CONFESSIONS OF A BUS DRIVER (PART TWO)

Thought it was time to update blog. Thanks for the hints guys. Subtle.
A little rusty. Where to start.
I guess a title is a good a place as any. I settled on "I'm still here...just".
Others in contention were, The penny's dropping, Out and about, and So long and thanks for lack of fish!


So much has happened in these last 2 months, it has whooshed past and left me with a feeling that I have fallen behind. So easy just to drift with the flow.
There has been a family wedding, the birth of our first grandchild, news on another, the last fledgling has left the nest, ups and downs behind the wheel of my bus, holidays to plan, elderly relatives to discuss, my good lady to pack off to Italy and futures to think about.
It all looks very grown up stuff to me, a realisation that time still ticks on, regardless.


Confessions of a Bus Driver (part two)
I have been chosen to drive athletes and press members at the London Games this summer. No medals, no glory but boy, what an opportunity. Excited? - yes, Worried? - a little, Happy? well yeah..except that its smack bang in the middle of the new fishing season. A time when I should be up to my elbows in slime, mud, nettle stings, mosquito bites and tender sunburn. And loving every minute!
 Instead I will be hot, bothered, stressed up to the eyeballs, stuck in London traffic, miles from home for three and a half weeks, missing my wife, my family (oh god my grandson!)
I guess their all be there when I get back.

I was coming to the end of a shift on the home straight, Eyes strained from the sun, tired from the long hours.
So close to the end, thoughts of relaxation, rest, shade and long cool drinks....
BANG! The breaking of glass, the crunch of bone, the smear of blood, the screams, the cries from children, the sirens, the questions, the accusations, the looks. The buzzing in my head , the fear, the dread and the horror!
It could have ended like that but for the grace of God.
A young mum crossing the road to pick her child from school, talking on her mobile walks across the road without looking...steps out right in front of me!
I don't know how I stopped. It must have been instinct, built in training, professionalism even but for the grace of God gets my vote.
Something about the speed of her gait, an acknowledgement of expecting the worse, but it happened so quickly. The woman lifted one leg up as to brace for impact it was that close.
My bus stopped three inches from her shoulder. She was smack in the middle of my screen.
The gasps from my passengers signifying that they too feared the worse.
The woman, carried on chatting on the phone and continued walking across the road as if nothing was wrong!
All passengers alighting on that final stretch made comments, all praiseworthy, most derogatory of the woman and some concerned of my welfare.
 If the worse had happened, every one of them would testify for me that I wasn't to blame.
 But what of my nightmares, the motherless child, the angry grieving family, the newspapers, the unjustified guilt, the difficult task of getting behind the wheel of the bus again or not!
All part and parcel of the job. I do my best and pray.

Message ends.

SOLITUDE

I had a session today down my local river today but don't assume.
 By far my greatest catches, but rod and reel was left at home.
Each capture will stay with me for ever. Was it fruitful? Well, you decide.

On one of the rare days I was able to hear properly, I ventured on a riverside meander to roam free, unhurried and alone.
 I approached the river for that first special glimpse. The feeling of childhood expectancy washed over me and I wasn't to be disappointed and far from lonely.
Closer...
Baby rabbits not knowing quite who to follow as my footsteps sends them  scurrying.
Closer...
The first few flaps of a wood pigeons wings, sounding like its applauding its own ability to make a perfect launch.
Closer...
The cock pheasants call  like a startled shriek, echoes from behind a dense hedgerow.
Almost there...
Reeds and grasses wafting whispers in the breeze, dislodging warblers from their busy chores.
I pause momentarily...
An otherwise eerie hush drops me to one knee. A feeling. Expectant and prepared I'm ready to receive...
Waiting...
Its unexplained this intuitive feeling. I keep still. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up tempting me to scratch.
Waiting...
A breeze high in the trees averts my eyes momentarily and then from my peripheral vision...
A Kingfisher flashes a garish brilliant blue as it accelerates to its destination. A futile attempt to go unnoticed.
Euphoria washes through me and I smile.
Worth the ...
SPLASH!!!
I jump and a stifled gasp escapes my lips.
The fish rolling below me startles and gets me up quickly.
It brings me back from melting into Mother natures paradise. Feeling that I am not part of it, not wanted.
I feel the need to go. That I must let her prepare for the coming season, so much to do yet but I am glad she has shared her ever growing wealth.
I leave to the noise of Collared doves sounding like a repetitious kazoo, echoing from farm buildings.
As I sit in my car to pause and ponder I am treated to the blackbirds evening song, a loud summary of the days news. And I feel content. This insight has left me excited in anticipation of the coming summer months, the adventures to be had, the treasure yet to find.

