RH Fly Fishing

I had been fishing for almost six hours now and had just about walked the whole circumference of the moorland reservoir. Conditions had seemed to be perfect: warmish, a light breeze, overcast sky, and the water lightly tinged with peat but still clear. I had been through my fly boxes and had used up most of my spool of tippet, with absolute zero to show for my efforts. My frustration had been building for a while, eroding concentration. As a result, my casting and fishing were suffering badly. With my car in sight again, I became irritated, annoyed at myself, so I sat on a stump for a while to collect my scattered thoughts and give myself a stiff talking to. I ate and drank the last of my supplies, then “Right” I said to myself “You drove miles to get here, get your head straight, there’s less than an hour of light left. Start again. Concentrate hard. Come on!”. Just then I noticed a horse I passed an hour ago was standing behind me, watching silently, tail flicking flies. I

(In which the names are all pseudonyms in an effort to be as inclusive as possible, in order to attain the widest readership; everything else is true.) A right old hiatus, eh? Maybe I should call these blogs ‘intermittent’ rather than ‘continuing’ adventures. The fact is, the last two scheduled outings were called off: firstly, the fishery announced it had closed down (again), then in the second month only two Fluff Boys were available to make the trip to Farmoor, so they cancelled on the eve. Anyroadup, today five of us, plus Mrs Sailor, pitched up at the excellent Manningford T.F., last featured in episode 36, and before that in 7 and 13. Having driven through a deluge I was pleased to see it changing to lighter precipitation when I arrived in the car park; the rain ceased altogether by the time the Professor, Admiral, Sailor (plus one) and Whytee were ticketed and tackled-up. At that moment the Inspector came along the bank to greet us, casually swinging his bass bag contain