The Continuing Adventures of the Fluff Club, Episode 39
(In which the
participants are pseudonyms but all else factual, in an attempt to appeal to a
wider audience)
Earwig o again. Apologies for the hiatus, I didn't make the last Fluff Club outing (to the lovely Duncton Mill fishery, episodes 12 & 31), due to circumstances conspiring against me. You know, there really should be a Government Warning when you think about having children, otherwise we continue to be ignorant of and oblivious to, the real peril to come, arising in the form of grandchildren. I would like to have gone to that Duncton Mill outing, not least because Moneypenny and the Engineer took part, they rarely feature in these chronicles. Anyhow, back to the now.
The Fluff Boys (and girl) assembled at Woodington for the annual competition, gathering around the crackling chimnera, the cold air alive with aromas of frying bacon and eggs, steaming mugs of teas and coffees. The contestants were the Professor, Admiral, Sailor, Headmistress, Dell-boy, Rodney, Whytee and Gallilee. The latter and the Headmistress have both won previously, so a strong field awaiting the off. This year's rule tweak was that each participant was restricted to just six flies, otherwise the format was much like before: buy a two-fish ticket, the heaviest brace would be declared winner at the end of two fishing sessions, separated by lunch. The breakfast rolls were delicious, but all too soon we had to drag ourselves away onto the cold, damp banks. At least there was no call for an ice-breaker this year, nevertheless fingertips were soon numbed.
Interestingly, all but me had selected six different patterns, to give them maximum range under the restriction. I had tied up three prototypes of a CW variant in baby-pink marabou, plus three of my Limit Damsels, all size 12. Brave or foolhardy? The former winners had, obviously, included their own winning flies in their selections. Gallilee had included a little, black dry fly, which I wondered at, but later we did see some fish topping and tiny midges on the wing. We spread around the fishery. A big Heron did a fly-by, croaking its displeasure at our being there, before heading off, down the River Blackwater. Commencing on Kingfisher, my second move put me where I'd caught last time here. A few casts later, was that a pluck? Three more casts … definitely! Battle enjoined with first fish of the day; I played it very carefully and was relieved to net a beautifully proportioned, fully-finned Rainbow a little over two pounds, probably the average for this fishery. No fish for any of the others yet, so I thought I'd have a look around and headed towards the Sailor, fishing opposite. Passing the Admiral, he asked the inevitable question, and when I had answered he said "Why pink?". I told him that I had done well with pink at this fishery before, and indeed had read somewhere that Rainbows are attracted to the colour pink just as much as they are to blue. The Sailor was throwing a graceful line out towards the island in the middle, but the cold was certainly not helping his fingers. The Headmistress, fishing on Spring in the swim she won the inaugural competition from, now took a fish on her black/green lure. That meant two of us were halfway home. With no other action from anyone I decided to try the Leat, as brown as ever, because no-one else had.
A surface swirl encouraged me, but I tried five spots along the bank to no avail, and with no other fishy signs around I headed back towards the two clearer 'lakes'. Nearing Kingfisher I could see the Headmistress into her second, from that same swim. Our new tying novice, the Lion, duly netted it for her. He had come along just for the experience, he hasn't actually tried fly-fishing yet. I walked over to congratulate her at being first past the post (and to check the size of her brace). Her fish were both a tad smaller than the one I had so it was still game-on! Rodney had been fishing the swim where I had been successful so I moved further along to the spot vacated by the Admiral, who was heading smartly towards the area vacated by the Headmistress, soon to be joined by Rodney. I persevered with my no-name prototype and my faith was rewarded by hooking my second, slightly larger, Rainbow, again playing the fish with great care to my waiting net. Two of the starting eight could no longer fish, but we could instead partake of another hot drink whilst basking in the cosy cheer of the chimnera.
Rodney and the Admiral covered the visible, small pod of fish in Spring from either end of the swim vacated by the Headmistress, both getting the occasional follow before the trout veered off at the last moment. Rodney did manage two hook-ups fleetingly, before the fish came off. Very soon the pod of fish vanished. The Professor was regularly moving around but was being pursued and hassled by delinquent trees. Dell-boy was feeling the cold badly, the site of his knee operation giving him intense pain. Gallilee was perturbed, having left some of his 'essential' kit back at his place, and could not get used to the sinking line he had brought.
