Diary of a Riverkeeper on the River Test, Hampshire

Another heads up (further contemporary parlance) that the second episode of Mary Berry's new series:

"Crossing over to the other side" - a six part series examining the efficacy of Britain's best bridges,

(I think that's what they said, although food was very much to the fore in last week's episode, I guess in preparation for Mary's odyssey across the best bridges of these isles)

is on BBC 2 on Friday 22nd May at 8pm,this week featuring fish.

Well, quite a few fish have been caught, which is good news for the catch records,and quite a few fish have been lost also.

The fish caught have been in remarkably good condition and appeared to have over wintered well. The vanguard of the Mayfly are already here and fish are now showing interest.

Weed remains slow to grow, dab chicks are decidedly skitty, I have seen them on nests built on weed grown clear of the surface at this time of the year, but there is no chance of that this year. There is concern up and down the river over the taint that the river currently carries. It makes sight fishing in poor light difficult in any water greater than three feet deep. The chap from the Wessex Chalk stream Trust was here last week on his biannual foray for bugs to take back to the lab, and he confirmed that there was heightened concern over the increase in sediment that the river was currently carrying. It is very obvious and forgive me for repeating myself, but I can clearly remember the first time I saw a Grayling. It was in spring in six feet of water in 1986, when I attended an interview for twelve months unpaid work experience on the middle reaches of this river system. look in the same hole this year and a Hippopotamus could lay there undetected. Water Quality remains a concern on this river, particularly during times of low flow.

And while we're on low flow, I have just returned from a trip to Portsmouth, by the back roads to avoid the car park that is the M27, with Child A at the helm to collect her old car which went pop three weeks ago and has had an extended sojourn at the menders.

If anybody is interested in a purple Renault Modus, nickname "The Pig" 82,000 miles, lots of MOT and one careful owner,

let me rephrase that

No careful owners

It's a bargain buy, and a dream car for some cove, so please don't be a stranger if you think this auto's for you

And if this car sale thing works, we may consider further requests for sales and parish messages.

Hurtling along the lanes which may well have served smugglers fleeing the Kingsmen in similar haste centuries ago, I could just make out some much diminished lakes around Winchester. The flight pond at home is a couple of feet lower than it should be, and lily pads that used to provide spawning sites for substantial carp in May are a few inches from the bed of pond. I reckon we'll be seeing the first episodes of "fish rescue sometime during July. I may be bucking a trend with my sustained consumption of red wine, but this corner of England is drying out, and not enough people are appreciating that fact or even talking about it.

News Just in from La La Land.

It has just been announced that the solution to all those poor souls fleeing conflict across the Mediterranean is more bombs......obvs.

Yup bombs. that'll do it!

That' s a bomb delivered at a cost hundreds of times of the boat that it is intended to destroy, and of course the number of boats is finite right? nobody makes them anymore, and a few explosions will snuff out any innovation inspired by desperate circumstances as to any other method of taking flight from a hellish existence, and a few explosions will keep these guys on that side of the pond because we do really good explosions and they will never have seen explosive devices before.

Bonkers!

Haven't we had enough of bombs for the time being, I think the spirit of Joni Mitchell is upon me, at which point we shall examine the DDT thing,

Oh, she's gone, another time perhaps Joni

News just in from the deep south (not Brighton sea front on a bank holiday in the 1970s) where similar thought processes to the "lets bomb the boats" protagonists led to nine people dead in a fight between local biker gangs.

The reason?

Their Mums had embroidered the name of the state to which they laid claim on the back of their jacket, and the other bmx boys took offence.

Nuts

and at which point I could quote Bill Hicks at length, but will refrain because he had a colourful vernacular, but "watchu readin for" springs immediately to mind.

More News from La La land as we have it:

Our political correspondent is currently taking a break but will be back sometime after the Queen's speech.

This week The lady who sleeps on my left was summoned to dispatch justice at the local crown court.

One of forty summoned she was initially selected for a six week case, which she declined and had to go up before the beak to explain why she wasn't allowed to take so much time off school, so she waited for her next case.

Don't ask me why, because its clear to me that Madam's in pretty good order for a lady of her years, but the spirit of experimentation her and she is currently trying the five and two lifestyle, and fasts (600 calories or less for the day) for two days of the week.

Heaven help the accused if a verdict is required on a fasting day, co she'll hang em all high on an empty tummy.

Her first case has now closed and dinner time discourse currently includes allusion to the market price of crack cocaine and methods of supply.

In sad circumstances we travelled north to the rim of the Yorkshire dales in Rydale to attend my Uncle Dennis's funeral.

With echoes of Geoffrey Boycott he'd reached 92 at Scarborough only to be dismissed a few runs short of his century ( he still goes on about it, Boycott not Uncle Dennis)

We took the dog ( more of him later) and stayed in a lovely pub on the Yorkshire moors where hounds were most welcome, before attending the funeral the next day. We walked the dog, got three parts foxed on the hostelry fayre before heaving open the portmanteaux to reveal a lack of much of my mourning clobber but many shoes; packing had not gone well.

It's an elderly clientele on the river and the funeral thing is a regular event, I've quite the outfit when required, but just not this time, sorry Uncle Dennis. I don't do suits very often and this one didn't make the trip.

Ok I had a choice of shoes, and this may be the genesis of some late life fetish, but little else. So it was off to the clothing emporia and charity shops of Pickering and Kirkbymoorside to source a suit before visiting Aunty Joyce mid morning, who revealed that the late lamented, and much loved Dennis had bequeathed his wardrobe to the same said emporia.

On our return to the car I checked my new purchase for name tags,

Turning up to Den's send off in his old clothes could be seen as a tribute by some, or bad form by others,

So not wanting to appear divisive, we revisited the charity shops and eschewed the blue sweater displaying the North Yorkshire Moors Railway logo, for a shirt with some buttons missing and an afghan three quarter length coat. One hundred yards from the entrance to the church we were met by the Director of Strategy for Transport for London (my smart younger brother who rails against bad planning, and the chaos theory to which I occasionally subscribe)

Who gently inquired as to what I was wearing.

at which point I scuttled back to the car, the charity shop ruse had failed at first base, so pop on my old jumper and jeans, both black (yes I still listen to the Mission and the Sisters of Mercy when the mood is taken) and into the church,

and yes, we took the dog.

At which point I'd like to offer up his services as a mourning dog. Ok this was simple Anglican fayre, and he has yet to take in a burning Norse longboat, or Hindu funeral pyre,but this dog can do reverence. He stood up for hymns, sat down for readings and bowed his head for prayer, as a test of mourning this dog passed with flying colours and what's more he's black to boot, ladies and gentleman I give you funeral dog, £30 an hour, £40 if the handler is required to remember his suit.

It all went very well, he was a lovely man Uncle Dennis with an appreciation for cricket, a cigar, apple pie and a packet of chicken crisps. It was great to catch up with family we have not seen for far too long. Uncle Dennis and Aunty Joyce were fortunate to live in a very caring village community for thirty years and counting, and it was great to meet people who we had heard much about but never met.
Thanks in particular to the neighbours who have been so kind to my aunt and uncle and have this guff forced upon them. The advice on sartorial matters (hell I need it) has been duly noted and a jacket is on order, and also the couple of carers who work at the care home who trundled Aunty Joyce out for the day. They can look after me when my faculties are failing any day (possibly next week) and are a fun bunch. Somebody give them a pay rise, they are brilliant!

We returned, I think via Peterborough at one point, (Google Maps was not giving off its best) with our new afghan coat and shirt, sans the required number of buttons and a business plan based around a dog who can do funereal, and a working title of "Dogs that deliver on death"

Although on reflection we may have been high on alliteration at that point and a softer tone to the business moniker may be more appropriate.

This dog can mourn, watch this space, coming to a pew near you.

The first day of June and I've just come in from conditions outside that are more suited to Nanook of the North and not the middle of the mayfly. Fifty mile an hour winds and heavy rain are not ideal conditions for a mayfly to return to the river to lay its eggs, although we did experience several heavy falls of spinners towards the end of last week, so something should be about this time next year, but any fertilised females hanging around the branches this afternoon with a mind to settle on the water this evening will not have fared well, wind ( the meteorological kind) can be a bugger at this time of the year and can be devastating to all manner of flora and fauna.

A fair few fish have been caught and almost as many lost. Some are easily spooked in low clear weed free water but a hatch of fly soon sets them at ease and many settle down to become what some would describe as "regular risers"

Most fish last week fell to a Mayfly, from lunch time onwards, although a sharp drop in temperature has seen a cessation of activity. There are plenty of fish in the river at the moment and some hefty lumps at that, today one of our rods watched a Rainbow of six or seven pounds, that had obviously wintered well after escaping from stew ponds up stream last year, melt into the shadows twenty yards downstream from the fishing hut.

Last week I was whisked up to the far North of Scotland in an orange aeroplane for a few days fishing for salmon on the Carron. It's the third year I have been invited, which is a miracle in itself as I'm sure I have let myself down at some point on the previous two visits, but thank you very much for asking me, it is a real treat. Strathcarron is a spectacular place to fish for salmon and anglers went about their business throughout its length. Unfortunately this year's trip ended fishless for myself but that's how salmon fishing works, you don't buy a two fish ticket and there are many variables that must align for fish to be put on the bank. It was great fun, as always, and catching fish on three consecutive years may have been gilding the lily somewhat. Ronnie Ross, the ghillie expressed concern over the number of fish running the river, as for the first two days of my stay conditions were almost perfect but few fish were being seen, which is a bit of a worry and increasingly the case on many rivers.

On the final morning the river dropped eighteen inches and flicking a fly became a futile exercise, so we whizzed up to Croik Church a remote place of worship in Ardgay. Designed by Thomas Telford, it has many messages scratched into the windows at one end that serve as a memorial to the highland clearances in the area in 1845 when crofters in Glencalvie were forcibly displaced to make way for sheep farming,the inscriptions that they left on the church windows as they took shelter beneath the walls of the church affirm the brutality of the time. The most telling inscription on the glass - "Glencalvie, the wicked generation"

On our return through security at the airport that serves the capital of the highland's, I was once again singled out as a trouble maker and asked to empty my bag, as my much loved fishing utility tool was an obvious attempt to take out the crew, and the fishing rod, reel and fly box that accompanied it were merely props to cover for my ruse, and did I not know that nooobody goes fishing in Scotland. Little did they know that Plan B involved a size 8 Scandi monkey delivered via the medium of mediocre spey casting from a central position in the aisle in order to take control of the plane.

Oh yes, my travelling companion, who passed through unhindered, had some particularly pointy surgical scissors in her bag and three kilos of black pudding which, with a little knowledge and a knob of lard, can swiftly be converted into high explosive.

Why me? The face? The gait? The demeanour? ......So many question marks

Don't be so judgemental,

Let me put that another way,

Be judgemental,

We don't want crazy people on planes and if I happen to carry such an air I am happy to hand all my threatening objects over in order that all flights are completed safely. It's just I'm not sure your picking out the right guy and I'm running out of ideas as to what to give you next. It seems bad form to present the same gift twice.

The day after my return to this valley, it was off to Lords with Madam for a day at the Test match

To quote that dog who sells insurance on the TV...Oh yes,

this past week I have been livin the dream!

And at this point can we please pause to examine the decision to appoint the inventor of the wind up radio, as the new English cricket coach. An innovative choice without doubt, but when did the ability to take radio 2 to Timbuktu become a prerequisite for guiding the country's finest cricketers to ashes success?

A day out at Lords is always a great day with champagne and nibbles in the sunshine, but this year the cricket was breathtaking, one of the best I have been to since the West Indies were done for on the third day many years ago. Arriving early on a Sunday morning, we secured our seats in the top tier of the Warner stand, I took my ease in the loos with the small window that allows you to never miss a ball bowled, before tooling around to the Nursery Ground to watch the two teams prepare. Ben Stokes and Alistair Cook looked in great touch in the nets, and Stokes even tore in for ten minutes with the ball to pepper Ian Bell, who did not look in great touch. Midway through the afternoon and Bell had come and gone, Cook had got his hundred and Ben Stokes was walking to the crease to score the fastest ever hundred hit at the ground. Our enjoyment was briefly interrupted by some bloke from the burbs who proceeded to give a ball by ball commentary to his sons and his friends, who seemed fairly happy just to sit and watch. It all got too much for me, and I sat through one over with my fingers very obviously in my ears. Apologies Sir, if you were offended at the look I shot you as we left, it's great that you take your kids to the Test but have a mind to those around you, although I rather think it wasn't the first time you've cleared a room with your braying.

He may well have been an associate of our sometime neighbours who continue to flee a similar corner of the capital and don smocks and clogs to play the artisan and live life by the river, an experience which is offered for sale, plus accessories, for many pennies online, so good luck with that and, each to their own, but it's not quite the riverside life that I recognise after twenty nine years and counting tramping the banks in this valley.

There was a lovely lady who lived there for thirty years who is remembered by many across the county,

Oh yes, she was quite a gal Mary Gunn.

She was laid to rest a few years back with her Bob in Bullington church yard. Child A and Child B would pop down regularly to see her when they were small, punishing the squash and biscuits and playing with her son Robert's old toys and piano. She kindly gave us the piano when she eventually moved out and we caused a police incident shifting it up the road on a tractor and trailer, but that's for another day. Cutting weed in front of the river, she would invariably appear with a mug of steaming liquid laced with goodness knows what from the back of the liquor cupboard by way of a restorative, no matter the time of day, and I once had to dismantle half an oak door frame as she was convinced that a hissing snake lay behind when all we found was a small nest of wagtails. She was a lot of fun was Mary Gunn.

The family that followed on weren't half bad either and had children of a similar age to ours who played nicely with Child A & B at the weekend. But it's a bit different now. The current owners paid a lot of money for "chez nook" and seem keen to develop at quite a rate. The house is marketed for high end holiday lets as a "French style Farmhouse".

It is two cottages joined together. One was occupied by three generations who made cart wheels, the son of the third who lived in one half of the house in his formative years, was a wonderful wicket keeper with eight fingers and two thumbs that all point in different directions after fifty years behind the timbers. He regularly attends cricket matches in the neighbouring village to take in his equally talented grandson who plays in the same senior side as Child B. The other half of the house was once occupied by a widow who fell in the fire and suffered scarring to her face. The paddock at the back, that is currently planted with vines, lavender and olives, was a prime site for picking mushrooms in the autumn and played host to many hares in spring as they conducted their perennial parliament that may well have taken place for aeons.

