Chris Avery | Friday, 24 October 2025
In hundreds of visits to ‘the field’, I rarely get a comment. The football pitch and grassy expanse that’s also fraternized by dog walkers; always at least one, and often up to half a dozen. There’s the occasional huddle of public school, 6th form, spliff smokers, and of course the local nut-job eccentrics, which I guess includes me, as I regularly go down practicing my fly casting on this grass expanse, a stone’s throw from the river over the far fence.
I’ve had probably two “Have you caught anything, ha haha’s” and one genuinely inquisitive “Can I ask what you’re doing (my son is fascinated)”? in all the years of going there.
I put this lack of intrusion down to English reserve, or even the local Oundle people … I mean if you were doing this in Liverpool or ‘Mad-chester’ there is no way you’d get this much peace and quiet. Yep, its obviously the natural reserve of our Northamptonshire’s lovely locals. I assure myself.
Bollocks!..... Normally I’m down there at very least feeding out Pick-up-and-lay-downs a yard at a time until I get to about 60 or 70 feet, then I’m practicing how much carry I can keep in the air, or making a balls up of 170 body popping movements that dream me out to 120’+, but reality lands in an undignified nightmarish heap at about a 104’ consistently, with the occasional 114’ fluke to keep me hopeful.
“Damn it…Failed again!” is my mantra and at these times, feels like a birthright.
Thus under the shade of my own personal pet black cloud, dejected with this ineptitude and looking like I’m about to depart across the swelling waves of abject misery on the rickety life raft of SS Self Loathing. My whole body language and demeanour must scream to unfortunate witnesses “ Maniac overboard do not approach!” ( and don’t waste the lifebuoys)
I’d avoid me too… and so often wish I could.
Now practicing for CI, I’m down there with my tape measure, some plant pots, hoop, hat, sunglasses, paper work, rod tubes, and reel pouches, all lined up, or neatly gathered around. And I have one focus exercise to practice and focus on, say: Triangle method with a modest 30’ out to try and absolutely perfect those loops and lengthen, or cock up, drop it down and start over. The last few nights have been focused solely on the perfect pick up at 40’ into a near as dammit, perfect back cast. Over and over and over. All very gentle and contained and eccentrically obsessive.
So now I guess I look less rabid nut job on the loose who you and Pongo need to take a wide berth of, more of a lonely Nerd in need of pity and kind words; and therefore eminently approachable, or exceedingly piss-takeable. (if that’s a deviation from the English language… then that’s the dictionaries lacking and not mine)
Practice session 1 ( PS1)
Tape out for 40’, wind behind me, as is the nearby road, blocked by a 4’ high stone wall affording some privacy. Weather nice and alarm set for a strict half hour’s focus. Feeling positive about starting this journey to the uncomfortably, not too distant exam, and ready to concentrate on my rather inconsistent core casting techniques, a flaw that my mentor has kindly nudged my attention towards.
First triangle goes ok but fly legs starting to dip down as I go up to vertical.. drop line to start again. Frustrating start but feeling stoic, I can and should nail this.
“ I was doing that this morning” says a loud voice from behind me.
I look behind at what appears to be a dislocated head on the wall. “ Oh Er, what’s that?”
“Practicing my casting, I’m with the British Fly Casting Club, I’ve got a new line for my distance but I’m not getting on with it”
I’d never noticed the guy before at any event.
“ Oh what’s your name, I’m a member of the BFCC too” … turns out I hadn’t heard of his name, nor seen him before.
“Mike Marshall taught me” he persisted, almost proudly.….( so that was a while a go! I compute, and before my time)
“Oh OK.”
I flick out a lazy 40’ loop to lay down a straight line to begin again and hope that ends this intrusion. But frustratingly no!
“ So what line are you using there, Mate?” ( oh shit he’s not deterred)
“What? this one I am casting with ?” ( please just leave me alone I’ve about 20 mins left!)“Um, Oh Gosh..Um “ ( I have a frustrated brain fog moment, it’s a conversation I don’t want and now feel guilty about how I’m coming across) ) “Um it’s a … ballistic, that’s it Ballistic 5 wt”.
What then followed was the Q+A session of tapers and lengths, makers etc while my clock was ticking away and eventually I made the fatal…. “Would you like to try it?” Of course he would!
I just get the rod back in my hand and he’s wandering away saying “I’d better leave you to your practice”. as the alarm bell tolls the end of PS1. I’ve managed zero improvement, in fact what I have managed is one developing tailing loop as a memory to take home.
