I have fished the marshes of the Pevensey levels and the Romney Marsh since the early fifties and remember the Wallers Haven when it used to run by the garden of the Star Inn. In those days, Carp were very rare and the Wallers Haven had a different name, it was called the Pevensey Sluice.
Ice crystals keep trying to form amongst the brown and broken weed stems, then a cold blast of air sweeps across the water to lash my face, and the crystals are gone. I had arrived at the water over two biteless hours ago, warmed by the car's heater, and full of optimistic expectation. The warmth
There will come a time in the life of a fishing widow when your teenaged anglers decide that they want to go on a fishing holiday with their friends, one of whom has access to his mother's car for the week. Of course they do. It's all part of the growing up process, the beginning
I'm sure my brain cells are being destroyed by global warming, or something -possibly gin. At our final work party, a few weeks ago, Jack attempted to clear one of the remote swims. A fair sized tree had tumbled from the high banks of the country park which lies adjacent and landed in the lake.