Rather than being industrious and writing some fresh posts for my absence (and rather than posting nothing at all), I've scheduled some of the more 'useful' posts on craft to appear again. If they don't, I obviously didn't work out how to do this.
In the meantime I'll leave you with the words of James Walkley-Cox - poet, nature-lover and dear friend - as he attempts to convert me to the esoteric machinations of his favourite pastime.
"Very early morning best. Sat on the edge of the barge, everyone else asleep, barefoot, mug of steaming tea, float cast a few metres away, a few feet below a hook baited with a chunky earthworm (slightly chopped or squeezed to bleed a bloody perch attractant if you aren't too squeamish). Perfect.
At worst your heart will skip a beat when a coot pops up from the far bank reeds to squawk a warning at an unaware, sleepy mallard, or a kingfisher will dart by, or a dipper will bob-bob a hello, or a heron, still as a statue, will honour you with its presence, or a tern will hover briefly above the shallows before plunging into the black water to return with an unlucky gudgeon.
At best you with feel a deep-felt lunge in your gut when the float moves or, god willing, jags and sinks, the sort of lunge you feel when you realise that you love someone too much just as you are driving too fast over a humpback bridge having eaten a potently spiced curry dish the evening before whilst thinking about an imminent dental appointment or...
Whatever, as you can read, you need to have a rod and line. You simply need to.
Huckleberry Vowler - Gone Fishing!"