In a minibus of expectant absinthe professionals, I watch inside and out as we climb into the mountain mists. Towns give way to farms. Farms give way to forest. Forest to the restaurant at the end of the road*.
Literally at the end of the road. We cannot see far for the deep fog all around, but we are very near the edge of the Creux du Van, a 160 meter high, vertical rock face.
In to the restaurant and we are ushered up a creaky wooden stair beneath a dangling forest of suspicious-looking sausages, and into a claustrophobic, wood-panelled room already filled by the rattle of expectant early arrivals.
The room bears the scars of countless visitors. Carving ones initials, the date of one’s visit, or some other dubious monogram into the wooden walls is anything but discouraged. (Though a prominent sign dictates such activity on the tables to be less acceptable.)
I feel very much in Switzerland: the promise of alcohol and melted cheese and a complex tangle of multilingual conversation.
This is no ordinary gathering. It is the annual coming together of the absinthe business elite. The players who make and distribute absinthe products right across the world.
Tomorrow is the annual absinthe festival in the tiny town of Bovaresse in the Val de Travers. The town is far too small to be marked on my sat-nav. Tonight, absinthe manufacturer Claude-Alain hosts his famed party for those in the business. (if you are wondering why we are there, this Absinthe Shop is the reason).
There are some heavyweights of the absinthe world here. The author of the most respected absinthe histories, who happens to be offering tastings of a currently unreleased absinthe he produces from herbs gathered in the wild. There’s the Brazilian who runs an absinthe bar and shop in Tokyo, and who wins the award for the longest journey to attend this weekend’s festivities. There’s one of the top absinthe distillers who only removes his blue work overall after the drink starts to flow and the air temperature in the cramped room peaks. And there’s the guitar-playing woman who at last year’s event, was a man (and who turns out to be a capable musician).
The cacophony of conversation, exaggerated by the many languages, is close to deafening in such an enclosed environment. But those snippets of English I can make out are fascinating. Small talk abounds, but future deals are being instigated, meetings scheduled, relationships forged and strengthened: business is being done over the absinthe, wine, and alcoholic melted cheese. It is thoroughly fascinating to note who is happy to imbibe plenty of alcohol, against who is maintaining a clear head.
This is unlike any trade event I’ve ever experienced (until next year, perhaps), and the absinthe festival itself is not until tomorrow.
* This post was written during the latter stages of the gathering on the evening of 18 June 2010, with limited editing before posting.
Post photograph by Jonas Merian
My photos from the trip (videos soon)
I’ve grown up eating fish. Until moving to west of London at the age of ten, I knew an environment of valleys, mountains and rivers. Our current location is not that different, with the advantage of the sea.
As a child I knew little of horizons. Living in the flood plain of the river Tawe in South Wales meant easy access to fresh trout from the river. At the bottom of our garden ran The Feeder, a small overflow stream fed from a control gate further up the Tawe. Brown trout would sometimes find their way in from the main river, and once in a while also find a hooked worm, on the end of a fishing line, from a rod leaning over the back fence.
River fish was never enough, so Dad and I would regularly head down to dig Lug and Rag worms from their burrows in the low-water sands at Swansea and Penclawdd to beach cast for a variety of flat-fish, or head out on the rocks at Worm’s Head. And as a special treat, a boat fishing trip for mackerel or deeper water over reefs (I never did manage to get out wreck fishing).
After those early years, fishing became “something I used to do”, and the lack or a nearby river meant the activity passed into memory.
Hey, look, it’s the sea
It took me several weeks of staring out from the back of our current home over to the Atlantic before my brain managed the realisation that fishing could once more be on the agenda. We are less than a mile from the sea, a rugged beach, and less accessible coves and cliffs along the South West Coastal Path. What better opportunity to get back up to speed? No more are fishing trips planned and scheduled: If the tide and swell is right, I can pop down the hill at any time!
