Ever had the feeling that you are on a run? You know, it's that time when you everything you do is right. You could cast a bait into a puddle on the pavement outside your house and land a twenty pound carp or just generally turn up to any old lake and bang a monster first chuck.
Now although what I caught last week were no record breakers they did give me the feeling that I was a member of the golden rod club. Paradoxically this weekend I have landed back in reality where my golden rod is snapped, I am soaked, my back hurts and the Avon once again falls into the shite and barren category.
I know, as we all do, that highs and lows are integral to stimulate passion. for if you do not have one or the other you automatically become apathetic about what you do. But honestly, to fall so far in one foul drop has been a smack in the face and worst of all it has come from my beloved Avon. And after I have been faithful to the last this past winter.
Like many my mind has been filled with the romantic notion that I to could chance a chubby barb before the bell rings time on the season in not much more than a weeks time.
My first step into the blank void it was nothing more than a bird-like reaction to spring. The weather had warmed us all to the point of breaking into song and the seemingly stable double figure temps proved too much temptation, resulting in me charging off into the sunset to angle after lovely golden barbel. When I left the car the handy thermometer highlighted in green told me the temperature was a balmy 12c. When I returned less than three hours later it said 2c. In between twelve and two degrees I sat in the dark and stared vacantly at two tip lights for no apparent reason. I did worry a little when the normal buzz of activity of rolling fish never happened at dusk. I dismissed it as nothing, though thinking back, that was probably a good indicator.
Every time I have caught here, there has always been a rise of some kind. Maybe I would have stood a better chance a day or two earlier as I get the distinct feeling I was late of the mark hitting that mild spell.
My second trip was ill founded from the start and again the Avon slapped me as a result. This session carried a hundred memories of fishing in my childhood. Freezing cold, water running down my back as damp maggots escaped my bait box. All the crappy suffering that make up the cliché's of our sport rolled into one stamina sapping session. It rained from the moment I awoke till the moment the last bit of kit was shoved in the car boot and I went home to sulk in the warmth, fishless and f***** off.
But as I have said before these are downs which punctuate the ups. So rightfully I should feel challenged to return with renewed vigour and make one last attempt to woo something special onto my hook before the fat lady breaks into song.
Well we will see next time won't we.
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