So, dear reader, I have finally found the time and inclination to finish off this mini-saga.
Having left our luggage in the Hotel That Time Forgot, The Saint and I set off to find the infant River Severn a mile or two out of town. The Club waters guide had a line drawing of the place and we knew roughly where to find the farm and, presumably, the farmer. Again I should point out that there was no SatNav, mobile or internet at the time but by doing something we called “reading a map” we quickly located the farm in question and the farmer. He seemed a bit surprised to find two lads who had come all this way to fish his little bit of river but assured us there were trout and the occasional salmon to be had. He pointed out access to the river across the field opposite which was occupied by a large flock of his sheep. At this point he peered at the blue and white rucksack I had with me. “Are you taking that with you?” he asked, “Only I’ve been feeding my sheep pellets and they might just think that’s what you’re carrying. Just watch out for them”.
Now I’ve never found sheep to be particularly aggressive so this warning puzzled me. It soon became clear though why the farmer had warned me. As we crossed into the field the sheep initially ignored us but after a very short time some noticed the rucksack and I started to gain a following. A following that grew rapidly in both size, bleating and excitement. Think Life of Brian and the scene where a horde of disciples chases Brian out of town and across the desert constantly badgering him. After half a field I had a couple of hundred hungry sheep in tow, fanned out behind me bleating loudly. The thing is, you can’t reason with sheep. They won’t listen to your denials and they simply can’t believe that the large bag you’re carrying does not contain delicious pelleted food. Somewhere I have a photograph of my ovine followers trailing behind me but I can’t find it at the time of writing.
Eventually we managed to escape the flock by climbing a wall into the next field.
Now for fishing! The river here is fairly narrow, a mixture of shallow gravel runs and little waterfalls with deep ‘pots’ (pools) below them. Much of the bank was lined with bushes. It looked really good. We could wade the gravel runs to flick worm baits into interesting areas and also drop baits into the deep pots. This is what we did for several hours with very little success aside from the odd mini-trout. I should point out that The Saint’s memory of what we caught differs from mine; it often does. He seems to recall catching quite well. I disagree.
The day wore on and the weather varied from Spring sunshine to showers and a cold stiff breeze. By late afternoon I was becoming a little disconsolate having come all this way for nothing of note. I settled by the deepest pool and lowered a large worm bait in; a last ditch effort for something worthwhile. I waited.
The Saint joined me; we had coffee and a couple of cigarettes.
Suddenly the tip of my rod nodded. Then again. Not the sort of rattle a smaller fish might make, this was something big! Slowly the rod tip bent around and whatever was on my hook began moving in a slow, plodding manner deep in the strong flow. I leaned into it and the rod took on a very alarming bend. For several minutes I tried repeatedly to haul whatever was down there up to the surface with little success. The Saint offered words of positivity and encouragement such as, “Get a move on it’s freezing!” “You’re never going to get this to the surface” “Sure it’s not snagged on the rocks?” etc.
Finally my hooklength came to the surface and I started to get excited about actually landing what could only be a salmon or large eel at least.
The Saint lowered the landing net into the water and under my prize which was then dragged to the water’s edge.
Suddenly, an horrific smell surrounded us and the first doubt entered my mind. The net was lifted onto dry land and it got worse. The Saint beat a hasty, profanity-filled retreat. I had not landed a magnificent salmon or huge eel at all. There, in the bottom of my net, firmly hooked, lay the best part of a rump and leg of a dead sheep which had presumably drowned a couple of weeks beforehand and was now well beyond its best before date.
Holding my breath (and lunch) back I whipped the hook out and returned the offending item to the water, mainly to get rid of the smell. The net had a thorough rinsing but was regarded with deep suspicion for some time after that.
Enough was enough. Sheep attack, few fish, ‘mixed’ weather and a lump of dead sheep took the edge right off this little adventure and we turned our minds to getting changed and cleaned up followed by food and beer.
