Lanzarote - Balconies and Ballistocardiographs

Being off work for most of August has been very, very nice indeed, although apparently there is a limit to how much relaxation the human body can cope with before it starts to resemble a sack of potatoes that has been left in the sun. 

I discovered this when I walked into the office after the bank holiday, still carrying the general demeanour of a man who had recently been rescued from a flotation device, only for a work colleague to look at me and say, “Mick, welcome back, you look tired.” Well, thank you very much, that’s exactly the sort of warm welcome you want after spending several weeks convincing yourself that doing absolutely nothing before midday is a perfectly legitimate lifestyle choice.

There was, however, a very good reason for looking tired because August had been rather full, despite the fact that technically I had been doing very little that could be described as work. We started after a week in Devon with the Canaries, which, as regular readers will know, have become something of a second home to us, although thankfully without the mortgage, council tax or bloke from next door asking me to move my car. 

After visiting various holiday resorts over the years, we keep coming back because the Canaries give us pretty much everything we require from a holiday, namely sun, sea and sangria, preferably in quantities that would make a sensible person question their life choices.

The kids still absolutely love a beach holiday, particularly when there is a decent pool involved, because apparently the presence of an ocean stretching to the horizon isn't quite enough water for today's youth. This particular trip involved the Gold level accommodation, which came with a separate pool away from the main pools, meaning that for once we could actually hear ourselves think, although admittedly after a few days of all-inclusive drinks I’m not sure there was much thinking going on anyway. 

We got to know loads of the other Gold members surprisingly well, to the point where first names were being exchanged and people were greeting each other like we were members of some exclusive Mediterranean retirement village rather than a collection of sunburnt British tourists fighting over the last decent lounger.

The staff were superb as well, which is always dangerous because you very quickly start developing emotional attachments to people whose job it is to bring you drinks. The Gold restaurant was particularly good, with Maria the Spanish chef producing all manner of culinary delights that made the prospect of returning to the kitchen at home seem frankly barbaric. 

By the end of the ten days we were genuinely sad to leave the island, although my liver had begun writing strongly worded letters to management and my waistline had apparently joined a union.

Ten days of all-inclusive living is one of those things that sounds fantastic when you book it and slightly less fantastic when your body is asked for feedback afterwards. 

My liver, in particular, would like to make it absolutely clear that it never agreed to participate in the “world’s biggest Godfathers” initiative and would now like several weeks to recover from the administrative burden. 

There is something wonderfully irresponsible about walking to a bar, ordering a drink, forgetting you have already had three, and then ordering another because technically you are still on holiday and therefore normal rules no longer apply.

Things became even more dangerous when, a few days into the holiday, we noticed that there was an unoccupied room above reception.

Now naturally, rather than leaving well alone like sensible people, an inquiry was made regarding the possibility of an upgrade, because apparently once you have experienced a Gold bracelet you immediately develop the negotiating skills of a property developer. 

A few quid later and a conversation with the manager had resulted in us moving into a huge two bedroom room with the biggest balcony I have ever stayed in, which was roughly the size of a small British housing estate and came with the added bonus of being large enough to accommodate several chairs and tables, a Bali bed and my rapidly expanding holiday belly.

Some of the nightly entertainment was directly opposite the room, which meant that if the kids weren't particularly interested in venturing out, the wife and I could retire to the Bali bed and enjoy the atmosphere from our own private grandstand. This sounded sophisticated until you realise that “enjoying the atmosphere” generally involved another drink from the bar and me shouting occasionally about how good the singer was. 

There is something strangely satisfying about sitting on a massive balcony in warm evening air, listening to live music, watching everyone else enjoying themselves and slowly convincing yourself that this is actually what retirement is going to be like.

Fishing, meanwhile, had rather taken a back seat, which is unusual for me but probably healthy for everyone concerned. The plan had been to fish a scratching rig with bait and hopefully connect with something a little more substantial than the usual holiday micro-species, but the practicalities of fishing a busy resort turned out to be somewhat different from the fantasy I had constructed in my head. 

I was trying to fish before the masses descended for snorkelling, paddle boarding and kayaking, which meant being out ridiculously early, and after losing several lots of gear I decided that perhaps the sea was trying to tell me something.

The sea was basically saying, “Pack it in, Mick, you've had enough.” So the serious scratching campaign was quietly abandoned and I returned to float fishing for the smaller species, which at least had the advantage of being considerably less expensive and requiring considerably less effort.

