Mudlarks

The stalker of the marshes and creeks invited myself and the venerable (older) Bully down to cash in on the return of the mullet and bass in numbers to is local haunts armed with a bag of rag and static fly gear. Coffee and yarns over we set off to the local mark to fish to the bottom of  the ebb for the bass and to see if the mullet would turn up in numbers for later. I'd forgotten my rod rest (Loafer had bagged his favourite seaweed encrusted old piling) so made do with this finely whittled bespoke rest that he had fashioned. The rod didn't stay on it much as we had schoolie rattles from the off on the rag.

I really, really hate estuary mud and the Loafer was pressganged into landing and hooking half a dozen or so so bass for me. This was the best of the bunch.:

He did refuse however to have anything to do with this decent eel. He absolutely hates them.

Bully was off doing his own thing and became the first proper victim of the ooze, much to our merriment. Victim number 1

Eventually my under gunned Puddle waggler rod  gave up the ghost with a satisfying crack so I became a spectator for a while.

Described later by Guzzagog as a hungry fecker Loafer can't usually sit still or settle into a rut. He tried  a baited spinner, a trotting rig and his most successful method was touch legering way over to the far margin.

One time he does stand still is when employing the deadly static fly for the mullet which had gathered in sufficient numbers in one spot to try for. He is there, blending in like a heron, strike indicator just a  yard out. 

Twenty minutes of concentration and bingo, mullet on. A long fish, it was empty and for the first time ever the 'you'd  better get those scales checked' meant under weighing as the 3lb shown was questioned. I'll give the Loafer an extra retrospective extra 7oz for my usual sling reset.

The tide was making so we headed back to Loafer Ville for a welcome cup of tea and biscuits and to allow the Venerable Bully to hose himself down, compression leggings and shorts it would turn out to be  a wise choice of undergarments.

Down to the mullet pool and fish were already gathering. I lost a much better bass on rag and VB picked up a couple too. 

The Loafer was already in hungry fecker mode and he, VB  and Guzzagog in his clean shorts  headed off to meet the arriving phalanx of grey ghosts. I d just begun to lay out a good length and straight line of my team of 2 when the strike indicator began to drift, the cocktail stick retainer had fallen out. I reluctantly made my way down to the more treacherous hot spot in time to see Guzzagog become victim number 2.

My rods were hopelessly tangled so I set off to make  a short trudge to terra firma. Only to find it wasn't. Victim number 3.

The Loafer left me sink long enough for me to remember and payback for the time I made him wait until I fed and finished the trot for a livebait for the bucket before rescuing him from a chilly river Colne.

Not sure why he made me take the mud encrusted stuff off before he'd let me sit in his dendrobaena infested van. Walking back to his house was mentioned. Reader, I have just finished soaking and washing them. No, I had no presentable undergarments like the Venerable Bully? Would I go again? Hell yeah.