We Meet Again

I took Nicky for a drive on Wednesday afternoon, the sun was shining and there was the promise of tea and maybe a cake. What she had not spotted was the bag of boilies and a catapult secreted in the rear of the car. I had ulterior motives.

And so our rambling journey happened to take us to my syndicate lake where the obligatory look around brought about a decision - I must fish here and bait was duly introduced into a favoured swim.

I had physio the next morning but talked her out of the usual agonies and hurried home to throw the last few bits and pieces into the car before heading off with a renewed enthusiasm. I was genuinely concerned that somebody may beat me to my prebaited spot but a look across the field as I descended through the woods confirmed that once again, I had the entire pool to myself.

I casually set up and put a couple of rods across to the gully that the fish seem to follow on their amblings. An hour later I had a bite but it was just a small bream that came in with the verve and attitude of a plastic bag. It's brethren spent the next few hours rattling my bobbins without result but doubtless reducing the amount of freebies left in the zone. I rectified this with some replacements, catapulted at the 'pult's extreme range. An arduous task but I couldn't find my throwing stick.

After a meal the sun was soon setting and the temperature plummeted. I read in the bivvy until a mixture of Bill Bryson's description of the Big Bang and BB's account of goose shooting had a soporific effect and I switched the light out for the night. I'd like to say it was restful but the owl that decided to sit about 2" above my head whilst continuously calling for a mate meant otherwise.

A lone raven woke me in the morning and I peered out to a cloudy start. I hate leaving the sleeping bag to get going but a coffee or two did the job and I rebaited then changed the 'snowman' set up to have a bright yellow pop-up on the top for better visibility. The other rod was left with 10mm boilies on the bottom.

Around 10 am I had a screaming run and a very hard fighting fish powered off up the lake. It then turned and, with equal strength, went off in the other direction. From bite to net it was a mighty tussle but, at last, I had it on the scales. At 27. 9 I was well pleased. A fit looking fish with muscly flanks.
Ian, a fellow syndicate member turned up and did the business with the camera before heading off for his chosen spot and a night's fishing.

My mid afternoon coffee was disturbed by a single bleep as I reached for the milk in the coolbox. The right hand rod was again bending and, as the clutch let go so a screamer of a run set off. This fish was not a fighter and it lolled about with copious amounts of weed hanging from the line and the fish's head. Despite having lowered the second rod into the water, it still managed to pick up this line and, as it's nose broke surface so the hook popped out. Ah well, I'd had a fish so I wasn't too upset.

The evening was even colder, so much so that I dropped the front flap of the bivvy. As I closed it I looked at the rods and thought "Please don't go off tonight, wait until I've had a good sleep". The owls were less active and despite the chill playing havoc with my bladder, I had a lovely kip.

I woke to a freezing morning and wrapped myself up in the sleeping bag for a bit of a lie in. Bleep! B.b.b.b.leeeep! "I'm coming!" I said as I opened the flap to see the left hand rod bending to the right. I'd switched to a similar snowman with the yellow 'head' on both rods and a carp had nobbled it. It again went fast to the right and I leaned hard against it whilst walking left and holding the rod low.

My efforts had little effect on the fish and it was kiting dangerously towards an overhanging bush where it would have doubtless found sanctuary. Not wanting a paddle on such a cold morning - I was in a T'shirt and a pair of pants at the time - I gave it some more stick and the fish relented and turned. It headed for open water where I let it have a good run about hoping to burn off some of its energy. It became ponderous and I felt I had the beating of it but, as it got within eight or ten yards of me, it turned and ran hard for the far bank. I was starting to realise it was a good fish...... and feel the cold.

Eventually it slipped begrudgingly over the net and was mine.

I rolled it onto it's side in the water to slip the hook out. I immediately recognised a scar on the left pectoral fin and knew that I had recaptured the big fish I'd had in June but had had to discount. A quick lift of the scales and a personal best was confirmed at 36lb 4oz.

I popped it into a sack, dressed and made a hot drink. It was 8am. "Morning dear, you didn't want a lie in did you?"  To be honest, Nicky loves to see my better fish and was happy to make the long drive just to take a few pictures. She really did enjoy being part of it although the dog was far less impressed.

What are the odds, the same big fish from the same swim on the same bait (Quest Baits Rahja Spice), in two trips three months apart? Others have fished this swim and it's produced some good fish, even bigger than mine, in the mean time but my fish showed no signs of hook marks other than the fin scar. There you go, just one of those little mysteries of angling and I for one, have no complaints whatsoever.