Well done for being able to afford such a property as a country retreat, and good luck with your riverside lifestyle venture, but this valley has a rich enough heritage of its own,

French Farm house feel.... really?

Forgive me if I come off my long run.

The day of my departure for Scotland, I walked Otis up the river and was surprised to find several large blocks of foam below a small weir. Not enough to cover a nightclub banquette in the nineties, but a lot of foam for this river. I was already behind time and with the bewildering traffic system of central Bristol to be negotiated later that morning, I sent a few emails and photos to friendly people at the EA and set off for Scotland. Checking my mail at the airport I received a reply that suggested it could be a malfunctioning septic tank in the valley and he would pass the message on. Four days later I returned from Scotland to find further foam. Monday was a bank holiday so on Tuesday I again contacted the friendly chap at the EA who suggested I report it as an official pollution incident. So for the second time in as many weeks I found myself talking to Tony in Sheffield, who, as instructed, asked questions about how my day was panning out and current plans for the week, before passing me onto the Incident line. Details were taken, photos sent, and I awaited a response. After three days I rang back to find out what they thought. Tony put me through to the incident room, who then passed me on to Michael somewhere in the south east who hadn't heard of this river, but could I convey the job number, and he would look into it later in that day and call me back, as he was just about to attend a course on some vital process that will only help the wheels of Command Centre central to turn ever smoother.

Five days on Michael, and don't be a stranger, but I'm still waiting for your call.

With a mind to trespass, I conducted my own investigations, starting at the top of the Dever and checking hatch pools and weirs for any sign of foam or the whiff of a faulty septic tank. There was no seeping septic tank (the EA's, Europe's leading producer of bagged salad and local water companies, current scapegoat of first choice when it comes to poor water quality)

It didn't take long to find the foam, that was being formed by the outflow of the water treatment works half a mile upstream.

It wasn't difficult, and all I can do is get cross in words, don the loin cloth and retreat to the cave shaking my fist at the outside world. But water quality in chalk streams, remains an issue, and if a water treatment works is misfiring or intermittently sending out too many bubbles it is the duty of the EA to act.

It is what they were set up to do.

Apolgies, but expect further angry words on this matter in the weeks to come.

Oh yes,Sepp Blatter..... who'd a thought?

Jack Warner was a given, it was there for all to see when he was cast as the bad guy in Live and Let Die.

#gettingawaywithitforfaaartoolong - Kids, I believe this kind of thing is still current

Welcome back my friends to the show that never ends, we're so glad you could attend, come inside come inside,

Readers of other guff chucked up by your correspondent will recognise the ELP ruse to get things moving, so here I go again on my own - apologies, that's Whitesnake.

I know it's been a while, but I've been a bit busy, I'm here now and there is much to discuss.

Here follows minutes of this week's meeting:

1. Tony Blair's prospective candidacy for the next Chairman of FIFA, and come on Mr Chilcott, you're being a bit tardy over that enquiry.
I am currently revisiting Adrian Mole and the Weapons of mass destruction to examine the movements of "Call me Tony" during that period, Sir, I urge you to do the same.

2. Wilkinsons - everything that Woolworths forgot to be.

3. Why are Nasser Hussein and Mr Chism from Minder never seen in the same place?

4. Is it in the public interest for government to sell RBS shares, what would Gordon Brown have done? (the gold Gordon, the gold???????????)

5. The Greek flag - blue stripes or red?

Apologies again for this redacted version of matters that have arisen over the past few weeks but as I said earlier, I've been a bit busy.

Plenty to do on the river with grass growing great and the first weed cut of the season just past, plus an unusually high output of offline written guff, including what I am told is a seminal piece on scythes, plus pictures of keeper's with tops on, an appeal for the eel, and some other stuff on riverflies, I have been picked up on the eel thing by a Mr Gator Godwin who invaded the Blue Fin building to pick up Time Inc on their publication which is a little alarming.

They're in The Shooting Times Magazine if you're interested, alongside a page of fortnightly guff on river keeping shenanigans all of which result in small cheques through the post, a significant portion of which is taken by the taxman and the remainder blown on speed - fixed penalty notices at the moment, and Madam and myself are going to Split later this year, hopefully with the minimum of acrimony, We shall sojourn on an isle off the Croation coast a forty minute float from Split, there's no saving here, we're living for pleasure alone - and the taxman.

Back on the river, fishing post mayfly has become quite difficult, the trout always take a feeding sabbatical at this time of year and CDC's Klinkhammers and parachute flies have tempted most fish who require something small presented daintily and delicately.

Recently I have been tickling up the fringe and spent a whole morning periodically peering into the water wondering where all the trout had gone, three hours later I wandered upstream to talk to an angler and many trout were on show. The ability of a Dever Brown Trout to tuck itself away when conditions are not quite to its liking never ceases to amaze, and you could be forgiven for thinking that in such a small stream with gin clear water you would be able to see every fish in the water, but you can't.
It's orchid and comfrey time in the meadow, and the monkey flower and forget me not show in the fringe. The orchids have been a little reluctant to put in an appearance but now nose through the long grass. The comfrey is in mid season form and its understated flowers that range from deep mauve to pale green draw the eye of all manner of buzzy things with wings.

Last week I was invited to eat sandwiches drink beer and fish a stretch of the upper Avon that had not appeared on my radar. It was a super trip on a pretty stretch of river a similar size to the Dever and positively leaking Mayflies, it was quite challenging in parts but I was quite pleased with my bag of four grayling, who despite being out of season were up on the surface and taking mayflies, and three small brown trout. Thanks for the invitation and please can I come again in November as there was some super stretches of trotting water that along with the grayling held some chublets and dace.

At this point could we demand a recount in the voting for the best bird in Britain. Not the 1984 News of the World poll that saw Sam Fox pip Debbie Ashby and Linda Lusardi to a first prize of being photographed mit satin sash, tanga briefs and a wink to infer sauce, but the recent survey to determine what feathered friend should stand as our national representative.

An owl was always going to be in the running, but Robin red breast over the Blackbird is a big call.

It's a Gerrard/Lampard conundrum, but it's blackbird for me every time, a beautiful backing track to life that in a noisy world all too often goes unnoticed. Plus the bonus tracks in autumn when a diet of fermented fruit introduces an experimental period of song.
Ok the Robin comes close, but bugger the goose and pigeon (which may/ may not have been a popular pastime in the middle ages) a Blackbird is more often than not the first thing I hear of a morning, and is Pavarotti to a Robin's rap.

There I said it, I like a bird with wings that can sing.......judge as you will, but I'm with the Beatles on matters regarding the Blackbird.

I shall conclude with the remainder of the minutes as I have been advised by people who know about these things, to be more concise in my guff,

AOB:

1: Unusable broadband supply via poles and line, this house relies on mobile broadband with a limit of 15GB a month- not enough for four in a house. Who'd a thought broadband supply would be a problem in this crowded corner of England? Third world internet service in the countryside.

2: Local paper - sports pages now compiled somewhere in Dorset, no knowledge of local environs, and it shows. If somebody wants to stump up some funds and provide a factory I'll produce a rival local paper for a town/market that is expanding at an alarming rate

3: The Game Fair - Madam, myself and Otis will be attending on the Friday, if we cross your path and you wish to upbraid me on guff written online or off, feel free, as I said previously there is always much to discuss.

For identification purposes, here's a recent photo we had taken that now hangs proudly above our bed. Look out for us on Friday 31st July at The Game Fair..

Meeting Closed

Two weeks ago I spent half a day flying a kite.

It is a pastime I am going to undertake on a more regular basis, as things have moved on significantly since the days of Peter Powell and his stunt kite which had the capacity to clear a Welsh beach with a single uncontrollable strafe as it sped sideways at many miles an hour, pointy end to the fore, a few feet from the floor.

It's quite the thing in some cultures, as a means of taking your ease. Others use a kite for fishing and a method of presenting a floating bait for big game fish far out at sea, while those seething with a significant mass of testosterone can see no other use for a kite than to have a fight.

Almost two years ago to the day I chucked up some guff, in which I got cross about the management of the lake that serves as an environmental experience for local town society (A Mobility Scooter ride to Eutrophia-1st July 20013)

I was subsequently contacted by someone called Cindy, who was undertaking studies in London, who too had a shared interest in photographs of algae. The difference being that she took her snaps from many metres up, while I took mine clinging to the handrail of a bridge as my quivering anger was interrupting camera focus.

Cindy is on the cusp of completing her PHD and flies kites to obtain her aerial images for fun in many locations. She sympathised with my opinion of the proliferation of the evil algae in this river system produced in poorly managed -line lakes and kindly offered to come and take some photos from the air. Principally to provide images of algae on the up but also as a means of succour to sooth my ire, as flying a kite really is a balm to a pulsing vein on the temple. Recent issues over foam are providing a reminder of the exasperating summer of 2013.

Two weeks ago the planets aligned conditions were ok and Cindy and Savina, a post grad student keen to get into aerial mapping, arrived by train with a bag full of bits of kite and several cameras. The premise is to fly a kite at a thousand feet with a camera suspended thirty feet or so below. Two sets of photos are taken, one with a normal camera, the second with the infrared filter removed as infrared images show the early onset of any algal blooms.

There is some very expensive equipment available for gathering this type of data, but Cindy has worked out a cheap and cost effective way of undertaking the operation. First a snap and shoot camera is taken apart and the infrared filter removed, this is then attached to a wooden frame with elastic bands and the camera set to continuous shoot mode. A final elastic band is then added that holds the shoot button down. The camera is pointed at the horizon to focus on infinity and the frame and camera is then attached to a complicated and well thought out series of strings and pulleys that serve as a gimbal. The Kite, which has been specially made and screams stealth, is then launched and when around thirty feet high the strings pulleys wooden frame are attached and then, to quote Yazz and the Plastic Population, the only way is up.

To one thousand feet,

which is really high,

and well above some helicopters and planes, and at this point I remembered that I was supposed to contact the civil aviation authority and nearby military base, but no matter, we were up and away now and at one thousand feet the kite is dot. Ten minutes of flying over a lake in a neighbouring valley filled the SD card and provided the local Kite and Buzzard population with a new point of interest.

Positioning the kite over the lake takes a bit of working out, in order to place the camera over the required subject and while the wind may be blowing in one direction at ground level it may be coming from a different direction once the kite rises above the sides of the valley.

Drones can also be used but are an expensive alternative and won't fly as high as a kite.
The images we obtained highlighted the genesis of an algal bloom that is currently enjoying the warm weather and low water, and well done to whoever has since put a screen on the outlet from the lake to prevent large lumps of gloop continually making their way into the river.

Good luck ladies with your studies and thanks very much for a fun and informative day, and I'm sold on the idea of pictures from the air as a means of presenting evidence of environmental impact on the aquatic habit, but whether it's a kite, a drone or those Hover shoes that Blue Peter promised us back in the day,

time will tell.

If anybody has any spare water can we please have some in Hampshire. There are a few furrowed brows in this valley over the state of play come the end of September. Of course it hasn't made the media yet, the slightest shower of rain at this time of year causes hyperbolic hysteria on the breakfast show and the lunchtime presenter last week declared that we had experienced a wet winter. When did our empathy towards the four seasons start to dwindle? The advent of the silicon chip or the industrial revolution when we all started working indoors? It's beyond me but it would be refreshing to hear a radio presenter, when faced with a day of rain, put a positive spin on the event and say that it is most welcome in certain corners of England, and at this point I would like to make my biennial appeal for Danny Baker to be given the Breakfast show, since Old Tel shuffled off, Prodnose is the most entertaining broadcaster we have, which is how I like to start the day, not uninformed preaching ( The new Top Gear presenter - and good luck with that) or the oily delivery of Nicholas Andrew Argyll Campbell, the Today Programme just makes me cross, and classical music sends me back to sleep so it's a Danny Baker (and Lynsey) Saturday Show Podcast for me of a morning to put a little bounce in my step,

Who needs the real world, with all its' insane and inhuman horror?

Oh yes, the fishing,

Fishing has been hard work if not infuriating. Fish have been feeding both sub surface and also off the top, water clarity is not what one would expect for the current flow and the river retains a certain tint, however the fish have their eye in and in cricketing terms are seeing it like a football. Only perfectly presented flies on fined down tackle are catching fish, several fish are preoccupied with nymphing but anything splashy or flashy has sent them scuttling, to date only one fish has been taken on a nymph. Several anglers have got stuck on fish that rise regularly giving the impression that the rod is in with a chance, only to go through their fly box having each offering inspected sometimes nudged sometimes nosed, sometimes drowned. Conditions are right for camping on a fish and going through the fly box, but it's the fish's prerogative to decline, which is all too often the case at the moment at which point I'd like to take this opportunity to apologise for our fussy fish. A big fish of four pounds or more was lost on the top shallows, falling for a sedge it ploughed about in some deeper water above a hatch pool before diving through the hatch, forcing the angler to lie prone on the bank with his rod under the bridge playing the fish in the pool below, the leader gave way a foot from the point as he was drawing it to the net, which confirms the trout fishing gods have taken a dim view of proceedings on this stretch of river of late so a sacrifice was made and I went out and shot an Otter.

I didn't, I didn't, just joking, it would be a life in gaol if I had, which wouldn't suit as the only time I ever donned the gloves my team lost nineteen nil to Mouldsworth (yes it's a real place and not a place invented by Charles Dickens), I let in ten in the first half and was switched to my usual duties on the left wing at half time.

Returning to the radio, our breakfast show presenter, today raised the question of whether some rain would be welcome in this corner of England, his pots were drying out and staff were spending an inordinate time bustling about with watering cans. His mind was set at ease by a call from our man at Command Centre Central who assured our presenter that groundwater levels are absolutely fine in the south east of England.

That may be the case in some areas, but in others they are not. Now I'm no conspiracy theorist,

Sorry, let me rephrase that,

I am fast becoming a conspiracy theorist,

But with the race to Frack once more underway, any light shone on a diminishing resource that Freddie The Fracker would like to use could cause complications.

