Issue 67 - What if never Angled had I?
April Fool's Day hereabouts is the day that trout make a fool of men, for it is the first day of the season on my local stream, and invariably all wrong for fishing. There are no leaves as yet to shield us from fishes cruelly exposed on weedless gravel, or from the cold easterly breeze that nods the nascent daffodils and riffles the surface, rendering the fish suddenly invisible and the writer irascible. For years now this particular day’s outing has for me represented little more than an insubstantial hors d’oeuvre that must be bolted down out of custom before moving on to the salad-days of the main course. And yet it is a ritual that must be fulfilled, for I am, am I not, an angler?

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