"I was born into this life. My father was a fisherman," she explains, laughing at the thought of any other ending to her story. "But this is the case for everyone else here, too."

She's referring to the 10 or so surrounding stalls of female fish sellers. "Only people who are married or born into the industry work here. No one arrives here looking for work."

Besides, to ordinary job seekers, it might seem like a bit of a smelly profession. "When you grow up with it, you're used to it," explains Dewaele. "But other people think it's unclean. We like to say ‘there are no strange ducks here.' "

Not only is it full of fish scales and guts, the job also has the burden of difficult hours. The man leaves to go fishing in the late afternoon, usually returning 10 or 12 hours later. The woman then takes his evening's catch and sells it from 7.00.

This happens every day, all year long. If the weather is good, the men are fishing, which means sometimes weeks or months working every single day. In the winter, when the wind blows in the wrong direction and there is less variety of fish, everyone gets a break. But even that can prove hard. "One week without working is a nice reprieve, but two weeks and my husband starts getting a little cranky," laughs Dewaele.

The fish being sold here at each stall is all freshly caught; we're talking only a few hours old. Dewaele doesn't sell anything other than what her husband caught the night before. The big difference between getting your fish here in Ostend and a supermarket is that this fish is caught locally and sold immediately. Getting your fish at a supermarket means it can come from anywhere, farm or ocean, caught by any means and has to have travelled, adding hours or days.

"It's not natural to get anything you want at any time of year. That is not the way the ocean works." Says Dewaele. "When you buy in Ostend, you know where it was caught, when it was caught and even who it was caught by. This is natural."

That's a fact that attracts droves throughout Belgium, as well as the Netherlands, Germany and France. Hundreds come by every day. Dewaele yells out to passersby in French because "this is the holiday time for the French. In September, I only speak German."

Dewaele defies stereotyping. While she might have been born into this life, she also chose it. Educated and fluent in five languages, including Arabic, she worked in tourism for a number of years and lived abroad in Morocco before returning to the Belgian sea.

Passionate about the topic of fishing, she sees her livelihood dying out. Her daughter won't be able to follow in her footsteps, she thinks, because in 15 years' time, there will be no more fishermen. "Twenty years ago, there were 17 ships. Now there are only eight. The government is hindering us. We can't use nets that drag anymore, but they won't help us pay to replace the ones we've got. They won't let us fish for more than 24 hours, so we can only go so far in terms of distance. They let other countries fish within three miles of our coast, even though it's illegal. And gas prices have doubled."

She rails against the lack of support and promotion of what she feels is a Belgian tradition that is slowly dying as they put windmills in the seas and raise fish on farms. "It's a pity that there isn't more respect for what we do."

When she ponders what other job she may have, it's no surprise she says she would want to fight for the rights of fisherman. Looking around her, she says: "There is no one advocating for us. I want to do more for the fishermen's wives. We work hard, all of us."

All around her in the various stalls are other women, selling fish at various prices depending on what their boats brought in the night before. There must be some tension being in competition in such close quarters, and Dewaele acknowledges that this is the most difficult part of the job. "When something goes wrong or times are difficult, we are there for each other. But every day in the selling, that's different. Each person has their own boats, their own bills, their own worries."

This is proven as she and her sales partner covertly whisper, pointing to another fish seller. "She's already packing up her stall," she tells me, eyebrows raised. This is good news for Dewaele, who has between 200 and 300 kilos of fish to sell every day. She stays until all her fish is gone. On the rare occasion that that is impossible, any remaining fish is sold at a nearby auction, where it's then shipped off to restaurants and food corporations.

Despite the complaints, this hard labour of love she does well, using her language skills and strong personality to win customers and the occasional journalist. "You use what you have, you make the good out of the bad. People think that because we're fish sellers, we're stupid."

One of her regular customers retrieves her bag of fish and says softly but clearly, "No, we don't think that."

Looking at this intelligent, passionate woman, working hard with her hands, striving to maintain a Belgian tradition, it is hard to feel anything other than respect.

www.ostend.be

FRESH FISH 101

CATEGORIES: In the summer, there is turbot, herring, bass, plaice, mackerel, kingfish, whiting and Dover sole. In the winter, it's mostly cod.

STORAGE: Fresh fish will last about three days in the refrigerator and six months in the freezer.

COST: Four pieces of sole to feed two people well should weigh about 800 grams and costs about €10. The cheapest option is three kilos of place for €5.

BELGIUM: The specialty here is Dover sole, known all over the world but caught right off the coast of Belgium in the North Sea.

WARNING: Those stands that line the walk from the train station to the beach and eventually lead to the fishmongers: they do not sell fresh seafood. As yummy as the calamari and crab meat looks, it is imitation crab from Asia, and most of the seafood is not caught locally, although they are a good place to pick up a local warm snack: snails in a fishy broth.