Sorry -- it's been a while since the last update, but I have been away, in places with dodgy Internet connections and very little of what you might call angling. But I did manage to go flyfishing, in a charming pond in a charming village in France. Not to catch fish, really, but to give a rudimentary lesson in flyfishing to my friend and gracious host, Everett Ressler, who works for UNICEF and lives in the aforementioned charming village, which is called Versonnex.

Everett and his charming (everything in France is charming!) wife Phyllis live in an ancient farmhouse they restored themselves, with a spot of help from village stonemasons and handymen. They let me camp in their guest room for a week in June, when I was participating in a climate change workshop for journalists in nearby Geneva (well, someone had to do it). Phyllis and Everett also restored a tiny house in their backyard -- also charming -- which they rent to former TV network newshound Bill Dowell. In the mornings Everett would bicycle to the village bakery and return with warm croissants and a baguette; Bill would make a large quantity of cafe filtre, Phyllis would bring pots of raspberry jam and butter, and Bill, Phyllis, Krov Menuhin (who was camping at Bill's) and I would sit in the garden and enjoy breakfast the way breakfast ought to be enjoyed. Then Bill, Krov and I would head into Geneva to learn about climate change from a variety of agencies in preparation for a field trip to Benin, West Africa.

One morning, after I had droned on about flyfishing at a winey dinner on Everett and Phyllis's balcony, Everett said, "Let's go fishing." Never one to refuse such an invitation I sleepily acquiesced. Everett tossed a heap of highly suspect fishing tackle into the back of his vehicle, whistled for his great shaggy dog, and we three drove about five minutes to a tidy little park wherein lay a pond.

"It's stocked," said my host, "but I'm not sure with what."

No matter. I sorted through the gear, which consisted of two ancient flyrods which must have retailed for under ten francs; two tinny reels wound with genuine fly line (but no backing); a boxful of spinning lures; and a smaller box of trout flies. As I examined the gear a fish rolled in the pond -- a substantial fish but of unknown provenance. I showed Everett how to attach a leader to the fly line and how to tie a fly to the tippet. I tied on a muddler and off we went. There was no one around except a couple of dog walkers, which Everett's dog enjoyed meeting. I picked a likely spot on the grassy shore of the pond and cast the muddler, hoping it would entice a strike or at least a follow. As we circumnavigated the pond I explained to Everett the fundamentals of casting a fly while I worked the muddler in various ways, trying to get a fish to at least look at it. Another large fish broke water; again I couldn't tell what it was. I knew right away what it wasn't -- it wasn't a brook trout and it wasn't a landlocked salmon.

I never did find out what the fish was. No hits, no runs, no errors. A shutout. As we completed our circuit we encountered a young Roma boy, maybe 10 years old, who was camped with his family a couple hundred yards from the pond. He showed us his fishing rig: spinning rod, spinner, worm. He would probably outfish us. We didn't wait to see.

And then I left for West Africa, where I found fish, but didn't fish myself.