Oh yes I almost forgot, the Government's secret Shale gas rural impacts paper has been published after a request to the Information Commissioner. (Thanks Mr Mole) The author/authors names have been redacted, but it makes interesting reading. One bit jumps out under the heading of "Likely Significant effects of Shale gas drilling for the UK"

"The potential impacts are on water resource availability,aquatic habitats and ecosystems and water quality"

If you would like to read the report for yourself, you can do so at

https://www.gov.uk/government/uploads/system/uploads/attachment_data/file/440791/draft-shale-gas-rural-economy-impact-report.pdf

Removing my cap of conspiracy to don my footwear of fact. The river is very low, springs that should have broken last winter didn't, the river that Otis and I ford every day, often with great care because wellingtons are only so tall we can currently do in muck boots. The outfield of our local cricket pitch has turned brown and crispy and a hole in the ground that I can look down to shine a light on the groundwater, reveals a water level a very long way down indeed
Has the "normal" range been reassessed and over what period of time is the "normal" range now calculated? While we are on what is now considered to be "normal" this stretch of the Dever still froths with foam and the water continues to retain a faint milky hue. Nobody seems too worried about it, which may be the first few steps of these conditions now being considered the "norm"

Chronic decline of the chalk streams anyone?

I have just finished cutting the weed over on the short stretch of the Itchen that I fall in and out of, and there is no foam over there, and the water is clear for a river of its size. Mid-summer fishing is similar to the Dever with one fish in this month worth four in May and squadrons of swallows, swifts and martins betray some healthy hatches of fly.

I drift along the oceans,
Dead Lifeboats in the sun
and come undone
Pleasantly caving in
I come undone,
QOTSA - 2002

Last week I climbed back into bed with Lucifer.

Child A and Child B are back and broadband has once again become an issue for this house.

Understandably their spell of urbanity has inferred an acceptance that broadband works properly and many things are possible over the ether in town than is the case in this rural spot.They have much to do on the internet regarding their studies, and Madam and myself seem to run an increasing part of our life through the broadband connection.

It seems difficult to function without broadband.

There are substantial parts of the third world that enjoy a better service than we do at home through the poles and lines that form the ancient telegraphic spur that serves these four houses.

As a result we are forced to rely on mobile internet for our house supply, which Madam and myself can just about get by on, and is a reasonable price at £15 a month, but watching any moving pictures or Skype are the stuff of dreams. Once we exceed our mobile limit for the month, swingeing financial penalties are applied. The cost of the first month of four people using this 3G mobile supply ran into three figures - which we fully understand and completely agree with Mr Mobile broadband provider.

So this month we have had to reconnect to Britain's leading telecommunications provider whose poles and lines deliver half a MB supply, albeit for a third of the price of the mobile provider.

It was half a MB when we cut our ties with the company five or more years ago, and today's devices suck up a lot more bytes than they used to. After a five year battle, over the quality of the broadband to these four houses (the remainder of the surrounding houses connect to a different exchange that provides an excellent broadband service) that resulted in a stress related eye condition and a lengthy exchange of personal emails with the CEO's office over the matter, I vowed never to ride their line again.

But with the only alternative to pay a hundred pound a month to a mobile company, and no other internet provider willing to offer a contract on such a weak signal, we have no choice but to return to our nemesis.

Hence this rather tetchy post.

The forty minute phone call to reconnect wasn't the greatest start to our rekindled relationship, and we were required to sever our telephone calls contract with the provider whose service had been both adequate and cheap.The experience of returning to this company may trim several years from my life, and the vein on my temple has already begun to pulse ominously at the recollection of the company replacing thirty two poles and a mile and a bit of line by way of maintenance, rather than connect to a pole in a neighbouring garden fifty yards away that links to a different exchange that provides an excellent broadband connection.

I dread twelve months of dealing with BT Broadband and it may prove to be the tipping point that finally sees me enter the cave, bearded, clad in a loin cloth shaking my fist angrily at the outside world. In order to make preparation for that day I have now buried my razor and ceased shaving, donning the loin cloth will serve as the rubicon.

Apologies for the downbeat tone of this post, but there do seem to have been a lot of things to shake a head at of late, Oh yes and rather hot too (did I mention the lack of water) normal service will be resumed as soon as it starts raining in this valley.

Matters I meant to attend to before the EA and BT got in the way:

1: Greece
2: The Budget - George O "I want people to be richer" Avarice anyone? how about kinder, or more human?
3: Inhuman and barbaric behavior in North Africa
4: Winning ways with scallops on the barbecue.
5: Forget Black holes and Colliding particles, Bindweed is the real threat to life on earth.

At least the cricket started well, and Andy's made a semi, married life seems to suit him, I reckon he'll be a Dad within the year.

Well here we are again with another blank page.

I only planned to chuck up this guff for a year, to serve as a reminder to a mind that was fast turning to mush, as to what it was meant to be doing from one day to the next, and here we are seven months beyond that twelve month period in the summer of 2009.

What?

It's 2015?

If this is indeed the case, then that would make me 47 years old and that is clearly preposterous as it is plain that I have only just turned 40. I recognise the ploy in one day cricket of bowlers rushing through their overs to catch the opposing side out, but today's paper confirms that it is indeed 2015, so the gods must have bought the spinners on to get through a few years because I am increasingly aware that time is flying by. At which point it may be pertinent to consult the sage of Chigley on matters arising.

Bleep and Booster may have been wrong about the Hover Shoes but they nailed the bit about Pluto, as this week we sent one of Steinway's finest grand piano's with camera attached to take pictures of what some would have as a planet and some wouldn't. It looks great and the review on Trip Advisor suggests it's one to add to the bucket list (Rain made from Nitrogen sounds like a blast!)

The way that NASA handles these events is to be commended, it is widely accepted that sciencey types monitoring data and the path of grand piano on its way to the outer reaches of our solar system are not prone to outpourings of emotion, it's all about the science, and rightly so, because science does do great things that would not be aided by emotion, so well done NASA for bringing in the "whoopin and a hollerin" crew to perform the necessary countdown at critical moments and convey the message with the required emotion to laymen such as myself with no knowledge of quarks and querks (I think that's right) that yes, something really big did just happen, we just flew a piano to the outer reaches of space,

let's hope those Plutorians get Gershwin.

And while we're on space, the washing machine that was popped onto a comet has just entered the spin cycle, and plans are afoot to introduce a George Foreman grill (model 18910 with floating hinge) to a black hole.

Returning from space to attend to matters on the river, July fishing is everything you would expect it to be, even a succession of grey and gloomy days with much mizzle and drizzle (that does nothing for the aquifers by the way) have not distracted soporific brown trout from a diet of late night sedge, and on occasion, they will even, like a student polishing off the remains of a late night take away at breakfast, nose at what sedge remains the following morning. The July weed cut is underway and it's all about titivation and retaining water. There isn't enough water to run a full channel, so the margins are allowed to grow in and squeeze any flow that remains. The onset of insidious blanket weed has begun and much of the good weed is beginning to succumb. The river is full of circumspect fish tucking themselves away, any deigning to put in an appearance take up station in ribbons of fast water over clear gravel. The hideaways bang into my legs as I blunder about with my scythe, and I can report that there are two fish of over six pound around the fishing hut, I have the bruised shins to prove it. It seems a bit early to make mention of this but late season fishing could be spectacular as all these fish will feel the need to feed at some point.

I have just been summoned to the settee to deliver vital provisions and by way of maintaining an even keel on the marital vessel, took in ten minutes of a programme called Emergency A&E , which I can only assume is a sequel to MASH sans Klinger and Hotlips Hoolehan. The script seems to have taken a dip, with sharp one liners, kookiness and quips a tad thin on the ground, and where was that fine pillar of the medical establishment, Sherman T Potter and his horse?

Today Madam and myself have been married for 23 years, and together for 28. An event that we are currently marking by scoring a cricket match while I sit below a tree with Otis who is in disgrace because he has just emptied his bladder on a fellow spectator's jumper.

On our way home this evening we plan to visit the finest fish and chip emporium in the neighbouring town for chips and mushy peas (avocado to Peter Mandleson)

It's a long time 23 years and at this point I'd like to quote The Smiths, as it was they who stood sentinel alongside Jim Morrison and the cast of Rainbow on the wall of the first bedsit that we shared,

"Why pamper life's complexities when the leather runs smooth on the passenger seat?"

Nope, not that one,

now let me see,

Ah yes, here it is.

"There is a light and it never goes out"

I didn't expect the first thing that we reach for each morning to be tablets until sometime around our ruby wedding anniversary, but each morning I reach for the morning paper delivered via the miracle of the internet to my bedside table while Madam reaches for Candy Crush, not an exotic Californian wrestler on roller skates, but a series of coloured beans that seem to regroup each night before resuming their quest to conquer earth. But sleep easy folks, Madam's all over them!

She's always been a one for a puzzle has the lady who has slept on my left for the past twenty three years of marriage, and sharing a bed with Candy Crush is infinitely preferential to jigsaws or jenga.

Returning to more urgent matters.

As expected with the hoopla of the election done, the government are making preparations to slacken shackles on potential applications to frack. A U turn is already being talked about with regard to National Parks and sensitive sites. Fortunately a Shale Gas Task Force has been convened to make sure all is well with regard to Fracking although dig a little deeper and we find that the task force is funded by the fracking industry and headed by Generalissimo Smith, the very same man who the EA paid a six figure salary for 3 days work a week who during a period of drought demonstrated his lack of knowledge on his brief with some bonkers talk about types of rain, and in the floods of 2013/14 demonstrated inspirational leadership by offering up the view that it was a straight choice between flooding towns or countryside. Forgive the repetition, but some of the nonsense that took place on his watch in this valley included Europe's leading supplier of bagged salad sending a thousand litres of derv down a chalkstream for which they received a swingeing fine of £5000, £1000 less than they were fined sixteen years previously for a similar event, and water companies sending raw sewage down the same stream for months on end one winter when groundwater was on the rise. Oh yes, I almost forgot the commissioning of a report at a cost approaching six figures into work required to bring the chalkstreams into line with EU habitat directive that was riddled with inaccuracies and has now been discredited.

Oh yes, the Fracking industry knew which man they wanted for the chair of the Shale Gas Task Force,

Summon the Generalissimo!

His credentials are kind of bona fide and he won't do the job of monitoring a safe shale gas operation too efficiently, worth every penny.

Turning to Sturgeon, and if you fish this river please don't rush for beefed up tackle, the sturgeon that escaped into the river during the floods of 2013/14 was recaptured on the forecourt of the garage outside Romsey.

The Sturgeon to which I refer is the Scottish variety, prefix Nicola and well done for resorting to nationalistic type to display no little snide with regard to voting on matters south of the border, and if you voted for an SNP MP and you don't agree with their recent modus operandi, do let them know, although the triumphalism displayed by some of the hunting fraternity after the election did nothing to further their own cause on such matters.

It may not have been apparent, but groundwater levels have been on my mind for a while. Hours on end perusing aquifer porn, have thrown up many incidences of re-injecting waste water, post treatment, back into the aquifers as opposed to sending it out to sea and relying on the water cycle to return enough for our needs. In an arid area of Israel a city with a population of 1.3 million is served in this manner. The aquifer must possess particular characteristics, and investigations have been made into applying the process in this country at various times during the last decade. Today we have only one such aquifer replenishment scheme in place, in the Lea Valley north of London, where it works very well.

Please Mr Cameron, can we revisit this idea in other areas of south east England.

Southern Water's drought plan for this area, speaks of a surplus of groundwater, there is much in the ground and houses will never run out of eau. The EA's take on the regions' groundwater puts it at risk, with no more available without impact on the aquatic environment. Southern Waters' remit is to guarantee water supply, the EA's is to protect the aquatic environment, but it is clear who holds sway when the bottom line approaches. Southern water's drought action plan is hopelessly outdated and needs revisiting.

To continue the theme, we still have foam on the water, but I've given up reporting it. Southern water's response on hearing of the froth, ten days after the initial event was almost instant, and a man was on the scene in a trice. We didn't find anything, and one of the reasons proffered was, the default - faulty septic tank, (obvs it's always somebody's septic tank. that chap from the bagged salad company said as much in the national press before his remarkable tea time TV mea culpa that perhaps his business may have had something to do with poor water quality after all) or possibly something else that had been washed into a ditch that fed into the river.

One day last week I crossed the parish boundary of the village immediately upstream from here to find a torrent of murky water making its way down the road to a ditch that fed into the river upstream. Water quality and general murk have been a bit of a blight on this season, so in the spirit of Scooby Doo I followed the trail up the road to a team of chaps who had dug a hole in the road and were pumping dirty water down the road for much of the afternoon.

The logo writ large on the side of their van?

Southern Water.

Oh yes, the cricket, is now a good time to have that talk about Kevin?

Apologies,

There is much to discuss, but currently we are scuppered by the broadband service provided via the ancient telegraphic spur that serves these four houses courtesy of the nation's principle telecommunications company.

It has taken much of the afternoon to upload two photographs to a cricket club website, there are eighteen more to go......it could be a long night.

Previously this kind of event has resulted in a throbbing vein and a funny eye. A stress related condition oft experienced by airline pilots (true) for which I have been prescribed a glass of Rose and some sunshine, which is currently doing the trick.

For the record, I am writing this in the most crowded corner of a country that purports to be a member of S Club 7,

or was it G7?

I have had a better internet connection on rivers so remote they have yet to be named (that last bit may not be true, but they were a long way away from anywhere else)

If all concerned wish to continue reading this guff, please send your name and address to,

Frustrated BT customer
Crowded corner of developed nation
PI55 OFF
UK

and I will willingly sever my ties with the poles and lines people and send copies out in the post.

BT Poles and lines broadband service in this corner of Hampshire?

remain

F£$%$ing hopeless

To the Rose methinks

Now I'm all for each to their own, and if the chairman of a Standard and Ethics committee feels the need to don a scarlet brassiere and leather jacket to snort coke from the decolletage of his houri, and at this point it may be pertinent to examine the influence of Max Moseley and Dominic Strauss Kahn on their contemporaries, although Cynthia Payne did make a mint from the political elite in the sixties and seventies for similar services, so maybe Max and Dom are not to blame.

What the bestockinged Sewel gets up to behind closed doors is his own business, good luck with the mirror in the cold light of dawn, and how long before a motion is passed decreeing that all branches of La Senza must provide both male and female changing rooms, but the tone and subject of his language during his after hours adventures are more of a concern for a man in his parliamentary position than his choice of underwear and the strength of his snuff.

