When I was barely beyond my first decade dad took me to another fishing venue called ‘Bran Bridges’, a Kentish hamlet of a handful of houses that is at the confluence of two streams and a river. But also, the site of a wonderful weir beloved of all predatory fish, rich in Pike and Perch and as pretty as a postcard.
Dad was intent of catching a few of these ‘murderous patriarchs’. His rod all split-cane splendour was furnished with a brand new ‘spinning’ reel – as we called these newly available ‘fixed-spool’ reels. He planned to set me up to quietly fish for easy to catch tiddlers while he flicked his spinning ‘spoon’ back and forth below the weir’s frothy waters. Leaving as little to providence as he could, dad, used belt and braces, dead-baiting with a heavy-duty sea rod with its great heavy-duty wooden centre-pin reel packed with heavy duty line. What could go wrong?
Well, the answer was, of course, just about everything. I was a novice angler, a junior fisherman who, until this day had been carried to the lake side unable to walk. Up until then dad had set me up, baited my hook and cast out the float near the lily pads, all I had had to do was watch the float and learn to ‘strike’ if it disappeared from view.
This day was different; a fishing trip for the ambulant. I had not reached the river edge on dad’s back but walked there under my own steam. There by a small slack pool dad showed me how to loop the new nylon line from my centre-pin reel through the eyelets on my copper ‘tank aerial’ rod. He showed me how to slide the swan’s quill onto the line with the florescent painted tip uppermost. He showed me the mystery of a blood knot to attach hook to line and how to impale a worm so that the hook’s barb secured the fat end and the tail was free to wriggle seductively under fishes’ noses. Everything was explained quietly and patiently, which must have taken a monumental effort when Pike called from the races tugging his angling soul to the water.
Set up dad left me to cast and walked toward his gear.
I cast….. into a bush.
I tried to extricate myself. It made things worse. I called for dad. He patiently untangled me from the bush, slipped a new rubber band along the line to keep the float on, where one had been lost to the bushes thorns, then walked back to his pitch.
I cast out again. The worm gave up and dropped into the flood. Dad had the can of worms… I called for them. Dad patiently showed me how to correctly add the bait and returned to his rods.
I cast out again. I looked at my rod, the float and bait was still dangling from the tip, how come? I looked down towards the reel… between it and the first rod ring was a mass of tangled line. This was my first ‘birds nest’ the tangled line you get when something goes awry with a cast. I called for dad again. This time he gripped his tongue between his lips and sweated as he untangled the knots. Suppressed annoyance barely showed as he iterated the need for patience in fishing. I wandered about kicking stones and whistling while he went to work.
Several more casts and several more tangles followed until my bait was at last presented to the underwater world. Just as well, as I imagine by this time dad was wondering whether to continue in his patient vein or would he do better to throw my tackle into the weir and follow it up with his son.
I watched my float disappear beneath the eddies… and struck. It was a moderate success. I did hook the fish, and land it. However, I had done so in one movement and the fish dangled before my eyes from the line that was wrapped around my rod, the hood of my waterproof and the tree I was standing under. Dad showed me how to disgorge the hook and safely return the fish to the water. The tiny Gudgeon swam away apparently none the worse for its out-of-body-of-water experience. Dad began to unthread line from me and turned his attention to the tree. As he turned he must have noticed something out of place. His great fat Pike bung was nowhere in sight. He dropped my line and ran to his rod as it was dragged from rod-rests and heading for the weir’s foam. He managed to trap it with his foot before grabbing it and putting the fish under tension. A few minutes later he was showing me how to disgorge a treble hook from the mouth of a Pike without getting numerous backward pointing teeth embedded in your hand. He allowed the 5lb Pike the herring it had already half swallowed as a thank you, then slipped this into the water supporting it until one flick of its tail launched it into the deeps.
My youthful forays seemed to have been spent fishing less than half the time with the rest split between untangling birds’ nests and unhooking bushes or letting my mind and eyes wander to the wildlife and simple beauty of lakes shore and river bank. I’ve never cured myself of this habit and find watching a float usually means watching dragonflies mate, butterflies lay eggs on stinging nettles, seeing a snake glide across the water or a water vole shake itself off as it emerges from a pond. The corollary is, of course, suddenly becoming aware that my float is no longer where it was and either sighing with disappointment as it rises to the surface or snatching up my rod and striking into thin air. Very occasionally I legitimately connect or find that my rod is bending with providence having taken care of the hook setting for me.
As for Gudgeon so far as my limp brain can recall I did not catch another for half a century or more. I recently celebrated incipient dotage with the end of prime Tench time (late June) heralding the genesis of my sixty-sixth year. I decided to indulge the day with a fishing trip having rather fallen out of the habit. When I dusted off the Carp Mat and put the lead shot and hooks into their proper places I found the last fishing licence I had purchased in the bottom of the bag – dated five years previously! I could not believe it had been so long.
