Fed up with failing on the fly I slunk up to Pickering with half a pint of maggots and a trotting rod. A splendid winter’s afternoon with a watery sun and most of the frost burned off. The river looked in nice nick:
I tooled around for an hour without a touch. While I was fiddling with some tackle I took a step and heard an ominous crack:
Bloody amateur, that’s what I am.
Anyway, the bore of snapping the landing net handle was ameliorated somewhat when the float disappeared and this was on the end:
I foul-hooked a much nicer one but got it back in the water asap without taking a pic. A score draw then. Sort of.