Fishing

Fishermen, it seems, are like the rest of us after all. Smilers and snarlers, grinners and grouchers, half-full, half-empty. Bank holiday Saturday apparently meant competition fishing at Gnosall, and we lost count after about 30, including a fair number along the visitor moorings. I can't imagine why fishing in the canal should have different leagues for men and women, like most other sports except equestrianism, yet there wasn't a woman among them.

I don't really get fishing, except for food. However, each to his own, and I'm quite happy to exchange courtesies with members of homo anglens. I understand it's the polite thing to cruise slowly, but not too slowly, down the middle of the cut, though I've little idea why. Not too far to the right, not too far to the left. But there's no pleasing some, especially those who thought the competition organisers should have got a court order banning boating for the day on this stretch of the Shroppie. Smiles and greetings were generally the order of the day, but some were distinctly unimpressed by the sight of Erin Mae. Particularly the one who sent a shower of something after me. Gravel? Bait? Not quite sure. And I may be mistaken.

So we pulled up at Gnosall, and chatted about fishermen and other pleasant topics with David, a continual cruiser on NB Tom Bombadil. He's on his way from exciting times on the River Nene to tranquility on the Llangollen, and had some good stories to tell – as well as a sad one about a GRP owner who lost the top of his cabin from being too bold under a bridge when the river was running. Perhaps we'll see David again later as we've tied up in Gnosall for the night. But I shan't be fishing. The only lines I've got on board are bow lines, stern lines and centre lines.