In the old, frantic provider days it took me six hours to get round all the pots. This left little time or enthusiasm for line fishing. Even when mackerel were tearing the water round the boat to shreds, by the time I had found and untangled my line, I had used up my patience and wanted to get on to the next fleet.
That was the fishing equivalent of playing one-armed bandits.
I have never yet picked up a rod without tangling it in less than a minute. I used to blame the conspiracy of right-handed design, but suspect it’s just my willful incomprehension of the wonders of reels.
Like shaving, it is one of the mysteries my dad never got round to teaching me.
Poor Me.
Hooks are fiendish things too. They seem to prefer jumpers to fishes’ mouths. In fact anything rather than fishes’ mouths.
Now I go out and paddle round my little circuit of pots and want an excuse to linger out on such a pleasant splashy Spring sea.
A rod might be just the thing. I could chuck a roped bag of stones over the side as an anchor under the cliffs and cast towards the rocks where I suspect the bass are.
What convinced me that I needed to learn angling was talking to a local, professional fisherman about netting bass etc who actually saw rod fishing for them as a viable alternative.
This was not the suburban reader of an angling mag with a boot-full of tackle and dreams of the wettish sort talking.
I have seen enough of them stranded in the drizzle, nursing fading hope on the storm-beach at Llanrhystud to appreciate the difference.
I bought a rod last week. I followed the suckers trail to the nearest outcrop and cast my line.
The sea was in no mood to help a novice cast from a kayak.
I broke it and lost my first lure amongst the rocks five minutes later.
All my doubts and cynicism about angly-dangling came flooding back.
