Coastlines
It was our wedding anniversary so, to mark the occasion, I thought it a good idea to go fishing.
Jilly has never demurred when I suggest an expedition and is most supportive; she even bought me undies with fish on ‘em for Christmas— yeah, way too much information.
Cicadas were making their presence felt with their intense shrilling, as I chugged my way up the valley to a favoured spot. Perhaps I hadn’t been going fast enough for the guy sitting on my tail, who was attempting to climb into the boot. Why do people do that? Impatience can readily lead to in-patients.
During the drive, I reflected how easy it is to get a fish when the cicadas drop into the river—almost like ‘fish in a barrel’. Hopefully this day was going to be similar to other cicada summers.
Pulled into the farmer’s place to get permission to cross his land and he kindly warned about the electric fences. I thanked him and drove off to my parking spot. It’s always good to drop off a fish to the landowners, from time to time, to keep the relationship going.
Bit of a wind when I jumped out of the car but, undeterred, I made a slightly hazardous vertical climb down the crib-wall structure beside the bridge, then trudged through the puggedup but dry paddock and through the creek leading to the main river. Side creeks are also worth scanning carefully because you never know!
Nothing there, so I took up a position by the main water, where I could see the pool. I briefly glanced upstream and to my horror, the row of red beech where the cicadas do their thing had all gone. Seems the river in one of its belligerent moods had taken them.
The river remained coloured, however, there were still willows lining the adjacent creek sending clean water into the main flow, with resident insects still singing. I carried on but no fish were in sight. There was a moment of excitement, when the cicada pattern sank in the current flow and was hit by something sight unseen, leading me to hang about ‘watching the river flow,’ as Bob Dylan once sang.
Nothing more was seen or felt, so I moved to Matey’s Spot X, where I felt there would be some more clean water and hopefully fish. The river seemed to be dropping a bit and was slightly clearer, so there was a degree of optimism as I flailed away in the now stronger wind. Nothing was seen, of fish not a fin, but Matey has often said how well he does at his Spot X— sometimes they line up to be caught. Spot X indeed, more like the ‘ex-spot!’
I wandered back to the car, disappointed, but brightened up when I remembered I’d booked a table for two to mark our anniversary. Got home in time to shower, shave and shampoo before heading out to dinner—even wore my new fish undies!