PS2
I set up that evening determined to wipe out PS1 and start a-fresh, and leave the field with some tangible improvement. First triangle same result as this morning.
”Oh we’ll start where we left off” I think. “At least your consistent….. at being shit!”
Second triangle and I stop mid stroke and drop the line, No problem with the loop but a strange sensation, that I can hear breathing. Not my breathing, but extra breathing and lots of it.
I turn over my shoulder to find myself face to face with a severe elderly lady in a ribbed cardigan and pleated skirt with her hair stretched back, face lift tight. From between the rims of unflattering ‘functional’ spectacles, a pair of cruel piercing eyes is challenging me before even a word is uttered.
If this old bat hasn’t spent a life time honing that chilling demeanour, by raining down misery and inflicting emotional scars onto blighted children’s lives, posted as a sadistic head mistress. Then she could only have been trained and usefully employed by the Stasi.
Maybe she was both, a Stasi Headmistress. Looking down there is a be-draggled Spaniel on a leash panting away by her skinny ankles and shiny laced up brogue shoes…(“Oh God she’s a fecking Bond villain!”).
“Do you have a hook on that line young Man?”
I’m thinking (“Get lost with your “Young Man”!) but actually what stumbles out of my mouth is;-
“ Ah, umm , ah phew.. What, What?!” ( I realise I’m turning into Boris Johnson which is appalling, a truly awful realization).
At this she pulls herself up to her full 5 foot 3inches and yet seemed to tower over me, and leaning into the edge of a bellow, eyes cruelly fixed on mine, repeated very slowly…” DO ..YOU…HAVE ..A .. HOOK… ON..THAT.. FISHING …..LINE…..YOUNG .. MAN.?!!!
“Um no , No I don’t it’s a bit of fluff”
“BECAUSE,,,”( barely missing the beat) “If I do find you have a Hook on that!” she cast a withering look at my rod; (which reads badly I’ll admit) and then gurned out everyremaining syllable of “And YOU do Hook my little DOG,,,,I’LL.. BE…. EXTREMELY…UPSET!!
For a second the word ‘dog’ confused me and I wondered if I was missing an unsubtle blues reference here. But decide she’s not the type for innuendos, just veiled threats of unspeakable murderous cruelty.
“Oh the Spaniel right..Oh, No No, its just a bit of fluff,.. On the line. The spaniel, obviously that’s not fluff.”
I felt detention was assured by now and maybe even a caningor expulsion loomed.
Clarrisa Buttockbeater marched off, but even with her back turned I could feel the seething contempt from her and that wee scabby mongrel. I could in fact feel it from wherever she roamed on this now blighted heath, the cast of her shadow seemed to reach and whither every blade and buttercup, casting misery and dread, Even the distant goal posts seemed to wilt and sag as she approached.
In the half hour of allotted time, Despite having 10+ acres to roam she walked across my little casting zone, wordlessly, halting my practice three times. I remembered nothing about my casting.
PS3
Short one this time. About minute 15 at 8 pm and the concentration and silence of a balmy summer’s evening is shattered by the sound of a man’s ( youth’s) voice somewhere off over the wall on the far side of the street. Really, really, loud.
“Fuckin hell look, Fuckin Fly casting”. I grimaced and tightened up, trying to ignore it. But even louder and I’m sure now from a quite drunken specimen trying to get his companions attention and admiration. “No No! fucking look… fly casting, Fucking fly casting on the field”. I calculated the distance to the next village and a rough estimate of how long it would take for his words to arrive.
I am drawn to look up in the direction even though I know it’s a mistake. “Yep I’m um, practicing” I call back, with as welcoming a smile as I can muster hoping to quieten him, “I’m actually pretty shit though…ha ha, I really need this practice”. Hopefully my joking will appease him and at least turn down the volume.
“Look, No LOOK!! “ he bellows to whoever. “ Its Pretty-fucking-Shit-fly-Casting on the fucking field”! There was a brief pause in the assault for either breath or to reload and the echo died away to a lonely silence. Then the heavy artillery thundered. “He’s pretty fucking shit he is……It’s Shit Fucking Fly Casting!!”
Oh god, 30 mins can’t come soon enough!
I wandered home with his words for company.
I pondered that it could only sound worse or more damning in a Scottish accent.
And then an awful nightmare scenario loomed. Brian McGlashan cutting short my assessment in my CI exam. Bellowing at me across some strange field in the north of England in front of loads of other CI and MCI students?.
“Enough! Pretty Fucking-shit-fucking-fly-casting that …. Next!”
Thankfully Brian's too nice, far too nice a man…. To say that… to anyone’s face at least……