Mid-Summers Day. The unwashed, unkempt teenagers are off to wallow in mud and mind altering chemicals at Glastonbury, Royal Ascot Ladies Day beckons the rich, the aristocratic and the merely pretentious, and Wimbledon is preparing to offer us a couple of weeks stultifyingly boring pseudo sport. Of course, it’s raining. Not just your summer-shower type rain either – this is the real stuff – long, hard and cold.
The ground is sodden and the rivers are running thick, high and brown; any thought of getting out with a rod have to be put back again and again. My fishing bag has been sorted and rearranged umpteen times, forum posts have been read and re-read and I’ve written a number of posts for the blog, only to discard them in utter frustration.
After the gluttony of the Mayfly season I should now be looking forward to more challenging fishing with tiny dries and finer tippets late into golden summer evenings. In stead I have to suffer domestic incarceration and the angst of not being able to get out to the river.
