In my adolescence, I had decided that fishing in winter was pointless.

A few of these years were spent in the Garden Route, some of my now favourite fishing territory. And outings to Knysna, Sedgefield and the Braks all but confirmed my dumb hypothesis.

Granted, Knysna was in recovery from a series of what we now know were absolute environmental disasters, but plenty sweet and saltwater remained. The problem was me.

In adulthood (well, my 30s), I somehow realized that the fish didn’t all magically disappear in winter. And that well, winter was in my head. Over the last few seasons, some of my best fish have been caught in the absolute dead of winter. Sometimes on crispy, beautiful winter days, sometimes on miserable days.

Nothing seemed to have changed, other than my perception of what was possible. And when certain impossibilities become their inverse, they seem to remain just that. A phenomenon that has applied to so many other aspects of my fishing. Did grunter just start eating flies when I turned 20?

Enough with the Aristotling. A collection of moments from the dead of winter: