Perfect Bass ground, and the farmer’s old dog comes to say hello, and a biscuit:

And so it begins:

There is something about Bass fishing that gets under your skin. – the heart thudding surface strikes, the way a cunning old fish can outsmart you six casts in a row, the saltwater sting on your lips as you lose yet another lure to the rocks and kelp. For fifteen years, I’ve chased these wild, mercurial predators across the Llyn Peninsula’s rugged coastline, and I still feel that same electric jolt of anticipation every time I tie on a new lure.

May 14th 2025 Llyn Peninisula:

My first proper blog post, I’m feeling jovial, happy, and silly:

Ah, the wild camping life! There you are, lying in your tent like a seasoned outdoorsman, only to find that every step outside is a game of “Sheep Poo or Landmine?”—nature’s roulette wheel. But lo and behold, those squelchy missteps must’ve been lucky, because the bass were practically queuing up to say hello.

Half-decent”? Modesty, my friend—they were *whoppers*, and you know it.

Supper before the light dims:

Then, as if the universe felt guilty about the poo mines, it rolled out the orange moon, hanging there like a giant Jaffa in the sky, casting a glow so warm you could’ve toasted marshmallows by it.

You finally walk back up that massive hill along the muddy twisty twiny paths and into your tent, wet clothes off, warm woolly long johns on. You finally nod off at 3:30 am, dreaming of lunkers and lazy drifts, only to be rudely awakened at dawn by a choir of sheep—’baa-ing’ like they’re auditioning for ‘Britain’s Got Talent’. No courtesy, these woolly divas.

One of life’s little pleasures is warm Long Johns following wet wading and Leaking Waders:

A successful night’s Bass fishing:

But then, the sun barges into your tent like an overenthusiastic B&B host -” Rise and shine, campers! The world is beautiful, and so is that lingering smell of sheep!”

Sheep noise and the hot sun put an end to a good night’s rest – breakfast it is then:

Ah, the glamour of the wild. No sleep, a whistle-stop tour, another day, another dodgy step. Wouldn’t change a thing.

And so, with sheep still gossiping outside my tent and the sun now high enough to fry an egg on my sleeping bag, I packed up my gear – bass tales in my pocket, poo on my boots, and the quiet certainty that nature, in all its messy glory, had once again given me a story worth telling. Until next time, you beautiful, baaaing, orange mooned wilderness.

PS – note to oneself, don’t wear white pumps when wild camping

Thanks for reading, and tight lines.