I gambled on the shorts and in the end it was the goose pimples on my legs and hands that could have done with gloves that had me scurrying home well before wine o'clock. It's this cold wind that is doing it. Blustery and mean. It was after 3.45 before I'd got the first underarm swings of the flat beds out to the bottom of the slope I'd found by leading about, and as ever yellow pineapple peril on the left, shocking pink tuna in the right. And the tuna wafters were very popular, but a series of strikes with the baitrunner still in free spool, a branch on the hook and once the wafter stuck in the fins of the feeder left me exasperated. All this time barely a twitch in the left hand rod. I was mulling over a twin tuna attack when a connexion on the strike and a very feisty performance by this crusty old male bream on the left hand rod changed all that as you can see by the little glimpse of yellow.
A rare and solitary snap off at the spade on the tuna rod to a butt ringer (barbless QM1 so it should be shed quickly) was soon nullified by another take on the pineapple rod and another bream was on the mat.