High hopes and great plans are well and good. Better still when they materialise- most of the time the script gets torn up and lobbed out of the window.
We made our cold crossing to Wales in great hope, admiring the snowy hills and swollen rivers on the way. There were perhaps two garages open on the whole of our early journey out, but bizarrely we saw about six vans selling bacon rolls at the roadside- we're guessing that half of Merthyr Tydfil run a greasy food van on the sly.
Our target was perhaps the most casually run fishery in Wales (and I'll stop there before I produce steam), Llangorse lake. It was a dissappointment- day one looked fine but no boats were allowed out (no human beings were there to speak to either), whilst today we had access but it was positively dangerous- no fishing is worth drowning for. A shame really, because the lake is stunning. We should have taken our cue from the ducks swimming in the car park.
We did discover a very beautiful, if daunting, alternative venue however. Pontsticill Reservoir is a mammouth sized lake with scenery that knocks your breath back. Utterly lovely- although the place was surprisingly litter strewn (Brilliant idea for the Welsh Tourist Board: "Come Littering in the Brecon Beacons! Drop your non biodegradable waste in some of Britain's finest countryside"). We tried a few spots on the drop offs for pike, Ian Nadin's whole herring bait the epitomy of our great hope in the face of a kicking. No joy at all sadly- and apart from the scenery it was probably only the usual banter that stopped me from feeling despondent.
It's days like these that you realise what an addiction fishing is. We get up at stupid times, clock up silly miles and do things hardened drug addicts wouldn't contemplate, and all for that next bite. Winter fishing is sometimes a cruel sport, not to fish but to anglers. Often it's bitter, sometimes it's very sweet. Roll on next week.
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