Fishing the Saone, 4 -14 June 2000

We had been planning this trip for some months. Des has been going back to the Saone for 12 years with Tony. Walter knows Des and we got invited along to spread the cost. Eventually, seven of us joined up.

We were going to bivouac by the river Saone and fish for carp and catfish. I was especially keen on catching some of the Wells catfish which grow over 67 kilos (150lb) and the pike and zander. The tasty crayfish were also on the agenda and menu. The Saone is supposed to be The river for big catfish in France.

At four am Walter and I strolled down to Des's home and got him out of bed. He was soon like a cross between a headless chicken and the Ayatollah. Somehow, we got everything loaded on his trailer and he jumped into the Landrover, ready to go.

"Aren't you going to say goodbye?" Came the incredulous enquiry from his wife Gina. That calmed him down for a minute, but once on the open road, he was off like a rat up a drainpipe.

We stopped at Tony's place as arranged and waited for Del and Gary. Des was nearly hysterical by now. "Where are they, we'll just have to go without them." He'd forgotten we were early. They turned up 10 minutes before the arranged time and we then picked up Colin, the last of the bunch and headed along the motorway to Dover.

We had a couple of unscheduled stops as Colin's buzzer bars fell out of his rod bag. He hadn't bothered to fasten them in and every time Des braked hard, bits flew out of the bag.

We got the hovercraft to Calais and drove down the quiet motorways of France to St Jean de Losne.

The whole journey from Essex took 11 hours with three stops. Incidentally, the large motorway service stations signed by the crossed forks are not much better than British service stations for quality.

Colin wasn't taking any chances, he had brought a whole roast chicken which he scoffed on the way. He also whoofed down a crate of beer intended for all of us and was too pissed to get his tent up that night.

We checked out St Jean for somewhere to bivvy and fish. It did not look too promising; too close to the town centre and a lot of boat traffic. We drove off for about 6km (4 miles) and found a quiet stretch of river close to Lechatelet. Des knows a French couple called Jean and Michelle who live in a pretty chalet there. They seem to know all the visiting anglers.

After walking a few hundred metres along the bank, we found enough good swims with adequate space to bivouac. I pitched my tent less than a metre from the water and discovered soon after that the river had been close to the level of the tent a couple of days before. Fortunately it was still falling, but it could so easily have risen.

The night was stifling, but we cooked up a delicious prawn and noodle dish with lots of chilli. We hardly noticed the heat after that. Walter and I tried spinning for pike and zander, but got no takers.

Cuckoos called from all directions until darkness fell and then woke us the next morning at first light.

Things didn't go that well at first. I couldn't get the petrol stove to work, but the gas stove saved the day. We could have a brew up after dinner. Then, just as I was going to bed the outer tent caught a strong gust of wind and blew into the rushes nearby. Wire tent pegs are a waste of time. It did stay on after I'd bashed them into the ground, but I was in a bad mood by now.

During that first night we were surrounded by a large electrical storm sending forked lightning tearing into the darkness.

I slept with just the flysheet done up so that I could look out onto the water. That dawn was beautiful. Lying on my bed-chair, I could see fish rising with a soft mist hanging over the river. A Little Egret patrolled the other bank, searching for frogs and insects.

Monday.

Des had fared badly during the night. The wind had torn his outer tent and he was all for going home. Worse still, he found the tackle shop was closed. We needed our fishing licences, but in France many small shops close on Mondays. Luckily, he met up with Jean and Michelle who knew where we could get our licences. That afternoon, Des, Gary and I went with Michelle to a farmhouse to pick up the permits from an elderly couple. We got a carte vacances permit which lets you fish a large number of waters over a wide area for 15 days and costs 150FF (£15.00, approx). Up to four rods per individual are permitted per session. Some waters or sections of river can be fished at night, but not all.