MY FIRST BARBEL

The arrival at dawn was always my intention, partially because of the anticipation and of course childlike excitement that kept me from slumber, but I planned to walk the famous 'Banks of the Wye' like a team treading the hallowed turf of Wembley prior to a cup final game.

My quest was to fish the last couple days of the season where, with assistance, I would have a chance of not only my first Barbel but God willing, also smash my chub personal best which would be unbelievable, stuff of dreams! 

I  have been looking forward to this short break to the Wye for months with work and other commitments taking up the first ten weeks of the year. I have spent time preparing to ensure that not only will I have a good chance of success but should I fail, I would enjoy the experience and know that I gave it my best shot.

I was to meet with Dave Burr, local legend, self confessed 'bank tramp' and all round good egg, who would be my guide and his expertise would be a valuable asset to me, local knowledge being worth a thousand casts! It is through this that I wish to extend my thanks and gratitude to him. 

Whether it was revision on tackle, bait, studying my quarry, my destination or just pestering  poor Dave for information, like a hungry Barbel I would leave no stone upturned. 

Parking at Bredwardine Bridge a little after 5.30am, I struggled  from the car to an upright position, representing the various stages of man's evolution from the arduous 5 hour drive, groaning through each phase.

On donning a coat I quickly realized that something was very wrong. Firstly, I have long heard stories foretold about these famous 'banks' but didn't realize what they were referring to was fog! Visibility was  down to less than 100yards. I was armed with a camera and planned to capture this fishing mecca on film lest superlatives in my vocabulary would not alone do this beautiful place justice.

Secondly, having an ongoing hearing problem anyway, I had lost total hearing altogether and my dawn walk was muted. I was in no means downhearted tho, Mother Nature would reveal snippets of visionary heaven to me along my walk in stages as though my beating heart would not be able to cope with the full effect all at once. Besides, when ones hearing lacks it normally  heightens visionary skills. 

As well as the flora and fauna I unfortunately stumbled across telltale signs of swims and picked up half a dozen beer cans and luncheon meat tins en route. Some people have no respect.

Carlsberg don't make eyesores but if they did......

After reaching a perimeter fence marking a beat boundary I about faced and returned with head in an 'eyes left' position scanning the Wye for signs of life. I have to admit with little if any watercraft skills it was a little daunting to say the least. I was hoping to see vast shoals of Chub and Barbel all swimming with their mouths agape begging me for a bit of food but alas it wasn't to be. I did spot a large torpedo shaped pike cruising effortlessly downstream which probably explained the lack of piscatoral breakfast companions but the walk as well as doing both my body and soul a world of good was to headline a truly fantastic couple of days. 

Oh, and when taking off my coat and returning it to the back seat, I shut the door and scattered the rooks from high above me in the rookery who cawed their distaste at my rude awakening, I realized I wasn't deaf I was just not used to the peace and quiet! 

After a prearranged breakfast at the The Red Lion I met with Dave and 'buddy' and we went fishing.

 I admit to being an infatuated tackle tart, a complete tackle shop owners dream but I just got to get me one of these.....

                                                                    Canis Delkimus

I was put into a swim which I was assured held fish and after some lessons explaining glides, creases, riffles, undercurrents and back eddies, I was told exactly where to cast and the Barbels behavior. Unfortunately with nerves shot to bits with insomnia and excitement this took some practice, and after a few 'choice' expletives barked from Dave and some rather quizzical looks from the dog managed to get the hang of it eventually. 

