Fishing: Disaster befalls a festive fisher

WOULDN'T YOU know it? As soon as I find myself with oodles of free time, the waters conspire against me. Lakes, ponds, streams, rivers, even the sea stuck up a "No Fishing" sign from the moment that I signed off just before Christmas. It's a good job my family are not depending on me as a hunter-gatherer: we'd have finished the dogs and the cat, and be on to the hamster about now. For the past three weeks, my efforts to slope off for a spot of piscatorial pleasure have met with a range of disasters. I must have run over a nun.

I was all set to go pike fishing on the Norfolk Broads. I love the fishing there: it's wonderfully wild and there is the chance to see really unusual wildlife. Last year a bittern rose from the reeds close to where I was fishing. It's also quite spectacular fishing. Before I met the pike ghillie Richard Furlong, I had never caught a decent pike. Now I've caught four over 20lb under his guidance.

The trouble is, Furlong's diary is full months in advance because he's so good. It's like trying to book an appointment with the Pope. I had been looking forward to my day out with him for weeks. What happened? It snowed two days beforehand. "Not worth coming," said Furlong, mindful of preserving his eight-year record of never failing to catch a fish. I painted a bedroom instead.

Things looked perfect for a day's cod fishing with Clive Gammon, one of my schoolboy heroes. His best book, I Know a Good Place, is in my A- list of fishing literature. It tells of his fishing exploits, mostly while he was a writer for Sports Illustrated in its heyday. He would, say, cover the Ali-Foreman fight, then be allowed a month's paid-for fishing in Guatemala or the Amazon. What a life. He tells terrific yarns too. I was in for a real treat.

The forecast said winds would be so light that sailors ran a risk of being becalmed. Well, you've guessed it. Overnight, El Nino made a guest appearance in the Bristol Channel. "It's even stormy in the harbour," Clive warned, fortunately catching me before I drove all the way to Penarth. I spent the day sweeping up leaves and hacking back the wisteria.

The Christmas holiday, at least, offered days ripe with opportunities. James, my sister's son, was down from university. He gave me the perfect excuse because he's always ready for a spot of fishing. Or he would have been if it hadn't rained solidly for three days, with regular top-ups every time you thought it had emptied the bucket. The Ouse, which is a short cast from my back door, switched from flowing sweetly (ideal for roach, chub and perch) to a raging torrent. St Ives meadow turned into a big lake. The parish council sent round details of the new flood-warning measures. I had more chance of catching fish in the bath. With nowhere to run, I did the cooking and got caught in endless arguments playing Scrabble.

I considered trout fishing on one of the few waters still open. The day I decided to go, it was frozen. I took a look at the private lake I had been invited to pike-fish. Someone had cleared the ditch running into it, changing the water colour from mysterious green to Cadbury's Dairy Milk. I tidied my office instead. You might ask: why not go anyway? I'm always spouting on about how fishing is a lot more than catching fish, it's true. It's just that getting cold, wet and miserable is all very well, but the prospect of not catching fish too makes grouting seem attractive. It may be common sense, or just getting old.

But I refuse to be beaten. Global warming can do its worst. I've booked a cheap flight to Florida, where I am going to catch some black bass and whatever else swims along. There is just one teeny worry. When I went there with the family last Christmas, we suffered quite dreadful weather - "worst in living memory", the local papers claimed - with fierce winds and torrential rain. It was so bad that at one stage, the watersplash parks of the "Sunshine State" were closed for three days. It couldn't happen again... could it?