I cant really be counted among the millions of fishermen in the world. I'm not even a fisherperson and definitely not a fisherwoman. I'm perhaps something more along the lines of Fisher-Price, but even that's stretching the imagination. Without explaining the finer points of my fishing abilities, it's safe to say that I suck at it on every level.

I found myself sitting on an easy chair, next to a winding creek which had been wrongly titled 'river'. It was the River Dee. Cupiscent's fame (infamy?) has reached the very limits of North Wales! It had just about everything that all good rivers should. Tinkling churchbells, pretty stone bridge, a few fish here and there, and a grubby fisherman sitting on the banks deftly applying his skills. They call it "drowning maggots". I'm not sure what I call it, but I did feel a tiny stab of pity for the small wriggling creatures that had their arses threaded with a hook. Do maggots feel pain? I'm not about to start a "maggotarian" campaign for the welfare of Maggots or anything, but they're rather innocent little things once you separate them from the flies and the disease and the smell.

First cast of the day - Jackpot. The smallest little fish you've ever fixed eyes on. I'm not much of a fish lover, but after contemplating maggots, this fish was the most amazing creature on earth. A tiny little Dais. It lay in my hands, gently stretching its tail like it was improving it's tan. I was a little bit stunned. Such a pretty little thing - Gleaming scales, silvery colours reflecting off the healthy tail, and a big gob gasping for air. It finally cracked the shits with me gawking at it and flipped its way into the keep net, to await the arrival of several other fine fishy-smelling friends.

For the next few hours, Beloved and I sat there catching fish. To be fair, I sat in the chair admiring Beloved while HE caught the fish, but I did do a very good job of keeping up to date with supplying random kisses and regularly turning the pages on my book. I battled with Schindler's List, while he battled with a nasty Pike that kept stealing our wee dais from the line.

The tide turned though, stemming the flow of the River Dee. When a river flows backwards, you know it's time to pack up shop. A rough guess put our daily catch somewhere around 5 pounds. Not bad. I have no idea how much 5 pounds is (why dont they use metric, damn it!) but there was a lot of flippity-flap in the bottom of the keepnet when we lifted it out of the water to inspect the gathered collection.

Rather cool.

But you dont have to worry about be becoming a Fisherman/woman/person thing. Even my attempts to feed the fish within the keep-net were met with stunned laughter. How the hell was I supposed to know that fish sulk when they've been caught?

Stroppy Bastards! Imagine how the bloody maggot feels!