Love for animals.

Le mouching, fly fishing, elevageWe just received the following letter and we couldn’t not publish it.

Dear Mouching,

I take my pen today to write you about my  recent, singular adventure and to humbly ask your advice.

Three years ago today, from an adventurous uncle, I inherited a Trout farm; said trout destined to be consumed by my contemporaries.

I quickly learned the profession which, as you certainly know, is quite simple. Every morning after my breakfast I feed them: I toss buckets of grain of the brand (censured), which are supposed to grow them to a size of: “a portion of trout”. I repeat the operation before the evening aperitif and everyone is content.

Once a year I go the Supermarket U to sell my beasts, pocket my check and pass the evening with Irma, the little whore at Montelimar. Read more…

The Maisonneuve carp.

Le mouching, fly fishing, carpeI was just about to stick my fork into a wing of the Garlic Chicken that my adorable wife had cooked up for me when the telephone rang, it stopped my salivating which had reached the point of escaping my mouth.

“Hello Flèche, it’s your neighbor, Pierre… can you come over in a hurry? It’s a matter of life or death!”

“Be generous with your neighbor, one never knows!”, so goes the Finnish proverb. I quickly put aside the chicken wing not having the courage to battle, at day’s end, with nordic proverbs. Read more…

Anti-nazi catfish.

Le mouching, fly fishing, OderI would bet my right hand that few of you have passed your fishing vacations at Krosno Odrzanskie.

Never the less, if there’s one place in the world of barbares where I would like to wet my line, it is certainly Krosno Odrzanskie and the reason is quite simple.

A river runs through the middle of this charming village, the Oder, to be exact; the river also serves as the border between Germany and Poland. Well that’s nothing to laugh about you might say with a note of impatience in your voice. Just wait a minute my friends, I’m getting there.

Frolicking in this river, besides the charming native blondes, are Catfish that, in terms of size and weight, would make the most obese citizens of Oklahoma seem like anorexic mosquitos. Read more…

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Le mouching, fly fishing, guerreWe live in a period that some already call the “Tragedy of Modern History” and of that, my friends, there is no doubt.

The climate of violence with which we are confronted every day is without equal and borders on absolute horror.

Only a week ago, a convoy of “spoon” fishermen (coming from a country which prudence prevents me from naming) descended the banks of certain rivers and in front of everyone, infants included (who will remain traumatized all their lives!), fished and filled their baskets with an important number of Abelettes, Gardon and Chubs and even Trout (planted, but still…), innocent victims of these monsters. Read more…

Gang war.

Le Mouching, fly fishing, la bataille de San romanoThe night had just started to fall (PAF…BOUM!). A few weak reflections blinked like the bedridden old folks when the priest enters their rooms. And me, I returned with a happy heart after hours of benediction in my dear river.

The fish? Oh… A few, not very fat, but so what. Every minute spent in the water is a minute less spent at the office of le Mouching, far from it’s infernal rhythms.

At the corner of the rue du Marechat Petain and the impasse Maurice Thorez I ran nose to nose, into four shady characters, whom I immediately recognized, thanks to the insignias on their caps: The head of a lion (in very bad taste). Read more…

Fishing for old folks.

Le mouching, fly fishing, mémé“Hello my little Fleche?… It’s me, your Grandma… Listen my little Fleche… I always read your stories in the Mouching… Yes, I really enjoy them… especially the ones that are a little risque’… yes… very well. Listen, you seem to love it so much that I would like that you teach me how to fish with flies… It sounds like a lot of fun… What?… What’s my age got to do with it? Hold on… let’s be polite my little one… Tomorrow? OK, that will be fine, after my siesta I’ll be at your house!”

Well, my dear readers, I have to tell you that the Grandma in question celebrated her 96th birthday last month and that she ignores such numbers, spits on them and that Solange (that’s her name) continues to act like she was 30 years old. Read more…


Le Mouching, fly fishing, SolitaireUsually when I leave my studio to go fishing I’m not very talkative. I’m not exactly a bear, but to clear my head there’s nothing better than to concentrate on casting my fly without making tons of knots and, if you’re half blind like me, to strive to see fish when there are practically none and, finally, to maintain my balance on those dumb rocks that are as slippery as soap from Marseille.

On that day, in the middle of MY river, in MY favorite spot, there was a guy installed; he looked rather amiable, not the kind of show off thinking “look at me, I am the perfectly attired fisherman!”.

I approached the character and discovered that he was using a fly that gave him slim chances of attracting a fish, even a drunk one. Read more…


Le mouching, fly fishing, North first streetJunior, everyone in the neighborhood knows and adores Junior. We should mount a statue with flowers for my friend, for his services rendered to the community. Think about it! The incredible number of adolescents in distress that he straightened out, the young druggies or dealers of all sorts, apprentice gangsters and river rats. He taught them to pull themselves together, stand tall and work hard instead of finding themselves in prison; right there, on North First Street: “You dismantle the rotten motor of this Chevrolet and you reassemble it, you do it like this… all nice and clean, like when it left the uterus of it’s mother!” Read more…