Eyemouth was our port of refuge from the expected winds: we got in at half-tide, its long narrow piers rising around us like a ravine. Inside was a bewildering crush of trawlers, a racket of fish-marketing and welding, a noisy funfair for Herring Festival Queen Week, and, mercifully, a gesticulating harbourmaster pointing to an unlikely but reasonably comfortable perch at the very end of the middle pier. It seemed a happy enough spot to be. Our aversion to fish had faded in the healing philosophical atmosphere of St Andrews and we smiled.
