Perch, roach, carp, rudd, tench, bream … all fish should be called Godot. All the fish in the pond in front of me, in any case.
For once again, I find myself sat in the drizzle, somewhere in middle England, waiting for a bite like a mystic waiting for answers from God.
Every year, without fail, I meet up with my eldest brother, nephew and stepdad to “drown some worms” as my brother puts it, and catch up on family news. We try to use the trip to explore some corner of England we don’t know well. We’ve done Norfolk, Oxfordshire, Worcestershire a few times – it’s a midpoint, a neutral zone. My stepdad has been fishing for more than forty years and always catches twice as much as my brother, who catches five times more than me. Even my young nephew is more skilled at … well, what?
(Excerpt from Chris Moss’s article in the Telegraph (UK) Read the rest of the article here.)