Methil docks.

Leaving the harbour with the smell of diesel under a grey duvet sky, past the Harland and Wolff yard and the sleeping seals on the rocks below the giant turbine. A shag flies over the stern and eider ducks bob. Trying to draw the land from the sea as the boat shuggles this way and that . A slag heap from the old mines, an oil rig out in the Firth. A landscape of energy – coal, wind and oil all within sight. A breif cast for mackerel. Not biting, we head back.