I’ve never really fancied the idea of fishing. If my memory serves me well, I’ve only done it twice in my entire life.
The first occasion, I was invited by the bread delivery guy who lived next door to us in Gillow Heath. I guess I’d be about nine or ten years of age. We drove to a pond near Knypersley and sat on the bank in the rain for a few hours. I was cold and miserable: I didn’t see a fish at any point in the procedings.
The second occasion was at a beautiful lake in Idaho. My american brother-in-law, who is a keen angler, was showing me how to cast. He was fishing whilst I was practicing. I decided it was quite boring and thought I’d go and help with the barbeque. So I wound the line in and found a wide mouth bass wriggling on the end. No-one was more amazed that I that I’d caught something.
Even that escapade did nothing to enamour me to angling as a pass-time. I have a grudging respect for the patience of anyone who can sit on a bank for hours, in all weathers, waiting for a nibble. But that’s just about the only positive thing I can find to say about it.
I think I’ve seen and heard enough about angling over the years to understand the basic principals of what happens. Or so I thought. On Saturday, I took Smudge for her usual run around Jubilee Park. In the middle of the rugby pitch there was a man who was fishing: straight up, no word of a lie! I’m sure there’s supposed to be water involved in the process somewhere. I managed to resist the temptation to ask if he’d caught anything.