A Cracking Session

Usually, when I'm not fishing, I would spend a lot of time maintaining my gear, change line on the reels, sort the hooks and shot back into some sort of size order, that kind of thing. However, I just don't seem to have done that of late. This has made me lazy and, for example, I've grabbed a reel just because its got what looks like the right breaking strain line on it rather than its suitability. Most unlike me.

In fact, the only notable kit maintenance I recall was when I was presented with a 'stuck' landing net handle. I'd bought two identical ones and mine was still fine but Neil's had jammed solid. He has less patience than me... or anybody really, so I swapped, heated the twist lock and free'd it up. I did have a small fire but felt happy that I'd done the job to my usual low and sloppy standard.

Using a mixture of kit that came readily to hand, I've had a couple of brief adventures this month that have rewarded me with two modest chub on trotted bread and a blank.

I did have a weekend trip planned on a venue that I've been eager to fish for some time. Its one of those special places that you may only fish once in your life but which fills your thoughts and dreams by an inordinate amount. I shall say no more at this juncture, not until I make it a reality and alas, it won't now be this year. I had a 'test' fish today and it has confirmed that I will have to put Shangri La on hold.

I was a little adventurous in my choice of swim today but felt that I had to test my resolve. The 'special place' would involve a long drive, late night and little sleep followed by a day sat in a fishing chair. Such lengthy activities are still a bit far off which was further underlined by today's effort.

Nonetheless, I picked a swim that I felt was right for the conditions and fed it with a mixture of various soaked pellets and some small Questrami boilies. I spent a few minutes taking the wee-wee out of a couple of mates (like you do), then settled down to fish. My first cast lasted about fifteen minutes.

Neil arrived from his swim downstream asking for the scales. I duly ascended the north face of the Eiger and took a few pics of his nine pounder. Back I trudged, through base camp and a long descent dodging avalanches and angry natives to make cast number two.

Three minutes later and I detected a movement on the line, the strike was pure instinct and, I hoped, not too soon. It was perfect and a powerful fish ran hard downstream. My rod was right around and the old '66 gave line noisily from it's wonderful clutch. I turned it but it was hell bent on reaching Chepstow. But, continual pressure and some dogged heave ho'ing had it in the net and it was my turn to disturb the Boy - which makes a change.

At just over nine it was my first barbel of the season! Ah well, its not a bad average I suppose. I lowered it in the net to release it when there was a faint 'snick' and the landing net handle broke just where I'd had the fire.

With Neil's help it was returned safely and the net recovered. And so ended my session.

Nicky was surprised by my early return but was pleased by my capture and amused by the net fiasco. Ah well, looks like I've got to catch up on some tackle maintenance.

Not A Lot

Apologies for the dearth of input on my behalf but its been a funny old year. Well, that's using the word 'funny' in an obtuse way but its more polite than saying 'shit'.

I'm still only fishing the occasional short session where the main requirement is a level seating position. This is a major drawback as the river has been low and the fish less than obliging in the more heavily pressured areas. I love the river when its like this and I know plenty of places where, were I able to creep, crawl or climb, then fish by squatting on a ledge or tucked in a bush, I'd be catching regularly. As it is I have yet to catch a barbel this season and have had to 'make do' with chub after chub.

A chub beached and ready to be unhooked

'Make do' sounds dreadfully disrespectful for our most obliging fish and, although there have been times when I've quietly cursed chub for stealing a bait intended for barbel, I love catching them especially when I target them. And target them I have. Well, at least I can catch something rather than sit around waiting for the barbel to serve me up a blank.

A rare bend in the rod

The result

I've been using some Questrami boilies by Quest Baits in 10mm which the fish seem to like very much indeed. They were bought with barbel in mind and my lad Neil, has proved that they work (curse him), but, as I said, the chub love 'em. I've fished a few known chub haunts and have had plenty of 3, 4 and one 5 pounder. Its always a perfect evening to be sat, rod in hand and resting on my knee or foot whilst the line is hooked over my index finger. That urgent pull and the resultant strike are well rehearsed and feel somehow 'natural'.  Give me touch ledgering over rod top watching any day.

