Sunday church bells resonate across a harbour which is somnolent, save for the fishermen's dock.
Where this is only a relative day of rest. With work-day nets to repair.
Yesterday afternoon the fleet returned to port, en masse. Rafting two and three deep, against the wall.
For the Saturday night run ashore.
This morning, crews once more march purposefully about the decks.
Setting colourful chaos to order.
Counselled from the quayside.
Closely observed by an opportunist herring gull.
But it is not all hard graft.
There is time for a little hand-lining, over the side ; Ruminations about 'the one that got away ;'
And a quiet smoke in the shade.
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