Pick, pull, swing, again

A sudden flurry of snow came swirling over the high bank of the river as we counted out the bag of chub and weighed the best fish of the day. The Swale had again lived up to its reputation as a good ‘back end’ river for chub, and I knew the farmer whose waters we had been fishing would be delighted with the result.

Sure enough, he appeared at the door of the farmhouse as we stowed the tackle away in the car, and a broad grin lit up his face as we confirmed his predictions of the morning that the chub would be found in the deep, fast glide under the willows on the bend. “Fresh pot o’ tea on’t hob