I’M finding that as I get older, the winters get longer even though the fishing is better.
That’s why I have this vision of having a hacienda in Spain when I finally become a millionaire (heh).
I’ve already informed management that in the perfect world I would like to spend a few months every year hiking and fishing in the Alpujarras Mountains – in fact I say this so often that Spain has now become a metaphor for sun.
But the sun is now starting to shine and with the countryside turning various shades of jade and gold, England is looking just fine.
Even more uplifting is that spring also heralds the start of the country festivals, which showcase the best of English life.
In fact, the best one of all is happening this weekend and to say I’m like a kid at Christmas is downplaying Christmas. Even better, the show happens just around the corner from where I live and is called the Reading Fly Fishing Festival (Reading is the town and pronounced Redding – nothing to do with any bookworms).
I go every year and once even took management along as they usually have a piscatorial cooking demonstration as well. She was enthralled as they showed how to fillet a fish with a single wrist flick, but once that was finished she went and slept in the car while I wandered off among rods and reels and kayaks and paraphernalia you wouldn’t believe existed.
But I seldom buy anything, as I would rather save my money for actual fishing. I almost pride myself in catching as much as the fanciest kitted-out guy with just bog-standard rods and fly-lines that are advertised as off-cuts. For some bizarre reason, I think I’m taking on the fish on more equal terms, although that’s nonsense as fish are far cleverer than me.
What I like most is this festival attracts a lot of guides who chat to us about various aspects of their vocation.
Graceful as a ballerina
Last year we had a Scottish guy who demonstrated double-handed Spey casting. He called for a volunteer, and as no-one stepped forward, his eyes fell on me. ‘You’ll learn something laddie,’ he said, and he got me to do a sweep as graceful as a ballerina. Well, the jury’s out on that description.
Then there was an Icelander who had come all this way to show off his roll-casting skills. This is something I do often when there’s bush behind me – but not like he did. As it happened, the wind was howling and he punched a fly into the teeth of the gale like it was a mere waft. I still have no idea how he did it, despite practicing with Zen determination.
An Irish guy spoke about fishing for perch with flies. We trout fishermen tend to be a bit snobby, but within minutes I was entranced and have now put that pretty high up on my wish list. And to rub salt into the snobbery, another guide got a whole lot of us pseudo-purists hooked on bass fishing with plugs. I say ‘pseudo’ as I actually love lure fishing and keep a small spinning rod handy whenever I go travelling.
Then, when the guides take a break from the lake, you can go into a tent and some travel agent wearing a multi-pocketed fishing vest and a tan that he must have got in Spain, shows a whole lot of movies about fishing in places like Belize and Patagonia, and you heart sinks when you know you have to go to work the next day.
But not for long. As you stumble out of the tent dreaming of big skies and fast rivers, there’s an outside pub where you pony up for a mug of foaming stuff and a hog roast roll.
So what’s not to like? It’s coming this weekend and nothing – but nothing – is dampening my spirits.
Except this. The weather report says it’s going to pour with rain on the day.
I tell this to management. She smiles sweetly. ‘Just think of Spain,’ she says.