I was not to be kept waiting for much more than half an hour when my rod lurched and I struck into my very first Barbel. The expression 'Crikey don't they hang On' sprang to mind. My right arm hasn't felt that strained since I was a teenager!

After pictures, weighing and much shaking of hands, I sat back in my chair euphoric and dizzy that I was privileged to have caught and held an absolute stunning looking fish.

                                               Stunningly beautiful. (Yes, the fish!)

I was graced with two more beauty's, spaced nicely apart, that filled a splendid day and I would dearly love to say that celebrations went on into the night at the pub, where the warm and friendly staff were as inviting as the log fire in the bar. But alas, upon my head hitting the pillow at 8pm I would not so much as to nod off as pass out through total physical and emotive exhaustion.

Next day the morning session was to prove unsuccessful but later on as the fog lowered its dense curtain once more on the valley during an early evening session, I was to hook into a pb chub tempted on my homemade cheese paste offering, only appreciated prior to this by 'buddy'.

                                                        Looking jolly pleased. (Yes, me!)

Along with the stunning scenery, the 'good company and good discourse' not to mention the stuff of dreams, I thoroughly enjoyed my Wye experience and it has brought the close of the season with enough scope for improvement and just that little bit more eagerness.

I have no desire to live there tho, lest the familiarity with the scenery made me complacent of it and take it for granted, now my eyes have seen the glory it would be a heinous sacrilege. I would much prefer to return  periodically and keep the stunning beauty of the area as the gift wrap to a thoroughly enjoyable fishing package.
Rest assured I vow to return and plans are already underway, despite Dave jumping up and down on his phone and being last seen having it away on his toes over the valley.
I plan to put into practice lessons learned from this trip and carry on where I left off this time round. One has truly been bitten by the infectious bug that inhabits  the majestic 'banks of the Wye'.

IF

I have long been an admirer of Rudyard Kipling's poem IF. I apologize for my wanton desecration to his masterpiece and plead boredom and frustration as my accomplices in this heinous crime of adapting it to Angling. I am sure as well as making 'exceedingly good cakes', Kipling possessed a sense of humour too.

IF you can net your fish when all about you are losing theirs and blaming it on you,

If you can cast accurately when all men mock you, but make allowance for their casting too;

If you can bait and not be tired by waiting, Or being blown about, don't fish in crowds,

Or being still, don't give way to shouting, And yet don't look too garish, nor walk too loud:

If you can fish - and not make fish your master; If you can blank - and not make fish your aim;

If you can fish with split cane and carbon fibre and love those two materials just the same;

If you can bear to see the line you've reeled in twisted by eels to make a slime for hands,

Or watch the tackle you gave your life to, broken, And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out funds,

If you can make one heap of all your tackle and risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,

And crack off, and start again at the beginning and never breathe a word about your loss;

If you can cast your float and hook and sinker to fish your swim long after they are gone,

And so fish on when there is nothing in you except the will which says to you: 'Fish on!'

If you can fish in snags and keep your sinker, Or fish with legends - nor lose the common touch,

If neither heat nor bitter cold can stop you, If all men want to fish with you, but none too much;

If you can stand the unforgiving crosswind with sixty yards of distance cast,

Yours is the river and every fish that's in it, And - which is more - you're
an angler, at last!

WHY.

This week I will be asking why? :

I understand the changes that occur to the unborn foetus during the 40 week pregnancy, body changes and development of an infant through puberty during teenage years and into adulthood. But where was I during the biology lesson that covered a further change that occurs during early to mid forties? 

 Why do a few hairs from my eyebrows want to move from the uniformed and neat position of the others and dwell standing tall on their own, resembling rogue rose suckers and stick up and outwards, thicker and healthier than the ones that reside there already. Also, as if this wasn't enough to get them noticed, prefer to be a different colour from my own!

 Whilst on the subject of facial hair, why have I got so much  hair in my ears that it looks like 2 moths have decided to burrow in and reside there? And if I ever decided to grow a mustache, why would I need it to start growing so far up my nose its practically level with my sinuses? 

Why do I make noises not dissimilar to a power lifter whilst partaking of relatively menial tasks such as tying my shoelaces or putting on socks?

