I row ashore, to a low, rough hewn, stone, quay; which clings to the wooded hillside. It has a, small, green, post van, parked on it. The postman takes our painter.
He explains, as he makes us fast, that I should have been here, this time last year:
...If I'd cast a single feather, I'd have pulled out four mackerel on it..... I'd have seen whales too..... They came close in - after the mackerel.
A fisherman (on the red boat) calls, over the silent cove; 'We've plenty of mackerel here. Will you be wanting a fresh one, for your supper?'
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