The only adventure I've been on was a second trip after Welsh Wildies. It was a gathering of Traditional Fishing Forum members which could sound stuffy to the uninitiated. It is however, far from it. Our group was made up of a recently unemployed bartender, a Fire Brigade enforcement
officer, a teacher and amongst others, a Judge! Despite the broad cross section of society, the banter was pure fishing and lost fish are mocked by all and sundry - especially by me when I watched Scott, the teacher lose one on the Friday. I was less keen on the mocking when I lost two in quick succession on the next morning. But I stand by my decision that his was bad angling whereas mine was bad luck, an opinion shared by ..... well, nobody.

Pant Y Llyn

I only landed one small carp and an even smaller chub from the bleak mountain lake of Pant Y Llyn. I was fishing into the teeth of a cold and often wet wind and the fishing was challenging too. Despite our 'traditional' brief, I had to revert to a spot of hi-tech in order to succeed. I eventually started hitting and staying attached to fish by presenting my bait just above the soft weed that carpeted the pool by using a small grain of pop-up corn attached close to the hook shank.

I didn't stay very long and didn't stay for the second day when I would have had another stab at Llyn Gwyn. Instead I returned home which was fortuitous as my mother, who's been under our care for the last eighteen months or so, had taken a turn for the worse. And that's what has absorbed my time since. Fishing has rarely taken such a back seat in my life.

I know that this run will end one way or another and I shall be back on the banks with renewed vigour and hopefully, a few fish to write about. There is rain forecast and the river will spring back into life. We shall then enter Autumn and the peak of the season. Fingers crossed I'll have the line crooked over my finger as the evenings begin to chill and the fish seek to put on weight.

Mysteries

Ggggghosts!

There's no such thing as ghosts! The very notion is absurd isn't it? To suppose that, of all the animal kingdom, we are blessed with a soul or spirit that can somehow outlive our mortal bodies. Oh yeah, when did that first happen? Did cave men have a soul? Did the upright walking apes of the African jungles have souls? Going back farther, did the tiny mammals that took over after the dinosaurs became tantalising fossils have a soul?  If the 'soul' runs in tandem with opposable thumbs then maybe, but we don't read too many tales about people being haunted by tiny monkeys do we? And think for a moment the time in history when a man first acquired this mythical soul, what would the chaps either side of him think? No, we live, we die, we rot. All of our talents and accrued knowledge and experience goes with it - the end

It is no coincidence that most of the alleged ghosts take the form of people that lived around the time of the birth of the printing press. This was the period when the opiate addled minds of the authors of the day used their hallucinogens to conjure up tales to sell the books that were then newly available. Those images became the 'norm' and continue today.

Angling writers for years seem to have dwelled upon tales of eerie lights, sounds and apparitions in the dark around old stately lakes in particular. Why the local canal wouldn't have a spook or two is beyond me, there must be hundreds of wandering, tortured cat spirits for a kick off. We all like a mystery especially if someone gets the crap scared out of them somewhere along the way but I don't buy into ghosts or evil spirits of any kind and I will happily fish at the 'scariest' lake or sleep soundly in the world's most haunted abode should anybody care to invite me....... and pay my bus fare.

So, having said all of the above, why do I keep hearing those footsteps that come along the bank when I'm fishing by lakes? Not just one lake but several. Crunch, crunch crunch goes the noise with a weight and speed of a human walking and.... just when its close enough.... you look..... and there's bugger all there! Not even a pheasant, squirrel or rat wearing your wellies. Most peculiar.

Just the other day I was sat in glorious sunshine, enjoying all that the world can offer as I fished for carp. A fellow angler pulled up a couple of swims away.... I heard him slam his door (don't get me started). Soon after they began. Crunch, snap! (that was a twig), crunch, crunch... it approached me and the dog was up and waiting at the little gap in the undergrowth he'd already used to go and explore. He stood, slowly, passively wagging his tale.

The noise got closer to the point where I was looking through the undergrowth fully expecting to see the newly arrived door slammer, I'd even formed that benign welcoming grin on my mush and the dog was settling back on his haunches to leap up and slobber all over him......... but the noise stopped.

Cane was straight in to the thicket and searching around for who or whatever it was and seemed very interested in a small gap under some undergrowth. I had a look around but we came up negative and another mystery visitor was logged as 'unsubstantiated'.

If any of you have identified this thing please tell me what it is. I repeat, I'm not frightened, just very very curious.

The Forth Dimension - another mystery to ponder.

My Korum Ruckbag is a portal to the fourth dimension. There, I've said it. No doubt I shall now be called in by scientists for tests and experiments but I doubt they will discover anything as my bag is as cunning as it is mysterious.

