Ratlin' the tins.
Posted: Mon Oct 30, 2023 8:04 pm
What with the constant rain and Matron 
becoming increasingly impatient at her Fat Spouse, deemed by Waffen Command to be mooching listlessly by the back door, looking at the sky for a break in the deluge. Unbelievably there did appear a crack in the cloud and a hand reaching down. Herr Bartlett Mole taking inspiration from this celestial vision tried the old repetitive begging, as perfected by young kids to annoy adults....it still works a treat. Waffen Command crumbled under the verbal onslaught, rapidly signing the triple paperwork in short order. 
Fortuitously by planning ahead the car was loaded with supplies and tackle to enable a swift escape and it was so.
The late exit meant getting to Romsey before more rain and darkness, now the clocks have been fiddled with yet again meant getting a bacon roll and a pint of slurping tea, from the finest purveyors of such, was a trifle hurried but nonetheless achieved without getting too much brown sauce dribbling down the front of one's shirt
No time to chase the ladies on the big river as Fat Bloke had a roach in his minds eye from a specific swim in the back stream. Rod was a Benny Ashurst Trent Match in combo with a Bewick, 2lb Maxima and large stick, bulk shotted as the river was tanking it a bit. No need for shirt button finesse at this time, a bulk made up of a 7g Olivette and four number eights down to a shortish hook link was good enough. Red maggots were the bait, a dozen or so lobbed round the float each trot.
Slow start.
Moving the shots about and increasing the hook link, and varying the depth, to trip along the river bed, resulted in tiny bites from tiny fish... minnows just don't give up ever. So a move was on the cards.
New swim trotting down the inside, six inches out from the tin bank strengtheners, in just 2ft of water required some skill to achieve a straight line. Proper bites from proper fish, Dace, perch and roachlets were swung in with alacrity. Any variation from the line meant no bites, so it was a case of literally ratlin' the tins every trot down. The roach were getting bigger as time swiftly passed.
Clunk, the float shot under, the fish felt good and definitely too large to be a swinger. This was more like it.
Soft hands, and gentle persuasion being the order of the day. The fish topped revealing itself to be a decent roach. In the net, the Fatter of the protagonists started a bad tune at top volume, scaring a couple dog walkers on the opposite bank.
Not big enough to be a fabled two but :
and รน
....at one pound ten ounces, well happy.
The Fatty dream of a two very nearly came true.
It was getting dark extra quick and rain started up ......time to pack after a celebratory slurp of tea.
Ye babum ye.
As ever,......
Moley
becoming increasingly impatient at her Fat Spouse, deemed by Waffen Command to be mooching listlessly by the back door, looking at the sky for a break in the deluge. Unbelievably there did appear a crack in the cloud and a hand reaching down. Herr Bartlett Mole taking inspiration from this celestial vision tried the old repetitive begging, as perfected by young kids to annoy adults....it still works a treat. Waffen Command crumbled under the verbal onslaught, rapidly signing the triple paperwork in short order. Fortuitously by planning ahead the car was loaded with supplies and tackle to enable a swift escape and it was so.
The late exit meant getting to Romsey before more rain and darkness, now the clocks have been fiddled with yet again meant getting a bacon roll and a pint of slurping tea, from the finest purveyors of such, was a trifle hurried but nonetheless achieved without getting too much brown sauce dribbling down the front of one's shirt
No time to chase the ladies on the big river as Fat Bloke had a roach in his minds eye from a specific swim in the back stream. Rod was a Benny Ashurst Trent Match in combo with a Bewick, 2lb Maxima and large stick, bulk shotted as the river was tanking it a bit. No need for shirt button finesse at this time, a bulk made up of a 7g Olivette and four number eights down to a shortish hook link was good enough. Red maggots were the bait, a dozen or so lobbed round the float each trot.
Slow start.
Moving the shots about and increasing the hook link, and varying the depth, to trip along the river bed, resulted in tiny bites from tiny fish... minnows just don't give up ever. So a move was on the cards.
New swim trotting down the inside, six inches out from the tin bank strengtheners, in just 2ft of water required some skill to achieve a straight line. Proper bites from proper fish, Dace, perch and roachlets were swung in with alacrity. Any variation from the line meant no bites, so it was a case of literally ratlin' the tins every trot down. The roach were getting bigger as time swiftly passed.
Clunk, the float shot under, the fish felt good and definitely too large to be a swinger. This was more like it.
Soft hands, and gentle persuasion being the order of the day. The fish topped revealing itself to be a decent roach. In the net, the Fatter of the protagonists started a bad tune at top volume, scaring a couple dog walkers on the opposite bank.
Not big enough to be a fabled two but :
and รน....at one pound ten ounces, well happy.
The Fatty dream of a two very nearly came true.
It was getting dark extra quick and rain started up ......time to pack after a celebratory slurp of tea.
Ye babum ye.
As ever,......
Moley