Been poking around these North Norfolk waters for what, twenty-five years now? Maybe more. Funny how time slips by when you're chasing mullet at dawn or watching a bass smash your fly in the shallows. Some folks call us experts—honestly, we're just stubborn bastards who learned where the fish hide after too many empty-handed trips.

You know how it goes. One evening over pints at the Jolly Sailor, we got to thinking—why keep all these hard-won spots to ourselves? So yeah, that's how North Norfolk Inshore started. Not some grand plan, just a couple salt-crusted anglers wanting to share the good fights with anyone who gets that particular itch to stand knee-deep in tidal creeks.

Speaking of fights—god, the bass here. Not those puny schoolies, proper shoulder-wreckers that’ll peel line like it’s nothing. We’ve got a few resident lunkers that’ve dodged hooks for years (I swear one with a torn pectoral fin recognizes my boat). Sea trout too, when the light’s just right and the marsh smells like rotting weed.

Now, some of our marks? Proper sketchy. Slippery boulders, tides that come in faster than a pub argument—last spring I watched a tourist’s cooler float out to sea while he was untangling his rig. That’s why we keep Erebus (the rib, needs her throttle linkage adjusted again) and The Schoolie, our dinghy with more patches than original hull. Turns "impossible" spots into a quick hop.

Tell us what you’re after—or hell, if you don’t know, we’ll figure it out between the coffee thermos and that one bend in the river where the mullet go nuts for stale bread. Boat or shore, doesn’t matter. Just don’t ask us to guarantee catches. Fish have moods worse than my ex-wife.

Oh, and if you land a bass? Handle it like it’s the last one you’ll ever touch. We’re not saints, but watching stocks crash would ruin more than the fishing—it’d kill the whole damn character of these creeks. Anyhow. The water’s better when it’s shared. Swing by the slipway sometime and we’ll talk tides.