Today is a scorcher, and the fragrant hawthorn has been out for a week filling hollows with perfume in the mornings until the breeze lifts and disperses the concentrated scents. I've been breathing them in every morning on my commute to work.
There's some long grass at the back of my house and this morning when I got the car out the hawthorn and ground elder mingled and flashed me back directly onto the river bank. A strong call from the river imploring me not to forget. A memory so striking and intense I could shut my eyes and transport myself there.
River fishermen have had to be satisfied with still water mistresses of late but the never ending march of time, date and the nettles signifies the approach of a new season.
To be honest I had no spare time this morning. Kids opticians, jobs at home and a birthday lunch appointment lined up like big kids in a game of British bulldog preventing me from reaching the other side. I smashed an impromptu hole in the schedule.
This is one of those posts where the photos my hardware is capable of capturing is never going to do the experience justice. Holding my polaroids in front of the lens I managed to capture a few subsurface shots.
I'm going to waste no effort in trying to describe the surroundings which greeted me as another injustice would be done.
Suffice to say I saw separate groups of seven, four and three barbel and endless good chub. Gudgeon, minnows and fry were in the warm shallows. The weed is the most piercing green and the gravel is clean and rich.
It's all still there fellas, get out and see it!
|A classic upper Avon ''run and dump' into a clear pool stuffed with chub.|
|Trying to remember where the weed beds are for high water reference.|
|Look closely, a barbel feeds.|
|Barbel and chub.|
|Chub and barbel.|
|What a difference a few months make.|
|It's down there somewhere.|