On the way back Des mentioned that whenever he goes to France, he always seems to bump into another English carp angler called Julian. On a roundabout, he very nearly rammed another car. Instead of giving him a well deserved one finger salute, the other driver waved. Realising it was a British car, Des stopped, thinking the driver needed directions from someone who could speak his own language. Needless to say, it was Julian. He had been fishing another stretch of the Saone, but had to use 16oz (.45kilo) weights to hold bottom in the raging current. There were a few Wells catfish being caught, but no carp.

Back at the river, I rigged up two catfish baits. We only had some small carp and eels. I didn't have any eel rigs, so I left them well alone. One I set up on a floating rig and the other close to the river bed.

First, I had to get them out into the river. For obvious reasons I couldn't just cast them out. Des had a boat. It had a good set of rowlocks, but they had to saw them off to get the boat on the trailer.

The other rowlocks were wide gaped and designed to eject the oars. There were a lot of anglers having a good laugh at my expense, but I did get those rigs out.

Colin had drunk a case or more of beer by this time and was getting rather amorous with Michelle. She didn't seem to mind; well, you wouldn't if you were female and well past 60, but I wasn't very amused when he stumbled over my four rods. I don't know how he did it, but he didn't touch a single one of them. I'm not quite sure how he avoided ending up in the water either.

I'll describe the two rigs which Des outlined to me.

For the floating rig, I tied some 9kilo (20lb) line to a large stone and lowered it to the bottom of a shelf in the river. On the surface, I tied the line to a piece of polystyrene. Anything like an empty plastic bottle would also do. From the polystyrene block I then tied 2.44 metres (8ft) of 1.8kilo (4lb) line. Next, I attached the end of that line to a swivel on the line from my rod. The live bait is hooked up 2.44 metres (8ft) from the swivel with a steel trace at the end.

The bottom pop-up rig consisted of a weight of 141.75 grams (5oz) attached to a swivel by a breakaway rig.

Again, I was using 9 kilo (20lb) line. Below the swivel, I had another metre (3ft.4in) of line threaded through three 3cm (1") poly balls which had split shot either side of them, then the terminal steel trace and hook. The idea was to keep the live bait up off the bottom.

I went along to the other guys to see how they were doing and Gary, Del and Colin had got some more good bream. Later on, we figured out how to get my petrol stove working. The clip holding the hose tight to the bottle was loose and losing pressure.

Tuesday.

Lots of wildlife around, egrets, kites, european goldfinches, a kingfisher and cuckoos calling ad nauseum. There are often golden orioles here, but we didn't see any this time. We did spot a coypu along the river margins.

I changed my baits to two bream of about 1.5 kilos (3.3lb) each, courtesy of the other lads. Walter had been fishing hard for carp, but got not a sniff. No one else caught any either, so he switched two of his rods to catfish rigs that night.

The temperature dropped dramatically from around 28° C to 17° C accompanied by a chilly wind.

The two of us went for provisions in the local village of Lechatelet. We stopped at a farmhouse for eggs and potatoes and also got a kilo of the fattest asparagus we'd ever seen. They and the potatoes were freshly dug by the farmer's wife and were superb. The bread van arrived at the same time and we got an armful of baguettes with the aroma of heaven.

There is a bar in Lechatelet and not much else. Pagne wasn't much better, so we went on to Seurre which does boast a supermarche.

We got two lamb steaks, and I got a chair for 45FF and some methylated spirits for my hot smoker.

Back at camp, we still had not caught anything, so I thought I'd try for some bream in the next swim.

I got rigged up and bent down to fetch a worm, holding on to the line. The line slipped through my fingers, the rod unbent and the hook shot into the base of my little finger and well and truly buried itself there. I tried to pull it out, but it wouldn't budge and it hurt like hell.

I went over to Walter and suggested a technique to remove hooks I'd seen in Trout Fisherman magazine.

It requires one person to hold down the eye end of the hook and another to tie line to the bend of the hook and yank it hard. The only problem with that theory is that as the hook came away, the eye end slipped from under my thumb grip and flipped up. This drove the hook almost all the way through. The point just emerged through the skin, so I thought I'd push it all the way through, but all that happened was that the skin stretched a long way without the barb coming clear.

