Union Jack was flying high beside the Spanish flag (representing the recently sanctified union of Katie and Javier). Babies were in their mother’s arms and children and menfolk were dotted along the water’s edge. A black Cockapoo (not to be confused with a cockatoo) called Bengie (not Bungee) ran between the children and, upon seeing us, ran to us. I found him a bit of scotch egg from a Tupperware box and he stayed by my side until I could no longer justify feeding him the fare that was intended for hungry fisher-folk.

Roland had had both good luck and bad luck; already he had caught a sea-bass… but it was too small and had to be sent back. Struck with a glimmer of hope, I asked for a go with his fishing rod. My hopes were somewhat dashed when, upon reeling in his line, he said the quarter of a worm still on the hook would suffice. I fell onto my bottom as the damp bank of red sand gave way under my feet – it didn’t bode well. Nevertheless, within moments of casting out I felt a tug, a very strong tug.

“I’ve got a bite, a big bite,” I said excitedly.

Our friend Roland smiled and shook his head.

“Honestly, I can hardly reel it in,” I revelled.

Indeed, my line was so heavy that Roland had to assist, with a good yank, to draw my catch the final few feet to the shore. Seaweed is incredibly heavy!

It wasn’t exactly my best fishing day. I didn’t stay to test my luck any longer. The wind sprang up sharper and I joined the ladies and babies. We all had a nice cup of tea around by the beach huts where the wind was less chafing; well, it would have been a nice cup of tea if someone hadn’t left the teabag in the cup…