A couple more species were added to the tally from Lanzarote, where bread fished on small hooks seemed to be the answer, proving once again that sometimes the most sophisticated fishing technique available is essentially sticking a bit of your sandwich on a hook. I did hook and lose two bream, which was particularly frustrating because they were clearly considerably more interested in my bait than the smaller fish were. 

Unfortunately, my chosen tackle consisted of a Temu multi-piece carp rod and a size 16 treble hook, which, when written down like that, should probably have been enough to alert me that this wasn't exactly the setup recommended by the International Association of People Who Know What They Are Doing. The bream appeared to disagree with my tackle selection and both managed to escape, presumably swimming away afterwards and telling their mates about the idiot with the bargain-bin carp rod.

The damsel fish would arrive first for the floating bread, behaving like they hadn't eaten for six weeks despite the fact that there were probably hundreds of tourists dropping food into the water every five minutes. Then, once the bread had been attacked sufficiently, the bream would appear and smash the remaining pieces to bits, which was great entertainment but less impressive from a catch-per-bite perspective. 

I experimented with hook sizes, presentation and various other things, eventually discovering that if you use a bigger hook the bites simply stop happening, which is exactly the sort of scientific breakthrough that fishing blogs are built upon.

Slow-sinking pieces of Isome worms worked surprisingly well too, although I suspect the fish regarded the whole thing as some sort of elaborate Japanese buffet rather than fishing tackle. The best entertainment came when a swimmer was just about to get into the water beside my feet and a puffer fish decided to demonstrate one of nature's more ridiculous party tricks. 

One second it was a perfectly ordinary-looking little fish and the next it had transformed into Mr Creosote, inflating itself into a bizarre aquatic football while the swimmer stared at it as though I'd personally performed some sort of marine magic trick.

If you've never seen a puffer fish inflate itself, it really is something to behold, particularly when they make that rattling noise while doing it. I caught two of them and both inflated nicely before being returned safely, and thankfully both managed to expel the air without any apparent problems once they were back in the water. 

There is something very satisfying about catching a fish that looks perfectly normal, watching it suddenly turn into a cartoon character, and then putting it back so it can presumably go and frighten somebody else.

Anyway, it was nice to have a proper break from fishing, although naturally the moment I got back I immediately did something that made a sensible person question whether I actually understand the concept of rest. 

 The day after returning from Lanzarote I flew out to Edinburgh on a delayed flight, took a coach to Glasgow and then literally dropped my bag at the hotel before heading straight out to a gig. 

Because apparently ten days lying around in the sun had left me desperate for seven hours of loud progressive house music in a sweaty room full of people just as old as me.

The venue was a small place called the Box Hub, and Australian progressive house DJs Anthony Pappa, Jamie Stevens and Kasie Taylor were there for what turned into seven hours of absolute musical carnage. 

It was one of the best gigs I've been to in years, with a brilliant crowd, a sweaty and intimate atmosphere and bass frequencies that could probably be detected by fishermen several miles down the Clyde. 

Despite being, as I prefer to describe it, an old git, the raving feet have clearly never left and within minutes I was behaving like somebody had accidentally released me from a care home.

Anthony Pappa has been a hero of mine for years, so getting to meet him was a real highlight. 

What made it even better was that he was incredibly friendly, which is always nice because you spend years building up an image of somebody in your head and then occasionally discover that they are actually a miserable sod who looks at you as though you have asked them to personally rebuild the M25. Thankfully Anthony was nothing like that and meeting him made an already excellent night even better.

The music was absolutely immense, the sort of bass that you could hear from a mile away and possibly use to locate shoals of fish if you happened to have the right kind of sonar. 

Seven hours of dancing after ten days of all-inclusive eating and drinking may not be the recommended recovery programme for a middle-aged man, but apparently my body had decided that moderation was for people who hadn't booked annual leave. By the end I had danced my socks off, although technically I was still wearing them, and several internal organs were considering whether they had grounds for constructive dismissal.

The following morning was less glamorous. There is a particular type of silence that arrives after seven hours of progressive house, several drinks and very little sleep, and it is the sort of silence where you can hear your own bloodstream asking why you've done this. After a lazy morning I eventually checked out of the hotel at midday and headed off in search of food, because apparently the correct response to burning thousands of calories dancing is to replace every single one of them immediately.

