#codling

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The Codling Moth Trap uses the 'Pheromone' scent of the female moth to attract and catch male moths. Control of this pest in the garden is very difficult using insecticides unless they are applied shortly after egg-laying When to use the Trap In most seasons moths fly and mate on warm nights from late May […]

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November nights Keep checking back to see how i’m getting on during November. The days are drawing in, meaning other than Saturdays, most my fishing will be in darkness. Cod is the target now running up until Christmas. There seems to be small ones about this season…

Battery point: 27th October

x1 Strap conger

x1 codling (1lb)

x1 Thornback (pictured in lead image) 

Burnham Lower Light: 11th November

x1 flounder

x4 Codling to 2lb

Rockingham: 19th November

x1 flounder

x2 Codling to 3lb

They went to an old orchard to make love. It was not an orderly place now–if it ever had been. The trees had abandoned their rows and the earth sloped downwards toward the bottom. They felt as if nature had conspired to create the perfect bowl to hold their swelling want. The trees were ancient and bent and hung with moss; too old to be judgmental it seemed to them. These trees had seen so many things through their knot-hole eyes that two more lovers beating themselves senseless with sex among their roots was nothing to them.

Their very beauty should make it permissible, they thought. Should make a gorgeous poem for the gods to watch: parting the old bows and peeking through. For they knew they were beautiful. The mossy grass was green enough to be black down at the bottom, but their bodies were fish white when naked and the shapes they made against the damp black green grass were beautiful. A whole alphabet of illicit letters. It was only made more beautiful in that they could meet only at dawn or dusk when the light too aided them by drawing a silver veil across their bodies.

It began in the spring the way these things do. Everything was budding and blooming, it was all just too green, the air was spangled with pollen as if creatures were spawning in the air, the petals were impossibly plump and swollen and straining to flower. You could not walk out into that spring and not want to fuck something, even in the silver rain, even on the engorged mud.

And so in the spring their naked white skin got stained with mud, got drenched with rain, but they were sure they were being anointed, were being blessed. Were being made holy. They did not want to wash the mud off of their skins and took it home with them and smiled secretly and made excuses. The wet black branches were spangled with white flowers and they got so addled that it was hard to tell if the sky was the sky or the ground.

In the summer the trees cooperated to hide them from the sun and leaned in forward with such a bounty of green leaves that they were tented in glowing green. In the summer they were able to drowse beside one another, they knew each other well enough, or thought they did, and they were in danger of falling into an eternal sun-drunk sleep and of never rising, of never leaving the orchard. This has happened to lovers before. Truly. The bones are found years later.