Breakfast for all, and barbel for Pete (Christian Anglers weekend Retreat- Sunday morning)

A frequently asked question in strategy meetings I attend is "what would good look like?" or "how would we know if this was a success?" Sometimes the answer is easy: there are metrics, measurables, performance indicators and outputs that answer the question, but at other times the response to the enquiry has to be more nuanced. 

As I reflect on the last weekend and the Christian Anglers Retreat, what I see looks very like success. The number of barbel was significant but a long way short of spectacular, the weather at times was shocking but the "sum of the parts" created a wonderful "whole". Only one angler blanked, some lovely barbel were banked, most anglers connected with the odd decent chub and the camaraderie and fellowship were second to none.

My own lack of barbel didn't diminish my sense of having had a great time fishing, and although my "two for the price of one" pike and chub adventure on the opening night (both fish are pictured below) provided a few minutes of high adrenaline excitement, it was spending a couple of hours trotting with a centre pin during a rare sunny interlude on the Saturday afternoon and catching a steady stream of 4 ounce perch that was my angling highlight. Sometimes the pleasure lies in things altogether more subtle than mere pounds and ounces.

Very few of us fished on Sunday. It was a morning for chatting, loafing about, eating and packing up, which began (as all fishing and camping mornings surely must) with bacon and mugs of hot coffee or tea. Pete, our normal camp chef had been called into work to sort an emergency, so David and I took on the role of catering corps, and the smell of bacon wafted across the campsite.

Only three anglers fished, the indefatigable and endlessly enthusiastic John Rellie tried legering worms and Jez tossed a maggot feeder into the river for half an hour, but even the small fish were proving obdurate and uncooperative, and quiver tips remained still, baits untroubled.

Loz was awarded the "angler of the Weekend" prize, for catching a brace of barbel on his first ever trip in pursuit of the species. Primarily a fly fisherman, Loz is a recent member of the group, and he and John Rellie (both on only their second trips out with Christian Anglers) have proved to be good company and welcome additions to our happy "band of brothers".

Predictably, when Pete returned from his unscheduled dash into work he couldn't resist a few casts (there are few people I've fished with who are as single-minded in their pursuit of their quarry than Pete), and his persistence paid off with four barbel in under an hour, a fitting end to the weekend. As has often been said "if your bait's in the water, you've got a chance", and Pete certainly took his.

Roy, retired Yorkshire miner and the weekend's "king of the bleak" (he did also manage a decent chub) formally rounded the weekend off with a prayer, and a succession of anglers returned to the four different Counties they'd journeyed from tired yet refreshed and eager for the next time we get together on the bank.
Catching fish, sharing friendship, making memories ..... it doesn't get much better.

Barbel, Bibles and "near death experiences"- (Christian Anglers weekend Retreat- day two)

Saturday morning began as Friday evening had ended; wet, windy and with Pete catching barbel. By 5:00am there were shadowy figures moving around the camp as unshaven and slightly dishevelled anglers began, in dribs and drabs, to move towards the river, rods and tackle in hand.
Pete and I had arranged to fish together and within five minutes of casting, and before we'd even had a chance to begin feeding the swim, Pete's rod was hooped over as he and a barbel engaged in a  spirited game of tug of war. The barbel sat deep and used a combination of its own and the current's power, but after a few minutes the fish was Pete's. Quickly admired, photographed and returned, the day couldn't have started any better.

Meanwhile, downstream by the bridge, in shallower water, John McAngus (the use of surnames an unfortunate necessity in a group which included two "Johns" and a "Jon"!) caught four or five smaller barbel of about 3 or 4 pounds in successive casts, and Jez and Loz both caught several mini barbel of about half a pound in weight, perfection in minature. One of our number, John Rellie, had shown devotion to the sport that went beyond the realm of duty and drove offsite at midnight on Friday before returning, fuelled by a KFC, to fish all night but although he caught some nice chub, no barbel rewarded his dedication.

At 10 o'clock we wound our rods in and reassembled in the gazebo for a welcome hot  breakfast of bacon rolls accompanied by coffee. Breakfast was followed by a Bible study, and although Scripture states that it "rains on the just and the unjust", the weather cleared and seemed for a moment to reflect the less Biblical, but commonly quoted aphorism, that states that the "sun shines on the righteous." We discussed the story of Jesus calling his first fishermen disciples in Matthew 4, and at least one angler described the Bible study as the highlight of the weekend. (at this point it's important to add that he was an angler who caught barbel, so our time of fellowship and study wasn't being "damned with the faintest of praise"!)

Following the Bible study angling was resumed, but mostly in a less focused and more light-hearted manner. David and Keith resolutely continued to set out their stall for "barbel or bust", but most of us took a break from sitting behind rods pointed skywards and spent the time trotting or swimfeeding with maggots. Roy caught bleak a plenty trotting a stick float, and I had an immensely pleasurable couple of hours in which I trotted a small 2BB perch bob and caught 30-40 perch, beautiful examples of their species, bright green backs, dark stripes and lovely red fins and probably averaging about 4 ounces. The procession of perch was interrupted by the occasional bleak, gudgeon or small chublet.