It started with a head torch. In a bag full of smaller bags, plastic pots and catapults, a head torch with a long and colourful strap is an easy item to locate. Pull two or three other items apart and there's the strap or that glinting glass lens, its so easy to find I could even do it in the half light of dusk. Except one day I couldn't. So I had a better rummage and still it was not there. The Ruckbag is capacious and has inner pockets and folds in it's fabric that can hide less obvious items but no amount of searching saw my head torch reappear.

I had repeated the search in full daylight before consigning it to the 'lost in action' category that so much of our tackle falls in to. A replacement was purchased and this nice new shiny torch was placed in the central pocket for use later that day and happy that I was now full able to cope in all light scenario's I headed for the river.

The day became the evening and the light levels failed. I opened the Ruckbag, moved one or two things aside and spotted a headband that I knew would be attached to the torch. I lifted it and there it was - my old head torch! The new one was with it of course, but where had the old one been?

More filing was called for and this went under the 'I must be going daft heading'. But the bag was not finished with me.

A sunny day saw me sat on a gravel beach attempting to encourage a chub or two from their lair. I had been scribbling in my diary which I put back into its bag and returned it to the Ruckbag. My intention was to go and visit my mate who was fishing about 75 yards away upstream so, I removed my reading glasses and placed them carefully onto the side of the open Ruckbag. I did this so that on my return they would be obvious to me and unlikely to get sat upon - the perfect plan.

After a brief chat I was back and reached for my glasses...... they were not there! 

Over the next hour both of us walked, bent at the waist, along the bank from my position to his. We each emptied the bag of it's entire contents onto a plastic sheet and probed and delved into every pocket and corner but no glasses were found. I even checked out the local bird population in case one of them was wearing them and taking the piss out of me from a tree top but no, they never turned up.

If that had happened next to an ancient estate lake there'd be books written about the ghost of Dave's bag. Quiet what was going on? Well, you tell me.

One last mystery

Below are three anglers that visited the Red Lion at the weekend. The fine looking gentleman to the left in the first picture is my old mate Andy Sliwa, the man that is responsible for rejuvenating many cane rods that I've dumped on him over recent years and he took three more on when he left. 

Nothing exceptional really - or is it? I visited the gathering on Saturday when most had taken to the shallow waters of a thirsty Wye in order to trot for whatever happened along as opposed to sitting behind static barbel rods.

One of the above waddled slowly to the shore bemoaning an overfull bladder and proceeded to unpeel his chest waders and set the sprinklers off to much groaning and "Aaahing!" with no regard to the passing canoes and their mixed gender crews. He further raised the eyebrows of his colleges by declaring that he thought the return to the bank superfluous and that he wished he'd relieved himself in his waders!

When I entered the pub they were already a beer or two ahead of me and the first topic of conversation was the above but with an addendum.

So, using your skill and knowledge, can you unravel the mystery and tell which of the five pissed in his waders on no less than three occasions whilst fishing and seemed somehow proud of the feat?

I can only give one clue...... he wears glasses :o)

Honestly

I cursed the wrestling ability of bedchairs and sleeping bags as I set up my little shelter next to the lake. Its the worst bit of making your temporary home as the bed is heavy, unwieldy and barely fits in it but I scored two falls and won the bout.
 
The lake looked oddly coloured and was flat calm, disturbed only by the many small roach that live there, dimpling the surface here and there. But the banks and especially this swim looked undisturbed which is what this place is all about - solitude. I was soon baiting the channel on the far side and hoping that a patrolling fish or two might find my bait over the next couple of days.

As I'm still nursing an ailment or two I restricted myself to one rod - a Hardy LRH - and a horrible plastic Daiwa Regal because it was the first one I found in my store of such things that could be switched to right hand drive. Feeling a little disadvantaged should the moment of panic arrive in the night, I went through my bite reaction routine in my mind then got myself some food and sat reading until dusk. Heaven.

I dropped off but was suddenly aware that Cane - on lesson one in being a bivvy dog, the overnighter - was up and growling. He'd had a right go at a couple of swans and the three herons that flew in together but we'd had a chat about that and had been quiet calm. But now he was bristling and started to bark. He leapt forward to go off and chase whatever he'd heard but I grabbed him and sat calming him for a minute or two when I had a bleep!

