Three years ago tomorrow, after a stonking season after barbel (both numbers and size), I popped out for a morning session. By 10.30am I had stripped down to a T-shirt and had unzipped the legs of my Craghopper trousers to them into shorts, then did some full-on sunbathing in hopelessly bright fishing conditions until midday, when I happily packed up, walked to a pub I knew, phoned my girlfriend and told her to join me (and later drive me home). I sank an uncharacteristic day-time pint or three of ice-cold lager, drinking to the end of a great season in great company. How fishing should be, for me anyway.