Two of the EA's finest put in an appearance, checking our rod licences. It's only the third time I have experienced this in all the years I have been fishing. Back in my Angling Times Winter League days I used to have to carry three licences to cover the venues: Southern Water, Wessex Water, and Thames. Personally, I'm always glad to see them out and about, checking. When are sea anglers going to chip in?
If the breakfast provender was excellent, the al fresco BBQ lunch was even better. Our hosts did a brilliant job with a camping stove and barbecue, whilst juggling a baby and a three-year-old. Oh, and don't get me started about the Victoria sponge and cuppa cha at th'end! But I digress: during lunch, seated at the picnic benches, I pointed out there were fish topping in the corner nearest us, just feet away. It takes someone quite brave to fish just feet away from a gallery of onlookers, but up stepped the Admiral with alacrity. He cast his buzzer to each spreading rise-ring while the rest of us watched. After some minutes of barracking he put up his rod and re-joined us at table, "Well, that's stopped their nonsense!" he announced. Sure enough, the water surface was a mirror again, completely still, untouched, just like his buzzer.
Lunch over, time to re-join the fray, well … sort of. Dell-boy and Gallilee had suffered enough; cold and lacking confidence are a deadly combination so their race was run. Thus, just half the field actually re-joined, Rodney still abetted by the Lion. The Professor's on-going spat with the trees had left him with just three flies remaining. Grimly, they headed off. After an hour Rodney recognised his skunking and gave up, he'd had his chances in the morning session; he and the Lion were very glad to warm up at the chimnera down by the elderly hut. A drizzle started in as the temperature began to fall from its meagre high. The Sailor was left alone, between Spring and Kingfisher, when the Professor and the Admiral headed down to the Leat for the final hour. With just half an hour remaining, the Professor caught a fish before promptly losing that fly, and was chasing the competition in the final minutes with just his sixth-choice pattern. The result? Whytee, just ten ounces more than the Headmistress. I'll have to think about building an extension to house the trophy until next year.
Hadi wakati ujao.
Earwig o again. Apologies for the hiatus, I didn't make the last Fluff Club outing (to the lovely Duncton Mill fishery, episodes 12 & 31), due to circumstances conspiring against me. You know, there really should be a Government Warning when you think about having children, otherwise we continue to be ignorant of and oblivious to, the real peril to come, arising in the form of grandchildren. I would like to have gone to that Duncton Mill outing, not least because Moneypenny and the Engineer took part, they rarely feature in these chronicles. Anyhow, back to the now.
The Fluff Boys (and girl) assembled at Woodington for the annual competition, gathering around the crackling chimnera, the cold air alive with aromas of frying bacon and eggs, steaming mugs of teas and coffees. The contestants were the Professor, Admiral, Sailor, Headmistress, Dell-boy, Rodney, Whytee and Gallilee. The latter and the Headmistress have both won previously, so a strong field awaiting the off. This year's rule tweak was that each participant was restricted to just six flies, otherwise the format was much like before: buy a two-fish ticket, the heaviest brace would be declared winner at the end of two fishing sessions, separated by lunch. The breakfast rolls were delicious, but all too soon we had to drag ourselves away onto the cold, damp banks. At least there was no call for an ice-breaker this year, nevertheless fingertips were soon numbed.
Interestingly, all but me had selected six different patterns, to give them maximum range under the restriction. I had tied up three prototypes of a CW variant in baby-pink marabou, plus three of my Limit Damsels, all size 12. Brave or foolhardy? The former winners had, obviously, included their own winning flies in their selections. Gallilee had included a little, black dry fly, which I wondered at, but later we did see some fish topping and tiny midges on the wing. We spread around the fishery. A big Heron did a fly-by, croaking its displeasure at our being there, before heading off, down the River Blackwater. Commencing on Kingfisher, my second move put me where I'd caught last time here. A few casts later, was that a pluck? Three more casts … definitely! Battle enjoined with first fish of the day; I played it very carefully and was relieved to net a beautifully proportioned, fully-finned Rainbow a little over two pounds, probably the average for this fishery. No fish for any of the others yet, so I thought I'd have a look around and headed towards the Sailor, fishing opposite. Passing the Admiral, he asked the inevitable question, and when I had answered he said "Why pink?". I told him that I had done well with pink at this fishery before, and indeed had read somewhere that Rainbows are attracted to the colour pink just as much as they are to blue. The Sailor was throwing a graceful line out towards the island in the middle, but the cold was certainly not helping his fingers. The Headmistress, fishing on Spring in the swim she won the inaugural competition from, now took a fish on her black/green lure. That meant two of us were halfway home. With no other action from anyone I decided to try the Leat, as brown as ever, because no-one else had.
