Last night we considered lighting a fire. It be been a stormy afternoon, and mist was now whisping in under the azalea bushes in the garden. Drizzle trickled down the gutters into the overflowing water tanks. Earlier, the Sun had made an attempt to brighten our world, and the Burchell’s Coucal had called from the dripping undergrowth. Flying ants emerged, and then the mist crept back as temperatures dropped. The storm’s gloom was replaced by that of evening, the black cuckoo sang his woeful tune. There was news from way up the river valley of significant hail. In the depths of the night the flufftail sounded it’s foghorn from who knows where and I rolled over, thinking of fishing prospects. The river would be blown out for sure.
Just ten days back we had layn under only bedsheets and wondered about going to look for the fan. The Piet-my-vrou called incessantly. When I woke later the male drongo had replaced the cuckoo, and driven by either the moonlight or suburban lamps, he had committed his whole night to declaring his turf. The morning was bright. We braced ourselves for more heat as sunlight cut across the wet lawn, and the orange breasted bushshrike found gaps in the morning birdsong to be heard. Before the heat intensified, the oriels spilled their liquid gold duet. If fishing was out of the question, your excuse could just as well be brown water from the heavy rain a week before, or the oppressive heat.
Between these inconveniences we had fished. Not easily. Flow was strong, with colour in the water. Then it was bright, and clear water added to slow spring growth of bankside cover, left our stealth attempts exposed. But those are just excuses for our wanting results.
Flagging enthusiasm will only be met with envy and regret, rubbed in by some other bloke’s pictures of a magnificent river Brown. We know that. Weather and water will be watched. Favour will be sought by bravery. Where to next Saturday?
