The Tiny River Alne - Biscoff and Bisociation

The Battered Husband Syndrome, described in an issue of the British Clinical Journal, made frightening reading. The author was disturbed by the way a lot of husbands, who spend their working week in soul destroying sedentary office jobs (puts one's hand up), launch at weekends into wild uncharted seas of manual labour and active pursuits'.

'The unskilled in perilous pursuit of the unusable', is how he described the activities of these poor lads. Doing things like digging the garden, cutting the grass, weeding, servicing the car, chopping wood, building bookcases, hanging wallpaper, laying bricks and painting things.

The injury rate, apparently, is alarming. And the nature of the injuries from hammers, axes, saws and dangerous things like that, horrifying. Cracked ribs, broken limbs, cut shins, aches and pains in the back and arms. To name but a few. Not to mention what happened to husbands like the noble loony who tried to paint a wall while standing on a tea trolley.

Those husbands who stop doing good works and turn to active sports involving balls-football, cricket, golf and hockey-do not seem to fare much better. They have a tendency, apparently, to stop 'these missiles with the bare hands, or with their heads, or their knees or their genitals'. Nasty !!!

Those whose injuries are not severe enough to warrant a trip to hospital just can't wait for Monday morning when they can get back to work and away from it all.

'Now see how lucky you are,' tell the wife, 'to have a husband who puts the welfare of the family first and does not indulge in these dangerous pursuits. 

Who instead, out of pure consideration for his Nearest and Dearest, takes himself off to the peace and safety of the river bank or the pub (which I did today and had a nice pint of stout.)

No matter how much you long to push a mower, pick up a trowel, saw, chisel or paintbrush, you fight down the impulse for the sake of the family. As breadwinner, you could not possibly risk falling off a speeding tea trolley or stopping a cricket ball with your thingies. (Knees and that. See above.)

No. It is a tribute to your selflessness, your lofty ideals, your innate capacity for self-sacrifice, that you deny yourself these pleasures. 

And instead spend the weekend in quiet and solitude, preserving your mind, body and knees for the weekly struggle to wrest a modest crust from the flint-hearted employers of the Concrete Jungle.

Eh, lads, you should be proud of yourselves.

There was once an advert for an insurance company under the heading "The Great Lover'. Which showed a little, bald-headed bespectacled twit, brandishing an insurance policy and surrounded by his adoring family. He cared, you see. What the advert didn't stress was that the poor bloke had to pop his clogs before they could collect.

You, I would respectfully submit, are the new breed of Great Lovers. By clearing off for a quiet dangle every weekend, by keeping away from serious injury or sudden death, you are ensuring your continued survival and earning capacity.

In years to come, when you are sitting in front of the telly, still sound in wind and knees, with the plaster falling off the walls, the roof caving in, the car rusting away on blocks in the garage, and the grass blocking the light from the windows, your adoring family will look at you and say, 'Dear Dad... he did it all for us. Or something like that.

Anyway if you've not switched off already I fancied a try up the Alne for a chub or a dace for that matter. A bit of roving would be nice because WFH from the last couple of days I'd put a dent in my plan to walk an average of 10k steps over the full year. 

I managed that last year and this year thus far it's going well to be fair. I did think about trotting with the sun being out to try and draw any fish out but roving it was because, well a snag filled river like this often in these conditions is the best way to approach it. Bait a few swims as you head up the river and then fish them on the return.  

These are the sort of swims I fished but I was running out out options as I headed down the stretch to where the deeper swims are. The weather was lovely mind you, the bit of sun was rather nice. It was blowy though so the quivertip was being battered all over the place. 

Before the bridge of death did naff, all, I disturbed 3 herons, yes 3 👀 so maybe I should have tried a bit harder. Anyway probably about 6 or 7 swims fished without even a nibble, hmmm not good. The Alne is rarely this light green colour but I was sure there was a chub to be caught, as it looked good for a bite using bread.

And I was correct because the 2nd swim in the deeper area ten minutes after the flake being out in one of the prebaited swims a decent pull on the tip that sprung back almost immediately, was followed up with a pull that kept on going.

It knew it was hooked because within a split second of feeling the fish on the end of the line it was trying to get in to some tree roots. I felt the line grating at one point and thought I was lose it but thankfully I managed to bully it away from the snag where I quickly landed it.

Not a big fish maybe 2lb but welcome all the same. What I didn't expect was another quick bite in a similar looking swim, where fishing tight to some tree roots that spread out in the water another chub was on within a few minutes of casting out.

This one was putting up a better fight and sure enough after a dirty old battle it was safely in the landing net. This one a minter, and heading towards 3lb I'd imagine and after a slow start it came good in the end. That was my lot, I thought heading up to dusk another bite was on the cards but that was it. Almost 3 hours fishing, two bites, two fish, seems to be the way at the moment.