Preparations

I didn't realise, when I wrote back in November, how apt comparing fishing with dating is. Nor could I have predicted that my return to actual dating would coincide with my first fishing trip of the season.
In preparing for anything there is the assessment of current kit. I was woefully unprepared for both ventures. I seem to only own three types of clothes, work clothes, wedding clothes and scruffy comfortable clothes. None of which have the kind of feminine allure needed for dating. A quick browse of my creel tells a similar story. Its winter relegation to the garden shed (hibernation I think I'll call it) meant that when I opened it I was welcomed by a flood of earwigs and silverfish. I would have liked to say I didn't shriek, however, I did and ran away, far away. I returned only after a bracing cigarette and soul strengthening cup of tea. When I eventually put a cautious hand inside I discovered tangled horrors of rotten tippet, spectacle wipes and what I believe might have once been a Scotch egg.
The only joy found in both of these scenarios is the opportunity for shopping. There is much pleasure found in replenshing the armoury. The racks of dresses, shelves of shoes, tippet and gleaming reels manage to feed my greed. My conscience satisfied or tricked into false comfort by weak arguments of necessity.
I returned to dating armed with red shoes and a hip skimming, cleavage enhancing top. I felt confident of my equipment yet a little anxious. I had the niggling thought, "What if I have forgotten how to do this?" I trusted in my clothes and shoes, convincing myself that I now have at least some of thejuicy appeal of a plump mayfly. The date went well. My initial trepidation disappeared as, like with casting, my body slowly began to remember it's natural rhythm. It began with a curry and ended with a kiss. I've been smiling all day.
I go fishing again on Monday. I'm remembering all the errors of the past season, thinking longingly of the ones that got away. I'm also steeling and coiling myself and my nerves in the comfort that only a new leader and freshly tied fly can bring, enough to let me dare to think: I'm ready and I'm gonna get you.

An Introduction.

I decided to start a blog because there is such a rich literary history that goes with fly fishing. Hemmingway, Arthur Ransome and my all time fishing hero Charles Ritz, from whom I have stolen my blog title from. A Flyfisherman's Life changed how I thought about fishing and the way I fish. Above all I think he taught me the importance of panache and style.
I think that it is high time a woman wrote about fishing, there must be some perspective on fishing that is different from that of a man's. I will emphasise though that it is not because I am feminist about fishing, just that there should be a wide range of voices writing about and expressing their thoughts about their passions.
I suppose I ought to add here that in general I seek a day when there is no gender divide in fishing. I refuse to join ladies' fishing clubs. I think their aims are admirable, on the whole to attract more girls to the sport. I long for the day when I meet fellow fishers on the riverbank see I am a girl and ask me how the fishing has gone rather than the normal expression of surprise that I fish solely because of my gender. However, for me ladies' clubs have the mild yet horrible implication that women are disadvantaged in some way as regards to their fishing abilities. I staunchly disagree with this. If "the rod does the work" then it shouldn't make a difference who holds it. I think shall be my last word on the subject of gender. I am sure we all experience the same rush of excitement- that same first date belly flip when a trout rises to the surface to part its mouth and give itself up for a kiss of your fly that tells you you've pulled.
It's those experiences I wish to share here and my winter angst and longing to get back to the trout dating game in spring.