You get into a rhythm after a few casts. Chuck the lure out, watch the sea. Wind it in and do the same. There's a seductive simplicity about the whole thing, despite the fact I still don't really know what I'm doing other than I want to catch a bass. On a lure.
I'm now watching the birds, to see where they're diving. Fulmars hurtle up and down, encouraged by raucous calls from their mates on the precarious cliff edges where they make their nests.
I keep casting and retrieving, watching the sea. The birds aren't diving. But one scores a direct hit on a holidaymaker on the prom behind me, judging by the screams. Faa-aa-aa-aa-aarkin' 'ell, she yells. Th'ass a new farkin' top, that is.
Fulmars are now my favourite sea bird, for reasons I can't quite put my finger on. If they've got a fan club, I'm in.
A man breaks wind loudly behind me, before turning to urinate on the sea wall. Cor, blast, bollocks; he shouts - I only farkin' bin and farkin' pissed on my shoes.
One of his mates throws a beer bottle into the sea. In sympathy, presumably. Oi, you cnut, he shouts. Missed the farkin' bin did yer, hwah-hah-hah-hah you dozy cnut.
I find myself nodding. People who throw litter in the sea are cnuts. As if to prove the point, the rod top hammers round, I pull into stiff resistance and find myself playing a disposable nappy.
Then things change, as sunset nears and the idiots depart. The birds are diving, but they're a long way out. As in two - maybe 300 yards out. Then they're drifting round to the right of me.
I can't get anywhere near there, too far by a country mile to cast to. So I spark up a fag, fold down the rod and start the climb up the cliffs for home.