It is a truism of aging that what shines bright and alluring in the mind’s eye is often less attractive in the flesh. There are days when I’m up and at it, but too frequent are the days I simply can’t be arsed! It’s an odd phenomena affected all my most beloved pursuits whether it be travel or birding or a day spent with the angle. If I make the effort I enjoy every second of it and want a day to go on and on. I could fish and bird on an empty stomach for three days in a row despite my usual propensity to eat for England. But that is once the effort has been made, the alarm clock heeded and the car boot packed with appropriate gear. Sometimes the flame of the evening of preparation is fanned by the alarm from a barely lit ember to glowing coals. More often the alarm clock is cursed, the packed bag ignored and I turn to the wall and slip back into the night’s embrace.
So, it was that a month went by before the enthusiasm built to an unbearable level and I made it to the waterside. It is lucky for me that I met the love of my life a quarter century ago and that we have spent less nights apart since than there are toes on one foot. Soul mates, we do enjoy many things together, travelling the world, seeing exotic birds and eating in new restaurants. Unfortunately, fishing is not something Maggie can take to. She has said that the fiddling with tackle and bait would drive her to extreme actions and she doubts a day’s fishing would pass before she had smashed up her rod and thrown the tackle into the water. Every schoolboy knows that fishing requires deep and abiding patience… my beloved has many qualities but patience is not among them.
That she indulges me and accompanies me to the lake is more a case of not trusting me to be out by myself and not to fall into the river or drive into a ditch. She comes out of love and loyalty to me not for the love of the passtime. That is not to say she doesn’t make the best of it. She will enjoy the sun and be happy to see the wildlife too, but I know she would be happier still to be elsewhere.
Having spent five years away from fishing I found that I had not forgotten how to do anything, but I also found that my competence had taken a downward turn. Rather it had taken a backward step and was now lined up with my ten-year-old’s footprints. I was half tacked up before I realised the line was not under the reel’s bale arm, so I tackled down. When fully tackled I found that instead of passing the line through the last rod-ring at the tip I had threaded it through the ring’s attaching feet. I tacked half down to re-thread the line. In a considerably longer time than it has ever taken any lamb to oscillate its back end I was tackled up and ready to roll.
Have you ever experienced déjà vu?
I cast into a bush.
Trying to extricate myself made it worse until Maggie came to the rescue and, surprisingly patiently, unwrapped line and freed the tackle from the tangled twigs, then returned to her seat. I re-baited my hook.
I cast out again, only to see my lump of luncheon meat fly off across the lake and land among the reeds where a passing moorhen snapped it up. I reeled in the line and went to re-bait. I lifted the bait box to my knee and took out more meat. As I stretched toward the hook to pin it on the bait box tumbled from my knee and scattered cubes of luncheon meat all around. Trying to intercept the plummeting box I snatched my hand away so ineptly that I hooked my own index finger. I tried not to make Maggie aware of this and slipped the hook out… thank goodness barbed hooks are now banned. As I leant down to retrieve bait and put it back in the box the line swung towards me and the hook tagged my trousers and the skin below. With bait box half captured under my arm, rod held away from trouble I tried to stand and discharge the bait that had landed in my lap and trod on several pieces of bait on the grass. I looked up to appeal to my wife’s good nature but she could not catch my eye. She was double over in hysterics barely able to breathe. I tried to ignore this cruel abandonment and managed to bait my hook and cast again.
The float and hook dangled from my rod tip and I looked down to see my line bunched into a mess of tangled nylon. I sat down and patiently untangled the line while my better half untangled herself and recaptured her aplomb.
Eventually I managed to cast an intact bait into the lake without it flying off, without snagging the willows and with no line rolled into a spaghetti ball.
When I did, a series of bites followed all skilfully missed by me when it was time to strike. My stoicism was tested but prevailed and, eventually, I managed to connect.
I struck, the fish was hooked and the tiny Gudgeon flew over my head into the Rosebay Willow Herb. Mr Carp was obviously out for the day. Mr Tench had sunk back into the bottom silt and only master Gudgeon was paying my bait any attention.
For the rest of the afternoon I let my eyes and mind wander watching a Beautiful Demoiselle bend double in mating forming a love heart shape with its mate. I saw a Grass Snake slither across the surface tension and delighted in sudden bursts of Cetti’s Warbler song from the reeds. Every now and then I missed another bite striking too late or not at all. Here and there a self-sacrificing Carp gave himself up to me out of sheer pity.
The last time dad came to England we went fishing despite the fact that he was pretty unwell and finding it very hard to walk. We went to a spot I knew well and had a great time managing to catch a few carp. However, I found our roles had reversed. I baited his hooks, pulled his line from the trees, landed his fish and untangled his birds’ nests.
The very first time I took Ash fishing the scene of my own youth was repeated. He too hooked trees, lost bait, got bird’s nests and missed bites. But the pride in catching his first fish was as huge as mine in seeing him do it.
I’ve not asked Ash but I bet it was the same for Owen and Toby.