Well, I’ve been patiently awaiting your summary of the Bisterne trip but to no avail. I have decided therefore to bore you with an account of my latest trip to the River Wye with Mr. Amos.
I’d already phoned Mr A. the day before – Friday – expressing my doubts about the Welsh weather and the effect it would have on the river. However, as you are probably aware, Malcolm is not easily swayed away from matters-piscatorial and insisted that we see it through if only to enjoy a weekend away under canvas.
Well, I’m glad he did insist because it turned out to be one very enjoyable and very interesting couple of days. Little fishing was done of course, the water being literally 12’ above its normal level and racing through at about 20 mph – complete with trees, dead sheep and all sorts.
Saturday morning, early, saw us perform our good deed for the day when we came across a collie-dog, its back leg inextricably caught between two fence-wires; if its name wasn’t ‘Lucky’ then it should have been as the area probably never sees a human face in a month of Sundays. Its collar-tag sported a phone number and, being in possession of a mobile blower, we were able to alert the owner and eventually meet her half way along a public footpath with her mutt. (Both parties were clearly very pleased)
The footpath was both a revelation and easy access to a straight mile of river on which one could hide away for days on end if necessary…very private it was! The next couple of hours were spent exploring spots on the O.S map that I’d long been wanting to check-out.
Despite the flood-conditions, the straight mile still looked inviting in terms of camping so the tent was erected under the canopy of a big old chestnut tree and rods assembled for a short, half-hearted session in the flooded margins. Unsurprisingly we caught nothing and naturally gravitated toward the local boozer.
The pub we landed up in was nothing less than unbelievable! Resembling a condemned hovel – outwardly and inwardly – the place hadn’t seen a spot of polish for at least fifty years; a single, bare 60 watt light bulb struggled to illuminate the dusty bar and the arse-smooth seats therein. On the counter were point-of-sale display cards from the early sixties featuring busty blondes proclaiming their love of Babycham. The pint beer-mugs and glasses on the back shelf were nothing less than sepia, matching perfectly the small windows through which passers-by regularly peeped and retreated from; I tell you – we were in a time-warp!
In charge of all this was an attractively-faced old gal who, when asked what drinks were on offer, gave us a rather old-fashioned look and said ‘Beer, cider and spirits’ – simple as that!
Looking around, I could feel some photography coming on. I ordered a round of dry ciders then engaged the old girl, Penny, in conversation, learning that she’d run the place single-handedly since her parents passed away thirty-odd years before.
“Strangely”, she told us, few people came in nowadays, though back in the 60s she’d had the dubious pleasure of serving the Great Train Robbers when they were on the run. I took a picture or three (with her blessing) in the hope of emulating the quality and properties of those you see in the Sunday supplements – you know, moody and atmospheric. I was, though, using a new all-singing, all-dancing compact camera so I doubt if the results will be what I was hoping for.
Suddenly, the door was thrown wide open and there, silhouetted against the daylight, was the Hitchcock figure of a woman with Marge Simpson hair and a king-size fag in her mouth! Apparently it was ‘old Flo’ who came in every day expecting Penny to make her a cup of tea. She was deaf as a post, Welsh, but sounded Irish. Apparently she hated her husband of fifty years and spent all her time drifting from boozer to boozer in search of a free cup of tea. I asked if I could take her picture and she gave me the go-ahead…then promptly fell asleep!
I took another shot of the elegant Flo, head dangling and legs akimbo, and explained to Penny – quite truthfully – that I was testing out the camera in readiness of a wedding. Well believe it or not, we were having such an unusual and interesting time that we stayed on for another couple of pints. During this time no end of tourists and general punters pressed their noses to the windows curious of what lay inside, but walk on by they did! Maybe it was the sight of me and Amos that put them off!
Back at the river, early evening, it was a pleasure to rustle-up the dinner and gorge ourselves. A pair of buzzards made a welcome appearance and a kingfisher plied back and forth until darkness fell. Hitting the sack before nine, a good day had been had: no fishing, but very eventful and most amusing.
Baz
