Down in Devil Dog Land to see the Old, the Loafer thought the lowland border defining river might be ok but it wasn't. By miles. Several meadows wide anyway, as far as I could see anyway. So the rods stayed in the Charabanc and I made do with a pint and scratchings in the Anchor.
Said rods remained recumbent in the Charabanc for a 'just in case' which was just as well as a 'just in case' clear, within bank upper reaches of a Norfolk chalk stream was on my well earned shorter day commute home. Urban, but chalk. The clarity in the low, bright sun conditions would mean searching out darker (deeper) water. So clear you'd swear there were no fish in the stretch.
A small handful of red and white grubs followed up with two impaled on a #16 B560 trotted on a 2 swan chubber told otherwise. Legions of these gorgeous fantastically painted wild brownies beat any nearby roach or dace to them every time. I did loose count and only one spot was biteless. Need to find the roach and dace next time.
It wasn't that long a session but just long enough to miss most of the carnage of heroic Maxwell's demolition of an Afghanistan who must have thought a highly unlikely skittling out of Australia was within their grasp. 202 not out, mostly whilst rooted to the spot racked by dreadful cramp.
Lovely colours on those trout, but surely it's upstream dry fly only for those beasties.
ReplyDeleteYou'd think...
Delete