Cockles, Mussels and Mushrooms

[otter]

Cockles, Mussels and Mushrooms

My taste buds reach deep into the recesses of my mind and try and conjure up the tastes of these wonderful treats.  I can almost touch them as they make their way to the tip of my tongue, but they are but a memory and no matter how tantalisingly close I come to grasping them, they will forever be elusive for the taste is not just the physical pleasure but is deeply entwined with the explorations of a child.

Scuramore strand lies on the estuary of the river Moy, an inlet curving inland before the Moy flows into Killala Bay and the Atlantic.  My mother's childhood home sitting on a few acres of land overlooks the strand. The view over the rolling fields and down to the strand is breathtakingly beautiful, especially on a sunny day when the glint of the sand sparkles in the distance. From the road alongside her old home only a small piece of the strand is visible and on the rare occasion that I pass, I reach back and the full vista opens in my memory and the joy of a young Otter partaking in such simple adventures warms the spirit and brings a sparkle to my eye. The strand is not accessible from the road now, a private house now stands where a derelict hotel once stood and the adventures I once enjoyed here are locked beyond reach of others to enjoy.

Summertime and low tide often seen Otter's family visit the strand on a Sunday morning. Parking off the main road they would idle their way down the old winding overgrown road to where the ruins of the hotel stood overlooking the strand. What a glamorous place it must have been during the twenties and thirties.  Short wellies, bucket in hand Otter raced ahead of the rest of the family eager to be first to reach the strand. His siblings had all spent some their childhood living in his mother's old home before moving to the town and a different way of life. The strand had been their jungle and they knew how to hunt it and had the tools to do so.  The eldest carried the pitch fork , another a rake, his father a serrated kitchen breadknife and a coil of fishing line. What a strange bunch they looked were any to mark their progress down the old road. 

Otter, as usual did not hear or at least did not heed his fathers shout as he scrambled across the weedy rocky high tide mark onto the strand. The muddy sand soon enveloped his wellies and Otters struggles to free himself ended in him falling on his behind, one foot stuck in a wellie and the other  held by the sand.  Stifling a large grin, his father admonished him as he released young Otter from the mud, helped him put back on the wellies and sent his onto firmer ground with a clip behind the ear. Otter a bit wiser now, stayed close to the rest of the family as they followed the contours of the hide tide mark until they ventured out onto where they knew to be firmer sand.

Unfettered by the risk of ankle grabbing mud Otter started to pick the cockles, scurrying , zig sagging as though his life depended on it, quickly filling the small bucket. His parents filled theirs at a leisurely pace, more methodical in their approach. Otter's greedy little eyes sought the mother lodes where several cockles sat side by side, half of what his small hands grabbed fell back on the sand.  Otter tripped more than once, the contents of the bucket spilling onto the sand and a shout from his father "more haste less speed"; off course this advice fell on deaf ears.

Otter soon became bored with collecting cockles and started to pay more attention to collecting the shells of empty razor clams or catching small crabs that were stranded in the myriad of tiny pools on the strand. Meanwhile his older brothers made for some deeper pools where on rolling up the of his trousers his eldest brother , barefooted, carefully and slowly waded,  stalking any flat fish left stranded by the tide.  Pitch fork at the ready when a fish was located he would inch forward and strike. Otter would always keep an eye on proceedings but kept his distance until a good sized one was speared, then he would race over and secure it for his bucket. If any argument of ownership ensued, tears would flow and inevitably he had his way.

The tide would turn soon and satisfied that they had enough cockles his father waded out into one of the channels that still held water, no more than a foot deep. Off with his trousers, this  always amused Otter on seeing his hairy legs. He dropped to his knees and placed his left hand on the bottom and with the bread knife in his right he drew the knife back through the soft sand seeking sand eels. Otter loved this bit and walked the edge alongside his father. When a sand eel was caught it was tossed over to Otter who immediately dived on it and placed it in the bucket. Otter knew not to rush now, dropping the cockles was no big deal, losing the sand eels would earn him a solid and often painful clip behind his ear.

When a half dozen were secured his father shouted, " go get a rock, you know the type and size".  Otter raced back to the high tide mark and after much searching found a suitable rock, rough edged , weighing about two pounds. He raced back to his father, dropping the rock a few times but eventually got there and laid it down. His father unravelled the fishing line and forming a loose loop he placed it around the rock and working backwards every five yards he looped on a hook to the line. In through the mouth and back out through the top of the head a sand eel was hooked and laid on the sand. The other end of the line was brought back beyond the high tide mark where it was secured with very heavy rocks.