This brought me to Iron Duke, where I knew that September was going to be a month of abstinence, or at least that was the theory, so I decided to stuff myself stupid while I still had the opportunity. The service was excellent, the food was top drawer and the owner and chef even came over for a chat, which was a lovely touch and made me feel slightly less like a bloke who had turned up solely to see how much food could be fitted into one human being. I left feeling considerably better, although the concept of abstinence suddenly seemed like a particularly unreasonable idea.

And then, just like that, August was over. The holiday tan is beginning to fade, the liver has requested compassionate leave, the dancing feet have finally stopped twitching and my body is still trying to work out why I thought a seven-hour rave immediately after a family holiday constituted sensible behaviour. 

But despite all that, I wouldn't change any of it, because sometimes you have to make the most of the time you've got, whether that's sitting beside a pool with a drink in your hand, watching a puffer fish inflate itself into Mr Creosote, or dancing until your knees start sending formal complaints to your brain. The best thing, though, is that I have returned at exactly the right time for the rivers. 

The rain has finally arrived and given them a much-needed boost, turning those low summer levels into something that looks considerably more promising, and after several weeks of sunshine I'm actually quite excited to see some proper moving water again.

September might involve less sangria, fewer balconies, considerably fewer DJs and absolutely no all-inclusive cocktails, but if the rivers continue to rise then there is every chance I'll be replacing the holiday hangover with a fishing-induced one, which, as regular readers will appreciate, is really just another form of poor decision-making with a rod attached.

The River Severn - Moles and Melee's

Saturday was one of those days where my twin brother Chris was living his best life somewhere down in Westward Ho! attending an all-day rave. Apparently the bass was so loud he could hear it while walking to the venue, which is more than can be said for the fish hearing him on his last three fishing trips. Three blanks on the bounce now, Chris, and even the rave had more bites than you've had recently.

Don't get me wrong, I don't mind a bit of Morris dancing either. They just don't seem to wallop the pavement like they used to, probably because someone complained that clattering sticks together was offensive to nearby pigeons. William Kempe danced all the way from London to Norwich in Shakespeare's day, whereas nowadays they'd probably stop him after half a mile for not filling out the correct risk assessment.

Still, every cloud has a silver lining. Chris may have spent Saturday bouncing around to music loud enough to frighten submarines, but I could at least remind him that I occasionally catch fish. Brothers are there to support each other, obviously, although reminding him he's blanked three trips running is what I'd call emotional support.

My holidays have finally started 'again' !!, which as a self-employed jobber is a bigger event than Christmas. Holidays without holiday pay make every day off feel like someone is quietly removing twenty-pound notes from your wallet while smiling politely. Still, the plane doesn't leave until the early hours of Wednesday morning, so Monday was far too valuable to waste on sensible behaviour.

Instead, I had a guest ticket with Nic from Avon Angling for a crack at a completely unknown stretch of the River Severn. Forty-five minutes of winding country lanes later we rolled into the car park at six in the morning looking suspiciously optimistic. You know you're getting old when a sunrise over a muddy river feels more exciting than Ibiza.

The weather had finally cooled down as well. Standing in the river with my open shoes actually felt refreshing instead of like slowly boiling in your own trousers. Even the cows looked jealous that we'd found air conditioning.

The weir itself was absolutely enormous. It looked less like a fishing venue and more like somewhere Bond villains dump expensive sports cars. Standing there listening to thousands of gallons of water crashing over concrete makes you realise shouting "I've got one!" is largely an exercise in mime.

Neither of us had fished it before, which meant we were making it up as we went along. I had a float rod, a ledger rod, enough terminal tackle to supply a small tackle shop and absolutely no clue where the fish were. Standard operating procedure really. A lead about suggested three or four feet of water in places. Everywhere else seemed either ankle deep or capable of swallowing a family hatchback whole. River fishing does like to keep you humble.

We'd barely settled in before Nic's rod tried to leave for Birmingham. The first fish promptly charged into a snag, proving that even barbel know where the dangerous neighbourhoods are. It escaped with all the confidence of someone who'd done this before.

Nic wasn't having any of that nonsense though. He shifted his cast a few metres to the right, the rod slammed round again and this time everything stayed attached. Moments later a cracking Severn barbel of around seven pounds slid into the net, and judging by Nic's grin you'd have thought he'd just won the lottery and inherited a tackle shop.

The culprit was a humble 10mm banded halibut pellet. I had turned up with all sorts of fancy robin red concoctions because anglers love making life difficult for themselves. The fish looked at my expensive pellets, laughed quietly and queued up for Nic's bargain buffet instead.

