Categories: uncategorized
Date: 27 March 2007 19:24:16
The fire may have burned long into the night, but it was decidedly chilly by about six in the morning - all the clothes on again, and I was soon back to sleep. Liz, our landlady, had kindly offered to make us bacon sandwiches for breakfast (like we hadn't eaten enough pig the night before), and I woke up with about 20 minutes to spare before they were due to arrive. However, Liz obviously had other things to worry about indoors, so our sarnies didn't appear until an hour later than planned - not that anyone complained (although some of the lads quite fancied Liz, so they were never likely to complain anyway). Then it was time to pack up. The two remaining joints of pork were wrapped up to be taken home, the roasting apparatus was dismantled, all our rubbish was cleared up, and we started packing down our tents. Jimmy and I managed to take ours down a lot quicker than it had gone up, although the tricky bit was actually getting the tent to fit into its bag. We got there in the end.
Meanwhile, Aaron's Dad was providing some entertainment by trying to take his tent down. The tent itself was a natty little thing (probably a one-man, unless you and the second man are *very* close friends) which was designed to pretty much set itself up instantaneously when you took it out of its bag. It was called the "Two Second Tent", because you were supposed to be able to erect it in two seconds and put it away in two seconds. On Dad's evidence, the putting away bit was trickier than expected. Every time he'd almost wrestled it into the bag, it would pop open again. He must have spent about ten minutes fiddling around with it; whether this would qualify him for a refund under the Trade Descriptions Act, I doubt very much. Still, at least he didn't have Dean and Liz's dog peeing on the tent while he was trying to take it down, unlike Big Big Bro (who wasn't impressed - of course, the rest of us were highly amused, but then again we'd had a weekend with too much alcohol and not enough sleep).
Finally packed, those of us who hadn't had to shoot off early had one final activity planned - a spot of fishing. A few of the guys were exerienced anglers, but most were new to it all, so on the way back from football the day before we'd called into a fishing shop for some expert advice on what equipment we'd need etc. When we arrived at our stretch of riverbank, the groundsman informed us we had completely the wrong hooks and bait for the season, and that we could get prosecuted if an official type came along and found us using them. We told him that this was what the fella in the fishing shop had said we needed, and he said that the fella in the fishing shop knew nothing and suggested this wasn't the first time he'd heard of this particular chap giving duff information to newbies. So, instead of the job lot of maggots we'd bought, we had to get a gardening fork and start digging up the earth for some worms to use as bait instead.
Now, I must be honest, the more I think about it the more it seems that fishing is rather cruel. As well as a (hopefully) short term injury to any fish you catch, there's the poor maggot or worm that finds itself skewered alive on a hook before being drowned and finally gobbled up by a passing fishy. However, Dad put it all into context when Housemate #2 raised a similar concern with him: "If you've ever eaten fish in your life, they'll have gone through all this, and killed the fish on top of it." Fair point, that man.
I soon realised why I could never really get excited about fishing. It's not the boredom factor; sometimes I think it would be quite nice to just sit on a quiet, tranquil riverbank watching the world go by. No, the problem for me is all the technical stuff. You need lots of different bits of equipment (rod, reel, hook, bait, weights etc), and when you arrive you have to set it all up. This bit seemed to take ages. I dare say with experience and practice it would become a lot quicker, but it all seems like a bit too much effort to me. Still, once everthing was up and running, we set about the main business of the afternoon, and Aaron quickly proved himself to be a jammy git; after his cousin had spent half an hour sitting around with no sign of a bite, Aaron walked to the exact same spot, cast out, and within five seconds was reeling in a perch which, while by no means massive, was impressive enough to warrant much excitement (and cursing from cousin).
Of the rest of us, only one guy (who's done a fair bit of angling in the past) got a bite; he caught two perch, though neither was as big as the one Aaron had bagged. Somehow I only ended up fishing for about five minutes, and managed to get absolutely nothing in that time. At least I gave it a go, though. In fact, this weekend was full of things I don't normally do because I don't enjoy them that much (camping, fishing, eating large fatty mouthfuls of pork), but which had turned out to be better than I'd expected, even if they're not necessarily things I'd volunteer to do in the future.
As the Manchester crew gradually drifted off for their long drive home, the numbers depleted and, finally, we all decided it was time to go and get some sleep, ready to go back to work in the morning. A good time was clearly had by all, but most importantly by Aaron, who had exerted himself so much during the weekend that he kept dropping off in the back of the car. In less than two weeks, he'll be a happily married man, and it'll be the end of an era. How so? I'll tell you in a while...