When Trees Eat Signs — Excellent!

Gurn the Intrepid Piscator has a series currently running over on his blog concerning that alarming attitude those woody leafy creatures prettifying our waterways — trees & shrubs — have about our iron attachments and appliques to them.

Out on a Warwick & District Angling Association recce with Phil after we'd concluded our ressy trip hunting for pics for a new website I'm knocking up for the club, we came across one of said trees, mid-meal.

I took its picture...

It didn't even blink!

Slow eaters trees, but not at all camera shy. It just carried on munching away as if we weren't there, but I'm sure it knew we really were...

Anyways.

If you send along your own arboreal restaurantanalia to Gurn, he'll no doubt publish your examples alongside the excellent selection he's already collected.

Trees, eh?

Anyone would think they ran the place the way they carry on what with their digesting of our club signs, barbed wire, railings and what not!

The Intrepid Piscator

Reservoir Mutts — Smashing Stuff (Pt1)

Second stint at the ressy started off just exactly where I left off last weekend. Same swim, same line, same bait, same plethora of bites. Those silvers do love their bread...

When I'd sorted my tackle about me and got around to actually striking bites rather than enjoying out of the corner of my eye the spectacle of a float plunging up and down like a misfiring piston, in they came one after the other, just as before, only this time the difference was the stamp of them. All little fish these and some greedy urchins with heads smaller than the bait they'd gobbled!

Reservoir Mutts — Equally Smashing Stuff (Pt 2)

Sorry for my sad broken rod, its tip dangling uselessly jammed against the float, I pushed the glass splint back in the splintered carbon socket and retired it to the quiver, perhaps for ever.

Gold, Silver... and Fast Running out of Shot!

The first sight on approach to a new water is always quite something isn't it?  Like catching a fleeting glimpse of breast through a diaphanous blouse, when I clap eyes on that branch-broken flash I tend to lose my footing, each step thereafter a hazardous guess!