Chef rustles up a quick pike

As we pitched up in Sump Corner, I glibly told Chef I managed to nail seven or eight last time I fished here. I felt quite confident as I threw a joey down the reed line and launched another one out into the deeps.

Skeins of geese glide in as we bustle over the rods. Netting a fish here means a balancing act on the mat of dying flag rush - possibly a wet foot.

But it's a glorious morning as a brisk westerly pushes the clouds down the valley. And if catching one means soggy tootsies, I have a spare pair of socks in the car; which means in theory I could net three before risking trench foot.

When Chef's float goes, I discover he has come wearing clodhoppers which are waterproof to a depth of a couple of inches, so in I go to net it. My socks stay dry as out comes a gloriously pristine, if slightly pissed off-looking pike.

I guess if you fastened your munching gear around a nice fat sardine, got yanked out of the lake and ended up with me and Chef staring at you, it might drive a coach and horses through your morning.

This is it, I'm thinking. We might catch a few today. This turns out to be a somewhat  optimistic prognosis, as we move to a nearby water, then another, with a lost fish the only other run.