At first light Sunday morning, a flotilla of assorted small craft chugs down the river Tyne towards the North sea. Each little boat contains a party of enthusiastic amateur anglers. After Saturday night in the pub, a couple of pork sandwiches laced with peas pudding and mustard, a hair of the dog, a metre high swell and biting Easterly wind, what better way to spend Sunday? Bobbing about in the hostile environment of the North sea is not for the feint-hearted, and all in the name of pleasure.