Leider auf Englisch...

Solch ein Thema scheint in jedes Forum zu gehören. Daher auch hier ein kleiner Bereich für diese Sachen.
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troutcontrol
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Leider auf Englisch...

Beitrag von troutcontrol »

... aber herrlich (aus dem SFF von Don Quixote):

The Halladale Experience.
This thread is getting to be a bit like Lethal Weapon, where Martin Riggs and Lorno Cole compare scars, one trying to out do the other. I had hoped to avoid this as it traumatized me so. But, well, here goes…

I had been invited to fish the Halladale, a very pretty spate river in Sutherland. The Halladale is a Highland spate river which has its origins in the Knockfin Heights, to the south of Forsinard and enterers the Pentland Firth at Melvich Bay. It was midweek and my friends were fishing and staying at the local hotel. I had been invited to fish for just one day so, it being a long drive and wanting to get the best from the invitation, I left home very early in the morning. Now, being a man of predictable habits and not having the time to complete my morning ablutions, before I left I made a point of pulling off and packing along with everything else about fifteen feet of bog paper. ‘That should do the trick.’ I thought.

I met my friends and we began to fish. It was hot with a completely bare, deep blue sky and also very windy. It is often windy in that part of the country, which is mostly open moorland and largely treeless. There was little chance of connecting with a fish but, nonetheless, the odd grilse was showing. About 11am a sudden and unexpected rumbling in my gut reminded me of certain services so far neglected, so I began to look for a suitable spot. There was gorse everywhere, I mean a veritable ocean of the stuff, mile after mile of it waving and tossing in the strong summer wind. Being very careful ( The spikes on mature Highland gorse, or ‘whins’ as we call it, can be as sharp as a needle and up to two inches long.) I threaded my way deeper and deeper into the bright yellow maze.

Finding a secluded spot, I quickly dropped my waders, pants and shorts. Whoops! Better make sure my braces are out of the way. We all know that story! Operations completed, feeling akin to Mr Bean, I smugly unfurled the full length of toilet paper and watched it float like a banner in the breeze. Then, without any warning there was an extra strong gust.

'No!!!!!'

Twisting and tumbling, I watched it blow away. Horrified, I looked down. All that remained was that which was trapped between finger and thumb. ‘Well, bugger it.’ Crouched Cossack-like, I began to reverse out of the patch of gorse.

‘JESUS!!!’

Whimpering with pain, I checked my backside. Ruby beads of blood were starting to appear in half a dozen places. Left, left, stay more to the left... Progress was slow, and also painful. Eventually gaining the refuge of a slightly more open area in the sea of gorse, I glanced around to get my bearings...and felt surge of blessed relief. Salvation was at hand! There, just twenty feet away, caught on top of a particularly wicked looking clump of gorse, was the length of toilet paper. Half shuffling, half hopping, waders and pants around my ankles, I carefully navigated towards it.

'Ah-Ha!'

I slowly straightened, extended my arm, my fingers. The paper was close, so very, very close, but still just an inch or two out of reach….just a little bit more... Hobbled, I staggered and slowly fell forward.

‘AAAAARRRRGGHHHHHH!!!!’

Sobbing and whimpering like a hurt animal, I painfully extricated myself from the clump of gorse. I glanced down, admiring my latest tattoo, a pattern of bloody red dots extending from knees, up my thighs almost to my waist. Well, I told myself, at least the back and the front now look the same. Straightening, careless now of any further pain or injury, I reached for the paper. I was standing like that, waders and trousers around my ankles, right arm extended, when the coach went past. Coach? I didn’t even know there was a bloody ROAD there! Frozen with mortification, all I could do was stand there and watch as, just twenty feet away, face after face slowly went by. Remain motionless, I told myself, and you’ll get away with it.

I honestly believed it until two of them waved.

These days I just arrive late. It is much simpler and though as a result I might not catch anything, at least my dignity has a much better chance of remaining intact.


Grüsse
Martin :wink:
There are no bad fly rods - only bad fly lines!

http://www.troutcontrol.de
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janw
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Re: Leider auf Englisch...

Beitrag von janw »

Sehr schön, Martin. Danke. :lol: :+++:

:wink:
LG Jan
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piscator
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Re: Leider auf Englisch...

Beitrag von piscator »

Oh Yes , I know this one, J.
Petri Heil, J.
brauch keine Gewalt, nimm einfach 'ne längere Rute
http://www.baltic-cane.de/
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knoesel
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Re: Leider auf Englisch...

Beitrag von knoesel »

Nice story :grin:
:wink:
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