The alarm sounded at 4.00am and I did not try to negotiate any extra minutes in bed. After a quick wash I put on my clothes which were laid out on the spare bed the previous night.

Downstairs, I put the kettle on and then read the note that I had left for myself. It said simply 'sausages' and this was my reminder to take the sausages from the fridge and put them in my creel alongside the baps.

It has become customary for us to take the cooking equipment to Nursling, on the Test, whenever we fish for grayling there and it was my turn to provide the sausages.

After loading the car I set off to Gary 's house in Hemel Hempsted, hoping that the M1 would be reasonably clear at 4.30 in the morning. It was, and I arrived ten minutes early at 5.20. Gary was ready (as usual) and we were on the road to Southampton by 5.30.

I have been accused of being too deeply involved and emotional when it comes to choosing rods. I’m sure that there’s a certain truth in this, but I prefer to remove the word 'too', which takes out the pejorative element in the sentence.

For anyone with a hint of feeling for the lovely business of fishing, rod selection is a decidedly touchy-feely meeting, perhaps leading to a partnership that will last a life-time. A dedicated angler may spend more of his life holding his fishing rod, than he does holding his wife. Neither is a marriage that should be entered into lightly.

I own perhaps two-hundred rods in varying stages of completion, but I choose to actually use only about a dozen of them. I have many gleamingly restored rods that I have never used, preferring to stick my chosen partners in life. Occasionally a rod comes alive in my hand, and there’s the strange feeling that it has chosen me, rather than my choosing it.

My sister recently had a bit of a clear out in her loft and in the process she found some old things of mine, probably acquired in error circa 1972 when she got married and moved out of the family home. The items included half a dozen books that I hadn’t seen since I was a teenager and one in particular that I have been looking for since I moved to my present home, which is near Penton Hook on the Thames. The “Lower Thames” was one of the Fishing Famous Rivers series.

The book, actually it’s a booklet of only 47 pages, was written in 1960 by John Burrett and at two shillings and sixpence was quite an expensive purchase, probably the equivalent of around £10 today. So I guess that I probably nicked it!

Dawn Promise. That was it. The name came back as vivid memory as I crossed the field. A Hoseasons’ Boat on the Norfolk Broads. Summer of ’77, the first holiday with my wife , though back then she was my girlfriend and we were both 17. Plenty of fishing for small silvers off the back of the boat in the River Bure, Wroxham Broad, Salthouse Broad – known then for its huge rudd, while Vanessa cooked up the bacon butties. What could be better?

Well today was one that equalled it at least… though dawn actually promised little by way of fish as there was a severe frost, the temperature was minus two as I left the car and headed down to the stream. But it was the most gorgeous day, the most glorious daybreak, and even the sheep in the field seemed to have a spring in their step as the weak sun rose over the distant skyline trees.

My two year old grandson, has a fascination with centrepins and nearly every time he comes to visit he says 'fishing granddad' and that means getting a few pins out for him to play with.

He will get one out of its case, hold it in one hand, then give the handles a gentle tap, watching the reel spin until it comes to a natural stop. He will then repeat the process with other reels until he
decides that there is more to life than watching the drum of a centrepin spinning. He has been doing this for about a year now and he is always very gentle with the reels, carefully putting each one back
in its case.

"Ear Kev, ge'us a case of Heineken if you're goin' up the 'offy. "
So said three rods Jace, making his third trip around the lake with barrow of Ballistas, bivvies, boilies, Baitrunners and bits. And stainless steel.

Every club water, country wide, has its fair share of Kevs and Jaces ( I think his name is actually Jason) and let's be honest, they not only survive, but thrive and prosper on them. My own club Boxmoor & District at Hemel Hempstead, of which I am privileged to be chairman, runs annually on around 350 members. Three hundred plus are carpers - and they are happy to pay the money, the club ticket, the night ticket and the third rod ticket, all introduced to keep basic fees to a minimum and ask those who use the water most to pay the most. They are happy, the club is happy, and the carp are growing larger - as Kev does insist on spodding out his offerings for 45 minutes every few hours - though we are only a 3.5 acre lake