I found shoes and head torch and was at the rod as a nice run developed and I lifted into a solid weight. In this swim the fish sit in a gully which takes a bit of persuasion to get them out, then they come begrudgingly through numerous but sparse weed beds and I've found that a steady pump and wind will usually win the day. This fish however, was feeling particularly stubborn and I was twice met with stalemate but, the rod has a lot of power and I just kept the pressure on and slowly but steadily the fish moved again.

Do you know what I mean when you have doubts about your hook hold? I had full confidence in my set up but I was wondering about just how this fish reacted to the pressure... or maybe it was just BIG!

As it approached my bank so it kited right - like they all do. There's an overhanging bush in the water and carp just feel the need to pop over and have a look but I put on plenty of side strain and kept the rod low..... it worked. Then it decided to repeat the manoeuvre but at high speed so we went through the same little routine and back it came but it kept going for the tree on the other side. The rod was now bent to the handle but I don't mess about with fish and this one was coming in.... and it did, right into the waiting net.

I rested it for a few minutes whilst I went through the laying out and wetting of unhooking mat and weigh sling and found the camera. I then lifted my prize from the water and felt the colossal weight in the net. As I climbed the bank to the flat area where everything was laid out, my back was telling me that I'd overdone it but I gritted my teeth and gently lowered the fish and unfurled the mesh.

Bugger! There, neatly in the root of the left pectoral fin was my size 8 hook. I gazed in awe at my biggest ever carp and said out loud "You don't count mate". To make it worse the fish had crapped out loads of my bait so it was feeding and I may have simply used too long a hair. I was gutted but went through the vein process of weighing it and took a couple of snaps then slid it back to it's watery home where I promise, I shall do everything I can to remake the acquaintance.

It was only a little after midnight but I didn't recast. I got back into bed and slept well......... eventually.

When I woke I felt a little like someone who'd put their winning lottery ticket through the wash but soon shook off the disappointment, after all, a day that felt pretty fishless had produced one and today the wind was pushing hard up to the narrow end of the lake - stalking time.

I headed for the bay and found a few nice fish basking, only one was stirring up the silt and it was impossible to get a bait to it. Never mind, I know a place. Once there I set a little trap near a lily bed and retired to write my diary and to educate a manic dog that he doesn't need to run everywhere and that not all squirrels need chasing. So he went for a paddle - through the deepest, smelliest marsh mud you could imagine.

Out of the blue the rod was away and I grabbed it - right handed - then fumbled to change hands and struck. There was a weight then nothing - Bugger again! This was followed by a spell when I forgot how to cast and use a catapult. I sat and sulked until the curse lifted but I knew this swim was a bust.

I made the long steamy walk back to the car and headed to the nearby village for an ice cream. This lifted my mood and I was soon back at base and fishing on my first choice spot. I spent the time watching the thousands of midges that formed a little insect tornado in front of me. By following individuals (not easy), you could see that they flew quite steadily up and down an area where the air was evidently warm. Its when they reach the turn point that they appear manic and give the impression of a swirling confusion, its just a trick of the eye.

Such heady observations were interrupted by a run at a little after 2pm. I suspected bream but was soon in the old pump, wind routine as another lump came towards my bank. No drama apart from a late flurry and a 26.7 was soon returned. I was very satisfied.

That evening at about 11.30 I was away again. I leapt out of bed and went into my routine of head torch out of the right shoe, both shoes on, close bait runner, lift into fish... However, a dog, deeply asleep and laying on my shoes failed to help in the dark. I went by the light of a June sky and returned for the light once the dog had sat up and yawned.

This fish came in like a sack full of kittens and was literally wound to the net. I have to say I was unimpressed and, as guide to just how blaze you can get about fish sizes, I considered returning it without so much as a photo. I soon came to my senses and did the deed after all, it was 25.8.

Again I opted for some kip and a rest of my bones rather than face another night time frenzy. My sleep would have been a good one except that Cane decided to jump on the bedchair and sprawl across me taking up most of the room. He's still got a way to go to get his certificate as fishing mutt of the year.

The next morning a bite brought my first tench from the venue. I've seen some nice ones in the past but this was just a small male and it did its best against over-heavy gear. There was drama at the end when I left the fish in the net for a moment and it discovered the hole some wretched rodent had made. I had to land it again with the line running out of the net and back into the top.
I was honestly happier with this fish than the wimp of a carp that I'd had before. Funny thing fishing.

The next couple of fish were small bream and were met with less enthusiasm.

A trip with highs and lows, a test of my honesty (what would you have done?) and a mind boggling struggle with size and values. I can honestly say it was great fun

Yay, Fishing Again!

