Hello again chaps, I've only had two rather dull trips in the last 15 months, so nothing to report, but yesterday it all went a bit bonkers...
The Grand Plan was to use the wet weather and England-Germany match to get a better chance of bagging some of the more desirable swims, but the wheels began to fall off when I couldn’t get an answer from Petrol-Splitter, who is normally mustard-keen and alert, on a fishing day.
Solitary, over seventy, health problems, unusual behaviour change … all alarm bells.
So, I drove round to his, rang the doorbell several times with no answer, so rang 111, who assessed the situation and said they’d send an ambulance. Job done, I set off back. Two minutes in, Lazarus rises, finds his phone, calls me and has the @@@ nerve to be angry with me!
Three minutes in, 111 calls back, and I explain the hearse could be called off. Panic over, I throw the kit together, failing to notice that my box has shed a leg, and leaving two-thirds of my meal-deal in the fridge, sort out the bait (except for the Stilton, which had got wind of The Plan and was hiding somewhere) and set off back to his. He must have done a bit of reflecting on what MIGHT have happened, and was actually ready on time; quite unprecedented!
The rain had started early, so next to nobody would be out fishing…
A water main had burst, so the main road was closed, and we followed a procession of the bewildered along narrow lanes through the Hertfordshire bocage, lost extras from the “Battle of the Bulge”, and never stopping long enough on these rural clearways to program the phone. I guessed correctly which way to turn upon meeting the main road, but blew it the other side of the village, and got thoroughly lost.
Once we’d finally figured out how to get somewhere sensible and had arrived at the fishery, the rain has stopped and there was a dismaying number of cars there, but we got into the same pegs as the last time, the Croatia game, when the river was flooding. That hadn’t been too bad, apart from the Noah re-enactment bit.
This wasn’t too bad, either; sloshings indicated P-S was catching before I’d even got a bait in the water, and a mud-cloud erupting under my toecaps showed there was at least one feeding fish near me. It was a barbel, just over eight pounds, so I was glad I’d bothered!
Another four netters followed plus two hope-for-the-future “swingers” of about six ounces each. The fast flow under the far bank produced as many chublets as anyone could ask for, and way more than I wanted, so all the bearded wonders were from the near-bank slack. I should have put a roach-rod up after no.4,because barbel bites dried up, but fighting the sloping bank with an uncorrectable (missing leg) box was tiring me, and the excitement of the day and the 6a.m. start rather got to me, so there was a long fallow spell until just before packing-up time.
The last one, who must have shared my habit of letting appetite triumph over timekeeping, weighed 8.88 pounds, whatever that is, which I think may make my best pair. That didn’t pull terribly hard compared to the middleweights; I think it was too busy trying to slap itself round the head for falling for that ol’ chestnut again.
Lazarus caught lots of netter chub to 4lb+, and a fair few barbel, too.
Just when I thought the wheels were firmly back on the plan, I realised the splashy lanes had drowned my speedometer, so the relaxing drive home, basking in the warm glow of success,