01727 261080

Regular page

This is just a page, bantamweight temper tantrum, decrepit anthem, set a low goal, I arrive late. Billy-goat beard twenty years in the making, carried lures in his brim, carried beer in his waders, stinked like alcohol of all prominent flavors, carried knives in his vest, carried war in his nature.

Sat among the forest floor critters and pine cones, could tie a perfect fly with his eyes closed, veteran angler with a mission to run, make all naysayers hold t-t-t-tongues. Today I pulled three ghost crabs out of rock and sand, where the low tide showcased a promised land.