I don't like Mondays

I was itching to get out today as soon as I heard the forecast. Cloudy with a westerly wind..? I'll have some of that.

It was a bit on the bright side as I cast the baits, but definitely a good westerly blowing - and a few bits of cloud in the distance.

The rods I'd rigged up the night before weren't quite set up right. I needed more lead to hold the floats where I wanted them, so I began reeling them in one by one to sort it.

One goes as I'm rummaging around for a bigger weight. I pick the rod up and it pops back up again several feet upwind of where it was. Dropped take. Must have felt the wind on the line.

At least they're out there, I think, looking at a clearly chomped joey. I change the weight and sling it out again, dropping the rod tops a couple of feet so there's less of a wind-blown bow on the line.

Be-ee-ee-ee.. The rod I've slung down the margins on a pencil float is off. The rod top's sunk and I've got an alarm on this one. At least it won't feel the wind on the line, I think. The pike thinks otherwise and drops it anyway.

Two dropped takes in 15 minutes. With the sun now up, I can see down far enough into the margins to clock a couple of discarded baits. Someone must have been here yesterday. Maybe they caned 'em.

A little voice says move. But I've had two takes, so there are clearly fish out there. It's starting to cloud over, as well. So I decide to stay put.

For a couple of hours, it looks ideal. Got to get one in a minute, I keep telling myself as I twitch the baits and recast them between a couple of brews.

A big swirl in the next swim convinces me it's done deal, as I recast one of the baits past it and gently reel it back to the spot.

Another hour passes and I decide to up sticks and drive to a swim I fancy on another water. Should have gone there hours ago, I tell myself. Marvellous thing is hindsight.

As I'm reeling the first rod in, the float I cast to the swirling fish begins moving off against the wind. I bend into it as the line tightens and don't even feel whatever's left teeth marks in the head of the bait.

Heads or tails, recast or floor it five miles for an hour somewhere else. Move wins the toss. But best of three says stay put.

So I stay until skeins of geese begin lofting off the beet fields on their way to The Wash, but the floats don't move again.