Welcome to this new archive dedicated to the memory of lives lost in subsistance and commercial fishing. Here I collect photos and information about existing memorials and publicise campaigns to create memorials to lost fishers, anywhere in the world.
"Mr Oldbuck led the way to the sands. Upon the links or downs close to them were seen four or five huts inhabited by fishers; whose boats, drawn high upon the beach, lent the odoriferous vapors of pitch melting under a burning sun, to contend with those of the offals of fish and other nuisances usually collected round Scottish cottages. Undisturbed by these complicated steams of abomination, a middle-aged woman, with a face which had defied a thousand storms, sat mending a net at the door of one of the cottages. A handkerchief close bound about her head, and a coat which had formerly been that of a man, gave her a masculine air, which was increased by her strength, uncommon stature, and harsh voice. “What are ye for the day, your Honor?” she said, or rather screamed, to Oldbuck: “caller haddocks and whitings, a bannock-fluke and a cock-padle.”
“How much for the bannock-fluke and cock-padle?” demanded the Antiquary.
“Four white shillings and saxpence,” answered the Naiad.
“Four devils and six of their imps!” retorted the Antiquary: “do you think I am mad, Maggie?”
“And div ye think,” rejoined the virago, setting her arms akimbo, “that my man and my sons are to gae to the sea in weather like yestreen and the day—sic a sea as it’s yet outby—and get naething for their fish, and be misca’d into the bargain, Monkbarns? It’s no fish ye’re buying—it’s men’s lives.”
Mrs Maggie Mucklebackit tells it like it is in The Antiquary by Sir Walter Scott.
"Mr Oldbuck led the way to the sands. Upon the links or downs close to them were seen four or five huts inhabited by fishers; whose boats, drawn high upon the beach, lent the odoriferous vapors of pitch melting under a burning sun, to contend with those of the offals of fish and other nuisances usually collected round Scottish cottages. Undisturbed by these complicated steams of abomination, a middle-aged woman, with a face which had defied a thousand storms, sat mending a net at the door of one of the cottages. A handkerchief close bound about her head, and a coat which had formerly been that of a man, gave her a masculine air, which was increased by her strength, uncommon stature, and harsh voice. “What are ye for the day, your Honor?” she said, or rather screamed, to Oldbuck: “caller haddocks and whitings, a bannock-fluke and a cock-padle.”
“How much for the bannock-fluke and cock-padle?” demanded the Antiquary.
“Four white shillings and saxpence,” answered the Naiad.
“Four devils and six of their imps!” retorted the Antiquary: “do you think I am mad, Maggie?”
“And div ye think,” rejoined the virago, setting her arms akimbo, “that my man and my sons are to gae to the sea in weather like yestreen and the day—sic a sea as it’s yet outby—and get naething for their fish, and be misca’d into the bargain, Monkbarns? It’s no fish ye’re buying—it’s men’s lives.”
Mrs Maggie Mucklebackit tells it like it is in The Antiquary by Sir Walter Scott.
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