Following on from my enforced hiatus from rod dangling and the ensuing blank, I have made two trips to the River Lugg during the last few hours of daylight. I have been surprised at how quickly I have regained some stamina; proof were it needed that the cure is sometimes worse than the ailment, and pills that make you wobbly are best avoided. Hmm, that's the opposite of Viagra, isn't it? I digress.
On my first trip, old spangle nuts (the Boy) sent me a text as I approached my first swim. He suggested that I cast to the farthest reaches of the pool, where the deep water holds barbel. I had brought a one-pound test rod and a centre pin. Apart from close work on the float, I haven't cast with a pin for about a year, so that was a bit of a downer. I searched with worms and cheese around, but it was dead. Even the small chub that harried the minnows were reluctant to engage.
The light was fading, so I visited a favoured spot. I fended off a queue of sniffing dogs, each hellbent on locating my Red Leicester cheese, and smiled politely at their owners, especially the female ones.
I offered freebies to the water gods and weighted my rig down with just enough lead to allow it to trundle out of the main current and settle alongside the nearside margin, hopefully just short of the snags.
With the Wye and Lugg in mind, and the lack of level swims and my inability to balance on tiny ledges like some mountain goat, I made a purchase a while back. It's a four-metre landing net handle, and yes, it is just about right even in low water conditions. I positioned it near my baited area, but fished farther upstream, where I quietly flopped into my fishing chair with a loud sigh/grunt.
My line lay over a lot of long grass, which I didn't like. I repositioned so that I had an unhindered path to the bait. It didn't take long. A gentle nod followed by a lunge and a chub was head-shaking and looking for cover. I was at my net in no time and brought the fish close enough to enmesh it. Funny thing is, a bloody great net pole, the net, and the resistance of water combine to make manoeuvring it quite difficult. I flopped the net head into the margin, pulled the fish over it and grabbed the handle. Job done? Not quite. Lifting three pounds+ of fish, and something to do with fulcrums that I have long forgotten, added to the extra weight of it all tangling in some grass and weeds. Well, thank goodness it was only a modest fish.
Job done, I had caught something at last.
A few days later, we were back. Neil was trying to find some perch or pike with small dead roach. I did so too, for a while, but reverted to the cheese and worms. It was great to be sitting together, chopsing about the world and all the crap two anglers natter about. Nothing happened except Neil lightened his and my float box by a couple of treasures.
As the sun began to drop behind a hill, I moved to a swim that I'd fed the last time I was here, but didn't get around to fishing. It was similar to the one that had produced before and an exact copy in approach and subsequent result followed. I made landing it slightly easier by sitting on the edge of the bank. Getting up again was an indignant affair, but a fish is a fish and I was content.
This was my last trip as a sexagenarian; my demise into old age will be displayed in these pages.
