Tide: Rising
Bait: My suave manner and a filthy Toyota Yaris
Results: Five Women
It's been a long while since I've been out for a session due to work (a happy situation where I do twice the hours for half the pay), so I was glad to get a chance to cut loose on Saturday evening for a quick outing to Clonea. To be honest, Clonea never did much for me as a venue, but it has produced the odd pot-sized Codling, so with this in mind, I made the trip to the east end of the beach, near the rocks. And with these innocent intentions in mind, here's how the evening worked out
From the off, the fishing was poor. I was putting out mack and razor at distance and in close, and while I was getting the odd knock, nothing was connecting. Still, there were at least fish there, so I kept at it. The first thing to go amiss was the filleting knife, which gave me a nasty nick in the finger. I'd just bought the thing, so it was sharp enough for brain surgery, and the wound bled like it was going for gold-card membership in the blood donor's country club. As I was wearing latex gloves, this made for quite the pleasant little blood bag on my left middle finger. Anyway, I patched it up as best I could and continued with the fishing--only to get properly freaked out by an otter doing the whole eyes-reflecting-the-headlamp routine from the tide tables.
Things continued without event until the end of the evening when, on about the second-last cast, I heard an almighty wailing in the car park behind me. At first I thought it was teenagers having a quick fondle over a bag of cans, but that didn't quite fit it. 'Aha!' I thought, 'I've stumbled upon West Waterford's legendary dogging spot.' Naturally, I was intrigued, and I contemplated taking a stroll up to see if shining a 5 watt headlamp in a car window would contribute to the erotic ambience. Sadly, my timid disposition overcame me and I decided to head for home instead.
Anyway, I packed up my gear, and like the creature from the black lagoon, ascended the slope to the carpark. When I did, I was mobbed by five very fetching young ladies who were quite clearly lost--and, may I say, very inappropriately dressed for a cold March night on a surf beach. As for me, I was decked out in Gucci's finest fish-guts-n-bait range, and smelt like a ten-day-dead dogfish that was moonlighting with the corporation as a bin man. My left hand looked like it had lost a fight with a mincing machine.
'Please Mr Fisherman,' they begged, 'we'll give you €15 if you drop us into town.'
'For you ladies,' I replied, flashing my imaginary gold tooth, 'I'll do it for free.'
It turns out that they were a hen party staying in a nearby chalet, and had rung for a minibus to pick them up at Clonea car park. The taxi driver obviously thought they meant the main car park, and between the two of them (with a strong supporting performance being put in by Smirnoff Ice), they managed to get properly lost. They squeezed into the car, making what room they could between the rod-rest, the rod and a stinking bait bucket that threatened to upend itself with every bump I went over. The soundtrack for the journey was 'Fisherman's Blues,' which they sang loudly and out-of-tune the whole way in.
Were I a younger man, I daresay I could have had quite the night, as they nearly bodily dragged me into the pub with them. They were quite insistent on the need to find husbands, but what with me being someone's husband already, I respectfully declined. That said, when the wife remarked on the how deeply unappealing the residue from a night on the beach can leave a man, I was able to cite the evidence of five young ladies who took a very different view of the matter.
Can we take it you didnt get any fish 
,if so thats a great blank story 
