...at Walberswick. But relax - as you will have gathered, I'm not talking about Phthirus pubis (which, coincidentally, Sea Nymph has to treat in her professional capacity), I'm referring to Carcinus maenas or other variants of the common shore crab.
With all the hoo-ha surrounding the Olympic Games, I feel beholden to fly the flag for what must be considered one of the more important sporting events that is taking place closer to home. Last weekend saw the British Open Crabbing Championships take place at Walberswick in Suffolk and frankly, I would have entered just to get the T Shirt.
Unfortunately, circumstances (builders demanding sanitary ware specifications - don't go there please!) dictated that Team Bum had to cry off this event and other beach related activities we had scheduled.
Hunting for crabs along the shoreline has been, and remains, a particular pleasure for me ever since I can remember. And crab meat is up there with caviar as far as I'm concerned. As a child at Sand End, a strip of beach near Ballywalter on the Ards peninsula, my cousins and I would gather buckets of red and green crabs for gladiatorial style contests in sand-walled approximations of arenas. Their claws held out defiantly, shells scuttled and crackled, wrestling on the strand, as we pitted red versus green. Of course, these days, I just take pleasure in whittling out a specimen, screened by seaweed, from beneath a barnacled retreat, and then returning it from whence it came.
I mark it as a singularly important parenting achievements then, that my Nippers 1 to 3 are as happy to spend hours crabbing as they would be plugged into a games console ( if left to their own wicked ways). Nipper 1 was particularly dismissive of the catch pictured above and demanded that his recent trophy was displayed for all to see. Not bad, but you have much to learn young master.