Had to have a quick bash on Golden Pond, felt it in me bones. Slightly secret squirrel in that I hadn't technically had a pass out from the gate house. I had though donned non-work footwear. The Essex Loafer has a thing about not wearing workshoes for anything else. Phil Smith never saw it as a problem.
Anyway, I was glad of the bib and braces and the Aldi hoodie with the built in snood up there on the staging in that bastard wind. Can you recall a day in 2019 without a bastard wind? When the surface wasn't being whipped into rollers the silt was being churned in a multitude of places, but only occasionally where I had just cast. The Canada Geese tried to encroach but two of my enforcer sticks were to hand and they soon backed off. Just once in the short session the float slid away purposefully and after a surprising tussle on the Drennan Waggler rod a bream was sliding to the stink net, three grains of gold in its upper lip.
It wasn't till I turned it for another frame that I saw the familiar line of enlarged scales in a healed wound. A true old friend this one.
No tench but one did up end and slap my float with it's paint brush tail. And here is some work shoe action for the Essex Scribbler
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