Two nights booked in at a fly fishing venue.
Nothing grand but just nice to be out in the fresh air.
Arriving mid-morning I am in no rush to kit up. My mate on the other hand is already there and is casting away like a good 'un. Wandering over, I relish the sight of the water, the blue sky and the wildlife that is abundant in the area.
I stand chatting until it is time for lunch - two hours have just flown by - my rods are still in the car. I really must try harder at being a fisherman.
After lunch I try hard at being a fisherman, It does not come naturally to me. My casting line looks like I am entering a Rodeo competition for the elderly. It is not a pretty sight.
I experiment with different flies. Small dark ones. Furry yellow ones. Big ones that look like they have fallen off a Christmas tree. None of them work.
One of my fellow fisherman asks, the inevitable question about which fly I am using. This week, thanks to SD, I learned the name of the fly that is made of Jay's wings.
"Colonel Downman's fancy". I lied. "It's the one made from the blue feathers from a Jay", I helpfully add.
"Very nice. Hope the Jay was shot under the very strict conditions of the General Licence". 'Not you as well' I thought.
At close of play for the day, my back ached, my shoulder hurt and I was without fish. Damn silly sport anyway.
Supper was a venison "Cottage Pie" that my wife had made. Then the joy of sitting around a fire pit, drinking G&Ts with friends.
The next day was more of the same. A beautiful day with a random hail storm in the afternoon thrown in for good measure. It only lasted about fifteen minutes and did not spoil the day.
What did spoil the day were the fish. Utterly uninterested in anything I had in my comprehensive fly collection. I once again failed to catch anything. This failure was exacerbated by the fact that early in the day I had a fish "on" and rather that play it properly, I turned around to my wife and my friend's wife to tell them I was "on" - seeking adulation and confirmation of my fishing skills. In so doing, I lost (what turned out to be) the only knock I had in three days of fishing.
My mate had managed a fish on the first day, and he was again successful on the second day. So thanks to him, and no thanks to me, we had two trout for that evening's supper. I checked our food bag - it contained five rolls. Matthew 14:13-21 sprang to mind. With some potatoes and hedge broccoli, the two fishes and five loaves; we managed to drink our way through another glorious evening at the fire pit.
On the last morning, my wife asked me to "instruct" her in casting. She had done so before and is better than me, but she thinks she has forgotten how. See image (iv) below for how that panned out.
Long short.
She will be returning to the venue to get some proper instruction from those qualified to do so. Someone hopefully less "shouty" than me...
One of the lads who helps to run the place came over.
"Hi S62, where is your massive landing net?"
I explain the the mice have been at it. He tells me (I did not know) that he is also a pest controller.
Whilst I am loading the car to leave, I am handed a bag. It contains six mouse traps.
The trip has not been a total loss.
No Oncorhynchus mykiss for me, but now my attention has moved onto Mus musculus.
Mus musculus is of course Latin for shooting bag/fishing net eating bastards...
Nothing grand but just nice to be out in the fresh air.
Arriving mid-morning I am in no rush to kit up. My mate on the other hand is already there and is casting away like a good 'un. Wandering over, I relish the sight of the water, the blue sky and the wildlife that is abundant in the area.
I stand chatting until it is time for lunch - two hours have just flown by - my rods are still in the car. I really must try harder at being a fisherman.
After lunch I try hard at being a fisherman, It does not come naturally to me. My casting line looks like I am entering a Rodeo competition for the elderly. It is not a pretty sight.
I experiment with different flies. Small dark ones. Furry yellow ones. Big ones that look like they have fallen off a Christmas tree. None of them work.
One of my fellow fisherman asks, the inevitable question about which fly I am using. This week, thanks to SD, I learned the name of the fly that is made of Jay's wings.
"Colonel Downman's fancy". I lied. "It's the one made from the blue feathers from a Jay", I helpfully add.
"Very nice. Hope the Jay was shot under the very strict conditions of the General Licence". 'Not you as well' I thought.
At close of play for the day, my back ached, my shoulder hurt and I was without fish. Damn silly sport anyway.
Supper was a venison "Cottage Pie" that my wife had made. Then the joy of sitting around a fire pit, drinking G&Ts with friends.
The next day was more of the same. A beautiful day with a random hail storm in the afternoon thrown in for good measure. It only lasted about fifteen minutes and did not spoil the day.
What did spoil the day were the fish. Utterly uninterested in anything I had in my comprehensive fly collection. I once again failed to catch anything. This failure was exacerbated by the fact that early in the day I had a fish "on" and rather that play it properly, I turned around to my wife and my friend's wife to tell them I was "on" - seeking adulation and confirmation of my fishing skills. In so doing, I lost (what turned out to be) the only knock I had in three days of fishing.
My mate had managed a fish on the first day, and he was again successful on the second day. So thanks to him, and no thanks to me, we had two trout for that evening's supper. I checked our food bag - it contained five rolls. Matthew 14:13-21 sprang to mind. With some potatoes and
On the last morning, my wife asked me to "instruct" her in casting. She had done so before and is better than me, but she thinks she has forgotten how. See image (iv) below for how that panned out.
Long short.
She will be returning to the venue to get some proper instruction from those qualified to do so. Someone hopefully less "shouty" than me...
One of the lads who helps to run the place came over.
"Hi S62, where is your massive landing net?"
I explain the the mice have been at it. He tells me (I did not know) that he is also a pest controller.
Whilst I am loading the car to leave, I am handed a bag. It contains six mouse traps.
The trip has not been a total loss.
No Oncorhynchus mykiss for me, but now my attention has moved onto Mus musculus.
Mus musculus is of course Latin for shooting bag/fishing net eating bastards...
