It seemed like the perfect idea for a Closed Season trip. No coarse fishing is allowed on rivers between 15th March and 15th June. But the club we were in at the time had a small stretch of the Upper Severn near Llanidloes, mid Wales. It was a trout river and therefore could legally be fished. Nobody seemed to know why a small provincial fishing club like Nepotism And District Social (name changed, obviously) should rent a little piece of river over 120 miles from base but then again there were more than a few mysteries about the way it was run by the cabal within the management committee. I once encountered a small stretch of river in Norfolk that the locals were adamant was rented by NADS but was not in the Club book. It was next to a little caravan park though, where one of the committee members liked to holiday. Anyway, I digress.
This took place in the late 80's early 90s, pre mobile phone coverage and internet so our research was very limited. We were told where to find the farmer who owned the land and assured there would be plenty of places to stay nearby. So off we set, my friend The Saint and I, in his dad’s Fiat Mirafiori, tackle loaded and a full tank of petrol. It should be said here that the Mirafiori was a fast, twin carb and lightweight car. It was also as reliable as any Fiat at the time i.e. not reliable. But so long as the carbs didn’t block, the brake pads didn’t crumble and the bodywork didn’t dissolve in Welsh rain we would be fine. As it happened the car performed well and swept along the Mid Wales roads majestically, smoking cigarettes and listening to Heavy Metal.
As we pushed deeper into Wales we were suddenly overtaken by a rather fast Lancia. Then a couple of miles later an impressively fast Ford Escort. Then another…and another…some with what looked like spare wheels stacked in the back. “Must be a meeting on somewhere” we mused. The further we went, the more rally type cars we encountered. The reason for all this became apparent as we entered the environs of Llanidloes and started seeing banners for the ‘Lombard RAC Rally’. The town itself was rammed. People everywhere wearing rally jackets emblazoned with Castrol Oil, Ferrodo Brakes etc.
Having parked up we decided to quickly check out a couple of rooms before fishing. After the third pub landlord smirked and shook his head when asked if there were vacancies (“Didn’t you know the rally was on? We’ve been booked up for weeks”) we dragged ourselves off to the tiny Tourist Information office/kiosk/cubby hole and asked there. The nice ladies in there shook their heads and sympathised but could not help us. Then one said to the other, ”Unless…err….do they still take in guests round the corner?” “Ooh I don’t know. They are a bit old now and, err, set in their ways”. “Look lads, turn left out of here and round the corner you’ll see a big white house. Try there.”
So we did. The doorbell was rung and the door creaked open to reveal two elderly, formidable looking ladies who regarded us suspiciouly through the gap in the door. “Do you have any vacancies?” I asked, smiling as sweetly as I could. The door opened wider and the sisters, as it turned out they were, sternly weighed us both up from head to toe to head again. “Would you be wanting one bed or two?” one of them asked. “Two rooms if possible” I politely replied, in a deep voice. At this, the frosty expressions melted. Clearly this was a respectable establishment and not the sort of place that would tolerate any of ‘those’ kinds of goings on. It wasn't LLanddewi-Brefi after all!
We were shown to adjacent rooms. Clearly these were once one room but now, to maximise income they were separated by a paper thin stud wall. Odd really as the place was mostly empty. A list of 'do's and don’ts' was read to us. No hot food to be brought in. No drinking. No noise or rowdy behaviour. No fishing bait. Pay in cash only. Breakfast is at 8am, sharp and would be fried and Welsh. Doors locked at 10pm. Wait what? 10pm? We would normally only just be getting going in a pub by then!
We had no choice really so we politely nodded at everything and signed the visitors’ register. In ink, surprisingly; we half expected blood.
Cases left in rooms. Quick check of directions and off we set for an afternoon of trout fishing. Things could only get better, eh?
End of part one.
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