I am somewhat apprehensive when I am amongst blokes from fishing villages. They tend to be strong fellows who are not shy of throwing a punch, whereas my own physical prowess is at the lower end of the scale. Amongst such fellows one can easily get caught up in disputes that can only have unfortunate outcomes for one’s own health and safety.

Of course I shouldn’t generalise. I know from experience that not every bloke in a fishing village is hell bent on beating me up. Take Frankie, for instance. I met him in the bar of the Astoria Hotel in the fishing village of Hermanus when I was 19 years old. At the time of our first encounter we were both lying on the floor, having fallen off our respective bar stools as a result of extreme inebriation. Frankie was a truck driver who was covered in tattoos at…