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Can't make wood

Back to the river again. The forecast promises thunder, but after faffing around - and feeling the weight of the umbrella, not used since Ireland three years ago - I decide to chance it and go with the poncho again. I can see I'm going to have make good on my foolish boast to create some sort of lightweight basha shelter that will replace the brolly for summer storms.


Again, the river looks fantastic, but the wind's picked up from the west and our original plan to fish the new big pool which has opened up downstream of where the old tree used to stand is scuppered. Wind blowing one way, river flowing the other - it's a recipe for disaster for stick-in-the-muds like Ray and I.

Instead we amble upstream and take up more or less the same positions as last Sunday. At least I do. Same 'tactics' of course. Same piece of luncheon meat if I'm honest. However, the first cast (into the same spot, naturally) produces a huge chub. Must be four pounds if he's an ounce, flashing eyes and a gob the size of a Big Brother contestant. I reckon I could get my whole hand in there if I tried.

Moving round the swim produces two eels at which point I decide to move. I don't like catching eels, and that's that.

I wander down to the bridge where the fast water pours through a concrete tunnel and there, just in front of the tree, rising and falling in the water, see a dark shape. A nice dark chub. Scurrying back with my tackle a fellow club member pitches up. No tackle, just looking, but he's keen to chat and settles down to watch me catch this chub. I can't do it. I nearly fall in sliding down the bank. The first cast is all wrong. My hands are shaking. I miss the first bite, fluff the second (though something's on for an instant) and then hit the third only to get hopelessly snagged on the bottom. He gives up and wanders off to talk the hind legs off Ray, while I reflect on my performance. I remember a Louis Theroux episode where he was talking to male porn actors and the general conclusion was that the hardest thing to do was to perform in front of an audience. They called it 'making wood'. Another reason I'll never make my living as a porn star then.

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First review

My new book, 101 Golden Rules Of Fishing got its first review last week on the Fishing Magic web site. Graham Marsden (who's written more than a few words in his time and probably caught more fish) was very generous and gave it eight out of ten - even though it was clear there were things in it he neither cared for, nor agreed with. Sadly the review is no longer online, so you'll just have to take my word for it. Angler's honour and all that.
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I remember now

The phone rang. I opened my eyes and looked at my watch. A quarter to four. The Seventeenth of June. It's the first time in years I've not been able to fish on the opening day of the season and I don't like it. I don't like it for lots of reasons.
I don't like it because it's been more than six months since I last fished. In between then and now I've written a fishing book. This is a big deal for me, and I wonder if spending all that time thinking and writing about fishing has taken the gloss off of it for me. I worry that I'll get to the bank and not know what to do. Worse, that I might not want to fish.

So I nearly don't answer the phone. It is 3.45 after all, and that's early by anyone's standards. At this rate we'll be at the banks just before tea time and as it doesn't get dark until about 10.00pm that'll give us about five and half hours to fish. What if I can't do it?

Forty minutes later I'm ready and watching out the window for Ray's car. Various bits of tackle have been retrieved from stowage (bait box from the window sill outside the kitchen, home to many spiders for the winter, fishing rod from underneath daughter's bed, landing net from shed) and emptied into the creel, along with the poncho - a last minute addition this, courtesy of superstition and a conviction that the BBC weather site isn't always reliable. Luncheon meat. Size six hook, quarter ounce Arlsey bomb, line of indeterminate strength (probably 5lbs) and a hat. Ready? I was born ready.

The river has almost disappeared underneath the weight of the lilies and bullrushes but thanks to recent rain there's a good head of water going through and just by looking at the banks you can tell it's not as low as it was even a day or so ago. We heft our gear and cross the style into the field. This is a marvel. A genuine meadow of wild flowers and grasses that hasn't been cut this year yet. It's alive in a way that cut grass isn't. Every so often half a dozen butterflies burst into the air in front of us. I'm getting the hang of this and we haven't even reached the river yet.

We fetch up at the bank and notice that soemone's been cutting swims. They're a bit big for my liking - need to accomodate those seat boxes, trolleys, poles, umbrellas and other paraphernalia y'know, - but they've done a good job and it means there are spots in the river that can be fished again for the first time in years. We meet a husband and wife who've been there since lunchtime and caught lots of small ones along with a good perch and a couple of jack pike. My fingers by now are actually twitching. We stave off the moment a little longer, ambling further downstream through the long grass to the bend where I notice something is missing. The tree that's been a feature of this swim for the ten years I've been with the club has gone. At first it's a shock, but then I really start to appreciate the result. The tree had half slumped into the river like an old drunk, all alone at the end of the evening, and was silting everything up. Now there's a large, open pool where all the clog used to be and it looks very tempting.

