Of all the oudoor occupations, none is more at the mercy of the weather than a fisherman's. The seas around Britain are often more tempestuous than anywhere else on earth with sailing round the western isles of Scotland as perilous as rounding Cape Horn. What makes it worse is that mountainous seas are not worth fishing in as the nets will be ripped and the fish aren't about anyway. Dense fog is another of the deep sea fisherman's problems as he must rely exclusively on his compass without being able to take bearings and establish his position. As we have all discovered in our time, not knowing where we are makes planning a route to where we ought to be impossible, and hanging about not moving at all is bound to wash us up on the rocks sooner or later. The next horror of the British climate to affect the fisherman is cold, not the sort of cold that might mildly inconvenience the city dweller and force him to wear an overcoat and scarf; no, I am talking about the sort of cold that bites through layers of thick oil skins like a laser lance and freezes the marrow inside your bones, cold that sets the teeth chattering and covers the skin with purple goose pimples, cold accompanied by a ferocious wind that shoots ice needles into your face and eyes.
   You won't get much more shanty than this, as the fisherman's pride and joy gives more than just a hint that it is about to collapse in a heap, as the leaning walls gain scant support from the rickety wooden struts. All around, nets are hung to dry and lobster pots wait to be filled. For those of you lucky enough to have been to that melancholy harbour at Polperro, Cornwall, you will have seen "The House on Props," which bears a passing resemblance to the "Fisherman's Shanty."