After a recent bath I decided to take a bi monthly pilgrimage to visit my feet with the view of cutting my toenails (more grunting!). My toes resemble a Swiss army knife, each toe having a different attachment. Honestly if my feet were as dexterous as my hands I would no longer need to spend time searching for screwdrivers (slotted and phillips head), tin openers and wallpaper strippers. If my dexterity matched that of a playful kitten, I too would be able to scale walls and curtains with ease!

Why don't manicure sets come with a junior hacksaw and some tin snips to tackle the big toenails? Or socks come with a leather toe insert to eliminate toenails making a hole in sock?

Why when I cough or sneeze do I pass wind? I know that coughing and sneezing is the bodies way of clearing the air passageway but why the rectum simultaneously? Is it in case of an emergency whereas in the event of not clearing the nose or throat the body inhales air from the back passage? If I didn't have hair resembling a thicket growing up my nose it would eliminate such drastic action surely or have I unlocked the secret breathing techniques of pearl fishers and inverted ducks?

Why does modern machinery and gadgets have a built in system that repairs faults by simply turning them off and then on again?

Why did I used to cringe at Victor Meldrew  encumbering his misdemeanors upon his poor wife but having  watched reruns recently, not only do I sympathize with the old boy but share his logic and thought. I have to draw the line somewhere tho in familiarization with Victor and  my wife has my full permission to plunge the scissors deep into my solar plexus if I ask her for them with a view to saving a few pence cutting out coupons. If I need her scissors, I may just have a toe for that!

If she does do the deed and I end up on a life support machine and a light starts blinking or the machine starts making a funny noise, just turn it off and ...leave it off!

Anyway must dash, feel a sneeze coming on...I best crack open a window!

                                                        

OLD MAN'S SHED

OLD MAN'S SHED   

a poem by Richard Cleaver

The old man's shed is a haven, for jam jars and junk you would say,

But nothing the old man would part with, he wouldn't throw nothing away.

A big rusty bike and a mower, a dartboard on the back of the door,

Some pots and some pans, an old watering can and shavings all over the floor.

An old chopping block that had seen plenty of work,some old tins of paint and some bags,

Some jars with goodness knows what inside and a cupboard stuffed brimful with rags.

Rusty old nails and a pot full of screws, some bulbs that were 'well on the way',

A smelly old hat and an old cricket bat and a pushchair that had seen better days.

A swap and a scythe with dull blades well worn, a crook that was crafted by hand,

A lumberjacks saw with no handle and granite hard bags of old sand.

Inflammable liquids, poison for rats and a smell that was best not to mention,

A pile of machines, some the likes never seen, awaiting the masters invention.

Plenty of string and some wire, a bag full of well rotted dung,

A demi john full of ancient white wine, sealed with an old rubber bung.

If the shed by chance you would visit, in darkness you'd stumble and fall,

No light bulb was ever present, it was nicked for use in the hall.

NUTHATCH

Hello there little fella 

Driving through a village lane in my bus this week I came upon a rather large lorry coming from the other direction. As is normally the case I had to shift over into the green stuff in order for our large vehicles to pass. The lane is walled by dense woodland and as the double decker is 14 feet in height had to be wary of overhanging trees. Once I opened the doors and brought in my inside mirror to get snugly nestled in I applied parking brake and was happy that I had done all I could to assist the other driver in allowing him to pass. With nothing to do but sit and wait I was startled by a rather loud CHIT CHIT CHIT (we've all had them days little fella).

 Giving me a dressing down to dare encroach into his habitat with my dirty great beast, this Nuthatch was an absolute delight to behold.

 I have not seen one for many years and rekindled memories of hide and seek in the woods as a kid where being quiet and still I saw my first buff bellied beauty. Not knowing what bird it was back then I had to scan a book to find out. Once seen never forgotten tho and this sighting made my day. By the time matey in lorry had passed me and tooted as way of thanking me, I glanced back to tree and the nuthatch had gone. 

I continued on my journey and joined traffic going about its business and definitely not "seeing the woods for the trees".