So here I am, at 40, with something not totally unlike an academic career, a superb wife and three homely gnomes, victim of an acute episode of the fly bug. And blogging, mind you.

Had I lived in one of those places where trout waters abound, where there’s a little stream only a handful of good guys know of, or where — let’s exaggerate — there’s reasonable hope that tossing a fly may get you a bone, a tarpon, a red, a bass, I would probably be one of those pragmatic dudes, finding pleasure in fishing and catching without thinking that much about it.

That was not meant to be.
I live in a country where fishermen are considered a bunch of semi-retards pursuing an elusive fish for unfathomable reasons, probably akin to blood thirst and hopeless allegiance to tradition. All of which is not necessarily off the mark.
Icing of the cake: in a country where good waters have mostly been loved to death by the aforementioned, I live in a (fly)fishing third world zone. Next to no water worth flinging a fly at.
So obviously, fly fishing was going to be as much a notion as it is a practice for me. Mental stuff. Blogging stuff.
And then there’s fly-casting.
1. When you don’t get to fish good waters that often, you don’t want to fuckup that much
2. you don’t need any water at all to cast
3. good loops make you sexy

Your a spelin nazi or grammar facist? Reed this.
You’re welcome. I am one in my native French: I can’t stand careless spelling and grammar errors. I loathe them. And believe me, French is a really good language for spelling and grammar traps. So I wholeheartedly understand if loving your tongue also means to you trying to get people to write it properly. I strive to do so.
So, if you spot something, gimme some hate and let me know.

Edit fin novembre 2011 :

Tout ce qui suit est encore correct, mais finalement j’ai pris ma vie en main sous la forme d’une 8’6 soie #4, et je fais une crise de mouchite aiguë. Ce blog est donc, finalement, l’histoire d’un candide au pays de la soie volante, le parcours d’un débutant à la mouche.

Où je veux en venir ? Sortir une soie #5 entière (ou au moins tenir mes 20m en l’air tranquillement), poser une soie sans faire une ride, faire un roulé décent ;  maîtriser quelques speys parce que c’est utile et le vaudou parce que c’est sexy ; maîtriser le whip finish et monter une éphémère décente ; et même peut être prendre un poisson ou deux.

Va y avoir du sport.

Je suis venu trop dans un siècle trop vieux, dit la complainte du poète, et c’est sans doute aussi ce que dit le pêcheur de ce siècle-ci, encore nouveau pourtant. C’est certainement ce que j’ai toujours ressenti : une furieuse inactualité. Et même si Nietzsche était une consolation pour nous, ça resterait tout de même plutôt inconfortable.

La pêche est une passion certes, mais une malédiction aussi bien, rendue obsolète par la dégradation généralisée des milieux, et ringarde par les rêves de formica et l’exode rural d’une génération précédente. Obsolète et ringard, donc, le pêcheur peut survivre en ignorant sa réputation (ce qui est une manière magnifique et terrible de la justifier), ou bien en tâchant de d’inventer les angles sous lesquels on peut encore être pêcheur au 21eme siècle.


Je pêche aux leurres, du coup. C’est plus propre, moins agricole. Je no-kille. Je rêve de mouche, de la classe à l’anglaise, Halford-style. Il m’arrive même de fouetter de la soie, et il se pourrait bien que je finisse par prendre un poisson. Ce jour là je prendrai sans doute aussi ma carte de membre de l’élite halieutique, et je n’entendrai plus rien si ce n’est en pieds, partridge, cou de coq ou cul de canard.

Et je monte mes cannes, aussi. Ne serait-ce que par snobisme, par obsession de l’idiosyncrasie. Mais il faut bien dire que je ne suis ni très adroit, ni très patient. Le style est un peu trash, donc.

12 thoughts on “About

  1. Salut à toi “pauvre” pêcheur !
    Juste un petit coucou en gigotant ma canne pour te féliciter de la tenue de ce blog qui a trouvé refuge dans mes favoris internet en ces temps de crue hivernale…

    Continue de faire vivre G0ne parce que nous… on kiff !

    Et si tu veux procéder à un “hyper échange” de lien hypertexte, ce serait avec grand plaisir !


  2. Your comments about how fisherman are viewed in France, and how the waters are loved to death is sad but unfortunately true for Switzerland as well. I’m an American/Swiss who grew up in the US, and while I love living here, and can’t imagine going back, the fishing scene drives me crazy. Here I have to argue with plenty of fisherman who mind-bogglingly support a law completely banning C&R, winter fishing basically doesn’t exist, there’s not nearly enough access to the little ponds full of small fish that are absolutely neccesary in getting little kids interested in fishing, fishing in the US has a pretty cool image, whereas here everyone just thinks of fat, hairy old guys smoking awful cigars dunking bait and killing anything they happen to drag in. Please tell me the future of flyfishing in central Europe isn’t just casting!

    • I’d like to tell you that, but I’m not sure.
      There’s obviously a hype going on with some forms of fishing. Street fishing got a hold even in the sanctum sanctorum of snobland, i.e. Paris.
      (Except of course those dumbasses actually think they invented it, would you believe that?)
      Street fly will always be more complicated, if only because of the backcast room issue, but there definitely is a new wave in the fishing world, no-killers, concerned with performance and style, aware of the fact that fishing is everywhere on the planet and willing to learn from it.
      Hopefully it will have some impact on the way fishing is regulated. We bloggers do our share too, spreading the love, the poetry, the passion and the knowledge when we have them.
      We may at some point have to drown a couple of those effing morons for whom it still is all about emptying the river to fill the fridge. What was the saying back in the Red Brigades days? Kill one to teach a hundred? :mrgreen:

    • Man, I would really love to. Your blog is the proverbial dog’s private parts. I would be the proud one.
      I leave in Lille, work somewhere in the stratosphere, so I’m often in Paname.
      Let’s talk on fb.

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