In December  I was holidaying, as usual, in the L'Agulhas area. I was up early to go fishing at what we call the lighthouse point, correctly termed Cape Agulhas, which, of course, is neither the town (that's called L'Agulhas) nor the southernmost point (that's a nondescript rocky bit a few hundred metres to the west).

I'd gone there at first light to throw a spinner, hoping to catch some elf (shad to those of you who don't speak Western Province). They tend to bite more readily at daybreak and at nightfall. And it's worth sacrificing your lie-in because, when fresh, the elf is supreme. Its flesh is fine and rich, like salmon, but unlike salmon, it doesn't keep. It's got to go from the bay to the pan.

Daybreak or not, if the fish aren't there, flogging the water with a lure doesn't stay interesting for long, and after the magic hour had passed, my enthusiasm waned.

I gave up on my fantasy breakfast and turned my back on the fish and the view of the sun bursting over the horizon. While walking back, the view was softer and richer, with the flowers and lighthouse glowing in the early morning sun.