Newlyn is our favourite harbour. It may be an Icelandic gull or a black redstart that draws us, but it is the turnstones at the harbourmaster’s office that enchant us, dashing about avoiding the comings and goings of vehicles instead of waves, as they monitor the sandwich situation within and without the office.

Seems to me that in recent years the fishing fleet is looking smarter and younger. But then, I find that’s true of most things!

But there are still old friends —

and ropes to trip over

potentially propelling me into the green depths and alarming the old seal lolling in the harbour waiting for the tide to rise high enough for him to snatch the discarded crabs.

The bright young boats are hung with clusters of fenders like boat-eggs, tended by fishermen.

Notice the threatening weather which reminds us of the rigours of their chosen occupation.

The best thing about visiting an active fishing port is the evening meal.