‘I still find it incredible, and inspiring, that from such a vast expanse of sameness – water, water, water, with a large dose of added salt – comes such an astonishing variety of edible creatures, including most of my favourite foods. I’d probably shoot the messenger who came to tell me I had to choose, once and for all, between fish and meat. But having done so, I’d definitely go for fish – provided, of course, that crustacea, bivalves, molluscs and cephalopods were all included in the deal.’

Although several valleys and ridges away from any possibility of a sea view, River Cottage is only about five miles, as the gull flies, from the sea. This sometimes seems odd to me, as when I am pottering in the garden, or feeding the animals, I tend to feel that I am entrenched deep in an inland rural arcadia, so all-consuming that there is barely time, or mental space, to make room for the idea of a spectacular lime-cliffed coastline, dropping vertiginously to the gently contoured shingle beaches below – not to mention a vast expanse of sea beyond. So when, on some sunny summer evening, the pigs are fed and the day’s work is done, the thought of a trip down to the coast sometimes strikes like a bolt from the green. It’s hard to believe it’s really an option – but it is!

The drive from River Cottage to the coast does not make the mental transition any more gradual. As the shoreline gets closer, the landscape doesn’t dish out much in the way of clues. The rolling hills and gullies and the lush, loamy verges continue until I’m almost there. Winding my way through the pretty village of Eype on the way to my favourite beach, only the quaint house names – Sea Glimpse, or Shingle Tops – hint at what is imminent. Then comes the unmistakable taste of salt air. And as I sometimes forget around which bend it is that the sea can first be seen, I tend to brace myself. The final revelation still comes like a wave of light and noise that tingles the hair roots, just as it did when I arrived here as a child on holiday – after a drive of some four hours, not fifteen minutes. I like it like that. And though I would prefer to spend a lot more time on the coast and on the sea, especially now that I have a family, it still seems an unfeasible treat that it is there at all. When I do make it to the shore, I can revel in the rhythm of the waves, sipping at the shingle, then lift my eyes to the horizon and marvel at the sheer size and power of the water. It keeps me transfixed for, oh, minutes. And then I start to think about supper ... But seriously, I still find it incredible, and inspiring, that from such a vast expanse of sameness, water, water, water, with a large dose of added salt, comes such an astonishing variety of edible creatures, including most of my favourite foods. I’d probably shoot the messenger that came to tell me I had to choose, once and for all, between fish and meat. But having done so, I’d definitely go for fish – provided, of course, that crustacea, bivalves, molluscs, and cephalopods were all included in the deal.

Now that I have a small boat for potting and fishing, I try and make more time to get out to sea. Returning home with a few mackerel, a spider crab or even a couple of cuttlefish, to combine in the kitchen with some fresh vegetables from the garden, is the best possible way to forge a link between land and sea. And returning home empty-handed, as I not infrequently do, is not so bad either. At the very least I bring back a raging hunger. And there’s always the ham hanging in the porch, or the bag of mutton chops in the freezer (the messenger hasn’t come yet). The fish supper can wait until another day, and will be all the more cherished when it comes.

These days, a trip out on the boat to pull the pots is usually a family affair. The catching, cooking and eating of the fish is a blithe family communion, the profound joy of which is hard to express. But for me, part of the thrill is that Oscar seems, unprompted, to be making that vital, respectful connection, between life, death and the kitchen. It’s a spark of understanding that fishing nurtures perhaps more than any other way of acquiring food.

‘Daddy,’ he said to me one day on the boat, ‘people don’t kill fish if they’re not going to eat them?’ This was half-statement, half-question, the syntactical ambiguity so beloved of the under-fives. ‘Well,’ I said hesitantly, thinking of the billions of sand eels and herrings used to make chicken feed and fertiliser, and even burnt as fuel in power stations, ‘they shouldn’t really. But I’m afraid sometimes they do.’ Sadly the sea is not free of the kind of greed and irresponsibility that blights so much of food production on land.

I always feel immensely sorry for anyone who claims that they don’t like fish. But I’m suspicious too. Their blanket condemnation of the entire marine larder stems from what exactly? A bad childhood experience in the school canteen? A ropey piece of cod in a pasty ‘parsley sauce’, served up by an overbearing aunt whose kitchen exploits were always a source of anxiety? The fatal assertion that the fish on the plate must be finished because it is good for you?

I was exposed to all of the above. But somehow I got through it. Bird’s Eye’s finest fish fingers, with a good splosh of ketchup on the side, certainly helped. My mother’s wonderful kedgerees and fish pies, much-loved Saturday night specials during my teenage years, helped to wean me gently off the orange-breadcrumbs school of fish cookery. And a dish of crisply fried tiny red mullet, known locally as barbounia, which my father ordered for me at a beachside taverna on our first foreign holiday, to Greece, was a turning point. Our Greek friend, Spiros, dared me to munch up the salty, crispy heads I’d left on my plate. I did, and I loved them. It was explained to me then that freshness is everything. And as, on the same holiday, I went on to catch a small garfish from the beach, which Spiros himself cooked for me within hours, tossed in flour and fried in olive oil, I became hooked: on catching fish, on eating them and, best of all, on cooking my own catch. I don’t know if I can come up with a prescription for those who remain doubtful of the potential pleasures of fish at their table. If their negative piscine experiences have been outright Freudian in intensity, there may be no hope. But I would like to think that for every horror story concerning stale haddock, dodgy mussels, or insipid trout fed on rubbish in some slimy pond, there is an antidote tale of fishy joy: of a boy’s first self-caught mackerel, grilled over a fire on the beach; of prawns caught in rock pools, boiled in sea water and eaten with brown bread and butter; of opalescent strips of squid spiked with garlic and chilli, slapped on a barbecue under a blistering summer sun ...

Does that sound tempting? I hope so.

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