artificial lite.

silver lite.

beach bum.

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Last resort.

I hope that you find my journal interesting and entertaining. If, having read this, you think that I am talking rubbish then at least you have stopped and thought about it long enough to come to that conclusion which is something of a result in my book. If you would like to comment on this article or anything else relating to my website, please feel free to contact me  at;
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beach bum.

artificial lite.



artificial lite

I like it down here. I can see myself, newly retired, taking an early morning stroll along the front, wondering if the bass are cruising over the bits of broken ground that show at low tide. Maybe the flounders are hunting the flat sand where all the lugworm casts are. Whatever, whichever, I can see the golden sunlight rippling, hypnotically across the sand through crystal clear, turquoise water that wouldn't look out of place in Florida, Greece or the south of France.

Alright, I've woken up now. I still have eighteen months of toil to go and although the sands and the sun are golden and the water clear and blue, I've just spent two more wholly unproductive days fishing the south coast.

Day one was going well enough, three biteless hours up, interrupted only by the arrival of randomly scattered, but oily and hairless nude sunbathers, and a brief flurry of activity around high water.

I had two bass rods out. One fishing a whole dirty, party ( which sounds more interesting than it looks or smells) squid on a 4 oz pulley rig, and the other a 3 oz, two hook flapper searching for flatties and armed with frozen black lug.

It was the black snot which struck first, a succession of vigorous rattles resulting in nothing. As did the two hard pull downs which decapitated the squid on both occasions and for that matter the second rattling bite that sent my flapper into a flap.

The tide receded, the heat heated and broiled my will to carry on but neither pressed me to leave quite as convincingly as the arrival of more naked and slippery looking men holding hands.

I trudged the long trudge back to the car pondering the two most obvious questions, why can't I turn those few good rattles into fish on the line, and why do nudists always seem to be old men and never young, good looking ladies?


Maybe I should have gone back the next day, but I didn't, I made another poor decision and headed up the river. I picked a spot opposite a dirty water outfall and spent most of the day cooking under a blue and cloudless sky, watching mullet and some decent bass stream past me at speed on the flood. I spent a frustrating day dragging hundredweights of weed from the river hoping for an improvement by high tide but it never came.

I had one bite soon after starting at low water. It was a good rattle, which I left until the culprit had made two equally vigorous return visits whereupon, I picked up the rod. I could quite clearly feel the fish tugging away on the other end, so I struck and missed. Why? Why did that not hook up? How did it manage to pick up and pull so hard on a bait tied so tightly, with no loose ends on a small hook and yet not get caught?

I was going to go out again today but I was so bereft of ideas that I settled for a long lie in instead. I can't wait to get back to the channel. It may be dirty and muddy but the fish there are at least a decent size. There is no need to fiddle about with flapper rigs for flatties. No need for expensive worm baits, squid will do for everything and most of it hooks itself and pulls back.