My friend and I watched a documentary about Scottish seaweed. Apparently the beachside plant is edible, nutritious, and sustainable. And what is most remarkable is that it grows in abundance on the coast, and belongs to no-one. You can help yourself for free.
The interviewees on the programme were posho types. They wore wellies and tweed, and their buckets were gleaming silver. If these idiots could make money selling salty plants, my friend and I could too.
Our local beach was not up to Highland standards. We lived near a muddy stretch of shingle on the coast of Norfolk. More mud than sand.Some people said it was a tainted place. I never knew the exact history, but I heard something about Vikings. That a battle had raged on this mangy strip of land. That the blood of many had mingled with the saltwater.
Regardless of the truth, we still needed our seaweed.
We scooted down in our trainers, plastic buckets in both hands. My mate skidded on the greased rocks,and our adventure was almost over before it had begun.
The sprouts of the thick seaweed surrounded us in dark, matted clumps, like congealed blood on a recent wound. We had to work hard to pull our prizes from the ground. The best method was to grab the base of the stem, and twist in a corkscrew shape. Even then, they clung on. When finally got them loose, the roots were longer than our fingers, and deep scarlet in colour.
They stung. We should have worn gloves. But soon bubbly tendrils spilled from the tops of our buckets. The smell of the ocean was overwhelming, like actual grains of salt ripped at our nostrils, scarring the inside forever.
Back home we processed our finds. Washing them ruined our sink. Every plant released huge clumps of sand and grit which clogged up the plughole, and stained the enamel. Even after half a dozen soakings a few persistent grains remained, forming a brown silt at the bottom of our cooking pan.
We boiled and boiled until the water turned a sludgy grey. Despite grimacing at the weird mash of matter and mineral they lay within, we still had to try our concoction.
Good news prevailed. Our meal was delicious. Hearty, with a strong taste of iron. The greatest plate of liver ever cooked. We grinned, slivers of plant between our teeth.
I cannot remember which one of us broke the first window. The rage was too great. An electric eternal anger whose origins lay deep within the Earth.
We battered down the door to reach the streets. I smacked someone hard enough to send teeth into a gutter. I laughed when the drunk clawed my eyes The sirens rose, and smoke caught in our throat.
But now I understood what made seaweed such an amazing crop.