I was getting very hot and bothered by now and decided to have another go with the technique. This was also a failure. In retrospect, I should have tied line through the eye to hold it down. Walter then suggested he try his large pike pliers and I agreed. I had no intention of wasting time in a hospital.

I held my finger taut and the hook came out clean.

After that, I poured some meths on the tiny wound and joked in relief. The next thing I remembered was lying beside the river and Walter asking if I was OK. I believe it is called delayed shock. That surprised me as I'd never passed out before and wasn't expecting it. I was lucky that Walter was near as he was just able to stop me falling in the river.

That was enough excitement for one day, but we did manage a brilliant finale with a dish of lamb, briefly flash fried, then simmered in the wok with mushroom, vin rose and tangerine juice and served with new potatoes and asparagus. It was a wonderful meal and Colin joined us later, swapping jokes and bawdy tales well into the night. Although the chill wind had dropped it was still cool and damp, but we had the sense to bring some warmer clothes.

Stir-fry by the water's edge.

Gary and Del must have heard the laughter and joined us. We seemed to be very popular that night. A coypu kept popping up the bank to look at us some 1.5m (5ft) away as we chatted and drank amongst the shadows until 1am.

We had our rigs out as you can fish day and night in this spot. At 2am, we both woke to a bite alarm going off. It was one of mine and it felt stuck. Then I felt a strong tap, but it was still well stuck. I had to use brute force to free it and knew I had lost the fish, but the rig still felt heavy.

When I got the rig back, I found a fixed leger rig attached to my snap swivel. We both looked at each other in amazement. I can only think that the other rig had somehow opened the snap swivel under pressure and then it had closed once it was inside it. It even had an anti eel section on it and was very new. I would still have liked to landed the fish that was on it.

By morning, all we had caught were a couple of tiny "poisson chat," imported American bull-head catfish which barely grow to 22cm (9in) and are a nuisance in these parts.

Wednesday.

Everyone was getting despondent, as apart from a few bream, not one catfish or carp had been caught. We'd borrowed Des's eel net the day before and baited it up with sardines, hoping to catch some crayfish, but all we got were 6 poisson chats. That did it. Des and Walter went off to scout for another water. The Saone had been in flood and seemed to have cleared the fish from this section.

A few hours later they returned and we struck camp and moved to a stretch of river a mile to the east of St Jean de Losne. It was slower running and wider, and we could see carp splashing about in the lily pads.

We had over a mile of straight banking to choose from with adequate space behind the rough track to bivvy up. There was also plenty of space in front the track to set up our rod pods. Night fishing is not allowed here. There was some boat traffic, but most kept to mid channel or the far bank. By way of compensation, some of the ladies made a welcome sight draped over the top decks, clad in bits of string or less.

   Occasional distraction

I set up one pop-up rig for catfish with a small carp live-bait and two carp rigs in mid channel and a floating rig for bream in the lilies. Walter set all four rods up with sliding ledgers for carp. We got the impression that fixed ledgers are illegal in France.

We had a light lunch of a sausage baguette around 5pm and I strolled into town to phone Louise. I'd brought my mobile phone on the trip, but after BT took over Cellnet, they must have put a block on overseas calls as I kept getting "call barred."

There was a campsite just outside St Jean where we were allowed to fill up our water containers and some of the guys had a shower for 7FF. Walter and I gave it a miss, but by the next day we were beginning to notice a pungent over-ripe brie bouquet following us around.

It was a very hot day and we finished with steak, mushrooms , new potatoes and more asparagus. Unfortunately, Walter had bought stewing steak and we should have cooked it slowly, but we couldn't wait. It wasn't too bad once we shredded it with our teeth. Around dusk, we pulled in the rigs and for once slept without listening out for buzzers.

  The only shelter for two miles.   The art of relaxation   Study 2.

Thursday.

Walter was up at the crack of dawn like a restless spaniel, checking his gear and re-baiting his four rigs. I just caught up with some sleep until it got too hot to sleep any longer. There was no shade of any description along this bank and it was cloudless and deep blue above us.