The changing and cleaning part of our day took longer than anticipated so, bearing in mind our curfew of 10pm (I still find it hard to believe weren’t trusted with keys) we rushed out to find the pubs solid with rally people and no tables to be had. By now it was 8pm. And we were in Wales. And it was raining. A plan was hatched; something from the chippy, a couple of pints of lager and some take-out drinks smuggled back to the rooms. We entered the Red Lion and found a pitiful selection of fizzy draught lagers and too-cold bitter. The thing about drinking lager on top of fish and chips is that it doesn’t really work. The food soaks up the alcohol and you quickly become too full pour more fizzy, watery lager down your throat.
So, we came up with a new plan! Obtain bottles of beer to take back and in the interim start on spirits. What could go wrong?
The bottles were bought and hidden in a carrier bag by the Saint who assured me he’d purchased “something you’ll like” and I lined up a few shots of whisky.
Several whiskys later and we still thought that the alcohol wasn’t working. The televisions in our rooms were those awful little black and white things with screens shaped like goldfish bowls and indoor aerials so it was unlikely any entertainment was to be had there and dozing off under the influence seemed our only option. At 9.55pm we arived back at the hotel to be greeted by the Hosts That Time Forgot who cheerily informed us we would have been locked out if we’d been 5 minutes later. Off to our rooms…..
Time for the big reveal of whatever beery delights The Saint had procured. He informed me he’d spotted some “Old English ales” behind the bar and said, “I know you like that sort of thing”.
He had not bought ‘Old English ales’ at all.
What came out of the bag were bottles of ‘Old English Pear Cider, abv 6.5%’. In other words, rocket fuel.
Now, if you’ve ever had a hurried meal and then set about a few drinks, you may be familiar with the following scenario. At first the drinks have no effect whatsoever. You drink more. Nothing. So you drink more. Still nothing. So another drink. And so on. Then wham! The alcohol hits you like a speeding sheep.
To make matters worse in our case, we had run back to the hotel before starting to drink some more. This must have started our digestive systems.
By the time I’d finished the first bottle of Old English Pear Cider I was experiencing visual disturbances. Quite severe ones. We were both sat in my ‘room’ trying to get the telly to work. By the time I was half way through the second I was seeing double and The Saint insists my eyes were pointing in different directions. He was probably right. He was fairly hammered himself but we were having a fine time telling stories and laughing loudly at them. I tried to walk down the narrow room to turn mess with the telly and the only thing that stopped me from falling over was the fact the walls were too close together to allow me to end up horizontal. Bouncing off the walls slalom style was quite fun it seemed and I repeated the manouevre more than once just for the hell of it but at the stroke of 11pm there came a loud knocking at the door followed by a stern Welsh voice saying, “Time to settle down and go to sleep boys!”
So that was us told. We finished the bottles, The Saint staggered off to his room and I hit the sack feeling quite happy despite the lack of fish, the curfew, the sheep, the wasted journey etc.
The following morning I woke up with the sunlight in my eyes. I had forgotten to draw the curtains the night before. This was not a great start and as I slowly opened my eyes fully the high pitched whining noise in my head grew louder and turned into a thrumming, thumping hangover headache. I resolved never to mix crap lager, whisky and pear cider again. Paracetamols swallowed, I shuffled off to The Saint’s room to find him looking fairly battered too and his room in a great state of dishevelment. It’s odd. This happens to his room on every trip. It always looks like it’s been stirred with a giant spoon within 10 minutes of his arrival.
Breakfast at the appointed time was a mixed affair. Mostly OK but the bacon was a little undercooked (“Still oinking”, claimed The Saint) the tea was weak and everything a little less hot than expected. This seemed to be a theme in Welsh catering at that time; as though the absolutely bare minimum of gas or electricity was used to render the food mostly safe. I found a similar effect in Aberystwyth years later at the astonishingly bad Sea Grim B&B (named changed to protect the mean). I digress. Though the Sea Grim could be a Blog subject down the line.
And so to home, fishless, poorer and hungover. At least the journey through Mid Wales was scenic and all went well until a few miles from home when I was at the wheel and, surprise surprise, a brake pad split as I stopped at the lights. This made the last few miles of driving a little tricky but we made it. Naturally The Saint blamed me for this as I had “braked”. Apparently he would have “braked differently”.
I have fished in Mid Wales many times since then. But never, ever near Llanidloes.
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