Within minutes I shamelessly raided Nic's pellet stash. Friends share bait, especially when your own bait is being treated with the same enthusiasm as Brussels sprouts at a children's birthday party. I even helped myself to his Scaled pellets while pretending it was all part of the tactical discussion.

Things then descended into complete chaos. Every time one of us settled down for a chill, a rod would wrench round like it had been connected to a passing tractor. We spent more time standing up than sitting down. 

By lunchtime we'd somehow managed two barbel apiece. My second fish tipped the scales at exactly ten pounds, which naturally meant it instantly became even bigger once I'd told the story three times. By Christmas it'll probably need its own postcode.

The chub fancied joining the party as well. Every cast seemed capable of producing another solid fish. It was one of those magical sessions where you almost expect the ducks to start asking for pellets.

Then Nic hooked an absolutely colossal roach on a 10mm pellet. It looked immaculate, gleaming in the sunshine like someone had polished it overnight. Somewhere nearby every match angler simultaneously developed an unexplained twitch.

Just when we thought we'd seen everything I wandered off for five minutes to ring the wife. I came back to find Nic quietly holding what looked suspiciously like a wardrobe with fins. It turned out to be a bream over six pounds, because apparently the river had completely abandoned any sense of normality.

I genuinely looked around expecting Jeremy Beadle to leap out from behind a bush. Unknown venue, fishing blind and we'd landed barbel, chub, a monster roach and now a giant bream. If someone had then caught a salmon wearing a wristwatch I wouldn't have questioned it.

Just when we thought the day couldn't get any stranger, the River Severn decided to introduce us to one of its less celebrated residents. Out of absolutely nowhere a mole appeared, busily tunnelling around behind us as if he'd heard there were free halibut pellets on offer. It was the first time I'd ever seen one properly up close, and they're far bigger than I'd imagined, looking like a furry potato fitted with a shovel.



The little chap seemed completely obsessed with the pellets we'd scattered on the bank. We reckoned he could smell the fishmeal because he kept burrowing in and around them like a tiny black truffle hunter that had taken a wrong turn somewhere near Worcester. Trust anglers to spend a fortune attracting fish only to end up feeding the local wildlife instead.

The funniest moment came when I knelt down to rebait my hook. I suddenly felt something pushing up underneath my knee and nearly launched myself into the Severn thinking I'd discovered some previously unknown species of river monster. It was only our furry excavator tunnelling directly beneath me, and I swear the mole looked more startled than I did before disappearing underground, probably wondering why idiots with fishing rods kept dropping perfectly good pellets everywhere.

Nic kept swapping between a conventional feeder and the method feeder. When the swim slowed down the method feeder seemed to keep nicking bites while everything else went suspiciously quiet. Fish clearly enjoy making us spend hundreds of pounds on tackle only to decide one method works today because reasons.

The bites themselves were utterly ridiculous. Some of them nearly pulled the rod into Gloucestershire before somehow failing to hook themselves. Others looked like someone had simply sneezed near the rod tip before developing into absolute mayhem.

Nic was filming the whole lot for his YouTube channel. This naturally meant every fish behaved perfectly while the camera was rolling and every one I lost happened just after he'd pointed the lens somewhere else. Fish are experts at television production.

At one point I was convinced the next bite would probably be a passing seal. Given the way the day had gone I wouldn't have been remotely surprised if Nessie had popped up asking whether we had any spare halibut pellets. It was that sort of session.

Eventually we looked at one another and agreed we'd had enough. Not because the fishing had gone quiet, but because we'd reached that happy stage where your arms ache, your face hurts from smiling and you've run out of believable excuses for why you need another cast. Sometimes it's better to walk away while the river is still applauding you.

Driving home I couldn't wipe the grin off my face. Every angler dreams about those sessions where everything somehow falls into place despite having absolutely no plan whatsoever. They don't happen often, which is precisely why we spend so many hours sitting behind motionless rod tips convincing ourselves the next cast will be different.

Meanwhile, somewhere down in Devon, my twin brother Chris was probably staring mournfully at another motionless rod wondering what crime he'd committed against fish. Don't worry, Chris, your luck has to change eventually because statistically even shopping trolleys occasionally catch carp. Until then, if you start hearing loud bass music while you're fishing, don't follow it because the rave has caught more than you have this week.

