We park behind a nondescript building, and when I get out of the car it’s like I’ve been slapped in the face by fish and fabulously expensive sea salt. I take a deep inhale and imagine what it must be like to smell this each day.
‘Every day it smells different. Depends on the tide, the weather, what the oceans are doing, the wind,’ says James.
‘It’s certainly pungent today,’ I say. ‘Gets right up the nose.’
We wander up the main drag – Quay Street – a glorious little strip of brightly painted terraced shops and restaurants overlooking the harbour, all named no-nonsense things like The Pier Hotel, The Pink Guest House, and Portree Fish and Chips. Dad had a fish-and-chip shop for most of my childhood, and a visceral memory of vinegar and fast-food fat and suntan lotion hits me.
The seagulls circle overhead, and a couple of dozen boats bob about in the harbour, but otherwise there is little action here this morning. I peer right into the fish-and-chip shop and think it’s weird that I already feel more at home here than on Plymouth harbour, where Heather and I used to spend our time as kids. Me stealing Cokes from the fridge, and Heather half-heartedly chastising me for stealing, while we drank them on the edge of the pier.
But, like Plymouth, the sea air gets through your clothes and onto your skin, and within ten minutes I’m shivering.
James leans against the metal railing of the boat ramp, seemingly unaffected by the wind, and stares out towards one blue boat, piled high with bundles of nets, that’s tracking its way through the moorings towards us. He’s got that relaxed, carefree way about him that he had when we went foraging, and I can’t stop looking at him. He has the beginnings of lines around his eyes where he smiles; and his dark hair, a little long, licks the edge of his ear in a way that is just begging to be brushed with gentle fingers.
I join him and we stand in silence for a moment. I look down at the water slowly reaching up to caress the stone edges of the ramp.Then I look across at him and he’s looking at me, but looks away when I catch him. Then there is a moment of silence that I compulsively need to fill.
‘So, we’re here to meet suppliers?’ I ask.
‘Yes. Here’s one coming,’ James says, nodding out into the port.
‘Oh, right. He’s literally coming right now on that very boat.’Good work, Birdy.
‘Yep. That’s Benji.’
As the boat nudges the edge of the port wall, a thin, wiry man with a high forehead leaps from it onto the ramp. He has a full, non-ironic bushy beard and, when he smiles to greet us, two of those little crest-shaped eyes, which sparkle and shine with all the kindness in the world. ‘James, how’s tricks, fella?’
He’s English.
‘Good, Benji. Good. This is Heather, our new wine lady.’
‘Ahh, Heather, a good Scottish gal, eh? Hope you know your whiskies as well as your wines.’
‘Better,’ I reply – for once, truthfully – smiling as though it’s a joke. ‘Though I’m afraid I’m not Scottish.’
‘Benji supplies our scallops. He’s got a fully sustainable farm on the west coast – diver—’
‘Diver-harvested,’ Benji interrupts proudly. ‘So they won’t shrink up in the pan like a cock on a cold day.’
‘Well, no one wants one of those in their mouth,’ I say, and then immediately worry that I’ve misjudged the scene, but thankfully Benji belly-laughs, and James covers his face with his hands and shakes his head, laughing, so I’m pretty sure it’s okay.
‘Bet you’re a handful,’ Benji says, casting a quick glance at James.
‘They’re the best scallops in the west,’ says James, as he pulls a rolled-up ledger book out of his back pocket.
‘How does delivery work, then?’
‘I’ll let you take this one, mate,’ Benji says, as he checks over whatever it is James has scribbled in his book.
‘So the scallops are delivered fresh to the hotel from the morning pick, but I come across and meet Benji, Cal and Grant at the produce store, Kenny for sustainable fish …’ James looks to the sky, ‘Ella forflowers, Dennis and Denise for mussels, as often as I can. Weekly, at first. Then not as much, later in the season. Basically, I see all the local suppliers.’
‘He’s keeping an eye on us,’ Benji cackled again.
James looks a little embarrassed and raises his hand in protest. ‘No, no. That’s not it. It’s more to get an idea of where you’re at, what’s good; for the producers, it’s anything new they’ve noticed, anything that might affect the next season.’
‘A new bloody micro-herb or fancy seaweed sprinkle for that poncy fucking chef of yours,’ Benji says, shaking his head as he rolls out the ledger. ‘James just wants a hut on the west coast, but he can’t tear himself away from the sniff of a Michelin star – or your mother – can you, mate?’
‘That’s not true,’ James says, turning to me quickly.
‘Bloody is,’ Benji replies, handing a roll of paper to James as he turns to leave, tapping me on the shoulder and shaking his head at James. ‘Lovely to meet you, Heather. Always nice to meet the new ladies of Loch Dorn.’ And he’s off, jumping over the railing and onto his boat, starting up the motor as we head back down Quay Street.
