Boil-in-a-bag waders – beautiful when it stops

There is a great way to make sure you never take for granted breathable waders.

Wear a pair that aren’t.

In a heatwave.

That was me in Norfolk last week; assuming that the river to which I was travelling wasn’t wadeable and therefore sloppily making do with the first pair of just-in-case waders that came to hand.

Old school waders. Or ‘boil-in-a-bag waders’, as one TF contributor calls them. Two hours of trudging the river bank on an increasingly scorching day brought it home to me in no uncertain terms from whence came the analogy. It was Springtime from the nipples upwards; a Malaysian summer at all points south.

We men must be grateful that the scope for our testicles to descend in search of cooler climes is not limitless. Trying to take photographs while increasingly sapped of energy would be hard enough without the additional dread of inadvertently stepping on something.

Yet at the end of all this, there came relief so delicious that it really is no wonder  philosophers can talk for hours on end when asked to rationalise suffering.

Sit in a river for five minutes, as I endeavoured to do whenever time permitted and the sensation of liquid ice being injected into your torrid veins is worth every sweatbox moment that preceded it. So much so that you realise your day would have been unwittingly poorer had you not first suffered the pain necessary to know this pleasure.

Just looking at this photograph of my legs enjoying another such moment last Thursday, I feel that joy all over again.

This blog will always strive valiantly to steer clear of the ‘better than sex’ cliché but sometimes…

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