In a brief lifting of Operation Stack, Madam and myself conducted an early morning retail raid on positions across La Manche. The visit passed without incident. Buying wine is a given, as is olive oil and enough baguettes to fill the freezer as it is about the only bread that doesn't make us bloat (what goes into some UK bread at the moment) We filled up with diesel at 78p a litre, bought three months worth of Lavazza coffee at a third of the price of any supermarket over here, stocked up on runny cheese and pate, took lunch and were back home by 3pm. Three hours later, operation Stack was once again in place as two thousand souls up from the horn of Africa, who had been hiding over the brow of the hill tried to storm the tunnel, halting all trains.

Now I'm no radical, but putting my blue sky, let's throw some ideas up in the air, shoes on, how about this for a solution.

For one week a choice few will be given a medium sized car and a set budget and invited to ride the roads of Northern France, for the second week they will be asked to ride the rails of the same area, throughout this time they will only be allowed to shop in a French supermarket, any money they have left at the end of two weeks they can keep. They will then be invited to repeat the same experiment with the same budget in the south east of England, at the end of the four week period they will be asked where they would now like to claim political asylum, I am confident that two weeks of the UK motorway and rail system may sharpen the mind and empty the pocket a little, and your average Pierre must look at a UK supermarket deli and think " Is that it? at home we have them this wide(sweeps arm with gallic flourish)

News in from the correspondent on my other shoulder:

We have fantastic ferry workers, cheddar cheese, imperious sausage, black pudding, magnificent beef, lamb, venison, pork, we're having a go at wine - and one day who knows? Our potatoes remain unmatched by any nation in the world (Francis Drake knew what he was up to, bar the cigars) and at this point could we examine what has happened to Jersey potatoes in recent times. I don't mean to sound like my Grandma, but Jersey potatoes just don't taste the same as they used to (reaches for slice of half moon and further Craven A)

On reflection this proposal may not fly, UK sausage will prove to be the clincher, but our motorways and national rail network are not that great, and hey Flash, now you've got full power, how long before you propose we trade the accountant and oil worker surfing the top of that Norbert Dentressengle lorry for a few trade unionists or environmental campaigners?

During our drive back through the 50mph average speed check that stretches across much of Surrey and Hampshire it became apparent what a much trumpeted "smart motorway" actually is.

In an attempt to add a human touch to the extensive roadwork experience, new signs in the shape of smart phone text message speech bubbles were displayed amongst the cones and inert diggers, proclaiming "welcome to our work place" and " Broken Down? we come to you" the thought of someone breaking down, then being attended by someone rushing up first to erect a sign by your stranded vehicle reading " We're Here!" followed by a second one saying " It looks like you've broken down" only to reach in his van to erect a third with the message " I am very sorry, but I do not have my Happy to Help sign" before driving off, did cross our minds, but how about some more appropriate signs such as "Here all Year" or " We've gathered lots of cones and we will use them"

Through the froth, we shall now attend to the river.

Where there is still froth. But that's ok according to a piece in our local paper reassuring a member of our local town society who expressed concern over the colour of the water in the river near the high street. He had highlighted the brown gunk that was slowly smothering the weed and the cloudiness of the water, tests were carried out and according to those charged with protecting the environment everything was ok, and conditions were within the required normal centiles.

There, they said it, brown gunk cloudy water and poor water quality in this chalk river are now considered a normal occurrence in summer.

This shouldn't be the case.

An inch and a half of rain in a day may have spread panic throughout the hermatically sealed radio studios of this land ( I shan't go on, a little more Prodnose please, and much less vanilla) but it freshened up the river and perked up the fish no end with ten fish caught over the weekend, the biggest a senior brown trout of four pound taken off the top in the middle of the morning. A platoon of otters in residence for forty eight hours saw some circumspect fish and a trail of half eaten fish on the bank (grayling, pike, trout and a roach of more than two pounds) but hey that's what Otters do, the UK Fish population can take the hit........... can't it?
There may be a difficult conversation that needs to take place, and at some point somebody needs to be brave enough to start it.

One fish that continues to evade capture and so far the Otters, is the star of last year's mayfly video "Yoinks Grendel's Mor Cometh" - June 2014. She is now a substantial fish approaching five pounds and her shape can just be glimpsed in the bottom right hand corner of this photograph of the fishing hut. She has seen her fair share of artificial flies and when she is not in the mood she melts away into the far bank for some respite. If she doesn't succumb to Tarka I have every confidence that she will be in the same place this time next year only a pound or more bigger. Oh yes, there are some canny trout in this stretch of the Dever.

The weed isn't in great shape with brown gunk smothering any that isn't in the flow, and it may be the case that some starts to pull out during the next few weeks. There are also a few fish with the odd speck of fungus on their nose, which is a sign of stressful conditions. The top meadow that we subject to the medium of fire is about to burst into colour, principally with hemp agrimony but also loosestrife, willow herb and other stuff and will soon be alive with butterflies, and the moth count of an evening is also on the rise.

We are also inundated with gulls I read in the paper about a new craze that has kicked off with the youth of today. Gull running is vaunted as the new Nintendo, and involves holding a piece of pasty, chips or a crust of bread on your head and seeing how far you can run along a particular pier or promenade before the offering is taken by a gull. It is a shame it wasn't on the list for the 2012 Olympics, but with a little practice I can see medals in this for the UK.

We are not being mobbed by gulls in this valley, but we now see them and hear them on a daily basis, whereas it used to be only the odd occasion.

And so to the North, to visit Aunty Joyce in Pickering after a brief stop in Stamford to see friends, and then on to The Game Fair for the first time in over ten years. Soon after entering the Harewood House show ground we came across "Nige" who was embedded "deep cover" eschewing his usual beer and a fag for a cup of beautiful British cappuccino in order to avoid detection. It didn't seem to be very busy and the fishing area was much diminished from when I last attended the fair at Broadlands, when The Hampshire Riverkeepers Association had a stand. Many big names associated with all things angling were surprisingly absent and somehow I missed the couple of people who I was meant to be meeting but, but hey ho, there's always email, and thanks to the ST for the entrance passes and offer of free food.

I shan't bore you with our return on the highways of these Isles, but it was both prolonged, and harrowing and it is plain that all too often key road links are simply overwhelmed by the number of people using them and they fail to function as they should.

Now if only I knew a big noise in transport strategy circles,

Wait a minute.......

This written rubbish has been brought to you by an internet connection provided by a mobile phone company and not the leading telecommunications provider in these isles,

Which is my pocket money done for this month, but at least I didn't spend it all on sweets Grandma

On a plane to Jamaica
I sat next to a Faker
whose Goya had made her
lots of peseta
I said, a plane to Jamaica
that's a fine dream maker
but she wrote on some paper
Croatia not Jamaica

After Dr Seuss.... or possibly Dr Pepper

And so we found ourselves on a stunning island that could pass for Santorini with the blue printer ribbon run out.

All of the houses are the same colour and there seems to be only one supplier of roof tiles. There is an awful lot of white, with the older houses constructed from the same stone as the Vimy Ridge memorial on top of a hill near the road to Arras.

The island is a fifty minute ferry ride from Split, and I can concur with Child A's opinion, as it was her who put us on to the place, that the Dalmation coast and its islands are stunning.

Driving here is easy and the Croation government are investing heavily in their road system and the islands are served by an excellent and extensive ferry service plus a squadron of sea planes operating out of Split.

Three days in to our stay and we had done little but chip away at a personal veneer built up over a hectic six months, when Melinda, a small girl aged 7 (I'm guessing) ran around the pool shouting.

"Mummy, Mummy that man's drinking wine"

I resisted the opportunity to quote Bill Hicks

"Like a f%$&ing fiend"

I should make it clear that I was not sitting on a park bench in unsavoury trousers, lurching through the middle of town, bottle in hand or seated on a back pew in Church. I was sitting on the balcony of our apartment overlooking the Adriatic preparing to take lunch with Madam, whose imbibing went unnoticed by Melinda, and imagine the scandal at the revelation that Madam worked in education - the shame!

How did it come to this?

I'm all for getting the right message across with regard to alcohol, but come on Melinda, and good luck with your family's quest for everlasting life, but give a guy a break on his hols.
They didn't see our plate of cheese, ham and nubs of bread and I'm sorry Melinda but I may have lapsed with regard to my five a day during my stay, but hey, things will get back on track as soon as we get home.

We continued with our lunch, of course, and hatched a plan that including ending my morning dip, that served as a livener to shift the fug of all this hedonism, to run to Madam on her recliner and remark.

"Rachel, Rachel, they're doing Zumba by the pool"

Anyway,

Melinda will confirm that we spent most days in wine. Madam is making the most of the excellent internet connection that serves this remote isle, by each evening watching ancient episodes of Magnum, Monk and Quantum Leap - sorry Melinda's Mum, there's no documentaries being taken in on this trip, and hey Flash, there's a better internet service on this isle than the one we receive forty minutes from the UK's capital where we can but dream of "live stream". This Croatian service even coped with the arrival of a teutonic Wifi harvester midway through our stay as a trio of teenagers fresh in from Jutland gave battle via the medium of FIFA football online.

The facts as we have them:

Can "Live Stream" on an island - population 14,000, fifty minutes from mainland city - population 150,000

Can't "Live Stream" forty minutes from capital of G8 country = population approaching 9,000,000

Wildlife included hundreds of swifts and swallows in the town that performed each evening over dinner,

a snake,

a cat that lived in a telephone box

and plenty of Pomegranates.

Croatia's take on Pointless was a sombre affair with few jokes or banter,

and their version of Richard Osman was of average height but still claimed the table and chair option.

Each afternoon we hit the pebbles that serve as a beach in these parts. This part of the Adriatic is as clear as the spring fed waters off Corfu and the snorkelling is close to spectacular, there are many fish

The Shimano multi-purpose many piece rod that serves for spinning and float fishing made the trip, and the harbour offered great sport on light tackle with float fished bread fished on the drop between the boats, but I have recently acquired a 9ft, 8# Airflo four piece that conveniently fitted into the case (little did Madam know that the portmanteau was selected with this in mind) and a box full of pike flies that also made the trip and I spent a few hours working my way around a quiet bay bothering the bass before taking beer on board by the beach.

We made one excursion to the highest point of the island, It seems like a good idea most years, but inevitably ends up as a discussion on "scariest roads we have driven" The view from the top, taking in the sandy beach at Bol and the island of Hvar was worth the worry of sharp bends and precipitous drops.

We also visited several coastal villages, there are very few in the middle which is mix of olives, vines and scrub. Not once did we find a crowd on the island bar the queue for the ferry in the island's capital, and for a couple of middle agers looking to recharge and defragment, the quiet atmosphere is perfect.

Split was the exception, to the crowd rule. An interesting City it was popular with tourists, back packers and the cruising set,

many guided tours were underway where the fine details of the fascinating Diocletian palace which sits at the heart of the city were being explained in many languages.

There were also many opportunities to have a photo taken with what must have been a cohort and a half of roman centurions

Food was fine, with fish inevitably to the fore, the Italian influence is obvious, understandable, and very well done in most cases and the wine was ok. The big surprise was the quality of the steak that we were served, nothing short of sensational and good value with our bill rarely more than thirty pounds.

It was on returning from one of these gastronomic adventures that Madam made the observation that there is hardly a scrap of litter to be found anywhere on island, in the street, side of the road on the beach, in the sea. A second observation followed that there was also very little graffiti, and suggested the local population take great pride in their environs. Whether this is a natural symptom of a country still in the infancy of independence or perhaps it has always been thus.

Church on Sunday was quite the draw with standing room only and quite a social scene in the few coffee houses on the front followed the preaching.

There was even a cessation in the regular games of cards played by a particular generation of men each morning on the tables along the front when church commenced but the dealing was done again soon after. the church doors closed.

There has been much in the news recently about the "swarm" of boats on this ocean moving people from many nations without the required permission. There was no sign of this activity until one night we were visited by an armada of fifty or more boats manned by tribes from many nations,
"The yacht week" they call it, and if you feel so inclined give it a google,

In simple terms it comprises a flotilla of boats carrying five hundred souls or more, rocking up on the beach opposite your apartment with their own disco. It didn't seem to sit well in this quiet spot, and the five minutes chanting of "Yew es Ay, Yew es Ay" at four in the morning in response to triumph in some international drinking game wasn't appreciated on this side of the creek.

The contrast if they came across a boat brim full of desperation further down the coast couldn't be more stark.

There was further stark contrast to be found in the evening as some seriously big boats rocked up for tea to mix with the contented locals. Ear wigging conversation at neighbouring tables, where despite the bling, Versace and Armani, conversation often betrayed heads too far up their own backsides and kids forced to behave noisily or badly to seek attention, it was plain to us as to which side of the divide we would prefer to fall.

Louis de B was again the choice of reading matter and his latest book "The Dust that Falls from Dreams" It's ok, but not nearly as affecting as "Birds without Wings" or as unputdownable as "Corelli and his mandolin" but the "War of Don Emmanuel's Nether Parts" and the rest of the trilogy always serves as reliable read and it was that with which the week was finished.

And so there you have it we didn't do an awful lot in the week but returned thoroughly refreshed. I had grown a "holiday beard" a la Paxman and Milliband, its a patchy affair with bits of grey and gold among the brown, Madam is unsure, but is adamant that it is preferential to the "holiday nasal hair" I usually cultivate. Like our elders we did a lot of sitting , cup in hand silently taking in the ocean. It may not be the tartan flask in a Ford Anglia on the front at New Brighton, but you know what Melinda,

Sometimes you just gotta sit, with liquid refreshment to hand, and stare at the sea - it's good for the soul.

Matters arising that I forgot to mention during preparations for our trip.
1: Southern Electric - not the biggest fan of their billing department, but the gang who rocked up in the middle of the night to restore power after a horse chestnut cashed in its chips and left lines draped across the roof of our home were brilliant, we never lost an oven chip ( apologies again Melinda)
2: Fishing picked up a little, although Otter's had been about. Many fish in unexpected places avoiding the deeper reaches where they were vulnerable to Tarka. Plenty of sedge and a trickle of olives proved tempting to less nervy fish
3: Rain in the middle of the month, freshened things up a little , and grass has once more gone green, rain will only help.

Normal service will be resumed sometime soon

Well I don't mean to come across as a bit of a "gadabout" and forgive a second post without fishing, and feel free to look away, because I need to write this one for myself more than anything, but we've just conducted a 48 hour whistle stop tour of World War One sites in Northern France.

