Having finally emerged from the darkened room it just has to be faced up to, another coarse fishing season is over and it ended much as March arrived, like a lamb and with a whimper. The photograph above is all about the passing of time and it's carved in stone on a vault, it suits my mood.
Calm and warm weather, for goodness sake it was 17C on Saturday and all I could catch were roach and rudd. There wasn't a predator to be seen anywhere.
On Monday Bure Boy and the Essex Scribbler visited and ominously it was another day of T-shirt weather. I managed one jack pike and Bure Boy lost a bigger fish and the Scribbler had a sleep. We amused ourselves catching small roach, perch and rudd because the big ladies of the drain seemed to be occupied elsewhere.
They were probably sorting out their make-up for the mating and spawning ritual that lies ahead, or they may have even started in this mild weather.
On a more cheerful note I think it is time to knock the dust and cobwebs off the trout rods and see if the moths have been feasting in my fly boxes.
Talking about feasting there are the skate wings the Essex Scribbler brought us, delicious, I'm cheering up at the thought of them and a glass of white wine. Or two.
Meanwhile, to cheer everyone up here's a beautiful perch that I caught just before Christmas.