RH Fly Fishing

I cannot remember the very first time I noticed her, but from that moment I couldn’t get her out of my head, she seemed different somehow. The vitality, the quickness, effortless grace, her very spirit, made her stand out from her companions. Time passed; I didn’t always see her, but I always looked for her. I felt somewhat guilty to be watching her graceful movements; I tried to make sure she didn’t notice me when I stared, mesmerised. In time, she grew more curvaceous, and dwelt more and more in my dreams. Came the day that I realised this longing simply had to be dealt with. It was now or never. I was drawn once more to the place I most often saw her, and there she was, dancing in the soft light. She was so alluring, yet I kept to the shadows, confidence deserting me, unsure of what to do next. My very being knew that I would only get one chance, that her beauty would always attract rivals. I watched for what seemed an eternity, then she moved closer, facing in my direction...

(... in which the names of the participants are pseudonyms in an effort to be as inclusive to others as possible, attempting to obtain the widest readership. I will be grateful for any comment the reader cares to make; alternatively complete the 'rate this' element. Thanks.) "As the angler looks back, he thinks less of individual captures than of the scenes in which he fished" - Grey of Fallodon. Today's venue was a late substitution, because the scheduled one was suffering from extremely low water levels the Professor had suggested switching to John O'Gaunt's instead. The latter suffered a serious problem with water quality more than a year ago, but rumour had it that there had been a complete recovery: we would see about that in due course. The Fluff Club previously visited in episodes 20, 23, 32 and 35. It is also a matter of fact that the place was the scene of my conversion from coarse to fly, back in the nineties. The summer's he...

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...

The little country inn I had booked for my fishing holiday was lovely. Nestling in the moors, there were miles of tumbling streams and a few small lakes available to me on the local ‘passport’ system. My room was very comfortable and the BBEM was just right – plus they provided a packed lunch, too. Every day I would strike out with directions to a new water. The surrounding countryside was glorious, the weather kind, but not so the fishing gods. All I managed were very infrequent wild brown trout, the biggest not quite the length of my hand. After each long day I returned to the inn’s bar to have a reviving beer or two before getting ready for dinner. The only other angling guest, a chap who had left the Emerald Isle a long time ago to seek his fortune, would appear a little after me, to hand the chef a brace of beautiful trout, each around the two-and-a-half-pound mark, much to my envy. I would engage him in conversation and we would have the craic, him well versed in the blarne...

(In which the names are pseudonyms in an effort to be as inclusive to others as possible, in order to obtain the widest readership. I will be grateful for any comment the reader cares to make; alternatively, please complete the ‘rate this’ element of the page. Thanks.) “… breathless and steaming from the endless uphill exertion that is my life.” – Bill Bryson, ‘Neither Here Nor There’   Consider the amazing technological, science-driven advances of the last two-hundred years, leading to huge improvements in fishing rods and lines, (reels not so much), culminating where the artificial fly may be effortlessly cast, via an elegant loop, out over the quiet waters to deceive the quarry. A beautiful and inherently simple means with which to catch a fish; the very epitome of recreational skill and relaxed simplicity … until the angler takes up that rod and shatters the idyll, tearing down the illusion. Seven of such descended on Chiphall Lake fishery, the previous Fluff Club visit...

(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.)   I have two weather ‘apps’ on my iPad, the Met Office and the BBC. It’s quicker to alter the location on the BBC one, so foolishly that’s the one I relied on when I awoke, neither jacket nor fleece would be required. Car loaded, sound system set to 11, I followed the sat nav’s directions north towards Barn Elms Trout Fishery, blue skies overhead. Living on the south coast, nearly everything is north.   The last time the Fluff Club visited this fishery was for episode 8, so it has been a while. I wasn’t exactly expecting a cast of thousands to muster for this latest epic, given that only three of us made it back then. Guess what? Three again! The three attendees tried hard not to take it personally; perhaps it’s horrendous halitosis, brain-damaging body odour, or something else that the other Fluff Boys just daren’t m...