I too have thought about this Paul. In fact, as part of the usual round of house hunting one endures before finally finding the one (or the one you can actually afford) we looked at a house in a small village not far from Hungerford in Berkshire. My wife thought it rather drab and ugly and in need of major cosmetic surgery. But, whilst the garden was relatively small, at the end was the river Kennet. A proper stretch too with a bit of depth to it and perhaps a couple of very fishy looking swims. There was also a small summer house neatly positioned close to the river. As I stood in that garden my mind was racing as I painted many pictures. These mostly consisted of me arriving home from work on a summers evening, quickly getting changed and heading straight to the bottom of the garden, grabbing a beer from the fridge on the way. The barbel rods were already set up of course in the summer house and within 5 minutes I would be fishing. The cat would be by my side, my daughter reading or practicing the violin. My wife, watching Emmerdale. I have never admitted this before, but standing in the garden I had a little, no really quite tiny, cry. I might also have let out a little bit of wee. But that's not important right now.
The estate agent, Tarquin, rabbited on about this and that but I wasn't paying attention. Any compromises with the house itself were inconsequential. Although that's not the term I actually used when responding to my wife's concerns.
And then the thing happened. The big thing. As Tarquin was heading back inside, he uttered the words. Yes THE words. He said: "of course, it doesn't come with fishing rights".
Annoyingly, all my persuasive arguments deployed with so much passion and conviction up to that very point had really worked and my wife was reaching for the cheque book. Back tracking was going to be nigh on impossible, plus I am a principled person and value integrity in everything I do. So instead, I looked at my phone and said "oh my god, I've been sacked. No job, no money. I am so sorry..."