Anyway, I've got packing to do before we head off on holiday. The suitcase is currently empty apart from enough fishing gear to invade a small country, and my wife keeps reminding me that flip-flops apparently deserve luggage space as well. Catch up soon, tight lines everyone, and if you happen to bump into my brother Chris, please be kind and point him gently in the direction of the nearest fish because at this stage even the Morris dancers are starting to outfish him.

Warwickshire Avon - Madhouses and Mega Dinghies

After returning from our holiday in North Devon, I must admit I'm on a bit of a downer. There is something particularly cruel about coming home after a holiday where the weather has been glorious, the scenery has been stunning and life has somehow managed to slow down, only to discover that normality has been sitting on the doorstep waiting for you. 

I've spent most of the week wondering whether I could quietly move into the car and drive back without anyone noticing, especially when there was a day rave in Westward Ho! Saturday with none other than Billy 'Daniel' Bunter a veteran of the rave scene I fully emersed myself in back in the 90's. (anyone got a time machine ?)

To make matters worse, this would have been a cracking week to still be down there because of the eclipse. North Devon would have been one of those places where you could sit by the coast, watch the sky put on its little celestial performance and enjoy the sea breeze taking the edge off the midday sunshine. Instead I'm back here, looking at the garden and wondering whether putting factor 50 on my fishing chair counts as preparation for a session.

The weather has been absolutely superb, but for fishing it has been almost too good. You see there's barely been a breath of wind and the rivers are clear enough to see what the fish had for breakfast, which isn't particularly helpful when you're trying to persuade something with fins that it hasn't actually seen you standing there. Still, I suppose we shouldn't complain because there are worse things in life than sitting in the garden with a cold cider knowing that winter will no doubt be a washout again. 

Mind you, the lack of wind hasn't stopped some rather extraordinary things happening elsewhere. Apparently a Mega Dinghy managed to cross the English Channel carrying around 230 people, which is supposedly the largest number to make the journey in a single vessel. When I read that, I suddenly felt rather less adventurous about my own decision not to go fishing in this heat and dangle my legs in the paddling pool instead. 

The inflatable was apparently so packed that passengers were having to dangle their legs in the water as it entered the busy shipping route. Two hundred and thirty people on one inflatable boat crossing the Channel is the sort of thing that makes you wonder whether somebody misunderstood the instructions when they were told to "make sure everyone has a seat." 

Now some weeks you can feel the fishing gods looking down, having a right old chuckle to themselves. Every weather app looked like it had been sponsored by Satan, the rivers resembled warm Horlicks, and the fish had clearly booked annual leave without consulting me. Every time I looked out of the window it was either blisteringly hot or blowing a hoolie. About as inspiring for fishing as a wet Sunday in a caravan showroom.

Luckily, food stepped into the breach with all the reliability of a Labrador spotting a dropped sausage. Tuesday's spicy Pad Kra Pao with the wife at Yoga was magnificent, crowned by two duck eggs so obscenely rich they deserved separate billing on the menu and probably their own Instagram account. Honestly, those eggs had more yolk than a stand-up comedian. They nearly outshone the meal itself, which takes some doing.

Monday wasn't exactly a hardship either. A curry with my old mate Phippo always guarantees plenty of nonsense gets talked, most of it impossible to repeat in polite company and the rest best forgotten before breakfast. The food was spot on and the company even better. It's amazing how solving the world's problems over a vindaloo never actually solves any of them.

On the way home I pulled into a dried-up corn field to watch the eclipse. Typical really the entire sky was crystal clear apart from one stubborn cloud glued to the sun like a toddler clinging to a Farley's Rusk, determined to ruin everyone's day. 

You honestly couldn't script it if you tried. Mother Nature clearly enjoys winding anglers up just as much as the fish do.

In fairness, the sky did go strangely gloomy despite the sunshine trying its hardest to burn your retinas out. The shadows became ridiculously sharp and stretched for miles, which was probably the most impressive bit. 

The eclipse itself, though, felt a touch underwhelming after all the build-up. Rather like driving three hours to catch a gudgeon when someone promised you a thirty-pound carp.

Still, every cloud has a silver lining, unless it's the one parked in front of the eclipse. The heat has at least encouraged the wife and me to retreat into the garden once the kids are finally asleep. 

We've spent several evenings with a drink in hand watching the Perseids put on a display far better than anything on terrestrial television. Sometimes doing absolutely nothing turns out to be the highlight of the week.