I may have made mention before, but throughout my secondary school education, I did not receive a single History Lesson. The "Mad Monk" Keith Joseph was in charge of education at the time, and history was deemed to be a bit of a duff subject with no relevance to the future.

Keith was known for this kind of thing, give him a google he said some interesting things.

Anyway, we received a kind invitation to tour the WW1 sites from a couple well versed in such matters, which we were keen to accept. Because yes Keith, History is not only interesting, it is important, and was sourced firstly from Ladybird books (no longer available) through Asterix (thankfully available) to the miracle of internet (one of its principle virtues)

Under the tunnel just after dawn, we tooled on down the coast to Wimereux, to take in the grave of Lt Col John McCrae.

A Canadian, he had been inspired to write "In Flanders Fields" after the death of his pal at Ypres in 1915. McCrae died of Pneumonia in 1918, while in command of a military hospital at Boulogne, and the visit was particularly apposite for Madam as they had been studying the poem at school only last year.

On down to Etaples, a new name on us, but the site of the largest Commonwealth War Graves Commission cemetery in France. It's of Lutyen's design and of the 11'500 soldiers interred, over 10'000 were casualties of WW1. The area was the site of many military hospitals and many nations from both sides are represented.

Beer, Frites and Coffee in Le Touquet and a quick peruse of a super market, before the heavens opened and we made our charge for Amiens. Where we filled the car with diesel and wine, ate an excellent meal alongside the Somme, slept, breakfasted before resuming our tour at 8.32am the next day.

The Newfoundland Memorial first, where a Newfoundland regiment, plus a heap load of Highlanders suffered many casualties in July 1916 attempting to breach German lines.

An artillery barrage had not had the desired effect on the lines of wire fronting the German trenches and as the Canadians and Scots crossed No Man's land, hundreds and hundreds of soldiers were cut down by enfilading machine gun fire in very little time at all. It's an evocative site and set the tone for the rest of the day.

Remaining in the Beaumont-Hamel environs, we drove to the Sunken Lane. Give it a google and look into the eyes of the guys, bayonets fixed, in readiness to attack. George Malins was on hand with his camera to record the 1st Lancashire Fusiliers as they prepared to assault the wood fifty yards away across open ground.

He also has a film on You Tube of the detonation of the mine at Hawthorn Ridge, but the eyes in the faces of his stills convey far more feeling, coupled with the knowledge that many of them were gunned down by machine guns in the wood within an hour and lie in the cemetery equidistant between the two lines.

The Ulster Division Memorial next, the genesis of the UVF, and Orange men arrived to parade as we took tea on board in the cafe. The Division lost over five thousand men in the first forty eight hours of the battle of the Somme, but achieved their objectives, War correspondent, Phillip Gibbs, described their actions as "one of the finest displays of human courage in the world"
Of the 9 VC's awarded to British soldiers in the battle, 4 were awarded to soldiers of the Ulster Division.

A short way up the road to Thiepval, passing the points at which the Salford Pals, and Grimsby Pals were pinned down by German positions in buildings on the brow of the hill,

to the monument that dominates the skyline and commemorates the soldiers with no known grave, obliterated, unidentifiable, or yet to be found.

Over seventy thousand soldiers are commemorated, and the scale of the thing is quite affecting. Of Lutyens design, it is currently being buffed up for next year's centenary, but despite the poles and scaffold the impact remains. I couldn't find the chap I was looking for, my Grandad's brother, J Ismay, but I picked out Percy Jeeves, who was in the same regiment, was professional cricketer and the inspiration for the P.G Wodehouse character of the same name.

A brief pit stop at the Tank Corp memorial, before lunch at Tommy's bar in Pozieres and then on past Sausage Valley (careful if you google this one, not to miss off the "v") and Mash Valley to The Lochnagar Crater.

On the first day of the battle of the Somme, several mines were detonated beneath the German front lines. The logistics of setting these mines are incredible, with tunnels being dug with small hand tools over a distance of many hundreds of yards, and the spoil generated disposed off without detection from spotter planes.

The subsequent explosion was heard at home, and the substantial crater remains as an inverse monument to the first day of the Somme. The accompanying photograph does not do justice to the site, it is very difficult to take a photo of a big hole in the ground without the use of an aeroplane, helicopter or kite for which I apologise.

And so to Delville Wood, and the South African Memorial. The scene of intense fighting throughout the summer of 1916, it's worth a google (and well done again the internet) after a couple of months of fighting, like so many places on the Somme it was reduced to muddy holes and a series of stumps.

Today the site has been replanted with oaks out of Stellenbosch, many South Africans died here in the empire's cause, and the site is now full of wild life, mature trees which match the monument as a symbol of remembrance.

On our way out we passed the memorial to the professional footballers who fought in the area and we left the Somme, and pitched up on Vimy Ridge,

parked near the memorial honouring the role of the Zouaves who fought bravely in a fez,

and made for the memorial to the four Canadian Divisions who successfully took the ridge in 1917 after a brilliantly planned and courageous attack in which three and a half thousand Canadian soldiers lost their lives and twice as many were injured.

Half way through the afternoon, I went a little quiet.

Now this has sometimes been interpreted as sulking, or a sure sign that the lunchtime beer is wearing off. But not this time, because my head was starting to spin. I'd hoped to try and make a little sense of it all, find some answers so to speak, that could be applied to mankind's mess that it is currently creating for itself. The sheer scale of the slaughter is mind boggling, you could spend months visiting different cemeteries in the Somme alone, and the conditions and courage that existed in the trenches is difficult to comprehend.

Ok it was a case of new technology causing carnage on outdated methods of making war. Machine guns, gas, aeroplanes and tanks, made a decisive cavalry charge which had served in many battles throughout the previous century redundant and was replaced with defensive attritional warfare as methods of coping with this new means of waging war were hastily devised. Communication was obviously key and, and the "send reinforcements we're going to advance, - send three and four pence, we're going to a dance" parable seems to have some truth about it.

I seem to have come away with even more questions, rather than the few answers I had hoped for. The one thing that does stand out, is that a few circumstances conspired in a short space of time to shape the course of much of the last century. Countries were forced to take sides, go to war, millions died, and when the war ended, a movement was begun in the defeated nation whose populace had been brought to its knees, and out of the German Socialist Party, sprang the Nazi movement and the die was cast for a repeat performance.

Apologies for another post completely free of fishing, but this guff started out as a means of remembering what I am supposed to be doing from day to day, and I had to write something down for no other reason than for myself. If the tone slipped into the flippant at any point, I apologise, but flippancy and irreverence are qualities that I value about living in a "Free Society" and for that I give thanks, and will now, never forget.

A million words wouldn't do justice to the actual impact of visiting these places and once again, well done The Commonwealth War Graves Commission.

If anyone needs a guide to these places, I can recommend our hosts. Driver McGyver delivered us to each destination directly and smoothly and the chap in the passenger seat who is a defunct decorator to the "Rich and Famous" and is now breaking new ground in the world of breakfast beverages with a crossover cuppa whose actual recipe, like that of Coca Cola shall remain under lock and key, but whose principle components comprise a teabag in a cup of coffee. (Many in the room raised their eyebrows at this concoction, but the seers amongst us quickly singled this out as a "Dr Pepper" moment and the future of liquid refreshment). was a mine of information for laymen such as ourselves, just don't ask him to source a trolley in a French Supermarket - completely bamboozled.
Thanks again it was a terrific trip, and I hope this proves that I was listening.

Well, ever since I adopted a hirsute look to the fizz, a litany of disaster has ensued.

First day back from Croatia, I boarded the tractor reversed ten yards out of the workshop and the guts fell out of the engine as the entire contents of the sump left a thick black line across the workshop floor and gravel. We are approaching the end of the season and I will cut the banks with a push along mower and strimmer for the remaining few weeks. The next day, with two rugby playing work experience lads aged sixteen and bursting with energy about the place, I decided to tackle the substantial piles of wood we have about the place and fill the log storage facility. A new chain was purchased to replace a tired old set of links, and during fitting the chain brake spring went piff, and jammed the spinning wheel thingy, outside the cog on the drive shaft from the engine. The long handled hedge cutter that has become such a vital piece of equipment for riverkeepers was the next thing to falter, as I inadvertently soaked the engine while working chest deep in the river and the thing is now in pieces on the bench drying out. Next I received an email from the new editor of The Shooting Times, explaining that the rubbish I write was being refreshed from fortnightly to monthly, and half as many cheques would be dropping onto the mat, which I kind of expected as I always expected to be found out, but we shall miss the pocket money all the same.

Today I must cook a pig for the cricket club presentation do, no pressure, but there are many mouths to feed, I've just realised it's Friday the 13th, goodness knows what will happen, it's either have a shave, or pop the takeaway menu for Wayne Wong's into my back pocket just in case.

It's not Friday the 13th, my watch isn't working.

Anglers are still commenting on the colour of the water, and we still have foam. I have just learnt that somebody in the village upstream from here noticed water running down a farm track and onto the meadow that seemed to be emanate from the water treatment works. It may have been nothing, and I don't like to point fingers, but it is a shame the chap in question didn't report it at the time, but then he is not a fisherman. Public awareness needs to be raised with regard to this sort of thing.

Fishing remains difficult, we have had some good hatches of sedge and olives bar the blue winged ones and there are some canny fish in the river, but they rise from the depths to nose any offering and are non committal when it comes to the actual take. This may be a result of the high number of fish that were pricked or lost in the first months of the season, or they may have been feeding hard below the surface.
The otters haven't helped matters who still visit periodically, it was a fourteen pound pike that ended up needlessly on the bank this week and I fear for our two pound plus roach and grayling who no longer seem to be about. Heron seem to have had a good breeding year and are also making a nuisance of themselves, but hey the freshwater fish population can take the hit, can't it?

Kick samples this week threw up the expected numbers of most things, bar mayflies. It wasn't a cause for alarm, as it has happened before and a second sample a few days later found quite a few, but the mayfly nymph does seem to gad about a bit on the bottom of the river.

With the chainsaw repaired, all wood storage facilities are now full of the beech and oak that fell during the floods in early 2014, which inevitably instigates a warm glow inside...... me and the house. After the errant limb of a conker tree dumped the electric lines on the roof of our home, an inspection by an eminent tree surgeon has declared that the tree is in rude health and this is what two hundred year old conker trees are prone to do. The beech of a similar age is also doing well but its contemporary the ash on the edge of the road is on its way out, rotting form the base up with the crown in retreat. The jackdaws love it and each year nest in the hole half way up the main trunk and last year the top twenty feet fell off onto the road in the middle of summer. If it was up the river or in the wood, I'd go at it myself, saw a buzzin, but it is right on the road, in amongst the power lines and a bit beyond me. A gang are booked to take it down bit by bit from a cherry picker as the upper part is unsafe to climb. They will leave the logs as it stands fifty feet from our log storage facility, so that is next winters' logs taken care of which renders the six substantial balsam poplars that fell over in the floods redundant. They are not the best logs and we chopped and stacked them thinking that we would need them for next winter, but now we don't so this week we have been conducting experiments with the medium of fire to try and incinerate the unsightly stumps that remain. It kinda worked, and a leaf blower fanning the flames undoubtedly intensified the heat sufficiently to char the stumps, even if they are not reduced to ash they will be dead and done in a few years.

It looks like it will be tree work again this winter, with the bank-side trees left alone for two years now following the carnage in the wood that had to be dealt with last winter. Two years unchecked growth on some of the crack willow has certainly affected the fishing and highlighted the importance of regular willow management. I have said it before, but this stuff could conquer the world if left unchecked and is one of the key roles of the chalk stream river keeper.

Believe it or not, and today's local paper is the first time it has come to my attention, but this valley and the next have received government recommendation for licences to frack. It comes as no surprise, and I won't go on, as I have already on many occasions, but the consultation period, which somebody seems to have forgotten to publicise, ends on 29th September, when a licences will undoubtedly be granted and this river and our water supply will be in the safe hands of the government agencies and the industry's regulatory bodies,

and yes that's you Generalissimo Smith,

In the words of Stevie Wonder,

"I just called to say I love you"

No, not that one

"Heaven help us all"

And there we have it, I may post a little more regularly now I have been "refreshed" for which I apologise in advance. Ok I have the added pressure of featuring on the "ask the experts " panel for the magazine, and trumping up ideas for feature articles that may merit publication, but I don't anticipate anything too taxing. If anybody out there in magazine land needs any written

Now may be the time to get my head down and come up with some other such guff, but if anybody out there in magazine land needs some written rubbish, don't be a stranger, I'll have a go at anything.

Well the rugby world cup's good,

At tea time on Saturday, it was out with the turn table and on with The Vapors and a rousing chorus of

"I think I'm turning Japanese, I think I'm turning Japanese, I really think so"

Didn't see that one coming and what huge cajones (I believe that's Japanese) to go for the try with the final play of the match.

Not too keen on the Kiwi kit, which seems to channel the puritans or possibly downstairs Downton, and that font they've picked for the numbers is all a bit 1970's Atari.

The pig thing went well, and the evening passed without real incident bar the death of a pig and a pool of pork dripping on the west bound carriageway of the highway to the sun.

Fishing is slowly improving, we have had a week free from Tarka and the trout are a little more at ease. We have had some super hatches of sedge throughout the afternoon and a bumble through the long grass sends hundreds of daddy long legs into the air. The seven fish caught over the weekend all fell to a daddy on the top, but what would be considered a small daddy these days, I don't know why but artificial daddies seem to get bigger year on year. We've only a few weeks to go until the end of the trout season and fishing will only improve. The rain has imparted a freshness to the flow, and the cloudiness that has hung around for much of the season is definitely on the wane. I have been aided in my tasks for a fortnight by two rugby playing year eleven pupils. We got a lot done and they made a good job of tackling the crack willow on the mill stream, as well as learning the technicalities of attaching a pig to a spit, it's a lengthy process, the beast doesn't just run head first onto the spike. It takes about an hour and it needs to be done right because a half cooked pig falling off the spit three hours is a culinary disaster that I have heard about, but do not want to experience.