The problem is, it has been so long I have pretty much forgotten everything I once knew. Not that I knew much up to the age of ten, as Dad would fill-in the many gaps and as a child I would mainly fish to his directions. This meant most of my more recent fishing forays resulted in an aching casting arm, some lost weights and hooks, and several clumps of seaweed – not to mention a soggy boot here and there.
I found some great communities online that have helped me re-climb the learning curve. But even they keep the best fishing spots (“marks” as they call them) close to their chests as many of the discussion forums are watched carefully by professional fishermen on the lookout for new locations or the latest news on catch reports for local hot spots.
This area, it seems, is prime territory for Bass, Pollock, Bream, Plaice, and a few others. Though I have spotted people fishing from our local beach and the nearby rocks several times, I’m sure the best locations are a little more out of the way. Again, the advantage of our location means heading out to the wild corners of this coast is but a brief car journey away.
Grab a boat
We recently had a guest to stay and planned some fishing. “Don’t you take me fishing if we are not going to catch anything!” Came the good-natured demand (clearly, he had discovered my secret stash of seaweed). So to maintain what little fishing credibility I had, we decided to head out on a boat.
We signed up for a four-hour reef fishing trip on Mystique, out of South Quay in Newquay (about an hour drive from home). Everything was supplied, rods, bait, expertise, so all we had to concentrate on was dropping a baited, weighted line into the water, and hauling the fish up from near the sea bed.
Pouting by the bucketload. I hooked several of these even before I felt my line hit the bottom. A distant relative of the Cod, Pouting are not the tastiest fish and are generally used for animal foods. They don’t even put up a fight! With a typical boat fishing rod setup, it is difficult to tell you have one on the line. I’d say only Mackerel is easier to catch than these.
LSDs galore! Lesser Spotted Dogfish put up much more of a fight as you haul in the line. Normally thrown back into the water due to the need to skin them before cooking, I decided to keep one (of the half dozen or so I caught) just for the experience. Preparation strenuous but not excessively so, and the cooked meat was soft in texture.
The best catch of the day, however, came from my friend, who hauled in a what was probably a 6-7 pound Pollock. Another member of the Cod family, and pretty decent eating if cooked correctly.
We did not keep all the Pouting, and you can see the result of the trip in the photo above.
Today’s hunting adventure
Back to more local, shore fishing. Scouring Ordinance Survey maps and Google satellite images, I have spotted some remote but promising locations for Bass. So near low water, we will head out with fishing kit and supplies to see what we can discover.
The main challenge is not the fishing itself, but gaining access to promising locations. Google satellite images, as they are taken from directly above, offer few visual clues as to whether a particular path actually reaches sea level or whether it terminates in a vertical cliff. We must also consider whether – and when – the access point becomes cut off as the tide moves in. Heading out about an hour and a half before low water should give us ample time to fuly explore two nearby locations.
At the very least, we have another opportunity to enjoy this spectacular coastal landscape. And that, for me, is what it is all about. Sure, eating fish you have caught is very satisfying, but being out there, in the windswept, salty, desolate landscape is what it is all about.
The BBC recently ran a series of programmes under the title “Sea Fever”, which, as you can guess, were all focused on the sea and the British relationship with it.
One gem in this great series was “Wrecking Season“, programme about Cornwall-based playwright and beachcomber Nick Darke (now deceased – and sadly, the programme is not available on the BBC iPlayer).
[it followed Nick] as he combed the wild seashore for the wonderful hardwoods, exotic sea beans, fishing paraphernalia and fascinating artefacts deposited on Cornwall’s beaches by the ocean’s long haul drift
So with a visit to The Strangles in yesterday’s glorious weather, and a little time to kill until the tide allowed us to access Little Strangles beach, Jen was inspired to do a little wrecking herself.
It took no more than a handful of minutes for her to discover what you see in the photo. These are floats probably used by lobster fishermen to mark the locations of their cages. Though it was a tough climb back from that beach even without the burden of wrecking spoils, this find now sits on our doorstep.
