The railway guide was correct, however, in saying that Torcombe had good fishing. It had, and it smelt like it, which was probably why the occasional wandering visitors who did find their way there in summer took a look, a sniff and then departed for other points of the compass. That was all right by Torcombe; the inhabitants just went on with their business of fishing.
There were a few regular enthusiasts who came every year to enjoy the excellent offshore fishing, which provided good sport. They generally stayed at the pub on the quayside, the ‘Harbour Bar’, and ‘stayed’ was often the correct word so far as the bar part of it was concerned, for Tim Austell’s home-brewed ale was something quite unique to those who, for the fifty or so other weeks of the year, knew only the suburban roadhouse concoctions.
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