For a few days I have been dealing with some willows that gave up the ghost in the rain at the start of the week and slowly stooped towards the river. I may have made mention of it, but I spent much of last winter tackling christmas trees that fell over in the floods. These trees that have just gone over are a legacy of the christmas trees cashing in their chips, tall and leggy after competing with their bolshie evergreen neighbours, whose demise left them exposed and vulnerable to the merest zephyr. I am amazed they lasted as long as they did, and like all trees they are always much bigger when laid on the floor than standing tall and proud. My mates the mushrooms are on the up, I've had a few pickings so far and all the interesting and colourful ones that grow up the river that do not make the pan are starting to poke through. We've done ok for apples, the pears are passable, as are the plums and we have enough blackberries frozen for the next ten years. The tomatoes aren't bad either, We seem to be getting over the blight that used to reduce my crop to mush each year. Sungold remain the favourite, full of flavour each one is like a little drop of sunshine. Runner beans were a bit of a letdown, although our second crop of french beans are just coming on stream, we have a surfeit of lettuce, courgette and cucumbers but we've done the potatoes, asparagus and shallots

The garlic is the undoubted success of the year, the pulled bulbs are so strong that they can't be kept in the house, we left them in the workshop overnight, and now even my neoprene waders smell of garlic. It may be a little "niche" but if anybody is afflicted with thieving vampire wader raiders (this may be a title of a Russ Meyer movie) I have just the pair for you.

While going at other guff elsewhere, I revisited Charles Bingham's book "The River Test" that was first published in 1990. I seemed to shadow Charles as he compiled his book as for three months I was seconded to what was the National Rivers Authority, and charged with updating their river ownership and boundary records. This involved visiting many people on many stretches of river to ascertain who owned what bit and it was not unusual for someone to comment "Charles Bingham was here last week, he's writing a book about the river you know". I could go on at length about some of the people I met, and maybe one day I will, but here's a few quotes from the book written in the late 1980's:

"Water quality is of concern, the colour being rather cloudy this summer"

Maurice Jones, retired Chief Executive of Leckford Estate who'd happily chat with the lowliest student in The Peat Spade Pub.

" The greatest threat to this part of the river is increasing population and the over abstraction that results"

Fred Kemp, keeper on the Upper Test at Whitchurch where I once stood in for a month while at college when Fred and his family headed off to the USA.

"If you have big stocked fish you have no small wild ones, stocking bigger and bigger fish results in a shortage of natural browns in the future"

Alf Harper, long gone, but a bear of a man, who worked on the Test at Longparish.

"He is young, fit and resourceful"

Brian Parker - headkeeper at Bossington, part of this statement may no longer be relevant, but thanks for thinking of me all those years ago.

"Today's storms flush soil from cultivated fields into open ditches and on into the river"

Brian Parker again, and spot on, all those years ago

"We then drove to Nursling Mill on the Main River to be met by two Alsatian dogs. "Don't worry. They only bite Southern Water employees, as they taste sweeter and have fingers like sausages."

The genial Vic Foot at Nursing Mill, who kept me at his table for hours, tea in hand, before a tour of the river.

There are several employed by trusts and agencies who have since discredited the work of keepers in the last few decades and mutter darkly about "old school ways" but these statements bear a remarkable similarity to today's purported "new" way of thinking.

At home, Child B is engaged, deep cover in the world of planning, and seems to be having a great time while receiving wages in return, which is a good thing, and the denouement of Child A's MSc is upon us, and in sprinting terms she is currently dipping for the line that will bestow on her the status of most qualified person in the house.

And so to Jeremy, and how on earth did the Labour Party end up electing an unelectable leader. Donning my hat of conspiracy theories, how many of Flashy's followers paid the £3 to join the labour party in order to get a vote. Last week's Prime Minister's question time was the cricketing equivalent of milking a mediocre spinner. Labour were unelectable at the last two elections on economic policy and are unelectable at the next if they retain Jeremy Castro, my money's on another labour leadership election within the year, whatever were they thinking.

I reached once more for my hat of conspiracy theory as I took in the opening lines of the news story regarding the world's biggest motor manufacturer - Volkswagen, but was stopped in my tracks by the admission from top brass, that yes, all of their models for the American market had been fiddling the emissions test. Many, many people at the company must have known about this, at some point meetings must have been had about this being the way forward, and if this was Toyata the CEO would now be reaching for the sword, how did it stay secret for so long and what does it say about the ethics of the world's uber industries and their regard for environmental matters?

Vorsprung Durch Technik indeed,

Oh no, that's the other one with the Olympic symbol with one hoop missing on the grill,

or is it?

You can always rely on a Volkswagen............to get through an emissions test.

News just in: Flash's mob have just announced that they will make moves to limit roadworks on major motorways to a maximum length of 2 miles.

Well done Sir! I'm guessing you, or someone in your gilded cabinet, was forced to mix with the masses recently on the M3 or M1, were all the helicopters at the menders?

Last week, confident in our prediction of a Rugby world cup final featuring England and Italy, Madam and myself booked a trip to Firenze to coincide with the tournament's denouement. We anticipated a febrile atmosphere as the two countries engaged for the tournaments spoils and a night we would never forget.

Turns out Tokyo would have been a better option, or possibly Dublin or Cardiff

For the remainder of the World Cup, we are putting our support behind Japan, Ok Rose and Blanche were treated pretty poorly in Tenko, but come on everybody that was a looooong time ago. They are great to watch, (the Japanese rugby team, not Tenko)

Oh yes, and we'll also give Wales a cheer, as Child B has a friend who he was with in halls at Cardiff Uni who plays on the wing.

While we're on the subject of University life, Child B's University fees for his year out working in industry at the fancy planners, come in just shy of two thousand pounds, a significant reduction on the nine thousand pounds for the few hours of lecturing when he is in attendance, but this is a year in which he will not attend any lectures, have minimal contact with the university, and submit six pieces of work, which if my numerically challenged mind serves, is just over £300 for each piece of marking.

Can I do some marking please?

I believe the number sign is still current

#Unversityfeesseriouslytakingthepiss

At home, fishing picked up no end in the last knockings of the season. Tarka tottered off and fish were far more settled. There are no signs of the pre spawning shenanigans that are often a feature of late season fishing as cocks swelling with testosterone begin to get a bit chippy with each other and you could make a case for fishing on for another few weeks this year. We have many brown trout in the river of less than a pound which bodes well for next season although we seem to be missing a few big grayling and roach. There are a couple of large pike on the bottom bends that I have begun to harass with my fly rod although the half of a double figure fish I found dead on the bank proved unresponsive.

Last week we underwent surgery, albeit arboreal.

Following inspection of the two hundred year old conker tree that dropped a limb onto the electric lines a few months ago, it was declared to be in rude health and its errant limb was typical of a tree of such a great age, the two hundred year old beech was given a reasonable bill of health but would benefit from further survey work but the two hundred year old ash that lost its top last summer was on the verge of cashing in its chips and must come down tout de suite. If it was in the middle of the wood or the meadow, I'd readily go at it myself, it doesn't matter where it falls. I tackled the tree that toppled onto our home on Valentine's day this year, without a thought, but this ash borders the road and is flanked by two sets of electric lines.

I have just been reminded that it was Valentine's day last year that the tree fell on the roof, and we are approaching the end of 2015,
Which doesn't seem right.

Chronologically I'm still at the turn of the millennium, I don't know where these grown up children came from,

sorry, let me rephrase that,

I do know where these grown up children came from, but they seem to have grown up very quickly, and when did this extra flesh arrive around my middle and my chest slip a bit. Sam Fox and Kylie Minogue, who once served as a reliable bellwether as to the chronological order of things, have much to be held accountable for. Both were older than me once, now I am older than them, and that chap on the radio in the morning who is taking over Top Gear used to be eight years older than me (and there are books that back this up) but is now only two years ahead. Anyway I digress, but can we all agree that it is no longer possible to trust time.

Now where was I,

Oh yes, the tree,

It's a two hundred year old ash tree that is fast rotting from the roots up. It took three days to take the thing down which had to be undertaken from a cherry picker as opposed to a man climbing and swinging from ropes, due to safety issues, it really was on its last legs. Now it is down and we have next winter's wood sorted.

Hard on the heels of the VW expose comes the resignation of Teflon Sepp and his protege, Fingers Platini. More of a slow burner this one as it has been clear for aeons that most at FIFA were up to their eyes in it. A few names are being put forward, including that of a Mr Tokyo Sexwhale, well good luck Fiona Bruce with announcing his appointment on the six o'clock news. Google confirms that he has made many films with a limited wardrobe budget and once puffed up the cushions at Heff's place, or is possibly up to his eyes in dubious business dealings in southern Africa, it's one of the two and Google images suggests the latter, so no change there then.

Tear it apart, Tear it apart, this is Juan Antonio Samaranch all over again.

Counting back the years we can confirm that Madam and myself are indeed forty seven years old. This may account for the fact that the first thing we reach for of a morning are our tablets. Not Sanatogen or ginseng, but our clever ipads. Madam is quick to quell the evil forces of Candy Crush who seem to regroup each night while we are asleep, or consults something called Pininterest. For me it is a push of the button and my daily newspaper appears. I'll not say which one, but it has a good sports section, some entertaining and informative columnists and I like the style of the news reporting. It's a habit I picked up at an early age, for which I blame my parents and John Keith who was charged with reporting on Liverpool FC's endeavours that I would read each morning at breakfast. Today, I could quite happily get by with just my digital copy of the paper but habitually retain the hard copy because the sports section was just about the only bit of recreational reading that Child B would undertake in his school years, Child A devoured books, still does, but a well written sports section has an educational value that some fail to appreciate as books ain't everybody's bag.

Anyway, my digital copy has recently been "refreshed", improvements that will make my experience all the more rich, with many more photos and a different layout,

Somebody's obviously had an idea.

Each morning this week my mood has lifted at the pop as the paper appears on the screen, I am still amazed by clever stuff like this. It has taken a little longer to download each copy and navigation has proved a little tricky as everything has moved around, but then I am forty seven years old and this kind of thing is difficult to a person of such years.

At the end of the week, our internet ran out, and my tablet issued a statement in which it declared that it was replete with newspapers.

I may have made mention that the internet via the poles and lines to this village, forty minutes from, what we are told, is one of greatest cities in the world (population eight million and counting) is now unusable. We are forced to rely on a 3G service that provides 15GB for £25 a month, which we just about got by on until somebody in newspaper land had a great idea that increased the file size of each daily edition by tenfold. To download the paper for a month we would have to top up our data account (and here's where the mobile companies are making a mint) by a further £75 a month. If we connected to the tenth of a meg poles and lines service we are offered we would get yesterday's news today,
which is a little like being on holiday,

But it's not, because we received a far superior internet service on an island an hour's ferry ride from a city ( population less than a quarter of a million) in a country new to the EU

When my cartilage finally turns to dust and I am incapable of carrying out my duties on the river and I must eke out a meagre living from chucking up guff and restaurant work, I will be far better served on a small island in the aegean, than half an hour from the third biggest city in Europe.

Is it me?

I have the beard, I am in the process of knitting a loin cloth, and I have identified a cave to which I will eventually retreat shaking my fist at an outside world that grows more bonkers by the day.

I am on the cusp of a plan coming together, which would greatly please B.A Baracus et al

I almost forgot, a friend emailed this article. I'll look in on the house now and again, but the sports pages don't cut the mustard, however this article pushes all the right buttons.

http://www.theguardian.com/environment/2015/oct/08/are-we-killing-our-rivers#comment-61020030

I completely forgot to mention, but we had a small flurry of Mayflies in the middle of September. Fish wouldn't touch them, and I have seen the odd one in previous Septembers, but there were definitely more this year. It's not that unusual over on the Avon, and I have caught trout in a hatch of mayflies in the third week of September while listening to Europe reclaim the Ryder Cup, which serves as chronological confirmation that it was indeed September.
The first grayling fishermen have turned up, and after remarking on the colour of the water, caught fish, although nothing huge. Olives and sedge continue to hatch throughout the day and it is still possible to take a fish off the top. The Trout show no sign of gearing up for spawning and there are no fish on the shallows, which is just as well as we are inundated with herons.

I was

kindly invited down to the middle river last week for some fishing and food with a bunch of other keepers. I hadn't seen several for quite a while, and there were concerns that the hair on my face was the early onset of radicalisation, would we be Christmasing in Syria and was I now cutting weed in a Salwar Kameez? I explained that I had never grown such a thing before, it happened on holiday, and I had read somewhere that a touch of swarthiness can make a maiden swoon, ( I'm still waiting for this bit so I may need to acquire an eye patch or some other piratical adornment)
It's always tremendous fun with top nosh, beer, fishing and spirited verbal sparring which belies a bunch who often work alone.

I may have made mention of the house next door, which used to be two cottages, one of which was inhabited by an elderly supporter of our cricket club when as a young lad his father passed the day banging out cartwheels, a 1920's Kwikfit if you will. More recently it was occupied by Mary Gunn, who was particularly fond of Child A and Child B in their primary school years and remained a great friend even after she shuffled off to Overton, and then on to Bullington Churchyard.
It is now owned by people in Fulham, Cottagers in name only, and is a Holiday Let, along with many of the sheds, garages and outbuildings. It's an investment and must make money. This week, "the venue" for this is what it has now become and we are told we have farmers markets and opera to look forward to, is hosting a "Boot Camp" exercise programme.

There is a charge of course, the place was purchased to generate income, and to quote Sir Geoffrey,

"good luck with that love" but......

Hang on, we're missing a trick here. We have the bits of a two hundred year old Ash tree to chop and move on the other side of the fence from their "Boot Camp" If we undercut next door by a few guineas and call the axe, log and stacking process "Boot camp" its bookoo bank brother (urban parlance I believe, although perhaps not Fulham).
Market forces I think this kind of thing is called and a sign will be placed by the road presently, reading thus:

Boot Camp Exercise
£5 per session
Free gloves and chopper
no leotards or lycra

Yup, We're going into the Boot Camp Business!

News just in:

A water company in the south with a recently perceived surplus which was duly allocated to new development in other parts of the region has now informed the government that it will not have enough water for said supply.

An Environment agency report has stated that river flows in the region will decline by between fifteen and twenty percent in the next few decades.

A Government statement released a month ago detailed changes to the planning process for shale gas extraction allowing the Secretary of State to personally intervene in cases where a decision may be delayed/not quite the desired outcome.

Chalk rivers are fast plummeting down the list of things we ought to be looking after while we fill the South East of England up.

I don't mean to continue the dark theme to this guff,

Let me put that another way,

More bad news folks.

