The Continuing Adventures of the Fluff Club, Episode 29
In which the names
of the Fluff Boys are pseudonyms, to protect the innocent.
The very ground trembled beneath their feet, the FBs were out in force ... ish! Nine Fluff Club members made the starting line but we were very noticeably missing the Headmistress, prevented from defending her title because the human spine was designed by a committee. Or was it really because of the sudden overnight frost which had put ten mill of ice on the two ponds at Woodington? Whilst the assembled crew warmed hands at the chimnera next the hut, the new guvnor (three months in) set forth in his icebreaker (kayak) under the watchful eye of the Admiral, back and forth, round and round, cracking swathes through the ice, an Olympian sport in the making. It was definitely brass monkeys weather! The very welcome breakfast rolls and hot drinks assuaged chilled fingers and lifted the spirits. Why does the phrase "soft southern Jessies" spring so readily to mind?
I can't give the reason for today's annual commemoration competition without giving the game away, so to keep the true identities under wraps in the hope that it makes reading this blog all-inclusive rather than exclusive I won't list all the rules or any other clues in this account. Suffice to say we would compete for the best brace, but once you had your two you had to stop fishing, you were limited to just six flies for the two fishing sessions, each lasting just two hours, with a lunch break in between.
First it was necessary to find a patch of clear water to cast into amid the pieces of ice. Soon rods were bending around the banks as the FB's carefully played the pieces of ice they had hooked towards their waiting landing nets. Fingers and toes numbed as the minutes passed, but after half an hour the frost on the grass began to recede. Apart from the various mumbled curses it was an absolutely silent winter morning.
Gallilee, fishing a brown mink Zonker, was the first to hook a trout, it led him under several ice patches before he was able to land it, a cracker Rainbow at nearly four pounds. Soon afterwards the Lumberjack hooked a feisty fish, which took a while before submitting, and was an even bigger Rainbow than Gallilee's, weighing over five pounds! Pressure? What pressure?
The Professor's orange and black Cormorant variant suddenly proved irresistible to a two-pound Rainbow, soon safely landed. Jackdaw was next, netting a fish of a pound-and-a-half, doubtless to one of his esoteric concoctions of the more exotic psychedelic materials, blingy and secured with a dollop of superglue.
Gallilee hooked into his second still using that Zonker, before very long sliding the trout over the ice towards his landing net and that was his brace complete, plus the cessation of his sport for the day, leaving him to anxiously cross fingers and watch the remaining eight.
Next to bend into a fish was the Admiral, using a simple PTN pattern he took a lively Rainbow, another one around two pounds. When the whistle signalled lunch four were still to catch: the Sailor, Rodney, Dell-boy, and Whytee. The barbecued lunch was excellent, thanks to J and S, raising our spirits again, the chill was still lifting but it had started to rain steadily. We consoled ourselves that the rain would see the ice starting to diminish more quickly.
We started the second half, I still had three flies available to use; you were not permitted to re-use a fly that you had taken off your cast, nor could you get a substitute if you lost one. I tied on a good old CW and headed for the second pool, where the Admiral caught earlier, to a part which had been iced over but was now clear water. After a few casts there was an unmistakable nip at the CW's tail. The next cast brought a firm pull and I hooked a Blue trout which fought vigorously, as Blue's often do. I played it with great care, anxious that it might escape, but just when I started to feel I had the upper hand it shook the hook out. I cast to the same place and had a take straight away, this time the fish didn't give me the slip, a slightly smaller Blue about one-and-a-half pounds. During the tussle I spotted a trout inquisitively shadowing the hooked one. Casting again to the hotspot produced another firm resistance and I landed a small Rainbow to complete my brace. I put up the rod knowing I couldn't beat Gallilee, and if the Lumberjack managed a second even a small one would see him streets ahead at the finish. Ho Hum, that's fishing.
The Admiral struck, but it soon became apparent that the trout was hooked in the tail fin. As soon as he could draw it into the bank he knelt down, unhooked it and let it swim away, not wanting to retain it because it was not fairly hooked, ever the gent.
Jackdaw hooked into a fish, probably using a fly derived from that 'dead parrot' sketch, but once safely netted he declared it "too small and too pretty to knock on the head" so he slipped it back into the pond. The thought struck me immediately: gracious gesture or slyly tactical? The truth was purely academic because the whistle soon sounded the finish.
It would have been the Lumberjack's title if he had caught that vital second fish, but as it was our new champion was Gallilee, Whytee runner-up, and nobody else managing to catch that elusive brace. The Sailor, Rodney, and Dell-boy had blanked, unhappily, catching only pieces of ice and/or lurking trees, but given the conditions a respectable number of trout had been caught. Roll on next year, when we will have to keep an eye on Jackdaw. And the Admiral.
