Waiting for dinner....and waiting.......

Early one morning this week, grandad went out to get our dinner. Nothing strange in that I hear you say but grandad wasn't going to the shop, oh no matey boy, grandad is foraging. Let's start at the beginning and all will be plain to see.

For many years now grandad, always a keen fisherman in his youth, has been watching with intrigue Deadliest Catch on the telly. It's all about a group of real brave, wholesome men (that's not the bit he's interested in, I hasten to add with the hope of clearing up any misinterpretations), who take to the high seas in a bid to catch crabs from the bottom of the sea. Using massive cages which are baited with fish head and guts, always a tasty treat I'm led to believe, they drop them on the seabed and return later to collect their bounty for substantial reward.

Of course grandad had no intention of casting out to sea in a pea-green boat or, in fact, any other boat for that matter as he's not a hardy sea going Captain Birdseye-type of fella. No, no. Grandad has been known to get seasick in the bath so terrafirma was the only way for him. Now even the uninitiated would know that there is no abundant supply of crab to be found on dry land. This is a point well rehearsed when we went on 'oliday in the summer as we didn't catch any crabs when we flung a line (and very nearly ourselves to the jovial pleasure of the locals) off the harbour wall in Padstow.

Grandad has been following and researching about crayfish in and around our manor and apparently they are a problem. I don't mean they are a problem in respect of playing music late at night or even kicking a football up against your house wall, no these little critters are Americans and they cause havoc on our riverbanks by killing our own native little fellas so they have to be caught. A good old stone aged solution to this type of problem would be to eat them and why not? They are, by all accounts, scrummy. Certainly not a looker though, they sure are ugly and as with a lot of things that we eat, who on earth was the first person to look at something like this and say "Hmmmmm, yes. You look like a tasty morsel, I'll take you and your mates home for my tea".

And so, after several shows of Deadliest Catch and Trawlermen, grandad went about the process of getting a licence, permission and a boat to hunt these invaders down. Website research told him where to go and so did nanna when he said he was putting them in the freezer and then her best cooking pot!!!! He acquired some lovely blue pots and attached a string on each and then waited for the paperwork to come through.

At precisely 05.20 the other morning whilst on his way to London, grandad tuned into the shipping forecast on the wireless. 'Gale Force 8-10' was a common line from the broadcaster along with 'Squally Showers', whatever they heck they are!! Grandad said that sounds like a porn star but I don't know what that is either. Now bearing in mind we live about 60 miles from the sea, listening to the shipping forecast was hardly appropriate for an ageing sea dog to be worried about Southwesterly's light to moderate! The only wind he needed to worry about was the ever present threat of 'following through' on a trouser burp!!! On his return to home, grandad set about he adventure.

Just after lunchtime and armed with a yabbie pot (that's what we say in the trade), a heavy stone, a smashed up pilchard from one of Glenryks wonderful range (I hope the yabbies like tomato sauce!!) and of course, his trusty four legged companion, grandad walked along the jetty to his car and drove the 5/6 miles to his hunting ground. He walked along the 'seashore' when a came upon a suitable spot and with careful precision, he dropped the pot over the bank and secured it to a chunky tree. Licking their lips, both man and dog returned to the car and made their way home. The plan was to leave the pot in its spot overnight and then return in the morning to inspect the haul.

Needless to say, grandad didn't sleep too well that night, he blamed it on his cold (which in turn he blamed on me and OB) rather than his excitement of being some form of trawlerman - some form of something yes, trawlerman no. First thing, well second thing, in the morning, he drove to his exclusive fishing ground with the bouncing excitement of a pubescent teenager with his first boner, as he made his way to his pot. Due to the coldness of the weather, grandad expected there to be not a lot of activity in his pot when he got there and you'll be delighted to know that he wasn't going to be disappointed. After hauling it up from the murky depths, with a rope that could move the QE2, the pit was empty - nothing, zilch, nada, a big fat zero for a big fat 'trawlerman'.

Kidding himself that all was fine, he made his way home to his four legged companion who greeted him at the door with a huge smile, a waggy tail and her knife and fork.

"No yabbies?" she barked.

"No yabbies' replied grandad as Millie jumped down off his lap and made her way to her cushion with a sunken heart.

Grandad is really cool with not catching anything, he's caught a cold from somewhere so it's not been a totally wasted trip. He plans to sail the Seven Banks in the warmer weather and I'll hopefully be allowed to accompany him with a helpful hand and a good luck wish.

For now, it's back to the toast for breakfast but watch this space. If all goes well in his venture, I plan to set up a partnership with him along the lines of 'Bubba Gump Shrimp' as we'll aim 'Babba Grump Yabbies' for the skies - or seas to be more precise.

Back with the old fella at the end of the week, OB must've been naughty so we have to go back on Friday!

Laters

Dogg