Cutting weed all week it is apparent just how much muck there is in the Dever this year. A quick shuffle of the feet is all it takes to turn the river to cocoa, and there is far more blanket weed in among the good weed on the shallows than there should be. It's much better on the Itchen where I have also been cutting weed and not causing anywhere near as much colour, and there is also far less blanket weed, and then there was all that foam through the summer and if someone comes at me stating that our rivers have never had it so good a personal tipping point may have been reached.

I'd report it to someone if I could, but who,

Nigel in Sheffield, Miriam in Lowestoft,

Hang on, I did,

The EA, Southern Water, National Pollution Incident line (which doesn't work), Wessex Chalk Streams Trust all were contacted, and then I wrote about it at length in a national magazine as well as getting cross about it on here.

and while we're in such a fine bate, who let Richard Madeley back on the radio?

Poor Judy.

It may be best, if I disappear for a few minutes to undertake a more soothing task such as filling the bird feeders.

But even that is not soothing, as I struggle to come to grips with the mixed messages sent out by various environmental trusts.
Brown Trout "experts" espouse genetic purity, natural selection and only the strong shall survive and eschew the release of fertile farm raised fish, yet our ornithological friends don't mind the release of fertile stock raised through breeding programmes and encourage feeding the birds, allowing some that wouldn't otherwise make it through a harsh winter to go on and breed the following year,.....Nuts-literally.

Sorry, something soothing,

Ah yes bubble wrap, that'll do it.

A few hours in your own company popping bubbles to the accompaniment of a well-puffed panpipe is surprisingly soothing.

A brief message from Madam and myself

If you missed the clue in the title of the song, the travel duds (that dress sees me sail through security every time, leatherman an all) should serve as a clue that yes, we're off again

Half term, and so to Firenze.

Not the former Divination teacher who turned into a centaur and saved the day when he carried Harry Potter away from Voldemort in the Forbidden Forest

But Florence

Not the female lead in the Magic Roundabout who hung around with a dog on wheels and a spaced out rabbit (Kids, you may need to look this one up)

But the city of Florence, yes that's it, that's where we went, got back a few days ago, still a bit jetlagged and yes Mr Zebedee it may well be "time for bed"

The City of Florence we shall attend to presently, but first we went to Pisa, to take in the Tower, Duomo and Baptistry . I had visited thirty four years before on a school trip, the Wright brothers had yet to come up with the idea of motorised fixed wing flight and we undertook a two day coach journey to Rome (where stones were thrown at our coach during a transport strike), Florence and Pisa, where we spent half a day running up and down the tower free of charge, unsupervised, with every tier open to the public, safe in the knowledge that the small chain strung between each pillar would prevent any child falling off. We had a picnic on the grass at the bottom, pretty much had the place to ourselves and played football for half an hour with the odd wayward shot bouncing off the Duomo.

It's a little different now.

It would warm the heart of Il Duce to see the number of people undertaking the old salute, for what now passes as the international jape of having your photo taken while pretending to hold the tower up.

We had a go ourselves, and it was a lot of fun, but we may need to work a little on the punch line and possibly pick the right building, although none of the three buildings would bear up to a plumb line, it's just the tower that gets all the wonky plaudits.

After some fabulous pasta in the evening we climbed the sunshine mountain for some shuteye before boarding a two tier train to Firenze,

An hour on a train that hit speeds well over a hundred mile an hour, for the princely sum of eight euros.

Winchester to Waterloo, a similar journey, price £35,

For shame UK Rail Network, For shame!

During my previous visit to Florence I had ignored all that the Medici had put on for us, opting instead to watch a fishing match on the Arno. Our apartment was on the river so I was fairly confident that I could find the old girl's banks. Fifteen minutes later found us on the banks of the Arno, and a further five minutes on found us embedded, deep cover in our apartment just off the end of the Ponte Vecchio.

Fishing first, and I'm sorry Mr Medici you may work a good statue or church but I don't think you appreciated what you had on your hands here.

Prior research on the internet had been undertaken, and on our first night in what the lady who sleeps on my left had earlier described as "one of the most romantic cities she had ever visited", I found myself in a bar at a table piled high with fly boxes and terminal tackle talking fishing with a chap called Oliver.

Sorry Madam, L'amore must wait, there's fish need bothering here.

A life-long angler, Oliver graduated from Oxford University with a degree in English Literature but decided that Fishing was the future. Oliver sounded like my kind of guy and two hours before dawn the next day we met again with an armful of rods, for our morning on the river. I won't go into too many details because I have had to chuck up guff elsewhere, but highlights included:

many Zander caught just upstream from the Ponte Vecchio, sight fishing for wels catfish, fly fishing for wels catfish, the stunning bird life of the Arno,

the interesting plants that line the river,

a twenty two pound common carp on floating crust, the substantial catfish that vied with the carp for the crust, probing the offering with its eight inch long whiskers before the carp sucked the bait in, and an entertaining and knowledgeable host.

I don't normally do commerce or adverts but if you wish to find out more about fly fishing in the centre of Florence please visit www.fishinginflorence.com

that's www.fishinginflorence.com folks

Fishing done, and suitably showered, I had points to make up in the L'amore stakes, so it was off up to Piazza Michaelangelo on the other side of the river for liquid refreshment and a view of the city, and then on to the Uffizi and the parade of todgers that is the upstairs gallery with its many naked statues.

Vassari corridor next. Built by the Medici, in order that they could move between palaces without mixing with the masses,

it is undoubtedly a corridor, but now serves as an extension of the Uffizi art gallery. Mostly renaissance but also an extensive collection of self portraits. Linking Palazzo Vecchio with Palazzo Pitti on the other side of the river Vassari's corridor, was built for a wedding in a matter of months,

it passes through the Uffizi, over the Ponte Vecchio, where Il Duce put in a picture window to give Hitler a better view when he popped in one afternoon, around a tower, whose occupiers wouldn't allow the Medici to knock it down for a straighter corridor (and well done for that by the way, these Medici's had some side!)

through a church (see previous note about Medici having some side)

and out into the spectacular Bobili gardens of Palazzo Pitti, a lumpen pile of bricks if ever I saw one..

At which point we'll break off.

The new Pottery programme is on in the next room and I'm sorry but they've lifted more than a few lines from Finbarr Saunders and his double entendres,

Bake Off do the same now and again, all that's missing is a Phnaar, Phnaar, Titter, Titter,

The Duomo next day, a building so big it is impossible to do it justice with a camera from the ground. So up the Campenile we went, the third floor in Debenhams gives me the willies, but wracked with guilt after my happy time fishing, I ascended the stairs. I'd been lured up a similar tower in Bologna while three parts foxed on Prosecco in search of the loo, but this was mid morning with only coffee and pastry onboard.

It's a narrow staircase up the campenile, which is used to both ascend and descend, because it's very old and they were all little fellas back in the day. Four floors up we were met by Chuck or possibly Jan, who was very wide and very tall, and acted as a rod would to a drain, as we were swept out into the street as Chuck/Jan made his descent.

At Thorpe Park little guys aren't allowed on the big rides, there's a line drawn as a guide to minimum height, it's not discriminatory it's for safety. At the base of the campanile, and other such dangerous towers there should be a door that you have to walk through without touching the sides before you are allowed to ascend...It's just a thought.

The Duomo is enormous, and I'll say it again, too big to photograph effectively from the ground. Inside is cavernous if a little underwhelming as much of the decor, including all of Donatello's and Michaelangelo's, handiwork has been moved to the museum at the edge of the square.

There were shops, of course, and we seem to have come home with an awful lot of leather.

The central part of the city is an outdoor gallery of sculpture, some original, some copies, some to impress, some to strike fear. In the street behind our apartment there was a more modern piece to mark the spot where the mafia blew up a Fiat full of explosives in the early 1990's, killing six, injuring forty eight and busting up the Uffizi in retribution for privileges being removed from some of their incarcerated contemporaries.

I don't mean to let daylight in upon magic, but I think we came across a future episode of Dr Who being filmed. Possibly a sequel to the one where statues creep up on their victims, there looked to be somebody dressed like a cyberman, although I could be wrong as we were in a particularly fashionable quarter where all dress sense was in danger of being lost.

There are some stunning buildings, and all draw a crowd, plus a maze of back streets in which I frequently lost all sense of direction, that or someone was moving the Duomo,

but as ever in Italy the provender on offer is always a highlight.

I can confirm that I like Chianti, and Madam has a taste for mid range Prosecco. The best Pizza in town was taken at an establishment that offered just six different types. Cutlery and cups were all plastic, tables were shared and people from many nations joined us at our table, because yes, we eat slowly on holiday.

The couple from California were a blast, although the stressed out Scandinavian who was fourth onto our table that seemed to operate as the house sin bin, and who took this photo, had spent the whole day in a dark room at his hotel, oblivious to all that the Medici had put on for us (hang on, haven't I heard that before somewhere) served as a signal to draw the night to a close, which I feel is betrayed in our eyes, although his wife was great fun.

Oliver had provided us with a few Trattoria to visit, all on the other side of the river from the Duomo, where prices are generally 20 euro cheaper on a meal for two, and we ate at our favourite three nights during our stay, I'll not list what we had here but we didn't have a duff meal all week.

Our flight home was delayed by four hours due to fog, I only fell out with two people at the airport, both younger than me who had become frustrated at my addled bumblings. Several flights were cancelled, and in a Brian Hanrahabn moment, ours was the last out of Pisa and the last into Gatwick.

It's a magnificent city that no longer holds fishing matches, and we plan to return.

Amo Firenze

Not you Centaur

Prego

The PC brigade did for Al Jolson and his associated minstrels back in the day.

Their silence on "Black Friday" speaks volumes, and I wear the boot polish on my face today as a symbol of defiance to their meddling ways

Ok, my mistake,

Here goes with some more despondency and doom,

But first, here's Bob with the weather

Why are we now attributing a name to every low pressure system that sweeps across the Atlantic?
Will banks of fog and frosty mornings receive similar treatment and how far are we from Fred Fog and Felicity Frost? The disneyfication of the countryside in recent decades signalled a disconnect from reality, now we have the disneyfication of meteorology and a similar disconnection from reality.

The UK should be subject to wind rain and cold through the winter months, bands of low pressure sweeping across the Atlantic provide welcome succour to are much put upon aquifers and river systems, so could somebody in the media concerned with weather actually come out and say so, and stop spooking Joe public over a few damp days and a gentle zephyr.

The river is in reasonable condition and after twenty four hours without rain runs clearer than it did in July and August. I don't think I can remember a season with so few fish on the spawning gravels, there is a dearth of sexually mature brown trout in the river for which we have implementation of The National Trout and Grayling Strategy and a plethora of otters to thank. There are many small brown trout in the river, it remains to be seen whether this will still be the case in five years time. Grayling fishing has been ok, with the few anglers that have arrived putting reasonable numbers of fish on the bank on both dry flies and nymphs and we still have sedge hatching in the last knockings of the day.

Trotting on Sunday afternoons has yet to produce any roach, although a few have been caught to just shy of two pounds, and I have had pike to four pound on both the fly, and a wobbled sprat. The weather hasn't turned cold enough for any unusual avian visitors to turn up yet, although a few nights of frost served as a full stop to much flora and fauna that last year is over and now rejuvenate through sleep till the next. Otis put up the first snipe of the winter at the weekend while skirting the common before bumbling back down the hill into the village. My eye was caught during descent by some large houses that have recently been thrown up in the village. I'm sure they are very nice, and time will soften their impact, but a cuckoo's egg in the nest of a tit sprang quickly to mind.
.
Well done to the two local purchasers of the "affordable" option.

The River

but soft, another "r" word

Racing,

Cheltenham last week and countryside day at the November meeting. It sometimes serves as a bellwether for festival horses a few years hence and can draw quite the crowd. I don't think I've had a duff day at Cheltenham yet. Ok, the ledger is inevitably coloured red at the denouement and sometimes in November it rains (take note TV weathermen and radio presenters) but it is a great atmosphere, and all the more impressive this year for the opening of the new stand and viewing area around the parade ring, which is stunning , user friendly with a top notch sports stadium feel (after Alan Partridge)

The river,

Sorry TV, and the excellent TV series -The Big Fish.

Aired on BBC 2,

and well done BBC for that,

it is hosted by Ben Fogle and Matt Hayes. Anglers were presented with a variety of angling challenges in order to determine all round angling ability. I no longer possess the intensity to fish in that way and am too easily distracted by other things, but well done BBC for putting the show together (on quite a budget judging by the locations) and displaying angling as a positive life skill.

Other TV highlights, in what is always the best time of the year for TV, include The Dancing (a given, and all hail the genius of Winkleman) The Jungle (a given and all hail the genius of Ant & Bee) Catastrophe (a give...no more givens ed) Catastrophe is really good, catch it if you can, and what must be the highest end hour of comedy since Alan Partridge served as warm up for Phoenix Nights (albeit on different channels) just after the turn of the millennium. It takes place on a Tuesday when the final series of The Peep Show is followed by Toast of London ( Bainbridge lite from the Boosh) and the genius that is Mary's lad, Matt Berry (enough geniuses, ed)

Sorry Ed, you can never have enough comedy geniuses, and Matt Berry is one.

The river,

The requirement for a replacement tractor is currently being addressed. The previous implement, whose seat is shaped to my own, and is twenty three years old, is like many a wayward twenty year old, smoking and banging a bit, and is on the cusp of entering agricultural Valhalla. It has done great service and will sit at the right hand of Odin, several seats higher up the salt than Thor. It has served as my own "hammer of the gods" in many situations in the wood and on the bank, and tears will flow when it is cast away burning on to the water to make its way downstream to the Test Valley Valhalla, which with a nod to Hogwarts can only be reached via a magical hatch that leads to an enchanted carrier stream that ends at Asgard, a little known beat on the middle river and its magical hall/fishing hut, where all the river keepers and their equipment that are cast into the river end up.

Reading this bit back, I may have dreamt that last few hundred words, but if there were an Asgard on the middle river it would be full of pole scythes and spectacles, because surveys will confirm that these are the two most popular items that are accidentally flung away into the flow.

