Toned and trimmed by his energetic, colourful lifestyle among the hills and vales of Donegal he was easy on the eye, methinks . Born raconteur with endless hilarious anecdotes about all and sundry he held us  spellbound as he revealed the difference between male and female lobsters. Back dropped by the deep blue of the Atlantic ocean and the quaint, white-washed dwellings on the tiny atmospheric island of Gola , Donegal he stood tall, squirming lobster in each hand.

“Now, here’s the thing,” says he, “the sex lives of Southern lobsters and how to tell the difference. Looky here, here is the erection which the females don’t have.”

Sighs of relief from the female section of his audience.

“And the male’s tail is more sumptuous than the female.”

Hmmm! Hmmm! Always the way! Males have to appear more superior on the outside even though they’re not in the inside where it matters.

“Wanna hold one?”

“Yeah! O.k . Love to” says I as I gingerly reached for the proferred crustacean with more than a little trepidation. The scary claw bits were safely encased in pink elastic. A bit of an insult really to the male of the species.

“Don’t touch me now.” I warned the food dish in my hand.

“No, No. I promise,” Pol assured me, misunderstanding or not, the direction of my words.

“Not you. The Lobster! You can take liberties!” I flirted.

“Well,” says he kindly. “That’s the best offer I’ve had all day.”

Sweet of him really but I’m sure and certain a teasing invitation from a granny was definitely not the best invitation he had ever had THAT DAY!