I gave up on the catfish and switched to three carp rigs and one for smaller quarry. We were convinced the carp were out there, even if the catfish weren't. Colin caught a very small sun bass, a beautiful fish with iridescent pale blue markings.

As the afternoon started, the sun took total control and all conversation ceased. We were all being roasted with nowhere to hide. Eventually, as the sun passed it's zenith, Walter and I rowed across the river to a small creek opposite. Unlike the Saone, it was clear with gravel beds like a small Scottish trout river. As we rowed, large shoals of chub darted past us, heading for the main river. Some were the better side of 2 kilos.

We beached the dinghy beside a deep pool and had our first bath of the trip. The water was much colder than the Saone, but it was such a relief after the merciless heat of the afternoon. We could see occasional fish in the depths of the pool and fancied coming back to fish later.

Back at the camp, we had a discussion with the others and decided on a barbecue that night. We were getting ready to leave for the supermarche, when an Australian couple were waylaid by Colin. Unlike most of the French, they did not turn down his offer of a beer. They paid dearly for it, having to listen to flowing gobshite for 45 minutes. Well, that's how long we hung around before going for the BBQ supplies, and they were still there. I have to say, it was a masterful performance, they were like two rabbits mesmerised by a stoat.

In the supermarche, we found that lovely Gallic custom of leaving all sorts of tasters around the shop. We sampled most of them and were very impressed. Del got a bit carried away and decided to extend the range of samples to anything he fancied, but I think that is more of an Essex custom than French.

Walter and I set up the BBQ and marinated the meats for sate and a home made mix of tomato puree, paprika, honey and balsamic vinegar. It wasn't bad either. The eating and drinking went on until after midnight. By now, the lack of fish, the throwing together of a disparate group, the beer and the heat were telling on nerves. No one wanted another day there, but there was little consensus on where to go next. Some wanted to fish a lake in Normandy, some wanted to fish another part of the river and others wanted to try some still waters nearby. We all went to bed in a sour mood.

The barbecue party.

Friday.

We rose this morning as Des trailed a 2 kilo bream around the camp. It was his first fish of the trip. He looked as relieved as someone profoundly constipated, who didn't just fart in the khazi.

We broke camp and headed for a lake Des knew of. It didn't sound too auspicious, situated in a public park, but it did have public toilets, which had an appeal for some.

On the way, we spotted some large gravel pits and slowed down for a better look. Some had become naturalised and people were fishing them. Just as we stopped and got out of the vehicles, someone caught and landed a nice carp of over 6 kilos (13.2lbs). An hour later he had another.

When the local angling president turned up, checked our permits, and declared we were entitled to fish the lakes, we couldn't think of a good reason to move on. The fact that he had a fabulous looking secretary in tow, did not influence us one bit, but we had to leave Colin behind as the rest of us scrambled in unseemly and unashamed haste for the best swims.

We couldn't use a boat or even radio controlled bait boats, but we could night fish. Carp over 5 kilos have to be returned. There are also pike, zander, and a couple of token catfish in the lake.

We knew we had to get set up before 2pm as the French like to start their weekends early. There was plenty of room at first, but unknown to us, this was a bank holiday weekend. Shortly after Walter and I found our pitches, the other sites along our bank were taken.

The other members of our group were scattered all over the lake into their accustomed pairings, including Colin, who went everywhere, hand in hand with a bottle of beer.

We had found a pretty spot with plenty of shelter and fine looking swims. After enjoying a delicious lunch of curry made by Walter, I set up my rods and slept for the afternoon, until woken by him messing about with my bite alarms. He had met four French lads who managed to impart some local fishing knowledge.

I lay on my bed, looking out onto the water and noticed a purple emperor butterfly on the margins, seeming to feed on minerals. Next, a red kite swooped down 10 metres away and snatched a small fish from the surface. Des and Tony also watched it carrying fish to it's partner and turning upside down to hand over the catch. During the afternoon, Colin caught the first carp of the trip, weighing 9.45 kilos (21lb). He was so drunk earlier, Des had to erect his tent for him again. There's a lesson for us all. If you want to catch big carp, drink beer, lots of it!

