With six days left, I do up a couple of rods for drain fishing, have a change of heart when I see the weather and end up going somewhere else instead. It's foggy, with a cold, lazy easterly. Not ideal conditions, in other words.
The water's grey and ruffled in the first couple of swims I try. I'm kicking myself for not being here earlier in the week, when it was fishing reasonably well. Lunchtime comes and goes, in the shape of one of the most profoundly disappointing scotch eggs I have ever eaten.
As the wind gets up, the fog clears slightly. I work my way around a series of bays until I run out of ideas.
Looking at the forecast, things aren't going to get any better for the next few days. In fact the wind's set to swing found a few points to north-east and things could get pretty grotty. When it blows up cold, they call it the Lazy Wind in Norfolk, after a poem by John Kett.
That lazy wind, that crazy wind, from icy seas come tew yer,
Tha's jus' tew lazy t'go round an' so that go clean threw yer.
Kett had the weather nailed. If you've ever fished on one of the drains or rivers in the Fens which flow in a more or less northerly direction when the Lazy Wind's blowing and you'll know that bone chilling feeling all too well, as it hits you right in the chops.
I can't ever recall catching much when conditions were that way inclined either. But with the clock ticking down, there's no choice now.