We broke off from the fishing for an early "tea", burgers, onions and all the usual accoutrements of a traditional fisherman's meal (ie. an excess of things that taste nice and almost inevitably lead to heart disease!), told fishy tales, exchanged tips and tactics and teased Roy about his bleak catching prowess.

After tea, the quest for barbel was resumed in earnest. One or two had been briefly encountered and lost during daylight (Keith proving particularly unlucky), but we knew that as evening drew in and dusk fell that our chances would increase. I set up in a swim downstream (as it turned out, an error of  tactical judgement) and shared a swim with Jez and a flotilla of visiting ducks.

The only fish that Jez and I saw was a chub that happened upon Jez's swimfeedered luncheon meat, and apart from one twitch and bleep my bait remained untroubled by fish. However, the conversation and the chance to catch up with Jez made up for the absence of fish falling to our rods.

Elsewhere on the river, especially in a small concentration of upstream swims barbel were being caught. Not in large numbers, but odd fish were finding their way to the bank. John MacAngus had the pick of the captures with a barbel just ounces under 10 pounds, Loz (who had never previously caught a barbel managed a brace) and David also banked a good fish. Predictably, Pete also found himself among the barbel, his being the only one to come from one of the shallower downstream swims.

The weather continued in the capricious and changeable vein that had marked the weekend, driving rain giving way to light showers, giving way to sunny spells, all resulting in a rather spectacular double rainbow decorating the early evening sky, a reminder both of God's faithfulness and sheer artistic flair. The weather also provided us with the weekend's biggest drama, when a tree creaked, groaned, split and crashed spectacularly to the ground, landing with a thump on the chair that 30 seconds earlier David had been sitting on. I was standing at the top of the bank and saw the trunk split, shouted a warning that led to David adroitly leaping aside, leading to a ton of tree missing him by just a few feet. Had he not moved .... well, let's just say that I might have picked up some funeral business that I would much rather not have had to pick up!

By the end of the evening our barbel count had grown, and four of our number had shared 11 barbel (not including the clutch of small ones of under a pound that Jez and Loz caught earlier in the day), with most of the rest of us with chub to our name, and the occasional nuisance eel.

A wonderful day that had begun with fishing for barbel and moved cyclically from there through breakfast, Bible study, general "fun fishing" and barbeque back to barbel, ended with hot drinks and a prayer in the gazebo, before retreating to our tents.
 I discovered the next morning that I was not the only person whose sleep had been sporadically disturbed by dreams that centred around trees landing on tents. 

"Barbel fishing like a Magyar"- (Christian Anglers camping retreat, 1st evening)

John Paget was a 19th Century agriculturalist, traveller and writer who had the good fortune (literally) to marry a wealthy Hungarian Countess and described his newly adopted Countrymen thus:

" ... a Magyar never moves when he can sit still ... his step is measured, his countenance pensive, his character a singular mixture of habitual passiveness and melancholy mixed up with a great susceptibility to excitement."

I am always suspicious of racial stereotyping, and as my own personal experience of Hungary is restricted to 48 hours in Budapest over a decade ago I can't vouch for the veracity of his observations, however I am qualified to remark that he could just of easily have been writing about barbel anglers. Barbel angling requires a measured step, great patience, and in those often lengthy periods between feeding spells reflection can lead to melancholy, but when the rod tip starts bouncing and a barbel tears off into the current, excitement (and not a little fear) take over as the adrenaline races as fast as the streamlined, torpedo-shaped barbus maximus.  

It was Friday evening, and as I bade my time for the light levels to drop and the sky to turn to dusk, I sat on my unhooking mat beside the River Trent, barbel rod pointing towards the fading orb, net, bucket and tackle bag beside me and coffee cup in my hand..... and waited  .... and waited .....

The annual Christian Anglers weekend retreat is, for me, a yearly highlight. Now in its third year, it brings together anglers from around the Country who share their  passion for fishing with one for their Christian faith, and every year has proved to be a time of relaxation, camping, barbecues, camaraderie, humour, good fishing and fellowship; a time to enjoy this most engrossing of pastimes while simultaneously enjoying the company of like-minded anglers and, in doing so, to recharge batteries both physical and spiritual. This year the target species was to be the mighty barbel. However, conditions could hardly have been worse, the most severe drought for over 40 years meant that there had been no rain for a couple of months and the river was alarmingly low and clear. However, all of that was to change and we found ourselves setting up camp in torrential rain with thunder rolling around and lightening streaking the sky. For a few moments the rain even gave way to hail, sharply stinging mini balls of ice bouncing off tent roof, ground and angler alike. On the bright side, at least the water would be better oxygenated, but the rain appeared to make only the most  negligible of differences to the water level and the air was chill as the temperature plummeted from its recent balmy heights.

Despite the inclement weather, there was to be plenty of excitement for the susceptible among us to enjoy. Once the thunder and lightening had retreated to a reasonably safe distance (no-one wants to be holding a carbon rod, the ultimate "lightening conductor" in a storm!) we made for the river, with thoughts of barbel and chub in our minds.

