Camping by the river
The getaway had been planned for weeks: a three-day family camping trip on the banks of a river. A dream come true! We were ready, only the weather was forcing us to keep postponing this long-awaited vacation. When, finally, all the weather media predicted it: a slight improvement was forecast for early next week. Three days without rain! In this rotten spring, what a godsend! There was not a minute to lose, so we set off on Monday for Chanteuges on the banks of the Allier.
At around eleven o'clock, the camper van crossed the Allier bridge on the D 30, just outside Saint-Arcons-d'Allier. Finding a nice, sunny spot was child's play: the municipal site dedicated to nature-loving travellers is vast and borders the river for a good kilometer. A great initiative by the municipality! The location was magnificent, right at the foot of the old Benedictine monastery on the left bank. I couldn't wait to get out my fishing rods, to make sure that the course I'd known so well in the past was still as promising as ever!
The currents were a little tense, a little too much for my taste, but it wasn't a flood. No matter, I was there to fish and I intended to make the most of it.
Lack of trout
However, I soon realized that the game was not up. I was having trouble getting into the riverbed, as the pebbles were terribly slippery. In fact, my nymph wasn't reaching the current vein I wanted to explore. I had to change technique. I opted for my favorite fishing technique: three sunken flies and a more powerful rod to make my cast as long as possible. The bites didn't take long to come. Unfortunately, they were only small bleak, quick as hell to bite the hook. I moved back a few meters and sounded another vein. Here, the bites were more solid and the catches considerably bigger. I'd stumbled across a shoal of sandpipers. Sensing that I'd have to make do with this small fry, I resigned myself to keeping a few of the plumpest fish to show my family that I was still capable of fly-fishing. On my return, the family reception was mixed. They congratulated me politely, but invited me to leave my catch in my basket outside the truck. Maybe we'd cook them tomorrow!
It was a very pleasant evening, spent around an open fire, and in the absence of trout, we enjoyed delicious lamb chops cooked over an open fire. I had trouble falling asleep, however, as the night was shaping up to be a restless one. Had I, who until then had enjoyed a reputation as a sport fisherman, already aged too much to hope to catch more noble fish: trout or grayling? Would I now be forced to swap my fly rod for a spinning rod, my artificial flies for maggots and my waterproof pants for a folding seat? There went my reputation, I was a finished man!
I had reached this point in my dark thoughts when a suspicious noise from outside prompted me to leave the cabin. The night was dark and, at first glance, I didn't notice anything out of the ordinary. All seemed quiet. Barefoot in the damp grass, scanning the darkness, I suddenly felt something graze the tips of my toes. Instinctively, I jumped back. Then I saw his handsome masked bandit face. A raccoon, a petty thief, had just finished his meal - in this case, my few waddles - and was about to take a bite out of my foot. But he quietly went back to his shelter.
I went back to bed, soothed and happy that my modest fish had made this kind thief happy. After this episode, I slept like a log!
