Not sure what to do
Not sure what to do. Thursday 26 DecemberHeading south, parallel to Kerguelen ridge, 11.15Dived way south over the last day to avoid the high pressure zone, north of me, where there’s no wind. Made the decision 24 hours ago and at the moment it looks in my favour The next few days will tell. The sea is choppy and uncomfortable so I’m off to hand-steer. It’s easier to dodge the kelp that way, too. Friday 27 December1860 miles south-west of Perth, 11.14I’m still having problems with the pilot and unsure if the decision to go south will pay off. I’ve made up some miles and improved by a place, but I’m waiting to see if the high pressure system is going to follow the path predicted yesterday. I’ve got more wind than I was expecting, which is positive and should get better still tomorrow, but I’m nervous with the pilot so temperamental. I need sleep but it’s back to hand-steering instead. .
God I am so bored. After whipping myself up to the stiff-peak stage of excitement over Christmas it’s now over and all those annoying little jobs that I filed under ‘Do in the new year’ are looming large
God I am so bored. I’m now looking at summer like you might occasionally do an ex-lover: remembering all the good bits and none of the bad. How I long to stalk wild brownies whilst in the soft cover of an ox-eye daisy meadow; how nice it’d be to fish in just shirt-sleeves and not three layers of Damart turquoise vests.
How I am dreading the long tunnels that are January and February, when the light of spring is so very far away.
Even the picnic basket groans in winter. Food becomes less a pleasant punctuation to a day’s fishing, than essential to keep the frost at bay: flask upon flask of hot soup and coffee rather than the light, dainty salads of summer fishing days (still, at least chocolate doesn’t melt in winter).The Friday before Christmas, I came home after a boozy lunch, covered in those little glitter stars, the sort that well-organised hosts scatter about the dining table I had even eaten one by accident along with my bread roll. And something funny had happened: between the exact hours of 13.46 and 15.21 I’d say 90 per cent of my fishing buddies had decided to contact me. First there was an e-mail from friends in Devon telling me what a busy December they’d had (good) and how well their fishing journals – which they launched in the autumn – had gone down.
Then a fishing buddy from Scotland asking when I was next going to cross the border and reminding me that the salmon season opens on the Tay on 15 January. Mick Rouse, my friend from the Angling Times asking me when we could fit in some barbel fishing (soon please) and various other friends from up and down the country telling me how the season had been for them. It was lovely.Although no one thought to buy me Eminem’s CD for Christmas, despite me dropping heavy hints (“I am not,” said my boyfriend “putting money into that man’s pocket.”) I did get an unexpected present from one of the lovely assistants of a tackle shop I frequent, who had read my column of a few weeks ago, in which I went on about these caramel coloured damsel nymphs that I won’t fish with ‘cos I like them so much I’m scared of losing them and don’t remember where they’re from to replace them. Well! He’d only sent me a bunch of them saying “they’re from us!”. Pity Aston Martin and Land Rover don’t also read my column…But Santa had not forgotten that I’m a fisherman either. In amongst my booty was a salt water reel and a teeny, tiny digital camera the size of half a credit card. It fits a treat on my fishing waistcoat so that I can take pictures of fishing adventures and then download them on to my computer.