You know, when you have lived somewhere for almost 10 years (and how did that happen, I want to know), you start to think you’ve got a grip on the place and its little ways and strange customs like talking to strangers on buses. And then you have a conversation in your writers’ group that goes like this:
Local person: yes, it was like at the flounder tramping when I just couldn’t bring myself to stand on a flounder.
Other local person: oh God, they’re so wriggly, I don’t blame you.
Me: Wait, whoa, hang on, back up a minute. Flounder tramping?
So it turns out, there used to be an annual event where you waded out into the sea to go and stand on flounders (you can get a flavour of the excitement here).
Sadly (or perhaps happily if you’re a flounder) it has apparently since been banned on health and safety grounds – although not, presumably, the flounders’. You snooze, you lose, even in the world of bonkers rural pursuits it seems.