In the end we repair to the willows swim, back towards the bridge and set up within yards of each other. It only takes a few minutes and I'm back, sat on the inflatable cushion, a bit of luncheon meat in the bait box, knife at the ready, tightening up to the ledger that's sitting nicely just on the other side of the flow.

It takes 15 minutes for my first bite of the season, but even I can't miss it. A chub of about a pound, lean and hungry with signs that a pike's been after it. I let it go in the swim upstream from Ray.

Next cast, and it's a bream. A huge bream, or it would be huge if it had been eating anything. Fish this size are usually known as 'slabs', but this is more of a slice. Still, lovely fish and another unmissable bite. Unfortunately, so is the next bite - an eel of about a pound.

Ray comes round the tussock for a chat. He hasn't had a bite yet. We share a cup of tea and then it starts to spit with rain. I say that I don't think it's going to settle in but Ray disappears back to the car for waterproofs and a brolly. After a minute, I get the poncho out as the rain settles in.

It's actually quite cosy under this thing. The rain continues to fall. I re-arrange the material to cover my legs, move the creel behind the small of my back so that's covered too and then slide the bait box next to my side. We have another cup of tea and I'm able to retrieve it from the creel and take it out of its case while remaining inside the poncho. This is great. We drink the tea. I miss a sitter of a bite.

I re-bait and re-cast. The rain gets heavier. I become less cosy. I am, after all, just sitting on a blow-up cushion under 25 quidsworth of waterproof material on a wet bank. It slowly gets darker. There are no more bites. Somewhere around 9.00pm it occurs to me that I stopped fishing about half an hour ago and since then, have just been sitting in the rain.

Ray elects to pack up and since he's the designated driver, I'm not arguing.

I've negotiated the first day of my season successfully, even if I missed the first day of the official season. By the time we get back to the car, we're three times as wet, courtesy of that lovely, wild field. Strangely, neither of us cares.


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It's out

The book is out. The publishers have been in touch. I may have to - gulp - promote it. I'm ready, I tell you, or I will be after I've finished this glass of rose wine. Now there's a drink for an angler. Neither one thing nor the other, neither fish...


They've sent it to the angling magazines. That's going to go down well. "There's no fish in this book," they'll moan," neatly missing the point. Mind you, they might be more enlightened than that. I haven't looked at a modern fishing magazine for a while. Maybe things have changed. Maybe my kind of gentle, reflective rambling is about to make a comeback.

I do know this. I must fish. I've plugged this blog in the book, so I've got no bloody choice. I must practice what I preach. That means rescuing last season's luncheon meat from the freezer, trying out the stupid secret bait again (not a touch last year) more of that crap American cheese all over the place.

Only another 20 or so pages of this 'other' book to finish and then I'll be free. I'll raise the blinds, get out the hammock, fire up the iPod, get out my guitar, perfect strangers will call me by name...

The book is out.
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A New Hope

Having not been fishing since November - that's nearly six months, even by my poor maths - I feel pale and depressed. I'm richer than I was* by dint of all this flamin' work, but I haven't been to the bank, except for a walk. But the book, the book. It's nearly out. You can find it listed on Amazon. They've done a great job. The Australian edition is prefaced by Bonita Brown, the English edition by no-one.


Don't be put off by the title. There are no rules, and even if there were, angling was invented to break rules, not follow them. I'm delighted with the way it's turned out. In fact, so delighted that I'm going to celebrate by going fishing. Or at least I will when I get the next book out of the way. Yes, gentle reader, I boated her.

I'm currently half way through the next book in my 'Companion' series. Having had the Campsite Companion published by Running Press in the US, I'm now about halfway through the Boating Companion with the hope of course, is that the trilogy will be completed by the Fishing Companion, but we'll have to wait and see.

Meantime, I've got my license, I think I can remember where the river is. As soon as this book is finished - June 4th - I'm off fishing.

* but not by much

P.S. The latest issue of Waterlog carries another of my pieces - Fishing with Yoda. The interesting thing about this is that it was originally submitted in 2001. This is a record in terms of letting something of mine gather dust...well, nearly anyway. Nevertheless, fair play to them both for recognising - finally - it's literary worth, and coughing up the fee.
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