Felice Natale. Finu a a proxima vota.
The very ground trembled beneath their feet, the FBs were out in force ... ish! Nine Fluff Club members made the starting line but we were very noticeably missing the Headmistress, prevented from defending her title because the human spine was designed by a committee. Or was it really because of the sudden overnight frost which had put ten mill of ice on the two ponds at Woodington? Whilst the assembled crew warmed hands at the chimnera next the hut, the new guvnor (three months in) set forth in his icebreaker (kayak) under the watchful eye of the Admiral, back and forth, round and round, cracking swathes through the ice, an Olympian sport in the making. It was definitely brass monkeys weather! The very welcome breakfast rolls and hot drinks assuaged chilled fingers and lifted the spirits. Why does the phrase "soft southern Jessies" spring so readily to mind?
I can't give the reason for today's annual commemoration competition without giving the game away, so to keep the true identities under wraps in the hope that it makes reading this blog all-inclusive rather than exclusive I won't list all the rules or any other clues in this account. Suffice to say we would compete for the best brace, but once you had your two you had to stop fishing, you were limited to just six flies for the two fishing sessions, each lasting just two hours, with a lunch break in between.
First it was necessary to find a patch of clear water to cast into amid the pieces of ice. Soon rods were bending around the banks as the FB's carefully played the pieces of ice they had hooked towards their waiting landing nets. Fingers and toes numbed as the minutes passed, but after half an hour the frost on the grass began to recede. Apart from the various mumbled curses it was an absolutely silent winter morning.
Gallilee, fishing a brown mink Zonker, was the first to hook a trout, it led him under several ice patches before he was able to land it, a cracker Rainbow at nearly four pounds. Soon afterwards the Lumberjack hooked a feisty fish, which took a while before submitting, and was an even bigger Rainbow than Gallilee's, weighing over five pounds! Pressure? What pressure?
The Professor's orange and black Cormorant variant suddenly proved irresistible to a two-pound Rainbow, soon safely landed. Jackdaw was next, netting a fish of a pound-and-a-half, doubtless to one of his esoteric concoctions of the more exotic psychedelic materials, blingy and secured with a dollop of superglue.
Gallilee hooked into his second still using that Zonker, before very long sliding the trout over the ice towards his landing net and that was his brace complete, plus the cessation of his sport for the day, leaving him to anxiously cross fingers and watch the remaining eight.
Next to bend into a fish was the Admiral, using a simple PTN pattern he took a lively Rainbow, another one around two pounds. When the whistle signalled lunch four were still to catch: the Sailor, Rodney, Dell-boy, and Whytee. The barbecued lunch was excellent, thanks to J and S, raising our spirits again, the chill was still lifting but it had started to rain steadily. We consoled ourselves that the rain would see the ice starting to diminish more quickly.
We started the second half, I still had three flies available to use; you were not permitted to re-use a fly that you had taken off your cast, nor could you get a substitute if you lost one. I tied on a good old CW and headed for the second pool, where the Admiral caught earlier, to a part which had been iced over but was now clear water. After a few casts there was an unmistakable nip at the CW's tail. The next cast brought a firm pull and I hooked a Blue trout which fought vigorously, as Blue's often do. I played it with great care, anxious that it might escape, but just when I started to feel I had the upper hand it shook the hook out. I cast to the same place and had a take straight away, this time the fish didn't give me the slip, a slightly smaller Blue about one-and-a-half pounds. During the tussle I spotted a trout inquisitively shadowing the hooked one. Casting again to the hotspot produced another firm resistance and I landed a small Rainbow to complete my brace. I put up the rod knowing I couldn't beat Gallilee, and if the Lumberjack managed a second even a small one would see him streets ahead at the finish. Ho Hum, that's fishing.
The Admiral struck, but it soon became apparent that the trout was hooked in the tail fin. As soon as he could draw it into the bank he knelt down, unhooked it and let it swim away, not wanting to retain it because it was not fairly hooked, ever the gent.
Jackdaw hooked into a fish, probably using a fly derived from that 'dead parrot' sketch, but once safely netted he declared it "too small and too pretty to knock on the head" so he slipped it back into the pond. The thought struck me immediately: gracious gesture or slyly tactical? The truth was purely academic because the whistle soon sounded the finish.
It would have been the Lumberjack's title if he had caught that vital second fish, but as it was our new champion was Gallilee, Whytee runner-up, and nobody else managing to catch that elusive brace. The Sailor, Rodney, and Dell-boy had blanked, unhappily, catching only pieces of ice and/or lurking trees, but given the conditions a respectable number of trout had been caught. Roll on next year, when we will have to keep an eye on Jackdaw. And the Admiral.
Felice Natale. Finu a a proxima vota.
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