The night sky has been absolutely littered with shooting stars, meteors and satellites gliding silently overhead. Every few minutes another streak flashed across the darkness while satellites wandered by pretending they owned the place. It certainly puts life into perspective for a few moments. Then someone inevitably asks if you've remembered to lock the shed.

As I write this, I've got two glorious weeks off work and they're packed tighter than a match angler's keepnet. First comes the mighty River Severn where, fingers crossed, the fish are in a better mood than they have been lately. Then it's off to the Atlantic courtesy of the Canary Islands in search of something that actually pulls back properly. I could certainly do with a bent rod restoring a bit of enthusiasm.

If that wasn't enough, the holiday concludes the day after we get back with a whistle stop trip to Glasgow to watch knob-twiddling maestro Anthony Pappa alongside a collection of fellow Australian progressive house DJs. 

It's difficult explaining progressive house to anyone who's never experienced it. To the untrained eye it just looks like blokes fiddling with expensive mixers for three hours. To the rest of us enjoying the scene from the 90's, it's absolute magic.

Hopefully the next two weeks will recharge the batteries enough for work not to feel like a life sentence. A decent holiday has a funny way of resetting the head. Catching a few fish would help enormously too. Stranger things have happened, although admittedly not many.

September sees the annual liver and body amnesty. After ten days of enthusiastic research at an all-inclusive in the Canaries and Devon in the mix as well, I think the poor thing deserves thirty days of peace and quiet. It has been a loyal servant over the years and deserves a month on the substitutes' bench. Consider it a well-earned sabbatical and hopefully some timber lost.

With any luck the weather will have calmed down by then and the rivers will resemble rivers again instead of oversized warm baths. I'm absolutely chomping at the bit to get after the barbel because that's where my head really is. Despite all the moaning, hope remains an angler's favourite bait. Anyway, enough waffling better get fishing before another cloud decides to have the last laugh.

You see with work finished early after banking my hours, I had a tiny window to flick a lump of bread about in search of a chub. It wasn't exactly overflowing with optimism, more a case of turning up because hope can be remarkably thick-headed. 

There are days when an angler glides to the river brimful of confidence, convinced the fish have been holding a committee meeting solely to discuss how best to throw themselves upon his hook. Then there are the days when the river greets you with the sort of grin usually reserved for tax inspectors and dentists. Mine, dear reader, fell squarely into the latter category.

The first chub was exactly where I expected it to be, tucked into a snag fortress that would have made medieval castle builders nod with approval. It gave my floating crust all the attention of a duke ignoring a chimney sweep before slowly wafting back into its woody sanctuary. I, meanwhile, was left trying to persuade myself that staring contests with fish counted as productive angling.

 Determined to seize the moment, I launched what I believed to be a "Luke the Nuke" cast of breathtaking precision. 

The river, however, had nominated a rather large overhanging tree as the true recipient of my masterpiece. 

Seconds later half the county's forestry programme came crashing into the swim with a splash that sent my solitary audience of one chub fleeing downstream in search of quieter company.

Off I trudged to the famed pool swim where, naturally, every respectable chub in the parish had gathered for what looked suspiciously like a social occasion. 

Reaching them would have required wading until the river lapped somewhere beneath my armpits, and even optimism has its limits. I decided drowning for a fish was perhaps an unnecessary flourish to the day's entertainment.

The next stretch was alive with fish, although unfortunately they all appeared to have been assembled from the junior section of the species handbook. 

Tiny dace, miniature roach and chublets no heavier than a decent sandwich darted at everything. Amongst the aquatic nursery lurked three proper chub, each treating my bread offerings with the sort of polite indifference normally shown to unsolicited salesmen.

Eventually a tiny chub took pity on me and saved the blank, which was rather like receiving a consolation prize after losing the village fete tug-of-war. Then, at last, salvation appeared in the shape of a decent fish homing in on my crust like a heat-seeking missile. 

I missed the first strike with admirable incompetence, only to hook it perfectly on the second attempt before it buried itself in the reeds and shed the hook with infuriating ease.

So ended another chapter in the grand book of Piscatorial Quagswagging, where triumph remained tantalisingly out of reach and calamity always seemed one cast ahead. 

The chub won on points, the trees claimed the best catch of the afternoon, and I returned home with little more than wet footwear and another tale to bore the neighbours with. Still, that's fishing—because if every trip ended in glory, we'd have nothing nearly as entertaining to laugh about afterwards.