A surface swirl encouraged me, but I tried five spots along the bank to no avail, and with no other fishy signs around I headed back towards the two clearer 'lakes'. Nearing Kingfisher I could see the Headmistress into her second, from that same swim. Our new tying novice, the Lion, duly netted it for her. He had come along just for the experience, he hasn't actually tried fly-fishing yet. I walked over to congratulate her at being first past the post (and to check the size of her brace). Her fish were both a tad smaller than the one I had so it was still game-on! Rodney had been fishing the swim where I had been successful so I moved further along to the spot vacated by the Admiral, who was heading smartly towards the area vacated by the Headmistress, soon to be joined by Rodney. I persevered with my no-name prototype and my faith was rewarded by hooking my second, slightly larger, Rainbow, again playing the fish with great care to my waiting net. Two of the starting eight could no longer fish, but we could instead partake of another hot drink whilst basking in the cosy cheer of the chimnera.
Rodney and the Admiral covered the visible, small pod of fish in Spring from either end of the swim vacated by the Headmistress, both getting the occasional follow before the trout veered off at the last moment. Rodney did manage two hook-ups fleetingly, before the fish came off. Very soon the pod of fish vanished. The Professor was regularly moving around but was being pursued and hassled by delinquent trees. Dell-boy was feeling the cold badly, the site of his knee operation giving him intense pain. Gallilee was perturbed, having left some of his 'essential' kit back at his place, and could not get used to the sinking line he had brought.
Two of the EA's finest put in an appearance, checking our rod licences. It's only the third time I have experienced this in all the years I have been fishing. Back in my Angling Times Winter League days I used to have to carry three licences to cover the venues: Southern Water, Wessex Water, and Thames. Personally, I'm always glad to see them out and about, checking. When are sea anglers going to chip in?
If the breakfast provender was excellent, the al fresco BBQ lunch was even better. Our hosts did a brilliant job with a camping stove and barbecue, whilst juggling a baby and a three-year-old. Oh, and don't get me started about the Victoria sponge and cuppa cha at th'end! But I digress: during lunch, seated at the picnic benches, I pointed out there were fish topping in the corner nearest us, just feet away. It takes someone quite brave to fish just feet away from a gallery of onlookers, but up stepped the Admiral with alacrity. He cast his buzzer to each spreading rise-ring while the rest of us watched. After some minutes of barracking he put up his rod and re-joined us at table, "Well, that's stopped their nonsense!" he announced. Sure enough, the water surface was a mirror again, completely still, untouched, just like his buzzer.
Lunch over, time to re-join the fray, well … sort of. Dell-boy and Gallilee had suffered enough; cold and lacking confidence are a deadly combination so their race was run. Thus, just half the field actually re-joined, Rodney still abetted by the Lion. The Professor's on-going spat with the trees had left him with just three flies remaining. Grimly, they headed off. After an hour Rodney recognised his skunking and gave up, he'd had his chances in the morning session; he and the Lion were very glad to warm up at the chimnera down by the elderly hut. A drizzle started in as the temperature began to fall from its meagre high. The Sailor was left alone, between Spring and Kingfisher, when the Professor and the Admiral headed down to the Leat for the final hour. With just half an hour remaining, the Professor caught a fish before promptly losing that fly, and was chasing the competition in the final minutes with just his sixth-choice pattern. The result? Whytee, just ten ounces more than the Headmistress. I'll have to think about building an extension to house the trophy until next year.
Hadi wakati ujao.
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