The vast tidal flats are empty save for the hunched figures of three black-backed gulls considering a decomposed dogfish, and four humans (one rather small) trudging through the endless silt. A light mist obscures the coast with its string of motley houses and, on the breeze, there is only the distant soughing of shallow waves chasing foam over the sand. There is the piquancy of seclusion and its attendant danger here, perhaps the closest thing Kent has to wilderness.
I’m relishing the long walk in this lonely place, but my children are less enthusiastic about our annual pilgrimage to the cockle beds, a typically cold affair as the quality of shellfish diminishes in spring and summer. We’re travelling well armed, brandishing handmade rakes with formidable tines of six-inch nails, while the youngest carries a hopeful white bucket. About half a mile offshore, our labour begins.
Within moments, there are calls of “I can feel something”; then, as the rakes are worked deeper, the exquisite forms of plump common cockles appear as the mud clears in the briny film that covers the beach. Soon there is excitement: the youngest is scooping shellfish from the sand and the older two heckle her to work faster while competing to find the biggest specimen. Our prey are here in their thousands and we select the best, leaving the rest to resubmerge safely. After an hour of hard work and a few mud fights, we have a modest number and head for shore.
Wandering back, we laugh at the prospect of me preparing and cooking the catch. I will rinse them and leave them to purge in clean salty water, with added oatmeal so the cockles will filter and feed, flushing out sand. Despite this processing, however, I’ve never successfully achieved a grit-free meal of cockles, and my offspring remind me of their indifference to them as food in the absence of sufficient quantities of fried bacon.
There is a clear absurdity to this tradition, the effort and cold fingers involved to gather essentially unneeded food. The prize, though, is not what lies in the white bucket, but in a family walking home united by engagement with some natural human behaviour. It’s as good a reason to go foraging as any.
• Under the Changing Skies: The Best of the Guardian’s Country Diary, 2018-2024, is available now at guardianbookshop.com
