The small fishing boat rounded the headland, fighting valiantly against the outgoing tide to take up its favoured position in the inlet before dropping the battered pink buoy that used to be red. The skipper of the boat and his nephew emerged from the warmth of the cabin and began to prepare the nets. A battered radio that had been made good against the window with gaffer tape and an ingenious combination of a child’s cricket bat and a spare door hinge hummed with angry, insect-like static. Every now and then a man’s voice slipped past the droning and crackling, to inform his listeners that ‘the High Street was closed to HGV’s for the foreseeable’. The boy went about his business, but the Skipper took one look at the water and knew that there was something wrong with it. The cliffs looked
