Going Fishing

It’s nice to write those two words, especially in a British November with a weekend collapse in temperatures predicted and my slim chances of a final 2010 day’s fishing confined to intensive care. Negley Farson wrote in his famous book of the above title that it was all about the places around the world that his fishing rods had taken him. Agreed (altho’ when Ryanair quoted 80 euros to fly my rods to Oslo in August I had to jig this to ‘where other people’s fishing rods have taken you’). Here’s a place I won’t forget:

The home pool at Lower Varzuga camp, Kola Peninsula, on the last morning I was there in May, ten minutes before helicopter lift-off. It was one of those situations where I thought I'll kick myself waiting for a Tube train back at Heathrow in a few hours' time if I don't snap this on the cell phone. There was a rock lie about 30 feet out – in the middle left of the picture, where I had hooked a final Russian fish about 45 mins before I took this shot. A 4 lb grilse, not the biggest - but it was a lively wild bar of silver which grabbed my Flamethrower tube-fly doubled up with a small silver coneheaded dark Jess tube at the head. Good times, good times.

About henrygiles

Born to fish forced to work and fish
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