Wednesday, October 22, 2014
Euphoria followed, so we skipped home, pausing only for pints
Planning ahead (a rare occurrence in these befuddled parts) much of this winter will be spent chainsaw in hand dealing with trees that tumbled over last winter. The forces of crack willow who,after last winter's out of bank experience, can lay claim to the upper hand, will once again be re-engaged and forced to bow to the shock and awe of my saw to promote biodiversity in the chalkstream environment.
The newspapers from yesterday and today, carry the tale of a Swedish Navy feverishly hunting down a secretive soviet submarine that has bumped into one of their archipelagos. Principle evidence for invasion by the Russian Bear is a reported sighting of a shadowy figure by a bay,
who, it has now been revealed, was a pensioner fishing for trout.
Here on the Dever we keenly anticipate a visit from NATO's Baltic Fleet to inspect our fun bunch whose days of peeking for Ivan have long been been replaced by an ambition to put a fish on the bank.
There's no secret submarines here.
A few Fridays ago I was kindly invited to lunch by a lake further down the valley with optional fishing. I've bumbled along several times in years gone by to talk shop, take a ribbing for rubbish that I have written and touch base with keepers who I may not have seen for an entire season. As ever there was exasperation at guff emanating from the complicated cabal who lay claim to the title of saviors of the chalk stream environs, although fewer grumbles than previous years. Food was fantastic although I didn't do much fishing: too busy chatting or ear-wigging discourse on best methods for fly fishing for pike, which I will be implementing sometime this winter.
Thanks for the invite, it's always a great day and a great opportunity to talk.
What happened there?
Lee Mack was ill, but still brilliant and soldiered on, dealing efficiently with the inevitable hecklers before exiting stage left after just over an hour.
One week on and Madam and myself have just returned from thirty six hours in Dublin to take in Dara O'Briain at the Vicar St theatre, a tiny venue that sold out in minutes once the dates were tweeted on Twitter six months ago.
Pick your spot, and it is possible to fly to and from Dublin from our local airport in less time, and for fewer pennies, than the train ticket from Winchester to Waterloo and back. A fifty minute flight dropped us off in Dublin in time for breakfast at O'Brien's where a homeward bound Hibernian took an immediate, and understandable, shine to Madam and made great play while I punished the bacon and white pudding.
It's called the spire, is very high and there is much mischief to be made with statues a camera and attention to depth of field, that I won't chuck up here for fear of offending.
Later on while Madam rummaged for smalls on Grafton St, I entered Peter's pub for a post prandial pint, the cost of which shook me somewhat and endorsed a burgeoning suspicion that this city was not the cheapest place in which to hang my hat. However the chat was great, the decor comforting, more seventies sitcom than the clichéd "Irish bar" to be found in many a city, and after a five minute discourse mostly on the merits of Italian beer, the conclusion drawn was:
the price of my pint of froth was soon forgotten.
Which may have been the plan all along.......Doh!
A euphoric Madam and myself, linked arms and skipped home, pausing briefly for pints.
It may seem like a lot of gadding about but , but to quote Prodnose,
" we only walk this earth for eighty or so summers at best"
and in footballing terms Madam and myself would hope that we are five or ten minutes into the second half so forgive us a "redbull" moment with our frantic running about.
Or perhaps it was just a calendar cock up when booking the comedy tickets many months ago.