Colin with his 21lb carp, the first of the trip. And with a nice common.

I carried on fishing until sunset, then decided to sleep that night. Walter was going to fish through the night and chucked out a lot of ground bait and baited up with tiger nuts. As I was about to hit the pillow, I noticed a green dot glowing in the centre of the pillow. A firefly somehow crawled inside the pillowcase and got excited about something.

At 1am, Walter woke me to photograph a carp of around 12lb. At 2pm, another much larger carp, which looked around 26lb needed to be photographed. After the third fish (another good double of around 18lb) wanted it's picture taken, I was in an ugly mood and he somehow managed on his own with the next two. They were also carp; a leather of 14lb and a mirror of 17lb.

Walter being a bloody nuisance again.

With the carp on the feed, I decided half-heartedly to put in a couple of rods baited with tangerine fish boilies, but secretly hoped I wouldn't catch anything. Unfortunately, at 4am, a bite alarm woke me with a screaming run and I stumbled out of bed, tried to pull my shorts on, but ended up sliding down the bank, with the shorts flapping around my ankles. Worse still, the rotten fish had dropped the hook. I obviously hadn't drunk enough beer!

Saturday.

I woke late to a very hot day and noticed I was turning ripe again. When Walter told me he had been to the local supermarche and been served a free coffee by a charming woman, I finally gave in to the urge to get clean again. I even washed my hair.

Well, she was charming, and really pretty, but I knew I hadn't a nun's prayer when she clapped eyes on me and asked if I was a fisherman. Perhaps she caught a whiff of eau de angler as I entered the doors.

The coffee was served black and was superb and refreshing. Café Warca has the delicacy of a Colombian arabica bean, but with a hint of richness. I don't remember buying anything else.

On my way back, I noticed a swimming lake busy with bathers and made a mental note to spend some time there, cooling off.

Back at camp, we had a conversation with the French lads fishing nearby. They showed us their favourite boilies, which predictably were mint and garlic flavour. They were just fishing one boilie at a time and heaving them out to the middle of the lake, with no ground-baiting. At that rate, a bag of boilies should last the whole group of them until well past their sell-by date.

Walter seemed to have hit the jackpot, catching another five carp during the day. He was ground-baiting heavily with layers pellets and corn, about 27 metres out and fishing with tiger nuts.

We were getting hungry and when he pulled in a carp of over 3 kilos, we decided to hot-smoke it.

There isn't much flesh on a carp as a ratio of it's body weight, most of it seems to be guts, but it was just enough. And it tasted great, cooked and smoked to perfection.

I had a siesta during the afternoon and when I woke, Walter and his tent had gone. A bit of an energetic practical joke, I thought. Then I saw him marching back towards me. He had moved to another spot vacated by some other lads who had done well earlier. He convinced me to move and the other French lads helped by picking up my tent and moving it without dismantling it.

That night, I stayed up until 1am, when it turned wet. Soon after, Walter came along with another carp to be photographed and half an hour I had a good run on a rod. Whatever it was, it dropped the bait before I could strike.

I was getting a bit despondent at the lack of carp on my hooks. My original intended quarry, the catfish, pike and zander were even more elusive. Some malicious Englishman suggested to me before the trip, that the French had eaten them all. At least, I thought he was being malicious; may I beg his forgiveness.

Del with a nice mirror. Tony with another good mirror.

Sunday.

It was a washout. It was cold, wet and miserable, and the others in our group could barely bring themselves to speak to us. We had murdered a carp….. and eaten it! We were unspeakably degenerate.

Del reminded us that we were English and the English don't do that sort of thing, ignoring the fact that Walter is a Scot and I'm a mongrel. When I declared "When in France, do as the French do," it went down like a lead balloon. We however, were unrepentant.

I personally can't get really enthusiastic fishing for something I can't eat. I suppose I'm what some country folk condescendingly term a pot-hunter.

