Miles Collins

How fish docks in England used to be…

The harbour in Conil is a throw back to the days of small fishing ports, daily markets and local restauranters jostling to buy the best of the day’s catch.

My friend and I, both born and bred in the English fishing port of Grimsby, inextricably linked to the fishing trade through family and profession stood on the quayside in the mid morning sun watching the Spanish fishermen coming into the harbour in their small, brightly coloured boats. A world away from the huge container ships bringing in fish from the North Sea for distribution throughout the United Kingdom.

As the boats pulled up to the harbours edge we peered over the edge to see the fruits of their labour, buckets of stiff fresh fish from the warm coastal waters, soon to be sold to the highest bidder.

We watched the fishermen perform their daily ritual, one climbs up to the quayside, secures the boat then throws down a rope for the other to tie the black bags full of fish ready to be pulled up to shore.

 Some fish are too big to go in the bag so they launched through the air and into waiting arms with consumate ease. I marvelled at the simplicity of it all, men doing what they and generations before them had always done with the minimum of fuss, an absolute understanding between them and, best of all, not an EU regulation in sight.

The boats arrive early in the morning and return again at midday, the fish is pulled ashore then dragged into the market for sorting and selling.

As the baskets of fish built up outside the market doors I expected to see some jostling for positions, a raised voice or two, a hand gesticulating in place of a thousand words, but no. The whole process was as calm as the waters they had sailed on. But then the doors to the market were shut and so our stay came to an end, would the voices remain quiet and the hands still once the selling began? Somehow I doubted it.