Oh, talk about Sophie’s choice. The weight of the world hanging on a couple of decisions.

As soon as all the rugby league players and wives and families and parasites were across the border, it was closed for health reasons. Those jelly-backed vermin called politicians (always amazes me that there are not a lot more assassinations – I guess they are not worth the cost of a bullet) shut the border for health reasons. The monumental hypocrisy. But that is not today’s topic (it is every day’s topic, but we’ll leave it for now).

The border closure means I might miss the annual fishing trip – for which I would never forgive any of them. Have spoken with the government representatives and they assure me I can get back. The border pass thingee on the internet suggests so as well. Of course, that does not mean that the cops on the border will agree. So I might be stuck for a month (plus I am trying to settle the new place, not easy interstate).

Worse places to be stuck – I remember being in Europe when that Icelandic volcano with the unpronounceable name shut all airports for two weeks. That happened the day before I was due to fly out of Europe, back to Australia. Normally, that would have meant two weeks on some German park bench, but fortunately, I was with a good mate and on his thirty-plus-metre boat in the Med (more crew than passengers). So I’ll confess that that closure was not quite the onerous disaster it might have been for some.

This time, not quite so good but in the family beach shack and I have enough cigars to last me, I think (I don’t smoke at anything like the rate some of you guys do). Certainly enough wine and spirits. So basically, happy to work away for the next four weeks if I can’t get back.

This weekend, I had decided that one of the afternoons would be given over to my fave activity (or one of them) – on the couch outside with a good cigar, top drink and a great book. It was to be Saturday arvo. But full moon, good tide, thought it worth a fish instead (another fave thing). Well, bugger me but I could not get anything to bite. Was fishing for tailor (bluefish for our seppo friends). Decent gutter along the beach. Nada. A few people nearby. One fishing for dart (seriously? In public? They are the sauvignon blanc of the sea).

Suddenly one bloke strikes gold. He pulls in five tailor, a couple quite decent, and misses a few more. Those around him also getting nothing. I am forty yards up the beach and nothing. And not as though he was any great fisherman. He’d run 30 metres back up the beach skull-dragging the poor fish in when he hooked something. I suspect he had more lead on than the rest of us getting out further (meanwhile, we’ve just been beaten in the pool in the Olympics for gold by a Tunisian – congrats to him, but who even knew they had pools in Tunisia, or that anyone there could swim, unless it was trying to get to Europe), as there was a sweep.

This morning (this was written over several days, hence the mangled timeline and twisted tense), I go for the dawn walk on the beach. An old guy is there. Seen him several times but never seen him catch anything. He is fiddling with something as I walk that way. Thought he was trying to get a prawn on the hook, but then I see he is using a spinner. Surprised he could even get one out there. Honestly, the bloke looks like a heavy pilchard would topple him. Then I see what he is doing. Shoving a whopping tailor into the fishbag. Too big to fit. Well, bugger me again. I am surprised he could lift it.

That is depressing.

So this arvo, it is book, drink and cigar; or another fish? Sophie’s choice, indeed.

After much reflection, I decided the only option was to do both (if only Meryl Streep had the wisdom to ask me, that film/book could have been over in 60 seconds – I’ll confess that I have not read the book or seen the film).

So a good read, a Trinidad Fundadores and Lark Legacy Cask 1 HHF582B Malt Whisky, in the usual place. although the usual place was a bit different. The gardener had obviously decided that gardening was a bit too much for him and he had basically taken the chain saw to most of the plants, lopping them down to a third of their usual size. I assume that was what he calls ‘pruning’. We expect him back in January.

Nice to go to the long and skinnies for a change. More of them, please! That said, although I have always liked the Fundy, it is just not as much as some obviously do. Plenty of good ones, very few great ones. Looking forward to this one.

One of Rob’s seconds – not that I am in any way complaining at all. More than happy as some of these seconds have been stunners (and some perhaps less so). This was an ‘interesting’ shape, more like a boomerang than a cigar. Firm draw and quite cool, pre-lit. Opened extremely powerfully. Throat-rasping power. Settled down before long. Moved into treacle, nuts, teak and a hint of honey. There was a flicker of caramel but it didn’t last. All of this made it a top match for the whisky, which was a powerful drink on its own. Very powerful.

As it moved through, the cigar became even more comfortable with less force, though there was plenty of underlying power still evident. By now, sitting at medium-full. All good till a brief gust of that near-non-existent wind put the ash all over me. The cigar continued to ebb and flow throughout and exhibited plenty of evolution.

This might not have been a great Fundy but it sure was a very good one. 93.

And went superbly with the powerful whisky from Lark in Tasmania. This cask strength bottling came in at 63.4%. Big and rich and chocolatey (would not be out of place with a full-flavoured Montecristo). It could have overwhelmed the Fundy – it would have overwhelmed most cigars – but the Fundy managed. 

Later, I went down for a fish in front. A couple of okay tailor and a small bream, so not a bad evening, although I don’t think even Rob at his most creative push-the-fish-forward could have made it look acceptable. Seriously, it would have had to have been in a different State from the person holding it to look legal. Consequently, there is no photographic evidence. And when I came back, ran headlong into a giant trainwreck-sized mess of issues and problems that were unexpected. Took the wind out of the sails. But we all have problems.

The next day didn’t assist when suddenly the water went off, mid-hands-in-sink-cleaning-stuff. Second time this month it has gone off. The first, the Council sorted quickly. Could not find any reason this time, so rang them again. Turns out, when they got here, that an idiot plumber had been let into the far place in the townhouses but parked well away. Being inside, no obvious sign of anyone there. But did the idiot plumber think to check whether anyone was resident in any of the ten townhouses? Apparently, that did not occur to him. One can only assume he has squillions of ‘gram followers.

I did read that a little to the north, they were experiencing high winds, storms and massive seas, on the evening I went for the fish. Odd, as there has not been the slightest puff of cloud here for days. On the day in question, the gentlest of westerlies had flattened the ocean to millpond. That said, the winds did get up the next day and have blown solidly since. I'm half tempted to toss in a line but…

I guess the afternoon was a good exhibition of why one should grab the chance when you have it – whether that be for a fish or a book or a good cigar.

KBG