IT FELT SO DAMN SWEET!
BY THE LAST WEEK OF OCTOBER, the game was very much afoot. I’d managed to ride out the storm of a very tough September, eventually turning things round by reverting back to boilie fishing. Back in the saddle, I’d accounted for three fish in as many nights and suddenly felt like anything was possible again. The leaves had fallen in abundance, coating everything in reds and golds. The nights were well into single figures and inside my head I could sense the ticking clock; the pressure of knowledge telling me that time was almost up for that year. The water temperature had begun to nudge single figures and the pike had been busy around the reeded areas, constantly smashing into the shoals of roach that had been herded in there. The crispness in the air was a portent that hard times were ahead—to paraphrase George R. R. Martin, winter was indeed coming…