All too often there’s conflict between wild swimmers and other river users such as boats and fisherfolk, but not me. The swimmers seem a decent enough bunch of people, mostly of my generation, or thereabouts, and with whom I could comfortably share a mug of tea and some friendly chatter. Male and female, they are as polite as I aspire to be (that’s a compliment). Socialising would be much easier were they not wracked by uncontrollable shivering.

Atlantic Salmon are in trouble. Ask anyone invested in their plight and they’ll tell you how bad it is and who’s to blame. It’s always someone else. It’s gotten so bad that Atlantic Salmon in the UK is now officially an endangered species and on the IUCN Red List. In Ireland, the population has collapsed by 80% in 20 years.

This is a good time to be a tick with Lyme to share. You and I may bemoan the weirdness of the weather, but ticks love it.

As the world gets warmer and wetter, they’re partying. 10 years ago, in the wooded valley I call home, we had two distinct tick seasons — from mid-March to June, and a shorter burst in the autumn. Last year I picked up my first in early February and my dog had his last in November, and they continued without a break right through summer. 

There’s a mirror near our front door.  It’s the last thing I see before heading off to the river, and I normally give it a quick glance to make sure everything’s in order. Two shoes? Tick. Crumpled sweatshirt? Tick. Counter-cultural Rastafarian neck-warmer that nobody ever notices, cool hat, glasses, etc. Tick. I nod to myself, smile at the absurdity of it all, and head for the door. That’s me in the mirror.

It’s early March and, at last, I’m on a real river. It’s the moment of transition out of my close-season daydreaming. A rude awakening.