Jagged lumps of chalk and carr stone emerge as the tide retreats. The sea didn't fill me with confidence as I tabbed down the cliff path, an umber-coloured band of water stretching out into the lazy swell.
But a few casts into the ebb and I start getting cocky, pushing the rod hard for maximum distance with the biggest wedge in my box, launching it out into clear water. This feels good for some reason, freshly-oiled reel spinning effortlessly on the retrieve.
The rod kicks violently as a fish smashes into the lure and I'm a happy bunny. I start gaining line on what feels like a sizeable fish. Then it swirls on the top, I see its big grey tail and it's gone. The hook I honed last night's still sharp, it hit the spoon so hard I can't understand why the metal didn't stay put in its gob.
I give it a tickle with the sharpening stone just in case and carry on casting like I mean it, but the magic's gone. I replay the 30 seconds or so I had that fish on over and over again as I head back up the cliffs for home.
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