Let's Hope

Every year I do a few days piking. I love it and it means to me, not just the catching of a few pike but the reminiscing to days gone by.

Pike are pike. They don't change. The scenery where I catch my pike is far more important than the size of the fish. Pike, to me, mean the Fens, or Hornsea Mere, or The Broads.

I would never want to catch pike in the Trent or the Hants Avon. Doesn't seem right somehow.

Pike, to me, means atmosphere most of all and sitting with my dear friend John talking about the great days spent with Ray Webb.

Been on the giggle juice..?

What happened to Trent Otter and Jardine and Bickerdyke all of a sudden?
All those lovely "watercraft-at-a-glance" diagrams of pike hot-spots on rivers?
BERNARD VENABLES???
(What about Magna Carta? Did she die in vain?)
Sitting watching a dying fish do all the work for you on 600 acres of featureless water must be about as exciting as sleeping, drunk, behind three buzzers, four nights after the crayfish removed the boilies.Give me a smallish river, or a lake whose far bank I can reach with a big spoon, any time!