We spend a fortune on rods, clothing and shiny trinkets never mind day tickets and syndicate membership. We then spend from dawn until dusk making it as hard as possible for ourselves to catch a fish using some scruffy piece of fluff that took much cursing and swearing in order to create the night before.
But not only that, if we don’t catch a fish we still proclaim ourselves to be ludicrously happy because “it’s not about catching fish” anyway. We gush over old books and speak of certain rivers in semi-religious waffle. All in all, you have to have to be slightly potty to love fly fishing.