If I closed my eyes for just a moment, I could be back in Istanbul, on one of the piers or bridges over the river which cuts the city in two, divides east from west and acts as the border between Europe and Asia. The sound of men chattering in Arabic drowns out the soft lapping sounds of the sea gently licking at the shore. Arabic music playing from a tinny speaker and the shrill sound of fishing line being cast into the water. Istanbul is an enchanting city.
But I was not in Istanbul. I was on Bournemouth pier. This week, for no particular reason, I have exchanged my morning walk for an evening walk. Perhaps a tad too early to catch the Golden Hour in all its glory. But give it another month, and this time of evening will be in photographer’s jackpot territory.
I like walking along the pier. There are often fisherman on one of the lower platforms if the tide is right. There’s often lots of them. They all seem to have pretty good gear and they look like they know what they’re doing. Yet, mysteriously, I have never once seen a single one of them drag a fish out of the sea on the end of their line.
One day I must take a break in my walk and stop a while on the pier to watch them more closely. I suspect that if I can show the same sort of patience that the fisherman ably demonstrate, then perhaps I will get to see what sort of scaled beast lives underneath this pier.
The Mexile 