It's been quite a week. Quite a week...
Last Thursday's missive was published and then I had an evening business meeting with two portrait clients at once, and believe me, one is hard enough at the best of times. Saturday we took a impromptu trip to the seaside, a two hour journey to Weston Super Mare during which I began the ominous process of coming down with a flu bug...
By the time we arrived it was certain that I was not suffering from a slight dip in my mood! It was the real deal, and I was condemned to shiver and ache whilst everyone else had a whale of a time frolicking in an unseasonable 21 degrees of warmth.
It was still better than being at home though, and I even got to do a little vicarious beachcasting as there was a local club match under way for the under 16's, accompanied by parental minders of course, and I witnessed a young lady of perhaps eight years of age, land the smallest dab I ever saw. I reckon I might well organise a holiday here in the summer as there are plenty of good marks in the vicinity.
Sunday afternoon we went to the local pub for a quiet drink. Within twenty minutes of arrival I was sucked into the twisted world of one of the regulars who I had till that point, never spoken to, a guy who it later transpired had taken an unfeasible shine to Judy and a unnaturally wired attitude to my good self. It came quite out of the blue, but he was soundly trounced, ears boxed and gently warned of the consequences of further enquiries in my general direction.
And then he had the gall to go to the police and accuse me of 'hurting his feelings' ( I kid you not) because let's be clear, more face was lost than blood.
Later that afternoon I was up on an assault charge...
The very next day I went by appointment to the station and behaved myself right out again, emerging with a caution for my trouble. I was told that under the present law you must not clip knobheads around the ear even when they not only fully deserve it but when they seem hell bent on creating the conditions under which them taking a licking is not only likely, but certain, and it is always some innocent chap like myself who is saddled with the unfortunate task of administering the punishment.
Pffff...
There is a name for such a man, nay two, and both have something to do with the act of procreation and genitalia of a woman.
I eventually got out to a pond but by then had completely lost the power to speak as the flu bug attacked my throat. All I could manage was a most curious Bee Gees style falsetto. Thankfully no-one talked to me during my three hour blank.
Molly had fun though...
Yesterday afternoon I was determined to catch something. Looking back over my diary for this time last year I saw that the roach of the canal had, after months of completely ignoring them in favour of lobworms, turned on to maggots. I had maggots in the fridge, a new rod and a pair of virgin reels to break in. I was determined, because all were bought expressly for roach fishing that it would be a roach and roach only that would be the first fish to fall to them.
First stop was a long walk up to the Courtaulds stretch some two miles distant. My plan was to try there for an hour and leapfrog backwards to other 'sound' pegs should any fail me. Courtalds is now completely demolished, the heavy atmosphere created by the once looming hulks of the abandoned factory building now erased and varnished over with a transitional state of slightly unpleasant tension.
I sat there an hour but nothing happened so I moved back to a peg where I had seen a group of very large roach hiding under dense bankside cover last summer. Here I baited fairly heavily with four handfuls of maggots and cast as close as I dare to the trailing branches of the trees.
After half an hour I was ready to move again as the swim did not appear to be fishing at all, but then the tiniest knock was seen on the ultra fine tip of the wand. It went again and then fell still; on retrieving, the double white maggots were sucked dry. Roach. For sure.
This went on for some time...
And for some time more...
Tiny knocks and slow pulls that refused to develop into anything determined, and every time the bait was either robbed clean off the size sixteen or sucked to a husk. The hook was clearly going back all the way to the throat but the roach were spitting it out again. They were being all too cute...
Then, whilst watching the tip intently with my hand hovering over the butt, trying to find a space and time to strike one of these infuriating bites, the rod whacked over as if it were a barbel turning and running, and I reacted by doing absolutely nothing so surprising was the bite, striking late and into air...
It was all quite fascinating, and novel too, as I'd never actually ledgered maggots much for the roach and had no idea that they'd play so delicately with the bait. I thought I'd stay on a while longer to learn what I could even though the temperature was plummeting as night approached and my feet and hands lost blood to the cold. I rebaited the entire swim as before with lots of bait, far too much you'd think, a last gasp gambit to force the roach to take the food items with gusto, but after a further fruitless half hour and fewer and fewer indications it seemed the feeding spell was coming to a close.
Just as I decided I'd had enough and put the lid on the bait box, both rods started up at once. The left rod seemed more urgently twitching and so I lifted it and was surprised to find that the non-strike met with the bump and glide of what I knew to be a good roach. Sure enough up came a fish of a pound and three ounces...!
The other rod could have been a two pounder! Whatever it was, the maggot returned as transparent skin. I should have struck both at once!
