Headed off to the quacks for an ex-eray as they say round these parts. I had turned up a day early but they most graciously fitted me in. I presume I had a knee still, she didn't say. A bit parky for shorts but better than changing into a gown.
Chores done I had about 2 3/4 hours to try and get at least a bite under my 2020 belt. I knew where I was headed but not where I would stop. The Royal Ditch? Pampas Reach? Bungalow Bill's Bend or Cyanide Straight?
Some where in the middle it turned out. A fair bit of water in still and with a steady pull rather than silky glides. Down the edge with half blueys then.
Wasn't long before the upstream bluey tail began to make its way past me but only token resistance and slight scuffing on the bait. First move and the downstream bluey head (see how I roll?) began to set of for Yarmouth at a fair old lick. A few bangs then a sickening slackness. Deffo toothy action on that mother.
I moved down methodically but no more chances came my way. Instead I drank in the bucolic English Pastoral. Rooks cawing their way to their flood plain rookery, barking farm dogs and the mournful wail of the toy town loco on it's narrow little line. Wood smoke from a good old boys garden. Already a tinge of pink in the sky.
Which turned in to a stunning show to light my way back to the car.
Chores done I had about 2 3/4 hours to try and get at least a bite under my 2020 belt. I knew where I was headed but not where I would stop. The Royal Ditch? Pampas Reach? Bungalow Bill's Bend or Cyanide Straight?
Some where in the middle it turned out. A fair bit of water in still and with a steady pull rather than silky glides. Down the edge with half blueys then.
Wasn't long before the upstream bluey tail began to make its way past me but only token resistance and slight scuffing on the bait. First move and the downstream bluey head (see how I roll?) began to set of for Yarmouth at a fair old lick. A few bangs then a sickening slackness. Deffo toothy action on that mother.
I moved down methodically but no more chances came my way. Instead I drank in the bucolic English Pastoral. Rooks cawing their way to their flood plain rookery, barking farm dogs and the mournful wail of the toy town loco on it's narrow little line. Wood smoke from a good old boys garden. Already a tinge of pink in the sky.
Which turned in to a stunning show to light my way back to the car.
Oh well, at least something happened and you've still got the excitement of the first fish of the year to come.
ReplyDeleteMost certainly.
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