Bureboyblog: Social on that Undisclosed East Midlands Stillwater

Thursday 5 October 2023

Social on that Undisclosed East Midlands Stillwater

Once a year the Loafer and I meet on the Undisclosed East Midlands Stillwater (well, it 'off a road that does traverse the East Midlands in parts), latterly to coincide with the yearly return to Blighty of the giant Canadian émigré, 6 foot 7ish in his stockinged feet and with hollow legs that accommodate the vast quantities of liquid he can imbibe, tea or alcohol mainly. I'd radioed ahead to the Quartermaster to pack extra water just in case.

I'd intended to be there at first light but road works at Little Stonham (I do miss the road straddling Magpie sign) and an unnecessary detour over the estuary straddling Orwell Bridge meant it was a bit later than that that I found the Google pinned layby and set off down the track, having first pissed all over the front my trousers having got in a pickle with my bib and braces.

No sign of The Loafer and the Exiled Giant as I poked the rod rests in the gravel bank and readied to send a sardine roughly in the vicinity of the buoy at the entrance to the small bay but as I did they appeared from the willow and birch scrub. Comparison of each other's ailments and the failing health of our olds indicative of our own advancing years but nowhere as ancient as Hugh Cornwell and Charlie Hooper. By the way, isn't that new Stones record AI?

Four rods out the ritual of the gas stove was initiated, 3 mugs produced and steaming tea drunk to ward off the slight chill of the facing wind. Forecast to brighten the big coat was kept in reserve.

As has become traditional the first take take goes to the visitor and the air mile collecting Exiled Giant trumped my A140 schlepp by the odd 10 hours and thousands of miles. Not a full blooded run but tapping of the tip of the Greys 3lb tc deadbait rod. Several acrobatic episodes but not much of a match for the rod.

The Exiled Giant used to be the Chief Unhooker but prefers a back seat now as below. I wonder how many pike we've unhooked on that bed of reeds over the years?

And as has become traditional just the one fish. I had a drop-off drop off but no run and the Loafer bought back a scuffed and slashed bait. No matter, sausages were cooked and eaten (Toulouse sausages) and more tea drunk. We talked of Mequinenza carp and catfish, mitten crabs and raw shit in rivers, Liverpool VAR and (my) Facebook trolling (Pardon?). Carbellers losing their rods and Brightlingsea Cottagers. The anachronism that is Radcliffe's tackle and guns.