I've been fishing! After a bit of a wait its come as something of a relief but I suppose its only been like the old close season. How did we manage back then?

Anyway, I was staying with my sister down in sunny Devon and we'd arranged for a day on her hubby's boat. Now, when he said he was going to get a boat I suggested something like a nice Orkney Longliner in 16' or so for poodling around the estuary. Did he listen? No, of course not. So we boarded 28' fishing boat which, I have to admit, is just the sort of boat I have spent many days dreaming about. I used to do a lot of sea fishing and have part owned several small fibre glass money pits and always yearned for riches and a mooring. David has both and he was only too happy to skipper me on a breezy day.

I'd be happy with the tender

Plenty of tech on board

Passing Salcombe the fish finder already showed plenty of fish about and when we hit the main water, my first drop brought four struggling mackerel aboard. It was too easy which is the nature of mackerel. Its either a coconut every time or you spend your entire fishing day searching for the damned things. The fact that I was using a multiplier outfit also meant I was fishing left handed so I coped admirably.

We soon had enough along with a couple of pollack and some launce that were returned. I don't know the area well enough to know where to bottom fish and the gusty wind was such that positioning the boat would have been problematic, so it was back ashore and a very tasty evening meal.

On the estuary beach I spotted this brute, a barrel jellyfish. I'd earlier found some small, black grape like clusters that later research proved to be cuttlefish eggs, a first for me. Apparently, some people have kept them in sea water and they've hatched! Man, I'd love to do that - cuttlefish are one of my favourite animals.

..................................................................................................................................................................

June the 16th is upon us and I felt suitably confident in my left handed abilities to have a go on a new pool to me. It only holds small carp and a few tench but bites are assured, its little fished and the bird song surrounding the venue is wonderful. 

I baited next to a lily bed and lobbed my float gear out into the general area and I sat back. Okay, I cheated. I couldn't Wallis cast left handed and, truth be told, I doubt that I ever shall but, when the float sailed away I hooked and played a small fish to the net with ease. A couple more followed but they were even smaller. My arm began to ache so, after less than a couple of hours, I packed. I'd managed to fish, I'd caught and its the Glorious 16th - what could be better.

The Passing of Time

Its June and the summer is revving up for it's glorious opportunity to bring growth to the countryside and to bring warmth and joy to us all. Except its cold and the dawn temperatures are near freezing. Ah well, it'll get better soon, won't it? That's the trouble with these warm springs, they invariably get evened out during the summer but hey, it could be worse, it could be affecting my fishing.

Yes, I'm still bloody grounded as my shoulder creaks and groans back to proper use and my back finds new and exciting ways to stop me from doing much. Am I getting testy? Of course I'm getting bloody testy! There's so much I want to do but cannot that I'm driving myself and my long suffering best lady well and truly up the wall. The time is passing very slowly but, at the same time, the year seems to be dripping through my fingers at an alarming rate. Its very frustrating.

On the bright side I've joined a new lake syndicate. I've had a good look around it and it will certainly see me on the banks soon one way or another. I've decided to give it another week or so then start fishing - left handed. I reckon I can reel with my right hand fairly easily and let my left take the weight of a rod and enormous fish..... maybe. Casting may be a tad comical so please, no following me with the video cameras.

Here be stalking places

Let me at it!

The 'passing of time' has been at the forefront of my thinking of late. The idea that I am well and truly crocked and that the procedures I've had and the one I am due are but sticking plasters over a wound that will effect me for the rest of my life has been sinking in. This has all been brought home by looking through boxes and boxes of old film slides that my father collected during his life. Seeing the family looking so young really does drive home the inevitability of ageing. Its something that we tend to shrug off until we reach a certain point in our lives and I have evidently reached that point. 

Ho hum, here's a few pictures from when I were a lad. The first is one of my all time favourites as it shows the day when my grand father was staying with us and came out with my dad to collect me after I'd fished at Yeovilton Weir. I had a net full of dace and roach most of the latter being caught on trotted silkweed. He was quietly impressed and held the biggest fish for a while, turning it in his hand in appreciation like he was admiring an antique. To have that silent nod of approval from the one relative that had helped me to become an angler meant the world.

Hopefully my next blog will show some pictures of me holding my first captures of the season but in the mean time - here's young me!

I'm too old for this trike, buy me a bicycle!

The allure of water has always been there

Lost in the patterns of turbulence 

I haven't changed a bit.