I chose a swim with plenty of flow about 60-70 yards across and a willow tree on my left on the nearside and started fishing to the edge of the faster current, initially with bacon grill as bait, and then drilled Robin Red pellets, while catapulting out pouch-fulls of pellets.  There were no screaming runs of the barbel kind, but several clear plucks from chub, and on hitting one of these I connected with a chub which, three quarters of the way to the bank suddenly seemed to become turbo-charged. As the fish began to see my side of the argument all became clear. Despite the chub being a good two and a half pounds in weight, a pike had taken more than a passing fancy to the chub, which was now clamped firmly in said pike's mighty jaws. A ferocious tussle ensued between fish and angler, with the pike eventually being drawn into the net (along with the unfortunate chub). The pike, long and lean as river pike tend to be, and with an outsized head and jaws was weighed at 10 pounds 14 ounces, photographed and gently nursed back into the river. The chub, badly mangled but gamely hanging on to life, was also returned in the hopes that it would recover the ordeal.

My evening, following the double capture, was uneventful with no further action, and with the river out of sorts only the very occasional chub or eel bothered the assembled Christian Anglers faithful. David landed a chub of about 3 pounds, but just before packing up time, with darkness on the edge of falling Pete caught the fish that was to give us hope for the following day- a splendid barbel of 9 pounds 12 ounces. I waded into the river to net the barbel, getting my feet and legs wet for the second time that evening. Three others of our party had lost hard-fighting barbel in the snag festooned river, and so- with first contact made- spirits were high. They weren't going to be easy to catch in the conditions, but the barbel were there, and tomorrow would provide ample opportunity to go after them.

We retreated to the Gazebo that was to serve as camp kitchen and headquarters, and after hot drinks and hearty congratulations to Pete, and some leg pulling for my "two for the price of one" chub and pike double, following a quick prayer together, all turned in for the night to prepare for Saturday's 5am start..

I suspect that I was not alone in dreaming of barbel. There was little as darkness drew in to prepare us for the drama that the next day would bring.

"Then sings my (angling) soul ..."

There are many these days who claim themselves to be "spiritual", yet not religious. I know this from having encountered them as either a) vacuous celebrities who attempt to mask their facile vacuosity by clothing themselves in a cloak of "metaphysical depth" which never quite seems to fit, b) random people I meet at parties, in pubs or on trains who probably aspire to being "vacuous celebrities who attempt to ... etc.", or c) harmless New Age hippy types caught in a Woodstock time warp, but one thing on which they all seem to agree is that it's in the great outdoors that they most frequently experience a "transcendent other", and while I find their inability to pursue, recognise and name the source of their claimed experience frustrating, I do kind of "get it." 

What angler doesn't appreciate the beauty of his or her surroundings, as much as they do the fish they seek to catch in them? The wisest anglers are those who sagely realise that the fish themselves are often only the presenting reason for our passion, and that the magic of our hobby is more than just the fish, and is something bigger and beyond our mortal selves.

Norman Maclean in his exquisitely written part autobiographical work "A River Runs through it" begins the story with the line "In our family there was no clear line between religion and fly fishing", and goes on to state that he "learnt to cast Presbyterian-style". My own Christian faith was a conscious adult decision that was subsequent to my childhood experiences of fishing, so my early casting was unencumbered by denominational allegiance, but for me, as for Maclean's minister father, the space between Heaven and Earth seems a thinner one when I'm fishing!

I am not for a single moment claiming that only an angler of faith persuasion appreciates the beauty and splendour that surrounds them, but as one who fished before encountering God in a personal sense, and one who continues to fish now as someone primarily defined by their relationship with God, I can attest to an added dimension. For me, the experience of being awed by my surroundings goes beyond the aesthetic or the namelessly numinous and points me to a God who reveals himself in the commonly acknowledged beauty of the natural world and uses that general revelation to draw me to his specific revelation of himself in the words of the Scriptures and the person of Jesus Christ.

The 18th Century poet William Cowper posited that "nature is but a name for an effect whose cause is God", and it seems to me no co-incidence that the two earliest and most venerable works of fishing literature both have a Christian element. Dame Juliana Berners, whose 15th Century "Treatyse of fyshynge with an angle" is the oldest tome on the pastime was the Prioress of a Nunnery in Hertfordshire, and Izaak Walton, author of angling's most famous literary offering, "The Compleat Angler" punctuates the fishing instruction with Christian meditation and God-ward reflection in his piscatorial magnum opus.

For me angling is an icon (a window into spiritual truth), and a sacrament (a visible sign of a greater invisible reality and grace) such that when I'm fishing my heart soars with the hymnwriter's and I'm caused to think (if not to sing) "O Lord my God, when I in awesome wonder, consider all the works thy hand hath made .... then sings my soul, my Saviour God to thee, how great thou art ...."

Fishing as a "spiritual discipline": ..... works for me, and then some.