The legend of Bastard Barry

      I park my car in a remote Fenland farmyard when I visit one of my favourite pike fishing venues and the farmer, like all of the farmers in Fenland, has varying levels of security around the farm and the farm buildings and stores.
      A gong sounds as you come up the farm road. A light is set to come on in darkness or daylight. The people who live there have 'eyes-on'. If you don't have permission you will be asked to leave.
      Then there is another more 'subtle' level of security, called Bastard Barry, I reckon he's descended from Bible John's preaching terrier that serviced many a dog in Fenland; anyway the legend of 'Bastard Barry' may sound like a Bob Dylan song but this one is alive, well and capable of biting.
      Barry likes nothing more than a good nip of your Achilles Tendon when your back is turned and then he's off so that he is just out of range. If you are daft enough to shout at him and chase him he turns, squares up to you and goes for the full frontal attack.
      Not advised.
      In the picture of him above he's a happy dog, he's wagging his stumpy tail so hard it's a blur, that alone is a worrying development.

      When the Essex Scribbler, Bure Boy and I fished for pike at this venue on Monday we emerged unscathed and un-nipped but I'm sure the crafty little bugger knew we were watching each others backs. I suspect my card is marked for my next solo visit. The Essex Scribbler even produced a characterful drawing to ingratiate himself with Barry, it won't work ES he's like a hairy pike, a creature who loves an ambush.
      Maybe I'll go somewhere else next time.