Hot with a rod, cool by the pool

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Since the new caretaker had been appointed at the local fishery, an unprecedented fervor for flyfishing was noted in the female population of the parish. Miss Peddington, on behalf of the Women’s Club, had booked weekly fly casting lessons for the next six months. This trend rose some concerns among the men, most notably among the Three Feathers’ Pub regulars who made clear, by the most vigorous declarations, that they expected the fishery management to take measures to restore domestic peace in the neighborhood and on the banks of the pond.

Mr. Peddington, the fishery owner, decided shortly after that some change in the staff was in order if the Jolly Trout Ponds were to maintain the high esteem they were held in many miles around. Upon conseling by Mr. Fortharoad, the Three Feathers’ Pub landlord, he contracted another new caretaker.

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A few weeks after these events, cross point embroidery was back in favor at the Women’s Club. Rumours were heard that heated debates took place in the Peddington household concerning the reimbursement of six months worth of cancelled fly casting lessons.

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[Dear reader, I’m not a native English speaker but I strive to write it as well as I can.
If ever you spot language errors here, I’d love to hear about it and correct them. Don’t hesitate to point them in the comments.]

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Un jour, ma cabane

the murmur under the stones

the murmur under the stones (thanks Jeffrey)

Easy late spring afternoons, in the cool shade of the woods. Waiting with the poets the fine moment when it’s time to leave there the books and the tea, to grab a rod, short and light, and a small tin box of flies, because now the fish will want to play.

But at the dawn of meaning —
When the stone is still obscure, the color
mud, in the brush’s impatience —
Paris carries Helen off;
She struggles, she cries out,
She accepts. The waves are calm,
Against the prow, and daybreak is
Shining across the sea.

Babenstein

The babe died stupidly one morning a year ago.

After a while, I found the large grip I had done on it was too large. I tried to take a little cork off by turning the whole butt piece of the rod. Everything looked good, but I wasn’t paying attention to the fact that the blank — although it was protected — was getting hot where it touched my $.02 DIY lathe.

It broke. I wanted to cry.

what you never want to see

What you never want to see

Here’s the result in its unbearable brutality:

This image is rated NC-17

This image is rated NC-17

It was time to put up a Clooney, IR-style…

Operating field prep

Operating field prep

Surgery, phase 1: amputation

Surgery, phase 1: amputation

Organ donor: Eurocasting Shannon 8'6 #4/5. Died a long ago on the battlefield

Organ donor: Eurocasting Shannon 8’6 #4/5. Died a long ago on the battlefield

Organ and receiver, ready for transplant

Organ and receiver, ready for phase 2: transplant

Aftermath

Aftermath

At that point I added a wrap on the scar, and the Babe looked almost as good as new. The bad news came from the lawn. There was something amiss in the post-surgery rod, I couldn’t recognize my Babe. The spigot was not completely right.

Then sh!t hapenned, and all of a sudden we were a year later. Needless to say, if I hadn’t seen much action fishwise, the rod have seen nothing but dust. Then, fall coming and being back in business with more fire than ever, I took the hard decision and the Babe for a bout of heroic surgery. Recovery or death.

I took the spigot apart, reshaped the lower part, made sure the higher part was dead locked in, then literally drowned the bottom in epoxy. Every void in the butt must now be full of cured epoxy. Nothing moves, the feeling seems to be back. The static looks good when lifting 250g.

Then I wanted to bullet-proof the scar, so after I covered it with three layers of wrapping and drown everything in epoxy again, I covered all of it with a Matagi decorative tube, the idea being to create a kind of straight spot in the lower foot of the rod.

Post op.

Post op.

As a friend said, it kind of looks like the old metal ferrules, one may even think it’s the way the Babe was always supposed to look.

The miracles of plastic surgery

The miracles of plastic surgery

The lawn will tell if she’s as good as she looks. She’s a kind of stylish survivor.

crutch

Russian pop-punk Gaga anyone?

Edit, one year later [August 2014]: the babe has recovered well. If fishes very well, and I tend to completely forget there ever were a problem with it, which is the best thing you could hope for.