“What”
“Can I have a go at casting again”
“Yes if you want, just give me a sec”
I was sidetracked….
Sat in a field with young Sam on another fishing trip, my mind was elsewhere. A stunning morning again it was, sun beating down, sky blue, then out of nowhere a jogger of the bouncing kind.
Black shorts, white vest top, barely contained Mitchell Brothers.
The red support bra, working overtime….
Jaw dropped, fair play, got to be uncomfortable….an exchange of pleasantries.
The Stour at the moment is very low indeed but a stretch just outside Stratford-Upon-Avon is deep, very deep indeed so lots of swims perfectly fishable.
Sam with his float rod, me with a piece of bread on a link ledger.
There is no doubt the Stour fishes better when there is a little water in it, but we still caught fish.
Roach, little chublets, dace and a few Perch.
Not big fish, but that’s not the point, trampling over fields, watching the bulls in the neighbouring fields, appreciating the countryside, dirt under nails. That’s what it is all about.
One with nature.
The last swim Sam also witnessed his first Pike attack first hand as when I’d hooked a small chub from underneath an overhanging bush, on the retrieval one not much bigger than the chub itself grabbed it on its flanks and proceeded to shake its head.
“Dad, that was awesome, thanks for taking me fishing again”
Despite the constant babble and chatter which gets in the way of a solitude seeker, that’s all that I need, a sentence like that.
Next stop, I might take him to the Avon to track down a Ruffe.
Next stop, I might take him to the Avon to track down a Ruffe.
"Can I put some maggots on that scab of mine now"
Maybe after the Barbi, Son
Luckily forgotten about....
Maybe after the Barbi, Son
Luckily forgotten about....
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