The return to the grind has hit me harder than I’d have cared to admit, even though I’ve slipped into the rhythm of the new job without much fuss. There’s something about the abrupt shift from unhurried mornings and rod-in-hand dawdlings back to the rigid clock and screen glare that grates, and this week it bit particularly deep. But I need to pay the tax to those chuck it in a ever increasing blackhole.
Still, there are consolations, and one of them was a rare treat just before I wrapped up work on the Polestar and the 5 the day before jetting off to Lanzarote. A test drive, no less, in one of the prototypes. Nearly 900 horses ready to stampede at the slightest squeeze, a dizzying sprint to sixty in less than three seconds, and the rear seats offering all the indulgence of a chauffeured saloon. Nothing else out there quite compares, and for a brief blast down the road I felt the hairs on the back of my neck stand proud, the way they only do when something mechanical and outrageous is doing its best to bend the laws of physics.
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| The Jimny sporting its new Grille |
Will it sell? Well, there’s the rub. I’ve my doubts (That's why I took VR Polestar is haemorrhaging cash). The market’s jammed to the rafters with choices, endless badges and batteries vying for wallets that seem thinner by the month. A crying shame in a way, but that’s the business, and dwelling on it only makes the working day stretch longer than it needs to. There is a press embargo till Monday I believe for its official launch but initial feedback from the press is encouraging.
If it were only me to think about, I’d have packed it all in by now, feet up, rods out, retired to a simpler life of rivers and rambles. But life’s rarely that simple. A wife, two teenagers, and the bills that never stop sliding through the letterbox ensure that fantasy remains just that. So the weekend beckons me not to early retirement but to the Warwickshire Avon, where the river promises its own sort of escape. Bread crusts bagged up, I set out to see if I could tempt a chub or two off the top.
The first spot I decided on is good for a bite until I clocked three cars lined up in the layby, anglers already staked out along the bank. My roving plan was scuppered before it began, so I shuffled down the lanes to a quieter stretch I’ve often kept in my back pocket. The Avon there was running gin clear, though with just a feather of extra water riding her back. Beautiful to look at, but when the water’s that clear, the chub know every trick you’re trying to pull.
Seven or eight swims worked methodically, crusts dropped, ripples watched, patience tested. Only three of them showed any real signs of life. Twice I saw great bow waves roll up from the depths, the broad backs of hefty fish rising to investigate my bread. Heart in mouth, rod poised, I watched as they hovered within a whisker of temptation, then turned with the disdain of a diner refusing a dish they hadn’t ordered. Beyond cautious they were, suspicious to the point of comedy, and in all my years I can’t remember another session where they’ve been quite so dismissive.
It left me wandering the banks in that peculiar mixture of frustration and fascination that only fishing delivers. Every failed rise is another puzzle to chew over, another reason to return, and as the light began to soften I found myself plotting a dusk sortie.
The witching hour, when the shadows lengthen and the water carries less glare, has a way of coaxing even the wariest fish into a mistake. Perhaps this evening will be that evening. For now, though, I trudged back with bread bag lighter, boots muddied, and mind half-set on giving it another go when the day gives way to evening and the river sheds its caution. The fish might not have played ball, but the river always whispers its secrets to those patient enough to listen, and I’ll happily lend an ear a little while longer.
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