They're going on ten to the dozen about it on the radio. Tha'ss rainun' like the clappers that is. Th'ass rained for a good hour in Watlington. Th'ass bin pourin' in King's Lynn.
Needless to say, it's all but stopped by the time I get to the river. The river looks pretty much like yesterday, apart from a bit muddier around the edges.
There's only one other bloke fishing the stretch I've plumped for on a whim. And he's sitting right slap bang in the swim I fancied.
"This is where the roach were shoaled up on Sat'dee," he says, staring at his waggler. "Had a foo today, but that's just died all of a suddin'. I'm off if that rain starts again."
My little mind's whirring away. Roach shoaled, had a few, then went dead - might be off soon. So I drop in next door. Not quite the right place, but near enough to be in there like a rat up a drain pipe when the precipitation prompt's my new-found friend's departure.I start with two out, keeping the banter going with helpful metereological observations like: "Cor that looks like it's going to piss down soon."
As the sky grows steadily darker, he slings his keepnet up the bank to dry. To say the swim he's in has a slightly obvious feature is a bit like saying Henry VIII liked the odd wedding. As he loads his car and disappears, I'm in like Flynn.
Two hours later, I'm staring into gin clear margins willing the river to colour-up. Or even just flow. It did flow weakly for half an hour or so, as the sluices opened near the bottom of the ebb in the tidal.
Just enough flow to pull the line round and tension the floats, but enough to make me think I was going to get one. Oh well, if the pike aren't feeding I can.
Cook up some pasta, drain, add a tin of meatballs and some of that fancy Italian seasoning stuff and job's a good'un. Jamie Oliver eat your heart out. Suitably fortified, I sit there into the gloaming again without a run. But I reckon things might pick up soon, looking at the weather.
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