Friday Market On Fridays we would walk beneath vaulted and high domed ceilings, the smell of fish and cigarettes mingling with the salty tang of tar that stained more than the whitest of stark enamel tiles. Outside in the fresh air the raucous screeches from gulls assaulted ears as circling crazily they watched old pallets precariously unloaded. I never liked the smell of guts splayed out on wooden boards and sharp cleavers that removed the heads with bulging eyes as men in white coats trailed gore as cheerfully they joked and teased wide eyed little girls. It was always cool inside as stall after stall sold its ice encased wares. Buckets of moules, oysters and shrimp, coral speckled plaice and whelks which oozed soapy liquid and slid in futile, frustrating non escape. Gentile ladies forgetting manners haggled with hairy bare armed fisher folk who smiled laconically behind yellow acrid smoke, their stumps of teeth eroded like the shores. Fishing tackle, bait and offboard motors were curious contraptions to behold as sticky fingers longed to touch the many coloured flies from rods. Once outside our marketing done, strong sun would beat our limbs as the covered wicker basket rocked gently between us as we strode, sea shanties on our lips and tongue; Set sail, we are homeward bound.
