To the Journey

Many of you may have guessed that I have failed miserably with the Ollie/Polly Project. For the writer of Julie/Julia there would always be something needful and comforting about cooking French cuisine. The same thing cannot be said about the Vojic Moser Caddis. Gluing tights over an embroidery hoop does not have the same appeal as gently simmering cream. So that's that.

As I write (I am typing up my notebook jottings) I am on a train to Edinburgh for work. Two mornings before I was in London and bombed it back to work in Leeds at five o'clock in the morning. At three o'clock the previous morning, I surveyed the Anarchist damage to Fortnum and Mason's by rickshaw. I felt slightly distatsteful at the time and began to sink into a mild depression (as only those in the public sector can) over the cutd. I soon retreated back into my bourgeois comfort zone and pondered just how delicious the potted shrimps at Fortnums are. To quote a misquote, "Let them eat cake!" I shan't though. I am sucessfully over a dress size smaller and I am enjoying getting thinner so much that I think I'll keep going for a bit.
Today, thanks to a forgotten train ticket I commuted between York and Leeds before catching the 9.37 to Edinburgh. On Friday I leave my house at six o'clock in the morning to get to Talgarth for work. I am then finally nestling myself in the Beacons for a little rest.
True rest, of course, means fishing. A winter's careful stressing and fretting is quickly unravelled by flashing a line through the wrinkles of a flowing stream. The particular stream in question is the Monnow. It has been carefully prescribed by a dear headmaster. So, as my mad travels end, a new season begins. I'll let you know how it goes.

A New Look for the New Season?

I've been really rather busy.  Disappointingly this hasn’t been because I have had a whirlwind affair with a better looking, blonder, taller Brian Cox type. Nor is it the case that I have won the lottery, and buggered off to Cuba to smoke Havana’s, drink mojitos and fish for bonies and inappropriate men. I did, however, win my local Fly Dresser’s Guild raffle.

The truth is that things have been a little gloomy. Work, family, friends are all taking their toll a little in various ways. However, as my daffodils keep frustrating me by refusing to flower, I feel I am teetering on the precipice of hope, commonly called Spring.  So despite everything, I can’t help but smile. This is partly because I have some fishing coming up in early April. I have decided to take myself on a little holiday to the beautiful Brecon Beacons. Trout, books and B&B bliss.

I have been on the hunt for some waders. The Google shopping results were interesting.

Simms, swanky expensives, as worn by Oprah no less, were options one and two. The final suggestion was intriguing. A Glamorous Body, Suit for £30. This piqued my curiosity, unfortunately with one maverick click of the mouse I was confronted with the image below.  I think, however, that despite its overt glamour, the suit won’t be much good for fishing. It looks a little chilly and leaky and it might give the wrong impression. 

On Beauty

There’s not been a lot of “life” in this flyfisherlady’s posts recently. A modicum of blustery fly fishing and not enough fly tying (16 more patterns to go!) has been this flavour of the last couple of months.

I have a horrible feeling that anyone reading this might think that all I do with myself is eat less (one dress size down, yay!) and hunch in the strongly illuminated semi darkness surrounded by dead animals and hooks.  Worryingly, this seems to be the case. I need a boyfriend before I start trying to build cane rods.  Actually, the season starts soon, so scratch that plan.

 I worry, that in my career so far I have dedicated myself to beauty; preserving and presenting art to others for its own sake.  This worship of the beautiful is potentially all a bit Oscar Wilde and I worry at times whether this makes me a pretentious git.

Last week I was involved in something brilliant.  All of Leeds Museums and Galleries has pulled together to put on a display there called “Blue Museum” at the Bexley Oncology Wing at St James’s hospital.  It’s a series of objects, photographs and art works, celebrating the colour blue in all its forms. Glam frocks and bright blue bees, dinky tins and Egyptian beads all form part of the display. It had all been organised by my rather brilliant colleagues, I just turned up at the last minute as an extra pair of hands. Nonetheless it’s probably the most important exhibition I have ever been involved in. The huge Atrium is the heart of the oncology wing. Doctors, nurses, cleaners stride through there. Patients and their families’ friends and carers all wait nearby.

A moment’s thought makes you realise that some of the worst moments of people’s lives are played out in that space. They wait for test results, wait to go in for treatment, wait for the outcomes of operations.  A potential static Hell lived out on leather couches.  The staff at the hospital too are part of it. There are victories here and there but let’s be frank about it, there is nothing very nice about cancer.

What the Blue Museum and other concerts and exhibitions in the Atrium achieve is a little bit of time and a little bit of space away from all this horror. You could argue that exhibitions here are not an essential NHS spend and a waste of money. However, like time spent on the riverbank these quiet moments of peace and idle distraction are pretty priceless. Think about how a fleeting glance of the lovely flanks of a plump trout can lift the soul.

I’ve never had such an enthusiastic and interested audience for an exhibition before and I’ve never seen so many smiles at a display.  The whole display will be covered in detail shortly  in the brilliant Secret Lives of Objects Blog.

Much in the same way that Charles Rangeley- Wilson claimed that catching a wild trout in London was “God at his best. The breath of a river.”  Twenty minutes laughing whilst laying out a display case with a very ill man reminded me that there was a point to this difficult world. It’s not found in big ideas, big societies or grandiose gestures. It’s found in things that are essentially simple; a well hooked fly, sunset glinting on a stream.  Peace in idle distraction. I think that this is what Keats was on about when he got soppy over an old vase. In short, the good in the world might be most easily found in beauty. So, if I have dedicated my life to that so far, it can’t have all been a waste. 

Meanwhile. I introduce my attempt at a Spent Willow, it's actually the first Edwards I've actually enjoyed tying.