Last Thursday's missive was published and then I had an evening business meeting with two portrait clients at once, and believe me, one is hard enough at the best of times. Saturday we took a impromptu trip to the seaside, a two hour journey to Weston Super Mare during which I began the ominous process of coming down with a flu bug...
By the time we arrived it was certain that I was not suffering from a slight dip in my mood! It was the real deal, and I was condemned to shiver and ache whilst everyone else had a whale of a time frolicking in an unseasonable 21 degrees of warmth.
It was still better than being at home though, and I even got to do a little vicarious beachcasting as there was a local club match under way for the under 16's, accompanied by parental minders of course, and I witnessed a young lady of perhaps eight years of age, land the smallest dab I ever saw. I reckon I might well organise a holiday here in the summer as there are plenty of good marks in the vicinity.
Sunday afternoon we went to the local pub for a quiet drink. Within twenty minutes of arrival I was sucked into the twisted world of one of the regulars who I had till that point, never spoken to, a guy who it later transpired had taken an unfeasible shine to Judy and a unnaturally wired attitude to my good self. It came quite out of the blue, but he was soundly trounced, ears boxed and gently warned of the consequences of further enquiries in my general direction.
And then he had the gall to go to the police and accuse me of 'hurting his feelings' ( I kid you not) because let's be clear, more face was lost than blood.
Later that afternoon I was up on an assault charge...
The very next day I went by appointment to the station and behaved myself right out again, emerging with a caution for my trouble. I was told that under the present law you must not clip knobheads around the ear even when they not only fully deserve it but when they seem hell bent on creating the conditions under which them taking a licking is not only likely, but certain, and it is always some innocent chap like myself who is saddled with the unfortunate task of administering the punishment.
Pffff...
There is a name for such a man, nay two, and both have something to do with the act of procreation and genitalia of a woman.
I eventually got out to a pond but by then had completely lost the power to speak as the flu bug attacked my throat. All I could manage was a most curious Bee Gees style falsetto. Thankfully no-one talked to me during my three hour blank.
Molly had fun though...
Yesterday afternoon I was determined to catch something. Looking back over my diary for this time last year I saw that the roach of the canal had, after months of completely ignoring them in favour of lobworms, turned on to maggots. I had maggots in the fridge, a new rod and a pair of virgin reels to break in. I was determined, because all were bought expressly for roach fishing that it would be a roach and roach only that would be the first fish to fall to them.
First stop was a long walk up to the Courtaulds stretch some two miles distant. My plan was to try there for an hour and leapfrog backwards to other 'sound' pegs should any fail me. Courtalds is now completely demolished, the heavy atmosphere created by the once looming hulks of the abandoned factory building now erased and varnished over with a transitional state of slightly unpleasant tension.
I sat there an hour but nothing happened so I moved back to a peg where I had seen a group of very large roach hiding under dense bankside cover last summer. Here I baited fairly heavily with four handfuls of maggots and cast as close as I dare to the trailing branches of the trees.
After half an hour I was ready to move again as the swim did not appear to be fishing at all, but then the tiniest knock was seen on the ultra fine tip of the wand. It went again and then fell still; on retrieving, the double white maggots were sucked dry. Roach. For sure.
This went on for some time...
And for some time more...
Tiny knocks and slow pulls that refused to develop into anything determined, and every time the bait was either robbed clean off the size sixteen or sucked to a husk. The hook was clearly going back all the way to the throat but the roach were spitting it out again. They were being all too cute...
Then, whilst watching the tip intently with my hand hovering over the butt, trying to find a space and time to strike one of these infuriating bites, the rod whacked over as if it were a barbel turning and running, and I reacted by doing absolutely nothing so surprising was the bite, striking late and into air...
It was all quite fascinating, and novel too, as I'd never actually ledgered maggots much for the roach and had no idea that they'd play so delicately with the bait. I thought I'd stay on a while longer to learn what I could even though the temperature was plummeting as night approached and my feet and hands lost blood to the cold. I rebaited the entire swim as before with lots of bait, far too much you'd think, a last gasp gambit to force the roach to take the food items with gusto, but after a further fruitless half hour and fewer and fewer indications it seemed the feeding spell was coming to a close.
Just as I decided I'd had enough and put the lid on the bait box, both rods started up at once. The left rod seemed more urgently twitching and so I lifted it and was surprised to find that the non-strike met with the bump and glide of what I knew to be a good roach. Sure enough up came a fish of a pound and three ounces...!
The other rod could have been a two pounder! Whatever it was, the maggot returned as transparent skin. I should have struck both at once!
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