I shudder to think what might be added to this pile when the stormy weather returns late in the year.
There’s no way a visit to one of our local towns is going to pass without lunch at our favourite cafe and a visit to the fishmonger.
Today I picked up a couple of fresh Mackerel. How fresh? I’m pretty sure these guys were pulled from the sea this very morning (with hook and line by the look of them). The fishmonger apologised for not having any recipe sheets left for mackerel: he keeps a cluster of well thumbed fish recipe books and photocopied pages atop his counter, and his last recommendation for a seasoned crumble to go with a fillet of Pollack was delicious.
We got into a conversation about the area, where we lived, and so on. He commented that locals do not buy much fish from him. That was a surprise. “They don’t buy much fish at all,” he went on, “they seem to be big meat eaters. Have you seen the butchers?” I indicated that I had. In fact, you cannot miss it.
Perched on a corner of the town square, it is, to even a non meat eater like myself, a spectacular affair. So much so I feel I should return to eating meat just to patronise such a perfectly assembled array of fresh produce. It is impressive.
Our fishmonger, on the other hand, cannot match such grandeur, clearly keeping only as much stock as he is certain of selling each day. But his fish could only be fresher if he popped out with a rod and tackle to catch them to order.
The lack of interest in fish here puzzled him. He theorised that it rose from a history of everyone knowing a fisherman or two, and therefore having access to free, or at the lest very cheap, fresh fish. Perhaps the idea of paying money for fresh fish has been bred out of the general population. And perhaps younger generations have not learned an appreciation for just how good Cornwall’s sea fish really are.
So, even when I work out how to catch them for myself, we will make a point of a regular purchase at our local fishmonger.
It’s a Saturday. Saturdays require dragging ourselves out and about for a little adventure. Today is a visit to nearby Strangles beach.
Strangles is not the beach to expect floods of holiday lobsters soaking up the sun. The nearest parking – little more than a country lane lay-by – is perhaps a rugged half mile from, and 350ft above, the beach proper. The approach is typical Atlantic-beaten, north-coast Cornwall.
The designated footpath, which crosses the South West Coastal Path, offers a safe and sure-footed route, and at the bottom is something of a surprise. Cliff erosion has required the construction of a steep wooden stair, leading to a rope-aided clamber for the final, tricky step. A fun surprise, though a challenge to negotiate with multiple cameras and walking poles.
Smooth pebbles soon give way to sand. Everything is still wet from the receding tide. Rock slices jut from the sand making me think of the shattered mechanical remnants of some wartime beach landing.
Bordering the beach lie two areas of rocky outcrop I want to explore as possible fishing locations. When there is some swell, these will be worth a visit.
To the left, further south, I can make out the distinctive white, clifftop tower near Boscastle. The sight prompts the decision to head there later for lunch.
The rocks to the right of Strangles appear to have deep indigo streaks through them. These turn out to be colonies of mussels, so many that there is little rock to be seen in places. The mussels here are larger than those at our nearest beach, but are mostly still on the small side for eating.
The coast here has some of the best rock pools I have seen, and Strangles is no exception. Oh the hours of my childhood consumed by such watery wonders.
Another, smaller beach lies further right, reached by clambering over a barrier of boulders. Here fewer and more rounded rocks litter the sand. Between them, numerous brackish rock pools are fed by several trickles of fresh water that appear out of the shingle near the cliff foot. Further right still, over a larger boulder field, is a huge rock arch. But that looks far too much effort to explore today.
Strangles lies a couple of miles away by car plus fifteen minutes on foot. I expect we will spend a great deal of time there.
Important refreshment
Amongst the cameras (both digital and film, of course), lies our great luxury. With thanks to twitter, Stephen Fry, and a small tax refund some time ago, we discovered the magic of highly portable, freshly brewed espresso. The Handpresso goes almost everywhere with us, and armed with this and a small flask of hot water, fresh espresso is always to hand. The photo proves it!
Jen has a bunch more images from the beach visit.
