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I felt a surge of power, and the rod tip went down hard. A sudden pull to the left, and I pulled the rod up, feeling the rod ‘lock up’ as I tried to get back some control. I looked across to the other side of the bar to where Steve Burke was grinning back
I'm starting to get used to these weird experiences now. Not quite a dream, more of an alternative reality. Everything seems to be ordinary, but not quite right. Perhaps it's the sounds, or the light. Slight imperceptible differences, but enough to make me realise that I'm having another one of those â€˜funny turns'. And so
I've always tied my own hooks. That way, I know exactly the quality and attributes of the hooklength. Pre-tying hooks means less fumbling around at the bankside, especially when my tiny fingers are frozen. The problem then has been keeping the pre-tied hooks tidy, and the hooklength unkinked. I started by wrapping the lengths around
The stick float bobbed and twisted in the current where the tiny river Len empties over the weir into Mote Park Lark, in Maidstone. Weeks before, I had watched the bream as they spawned in the current. Now a shoal of perch were feeding, attracted by the hatching fry. Suckers for a stick floated worm.
September. A misty, late afternoon rain has dampened the ground, and now an evening mist is moving through the shrubbery. Perfect conditions for night-time stalking. Moving quietly and slowly is the key, all senses attuned for the slightest sign. I see my target, wait my moment, then strike! Success! Now the tussle begins, as my