Monday.

What is it with carp? Have they got it in for me? They ignore my offerings all day and then choose 2am to wake me up. This time I was quick enough to strike and had a short fight with a beautifully marked common carp. Walter heard the buzzer too and arrived to net the fish. It took a string of parboiled maize.

Early morning wake up call.

Woke to a beautiful clear sky and cool breeze. It was deceptively hot too. Very few carp were being caught, so we planned a proper British fried breakfast for brunch and a stir-fry for dinner. Walter drove off to the supermarche at 9am for the supplies, but came back soon after with just some fruit. The supermarche was closed. I went along later at 11.30am and it was still closed. Then I noticed a sign in a florists saying it was closed for Pentecost Monday, obviously a bank holiday.

Sure enough, on my way back, I could see the swimming lake was full of bathers and picnickers.

We had a French style breakfast and we joined the bathers in turn.

Back at our camp, we noticed people walking along a ridge about 80 metres away. We went over for a look and found a huge lake created by gravel or porcelain extraction. One shore looked like a sandy beach with swimmers and sunbathers all along it.

Later in the day, Seb and another local lad joined us to exchange tactics. Seb's English is reasonably lucid and he reckoned that the fish in this lake prefer fruit flavoured boilies. He gave us some tutti-frutti and banana flavoured boilies. I thought I'd try them out tonight.

That evening, I strolled into the village to phone home and the place seemed deserted. All the houses had shutters, some of steel. It is such a sleepy place, it seems inconceivable that they are there for security.

The two of us decided to really go all out to catch carp tonight, then pack up and spend the next day resting, swimming and spending some money.

Whilst setting up my rods, I noticed one of my buzzers had gone dead again. I'd only replaced the battery that week. I decided to put it with the rod, which was least likely to catch.

Tuesday.

At 2.15am, I got a long screaming run on one rod. I had taken to sleeping fully dressed, with my head torch on, but was just too late to hit this one. There were several small bites during the night, but no more runs.

Despite the disturbed night's sleep, we got up at 7am and started to unpack our camps. Walter drove to the village to phone his wife and Seb stopped by briefly before going back to the village.

I started taking down my rods one by one. When I got to the third one with the dead buzzer, I found it was snagged. I pulled hard, but it wouldn't budge. I had to point the rod at the line and walk up the back to free or snap the line.

As I walked back, I noticed there seemed to be a lot more line out than I had cast out. I looked at the reel and realised more than 150 metres of line was out. A fish must have picked up the hook and run for a long way with it. Reeling back was like hauling in a potato sack. After a while, I noticed the line was coming from the right-hand bank, but still a long way off. It was only then that it dawned on me the fish was still on.

It was a long time before I could actually feel the fish fighting. As I got it close to the bank, Seb was passing and stopped his car to grab the net. Walter arrived back to witness it being landed and take the obligatory photos. It was no monster, just over 3 kilos of common carp, but a pretty enough fish and a fine way to end a fishing session.

Last minute carp, with Seb.

Just to prove he can catch carp, here is one Des caught earlier, in Steward Elms Farm, Near Rochford, Essex.

After that bit of excitement, we took our gear over to the other guys and loaded it on the trailer. That left us free to have a swim and wash in the big quarry before heading to the village for a T-bone steak in the Big Boeuf restaurant. They were about 95FF each.

Next, we press-ganged Seb into taking us to another complex of lakes. He really did not know what we wanted at first and looked very confused. His girlfriend seemed both puzzled and amused as we drove him off. Once we managed to convey our wishes, his eyes lit up and he was delighted to show us the lakes. We passed his dad going for a run along the road. He must have wondered what his son was doing in a British car.

The lakes here were a mixture of free, private and paying waters of differing sizes. They had carp, catfish (known locally as silure), pike, zander and some trout. Some were less than an acre and round like an English carp pond, others were much larger with contoured margins.

We chatted to a couple of guys fishing a large lake. There is a waiting list of 6 months to fish it, with carp to 22 kilos (48.5lb). It costs about £10 per 24 hour session. It is easily possible to wander around the waters trying out a variety of fishing styles.