All the buckets and tools were brought behind the high tide mark and the family made their way unhurriedly around the headland that jutted out into the main river channel. Following the shore was a bit boring for the older kids but Otter was in heaven. There were lots of treasures to be found, bits of rope, bits of net,   lost buoys and occasionally the gods really smiled down and a football was found. Everything was investigated and Otter was always thirty yards behind or thirty yards in front, his knees were  bloodied from regular falls on the slippery seaweed.  The others stopped occasionally to gather mussels, not as plentiful as the cockles on the strand they were a bonus and very welcomed when found.

"C'mon slow coach"; his father shouted. Otter looked up from his beachcombing to see the others scrambling up the incline to the field above.  Reaching the field , Otter tentatively moved forward, checking that there were no cattle there, he was a little scared of cattle and knew that bulls were as dangerous as lions.  A few sheep grazed near the far ditch, no cattle. Otter relaxed and raced to join the others who were starting to spread out searching for mushrooms.
Some were button shaped, others tall and flat, sometimes two inches wide. On finding the first one Otter ran to a nearby clump of thicker longer grass, the strong stemmed rushy type with the seed thing at the top, locally in the mushroom picking vocabulary, Trawneens.   Taking a trawneen he pierced its butt through the stalk of the mushroom, slid the mushroom down until it was blocked by the seedy bit. As many mushrooms as were collected as many were lost, broken off due to Otters haste to find the next.

Crossing into the next field, his mother led the way, guiding them to the well that she had sipped from on many an occasion when she was a child. A large flat rock covered the well leaving just enough room for one to put in their hands and draw out a cupped handful of sweet cold spring water.  All except Otter sat down beside the well, resting under the bright summer sun and listened to their mother recall stories of her own childhood. Every field, every ditch, every hollow had a name, and for each a host of stories though often repeated they never lost their charm. Having lost her father at a young age , her mother and two sisters had a hard life, struggling to survive on their meagre farm. The harshness shone through the stories but there had been fun too and that shone brightest of all. Soon enough their father's snores could be heard so all laid back and waited for the coming tide.

Otter's father always woke with a jerk and the eerie silence that followed after all the snoring stirred the others. Gathering up the mushrooms they retraced their steps to the strand, Otter raced ahead to be first to reach the fishing line, releasing it from the rocks and inwardly urging his father to hurry up. He could not control his excitement, wondering if a sea trout had been caught. The line was retrieved until it went taut, a few tugs releasing it from the now submerged rock. His father drew it slowly in and after a few a yards Otter yelped, "Sea trout" as he spotted the splash in the distance. All too slowly for Otter the line was wound in but eventually a sea trout and several crabs were hauled ashore. Needless to say the sea trout went into Otters bucket for the journey back to the car.

There were two appliances for cooking , the gas cooker and the flat topped solid fuel range which operated every day of the year, even in summertime. The fire in the range was almost out and with a fresh supply of turf, the flames soon ignited and it began to heat. While Otter's father tended the range, his mother set to placing two large pots of water on the gas cooker. The cockles were carefully washed, making sure that all the sand was removed, laid to once side and the mussels received equal treatment. The sea trout was gutted and cleaned and placed in the freezer alongside many other fish and someday in the heart of winter it would come out with a few of its kind and provide a wonderful meal for the family. The mushrooms were then cleaned and so the preparations were complete, awaiting the water to boil and the range to heat up. Otter played football in the garden, racing indoors every few minutes to check on proceedings.
When the shout came from his father the football was kicked away and Otter ran indoors. His father was wiping down the top of the range and handed Otter a fork. Otter took the biggest flat type mushrooms and lined them up on top of the range, careful not to get his hands burnt. Burnt fingers are sore and he had learned that lesson two years previous. His father got the salt and dropped a pinch over each mushroom.

Whilst the mushrooms sizzled away under Otters watchful eye his mother dumped the cockles and mussels into the now boiling pots of water. The sizzling mushrooms and the crackling sounds  from the pots drew all the family into the kitchen, awaiting the great informal feast. Otter deftly probed each mushroom with the fork, moving each carefully to ensure that none stuck to the top of the range. Each mushroom cup slowly filled with juicy liquid as it cooked and soon all were full to the brim. Otter gleefully pierced the largest with the fork and walked to the kitchen table, the juice leaving a trail over the kitchen floor. He drew it close to his lips, sensing the heat , blowing on it until he finally took a tentative bite and then devoured the remains.  They are ready he shouted, half the contents of his mouth flying over the table. 

On hearing Otter's shout his mother appeared with the pots of delicate mussels and cockles and the family feasted. With lip licking slurps and rolling tongues the bounty of their expedition was soon reduced to a mound of empty shells and the table was covered in the delicately flavoured mushroom juice.

Can you taste the salty cockles and mussels, the juicy mushrooms , I almost can and would sell my soul to do so once again !!!!!.

[jimmyw]

I'm not at all fond of mushrooms. But jings you made my mouth water.