As a child, every Saturday we ate fish, freshly caught from the boats, bought from the fisherfolk. My father would gut the fish while we played on the shore, throwing shells and skimming stones.

When I grew up, I forgot about the taste of fresh fish, and the family tradition of our Saturdays by the seaside — until one day, when my son brought me a beautiful fish from the river.

He took a knife and sliced open its guts. I never ate fish again.