As we drove out along the track, we noticed a small Peugeot bouncing up and down beside the track. The only movement was vertical, with a bare backside keeping time with the vehicle. Walter wickedly tooted his car horn and pandemonium broke out. Elbows and legs flying everywhere as the couple tried desperately to dress, while keeping as low a profile as possible. We drove past, with Seb pretending he hadn't noticed either the car or Walter's indiscretion.

We returned Seb to his visibly relieved girlfriend. He gave us his address and asked us to contact him if we returned next year. I have to put it on record that we were made welcome by the French and they were most helpful, despite the fact that neither we nor they spoke much of each other's language.

It was still very hot, so we returned to the smaller swimming lake. This is fed by a spring and can be cold in some parts. The upper layers were lovely and warm though. We washed, shaved and even brushed our teeth by the outlet stream, then swam among shoals of metallic blue sun bass. Groups of teenagers chatted and made eyes at each other on the grassy banks and small children splashed in the shallows with their mothers.

We left this idyllic place and returned to camp, parking the car by the others' tents. They were going to fish on during the night.

We asked Colin if he wanted to join us for a meal, but he wanted to catch a 30 pound plus carp, so we walked into the village and headed to a local bar. Walter ordered us both a Picon. It is a blond beer, with either lime or blackcurrant with some kind of bitters. It is a refreshing drink in the heat.

Next stop was the piece de resistance, La Mariniere, a select seafood restaurant. We sat out in the courtyard under a canopy of trees. The weather was perfect. Luckily we both enjoy good food and quickly agreed on the Plat Royale, a mixed platter of shellfish. The Pouilly Fume accompaniment was delightful.

The first serving came out in a large metal dish flowing with raw oysters, large clams and mussels, and cooked whelks. The red dressing for the oysters was perfect. As we ploughed through this feast, another dish, equal in size to the first came out with two large crabs, more oysters and three types of prawns. We tried, but it was too much to finish. The whelks were remarkably good. I've had them in Whitstable before, but they were chewy. These weren't. The Plat Royale cost 430FF for two.

During the meal, the waitress discovered we were Brits and was overjoyed. She almost ignored the other guests so that she could practise her English. They really do not get many of us here and that might explain why they were so tolerant and friendly.

At the end of the meal, the patron offered us a digestive. There were lots to choose from, but we settled on Armagnac. A triple by English standards. A good coffee and we staggered back to the camp.

We slept the night in the car with the seats reclined. I woke during the night being roughly shaken. Walter reckoned I was snoring, but I didn't hear anything. He must have had a nightmare from eating all that shellfish.

Wednesday.

We all rose early to break camp. The others delayed us a bit because they still had their rods out. Once on the road, we made quick progress, but half an hour later, we hit thick mist in Champagne. The balmy morning changed to a chill grey. Colin was drinking steadily and we had to make frequent stops so that he could make room for more alcoholic transfusions.

Once in Calais we headed for a hypermarket to get some decent wines at decent prices. We took much the same route as G.K Chesterton's rolling English drunk, who went to Glastonbury by way of Goodwin Sands. We got to Auchon, which seems one of the better places with a larger range of products. Some only sell beer.

I got a case of various wines and we watched in amazement as Colin walked out clutching a bottle of pickled gherkins. He did not even buy a single bottle of beer. We found out later he had apparently sat on the pavement outside and ate the whole jar of gherkins.

We arrived at the hoverport just in time to catch the next hovercraft leaving in 15 minutes. Colin suddenly ran from the landrover to the terminus, presumably to the toilet to be sick. When he hadn't returned after 10 minutes, a very irate Tony ran over and dragged him back, but it was too late. Our places had been given to other cars. There were six very pissed off anglers in that terminus for the next 75 minutes. There was talk of trolling some unnamed person behind the hovercraft for shark.

The moral of this story is, if you are going fishing in France, get your lemons in France. You don't then have to bring them back with you.