There are many trees to attend to on the river bank, and some bends will have quite a different appearance come the spring. A bridge must be attended to and fen must be fired, and then there's the pheasant pen to sort out. We seem to have acquired some more tame ducks, and these must also be housed and then there's the fish, the silt, the bits of bank that are maybe starting to encroach a little, Oh yes and the paperwork, because yes paper crops up increasingly in this line of work, when the chap from CEFAS turns up to inspect records and contingency plans, that for form's sake, must now be written down, because yes, if fish start flashing on the bottom or look a little "gilly" I will resort to reading what I wrote down rather than using my brain to remember what I did the last time such an event occurred. He's a top bloke the CEFAS man, as were the few others who have visited during my time here, and protocol requires that they don't get too chummy during their visits, which is tricky, as bonds are formed over time. They are a beleaguered bunch, who have been subject to significant cuts and do great work in keeping some nasty fish diseases at bay that are rife a few miles away across La Manche.

Last week I had a haircut. It doesn't take long and styles are limited. I used to go to a Turkish chap in Basingstoke who didn't do conversation, but surprised me on my final visit by striking a match without warning and burning off my nasal hair and ear hair. I just sat there in a state of shock, violated, nay immolated. I never went back, despite being two stickers away from my free hair cut, the bad dream in which I suffered torture by fire from a mute Ottoman with big scissors proved a clincher.

In recent times I have given myself up to another eccentric (and cheap) coiffeur who likes to open proceeding by swinging his scissors around on his index finger, gunslinger style before asking me how I want my hair (like he can do a range of styles) He's not from this country, and I think I can say with some confidence that I have not had my hair cut by someone from the mother country for some years. Even on the barest of bonces, he is one for a flourish and signs off the briefest period of clipping with a waft. He doesn't do conversation, but sings, in both of my ears, and thankfully my head of hair only gives time for around a song and a half of warbling side, but as the business approached of attending to what fringe remains, he ceased his serenade for conversation, Which began:

"What about this front bit then? there's not a lot there. I don't know what I can do. You know Wayne Rooney had a bit put back in, but that cost thirty five grand, you don't look like no footballer and you ain't got that money no? Ok I'll do what I can for a tenner"

If there is an award for comedy barber, please can I make a nomination

There are daffodils in bloom in a garden a few doors down the road, the nettles in the wood remain green and hot, and during the first week of December I spent two days on the tractor cutting grass before bumbling about with the strimmer.

When will winter start in the south of England?

This is a valid question that many forms of media would do well to ask.

But if we're not frightened they're not doing their job (and I'm looking at you in particular Jeremy Vine) so weather fronts sweeping in from the west attain bogeyman status as they approach the south, rain is the very essence of evil, snow and frost a threat to civilisation itself, and the vat of lost knowledge regarding the four seasons continues to fill.

In this region we need rain, in the north they have obviously had their fill, and hey, how about that national water grid? Our intrepid news hounds who flocked to the floods seeking the "money shot" of an elderly dame afloat in her nightgown, or spread eagled on the bonnet of a landrover are quick to point fingers and attempt to apportion blame. A foot and a half of rain fell in the lake district in twenty four hours. The most intense twenty four hour period of rain ever recorded in the UK, the previous highest being the fourteen inches that fell in 2009 in the same region, the Lynton flood in the 1950's and the Boscastle flood a few years ago were caused by around ten inches in twenty four hours. I like a grey area, and obfuscation is a much favoured modus operandi, but these kind of facts are worth a mention in the media, striking a balance they used to call it, as opposed to seeking a scapegoat.

Madam will confirm that as the years progress I am keen to try new things, so here goes with a few hundred words in support of the Environment Agency.

Within twenty four hours of the Cocker and Eden bursting their banks, questions were being asked about money spent on flood defence. One of the Eagles, Don Henley or possibly Glen Frey, filled in for Wolfie at PMQs and offered the opinion that a few more million should have been spent on flood defence to prevent this kind of event.

Hey Eagles (I think that's Angela on the right) lay off the hydrology and stick to soft rock, did Canute teach us nothing?

Flood defences can reduce the risk of flooding, but will rarely eliminate the risk altogether. A foot and a half of rain falling in twenty four hours on high hills with rapid run off are exceptional circumstances that shouldn't be factored into the costings and design of flood defences, the EA have had their annual budget cut and do not need to be pressurised into increasing the percentage they spend on flood defence, they have more pressing matters to attend to.

Having your house flooded must be a terrible experience, with the impact prolonged, and if it happens again a few years later even more galling, Child A has been in Carlisle for two days helping to clear out the new Sainsburys and little was saved, but when it rains a lot in some parts of the country, rivers will flood,

Always have, always will.

We have just returned from a flying visit to Yorkshire, where there was a lot of flooding. York has extensive flood defences, but the Ouse remains prone to perambulate the city's pavements at some point most winters.

Doesn't make the news, not sure why, nor do spectacular increases in discharge in many Scottish rivers.

I don't mean to stereotype, but during the drive down the country it was all too apparent that the north is currently cold and wet, and the south is warm and dry. We left our billet at Appleton le Moors at midday with echoes of Sheila Ferguson. Glitter was on our noses from a Christmas card and the car thermometer was stuck on three degrees. The rain was on the cusp of turning to sleet but somewhere around Birmingham an urban heat haze developed and ten degrees were added, clothes were removed and we arrived home in short sleeve order.

Preparations for an unlikely flooding event in this valley remain ok, with most culverts able to cope if the groundwater comes up, although some have resumed the modern fad of filling them with branches and brash that they don't know what to do with, which is a little disappointing. Recent rain should work its way down into the aquifers and we may see the river rise a little towards the end of the year, but the springs in the ditches and the pond that feed into this stretch are not running yet.
We have many duck on both the river and the pond, and I have already seen more cormorants flighting this valley than all of last winter. There are quite a few heron about too, who are making the most of the shallow clear water to stab away at any fish they can find. The goldfinches have obviously finished whatever they were feeding on in the wood and we have many plundering our offerings of niger seeds, no siskin yet although we have a nuthatch and marsh tit most days in among the regulars.
There are many brown trout in the river up to around a pound in weight although no sign of any leviathan's that often appear out of the shadows to spawn on the gravel on the shallows. The big hen of around five pound that spent much of the summer parading in front of the fishing hut seems to have moved elsewhere, although she may yet return to her summer haunt. The grayling are in tip top condition and continue to be caught off the top as fly continue to hatch most afternoons in the mild weather.

As I write there is coverage of a door being opened in space to allow this country's first representative to sojourn on the International space station. There seems to be a problem with the key, the doorbell may not be working and this kind of thing never happened on Pigs in Space.
We've paid for Tim's ticket, and I don't recall the government reaching into their pockets when we were required to fork out six hundred zobs a year for Child A and Child B to ride the bus to study A levels, and it is hoped Tim will turn a few tricks in the coming months to justify the expense. Don't get me wrong, I like the International Space Station, its provided a welcome distraction on many a fishless night behind the bite alarms as it makes its way across the night sky, but Sarah Brightman would have paid a lot of money to be in Tim's shoes, and with an austerity on, the money could have been used elsewhere, flood defence perhaps? and an engineering project to put old Albion's rivers into a series of sealed concrete pipes,

Please no, lets just enjoy the space thing

Hey Flash, run that that pre election pledge not to frack under National Parks and areas of outstanding beauty by me one more time.

It didn't apply to this valley, as the Government map for potential licences demonstrates that there are no areas that would concern any fracking operation.
Flash and George's "Race to Frack" mid coalition was frightening and all geared towards the bottom line and a fixation with the long term economic plan.
At least now we have had a period of considered thought, the relevant impact studies will be undertaken and we have men of the calibre of Generalissimo Smith overseeing operations,

Good Grief.

At the first sign of trouble I'm piling what little money I have into desalination companies, because that's where the water will be coming from as, if things go awry, it will be the equivalent of pissing in a fast diminishing well. High stakes stuff indeed in the south of England.

Thanks very much to the kind chap from Berry Bros & Rudd and reader of this guff who dropped by with a box containing wine.

Not the Chateau Cardboard that seems to have become part of our staple diet, but a great big bottle of Chianti in a wooden box, produced not far from where we stayed in Firenze. He recommended laying it down for a few years in order to appreciate it fully, although I fear it won't make the new year.
Thank you again, and at this point could I point you all towards previous posts from Rheims, the Mosel Valley, Loire Valley and Burgundy.

Oh yes, fishing.

P (Product Placement - remember this?)

Rods on this stretch of river come up fairly infrequently, and we are lucky enough to have a short waiting list. If anyone out there is interested in adding their name to the list feel free to drop us a line and I'll happily furnish you with the details.

Thank you for reading the rubbish that I write, have a Happy Christmas.

Erm, it seems to be 2016,

not sure how,

but we are where we are, Happy New Year an all that, but let us attend to matters arising in the first world.

First on the agenda - Hover boards with wheels?

I don't think this is quite what Bleep and Booster promised us in the Blue Peter annuals of the seventies, and smacks of corners being cut in the research and development department and a repackaging of old roller skate technology.

In an age of transparency and authenticity, hover boards should at least hover.

If at this point we turn to the Macmillan Dictionary for guidance we find that "to hover" is - to remain floating, suspended, or fluttering in the air,

While the Urban Dictionary teaches us that "to hover" is- not sitting on the toilet seat during defecation

Whatever your take on "hovering" there is no mention made in either definition of a pair of wheels.

Through the Froth we shall now attend to more serious matters and the flooding which has blighted the north and missed the south.

It's no fun being flooded, and the severity of some of the out of bank experiences are quite alarming but the stoicism of those affected has been nothing short of life affirming.

I have heard many radio programmes and seen several interviews where our man from the media has arrived in a haze of hyperbola trying to whip Joe Public into a frenzied rage. The car salesman in Kendall made light of his soggy situation, the farmer in York who accepted water on fields that were a flood plain and toured them in his boat ( because, yes it had happened before, and he had made preparations) the lady in a village in the lake district who put on her rubber boots and dished out the soup, the man in South West Scotland who informed our newshound that his community were used to flooding, the river flooded most years, but this was quite a high one.

On the radio we had an enlightened cove standing in to present the lunchtime news who suggested Cumbria's travails were a result of groundwater flooding, while another who sought to whip up a frenzy over faulty flood defence, was quietly informed that the flood defence in place had performed in the manner in which it was intended, so back to Bob in the studio. Another was indignant that the river was threatening to burst its banks, despite a visit by the Prince of Wales three days before, and who was this King Canute anyway?

Somebody must be blamed, and that man in the wellies in six inches of water waving his arms around to camera, is calling for the head of the Environment Agency, who has fled, like the merry monarch to foreign fields, but then his is only a part time post, and what can we expect for a six figure salary,

Not that his presence back on these shores would change much (worth every penny, eeeevvery penny)

A token post if ever there was one, did Generalissimo Smith teach us nothing?

There are environmental causes far more worthy of the funds fed to our man in Barbados.

Rivers flood and always will, take it as a space station moment, and a small reminder that mother earth has her own agenda. It is refreshing to hear during these past few weeks that there are many who understand that flooding on many rivers is a natural event that mankind cannot eliminate, despite the exhortations of an at time disconnected media, Call me out as an old fart for repetition, but

If we're not scared, they're not doing their job.

And now can we all agree to meet at the weekend with shovels and some sandwiches, to dig a ditch down the spine of England to move some of that water to the South East, because we still need the rain, or perhaps when HS2 goes in, run a big water pipe underneath the track,

now there's a thought,

because trains don't do hills,

and Ladies and Gentleman, for one who thrives in a grey area and obfuscation, I give you a brief spell of blue sky thinking, (we're having a drier January, not dry, just using wine stoppers more often)

but a conduit with a gentle gradient beneath the Y shaped track bringing moderately paced trains down the spine of our country, could transfer excess water in the north, to a corner of England stumbling slowly towards a water crisis.

Who will be our Brunel?

At which point I am reminded of the musings of Homer,

"Marge, Marge, fetch me a beer..........I'm starting to think"

On the first day of the year. Madam, myself and Otis completed our traditional post breakfast skirmishes on the common. We were the first down there on the day, bar a solitary twitcher, and there was not much about but a bunch of snipe and a few heron, although Otis achieved the fourth level of enlightenment during his crossing of the ford which often serves as a spa for footsore dogs, soothing sore paws that covered many metres during our restorative walk early on New Year's Day.

Next week, the chainsaw comes out and I will begin to attend to the many bank side willows that are beginning to impact upon the river, affecting weed growth and thinning the bank side fringe. There are a few that escaped the saw last winter due to my activities in the wood with a hundred or more fallen Christmas trees. There are a few bends that will look very different at the start of the season and a couple of bridges must also be attended to. This week I tweaked open the hatch on the house for the first time this winter, allowing a small rise in water to escape down the mill stream. There is water on the meadows, and the coming weeks will hopefully see an increase in groundwater flow and the river starting to creep up, but I'm sorry beleaguered flooded folk of the north, I'm all for more rain.

We had ice on the car on the first morning of 2016, but the temperature's risen since and the mower retains the status of "active and in service". I have been issued with a cutting edge digital weather station that relays all manner of interesting information to a monitor on our kitchen wall. It is strangely addictive and more informative than many half hour programmes offered on the box, but the daffodils in the garden, gorse in bloom,birdsong in the wood and six inches of growth on the clematis confirm that it remains a particularly barmy winter.

Oh yes, almost forgot,

David Beckham, a reasonable footballer (with my left foot he would have been complete) whose red shirt was always the wrong shade for me, but after seeing the TV programme last week in which he played a game of football on every continent on the planet, Dave's a superb ambassador for the world game,

Everything that Don Platter, Fingers Platini, and the bad guy from Live and Let Die should have been.

He won me over, well done Dave!

Crossing Over to the Other Side - Episode II

Dogs that deliver on death - a softer tone perhaps?

Fuming over Foam

Tony Blair for FIFA

Finding truth through delight, let out a little more string in your kite

Forget Black Holes, Bindweed is the real threat to life on Earth

Pianos to Pluto and The Generalissimo returns

Apologies

Lord Sewel and and Changing Rooms in La Senza

Mummy Mummy, that man's drinking wine!

On the Somme

Refreshed

Huge Cajones and a Poor Choice of Font

When will Sam Fox and Kylie be Brought to Book over Time

Popping Bubbles to a Well-Puffed Panpipe

Prego

Liberty Equality Brotherhood

Felicity Frost, Immolation and Toast

If we're not frightened, they're not doing their job (I'm looking at you Jeremy Vine)

Hovering, Homer and David Beckham