It was really hot that summer long ago. So hot that the least exercise ran into a wall of solid heat. It was cooler, not by much, by the beach but the parents had taken us so often to the seaside that we were bored by it.
The call came once again that day to get togs, buckets and nets and to tear ourselves away from whatever desultory reading we were doing. The powers that be were not to be denied, so we three boys piled into the back of the old Standard Eight, squabbling as to whom should sit where.
As soon as we got to Shankill we got our togs on, with scant regard to modesty, and rushed, careful of the pebbles and shells, straight into the water. The parents followed with more decorum.
I never felt seawater so warm. Saturated with splashing about, we started to investigate the sandy bottom.
There were shrimp in their thousands, little pellucid squiggles in sand. Luckily we had the nets and we sifted out a few bucketfuls. They would do for tea, we were told.
Suddenly, the sea began to simmer. Fearful, we scuttled out. But Dad was laughing and reassuring. It was just the fish coming in after the shrimp. I don’t know whether they were sole, plaice or flounder. Did it matter?
They were too slippery to catch by hand. Dad got one of his brainwaves. He had some 6in nails in the car and he stuck one on each of the bamboo handles of the nets.
Now we could spear those flatfish. And we did, in some numbers too. We yielded to primitive hunting instincts. Mum was taken aback at the volume of fish and flatly refused to clean them. Dad had to do the needful.
When we got home, we were sent around with samples to favoured neighbours. The smell of frying fish permeated the whole area.
But the pièce de résistance for me, and I can still taste it, was the delicious sauce Mum made from the shrimp. There were clean plates that evening.
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