Graham decided it would be a good idea to go cockling this morning. It was a dull, grey, blustery, drizzly day – perfect for pulling on wellies and going fishing about up to your elbows in freezing cold seawater. Not.
We’re not very experienced shellfisher-people (one day I’ll repost my old blog from Canna about our lobster creeling adventure, but you need a strong stomach for that one). Clearly, we don’t really have a clue about where cockles ought to be. We went to a bay where we’ve seen gazillions of old and empty cockle shells, assuming that, as the tide went out, that’s where gazillions of fresh new living ones would be.
Humph. While Bertie chased around in the heather searching for rabbits, we waded through the shallows, dipping in to grab likely looking suspects. When we compared spoils after an hour’s trawling around the shore, I had one clam shell that turned out to be empty, and one cockleshell that turned out to contain a load of mud. And Graham had three more cockleshells that also turned out to contain nothing but mud.
Oh well, it got us out of the house and was a bit of exercise before lunchtime. Bertie enjoyed himself, anyway…