No, not square jawed fisherman's gansey wearing Richard Jobson's Valley but just a different valley, reached by a winding flinty path and nestled under rolling downs is a little jewel. Poplar fluff and sycamore keys litter the neat little pathways carefully picked out of the encroaching verges and crushed water mint and rosebay willow scents fill the heavy, warm air. We've had rain and the scented ripeness is pregnant with expectancy, heightened by clusters of bubbles and rocking reed stems, swaying in no breeze.
I press the short sticks in the verdant sward and hang the red bobbin on the lines, having laced the swim with dark, sweet and oily groundbait. I've avoided baiting up with trembling fingers because Rod Hutchinson did that many many years ago and instead of my sausage like digits I've impaled neon wafters on the barbless QM1's, and pressed them into neat little quenelles of tiny things purporting to be krill and squid. These things.