"... & a river runs through it."

"A river is water in its loveliest form" wrote the Canadian angler and naturalist Roderick Haig-Brown in his charmingly titled "A River Never Sleeps." He wasn't wrong either. Rivers, whether small  meandering streams narrow enough to be traversed with a single leap or mighty bodies of water inexorably pulsing towards the sea, have a beauty that no seascape, nor landscape devoid of water can come close to equalling, let alone surpassing.

This year I have reacquainted myself with water of the flowing variety, which as I consider myself to be predominantly a stillwater angler, has been a source (no pun intended) of great satisfaction. I have caught chub, dace and pike from the Trent, blanked while pursuing old esox on the Fens and landed barbel from the Severn, as well as swinging a succession of bleak, gudgeon and small perch to hand.

My teenage angling self was often to be found on the banks of the Loddon or Thames of my native Berkshire, and I several times fished a delightful little stream called the Embrook from which I plucked minnows, gudgeon and dace a plenty and the occasional chub of about half a pound. (I once caught 6 of these in a single morning, which constituted a "red letter day" from this diminutive stream of childhood memory.) It was at this young age that I first discovered, and then grew to love, the distinctive smell of a river- a composite of aromas: wet grass, wild garlic and a strange yet pleasant olfactory  oxymoron: the  simultaneous juxtaposition of freshness and mustiness. 

I like rivers for their appearance, their sounds and, as I've already confessed, their smell, but beneath their physical beauty flows a metaphysical current. Rivers run, and in that flow many have discovered a metaphor for life, a movement from source to conclusion with twists and turns, back eddies and carrier streams along the way - cradle to grave, times of being gently borne along, moments of fear as the floodwaters rise. There is a wisdom to be found in rivers, as the poet Henry Wadsworth Longfellow acknowledged: "Thou hast taught me Silent River, Many a lesson deep and long, Thou hast been a generous giver."

The rivers of my youth, the rivers I remember fishing and those I've forgotten, the sensation of standing in the current while trotting and feeling the gentle but persistent pull of the current, all these have become a part of me, and I and my piscatorial exploits a fleeting episode in their much grander story.
A story that will outlast mine, "and out again I curve and flow, To join the brimming river, For men may come and men may go, But I go on forever" wrote Tennyson, momentarily personified as a small stream in his poem "The Brook", or, as Paul Robeson would have it: "That ol' man river, he just keeps rolling ..."

But until I stop rolling, the river and its inhabitants will keep calling, and whenever time permits I'll grab my rod and creel and head for the door in answer of the call.

Perch ad Nauseum

Any regular reader of my piscatorial ramblings will have noticed a theme developing. The last two entries were entitled "Perch in person" and "Perch in absentia", and to keep with  the common thread that runs like silk through my Autumnal and Winter entries, I have chosen "Perch ad nauseum" as the heading for my latest report, an admission on my own part of my obsession with all things "finned and stripey", and an implicit apology to those who may starting to tire of my perca fluvitalis addiction. 

Following the capture of a splendid, hump backed, cavernous mouthed, 2 pound 10 ounce perch on my last adventure, I couldn't wait to renew my newfound acquaintance with the small pond from which I plucked it. On that occasion I had backed it up with another fish of about a pound and a half, my fishing companion Dave had also had a perch of well over a pound, and another angler on the lake landed a fish that, from where I was sat, looked to be every bit as big as my biggest, possibly even slightly larger. It was clear that my research had unearthed a pond with the potential to provide me with my first ever three pound perch. I needed to return. However, the month of November was a busy one with work and family wise, with a visit to my daughter in London, and our son's 18th birthday to celebrate in addition to a crowded work diary, and so the month passed, unforgivably, without a line being cast. There would, however, be one last chance, as December was earmarked for the final Christian Anglers fish-in of the season, and it fell to me to arrange it...... and so I did, invites went out to the membership (now a very healthy 63) and 8 were able to extricate themselves from work, family and Christmas related distractions to join me for a day of friendship, a "Secret Santa" draw, and the pursuit of some rather special perch.

The day dawned cold but dry, and the lake, which had been very coloured on my previous visit, was much clearer than I would have liked. I was tempted to fine down and fish a light hooklink and small hook, but decided against such measures, as the chance of tangling with carp and barbel overrode the attraction of finesse  in presentation, a decision that would turn out to be justified by subsequent events. In the end I matched a vintage glass fibre avon rod with an Allcocks Record Breaker centre pin, and 4 pound line straight through to a number 12 hook, with the worm dangling beneath a lovely little 2BB Harcork style perch bob. David, with whom I had travelled to the lake, caught a nice roach of about three quarters of a pound within five minutes of setting up, but thereafter the fishing could best be described by the euphemism "challenging." A handful of miniscule perch turned up at intervals before I caught my first fish that required the use of a net, a chub of perhaps 12 ounces.

On the other side of the lake Keith was catching roach, along with the occasional tiny perch, John (R) was sitting in a corner swim with his baits untroubled, and John (M) was walking the bank and enjoying a series of leisurely conversations, his angling intuition probably telling him that it was going to be a struggle. Meanwhile, Roy, Pete and Mick were ensconced on the other lake where Mick was intermittently catching small roach, Roy was picking off the very occasional fish and Pete was proving to be top rod, with a good number of silvers being supplemented by the occasional small carp of 2 or 3 pounds.

A couple of hours in, and my float (true to its name) bobbed before submerging and my strike was met with not just solid resistance, but a manic run in which the unseen adversary raced from the nearside margin to the far bank at breakneck speed, despite the pressure I was applying to the spool of the centre pin. The avon took on a pleasing curve as the fish took me from left to right and right to left on a number of determined runs before snagging me in some underwater roots near my feet. For a couple of minutes everything was sickeningly solid and I wondered whether the fish was still on, but after slackening off, tightening up and applying differing angles of side-strain the fish was once again free, and after a few more moments of heart-stopping histrionics a muscular stillwater barbel was safely enfolded in the net wielded for me by Pete. The barbel weighed 5 and a half pounds, and had provided both angler and tackle with a formidable test.

The barbel pretty much ended my day's sport. I caught several more tiny perchlets, one decent roach and endured much inactivity. John (M) landed a battling common on float-fished worm, his centre pin's ratchet emitting the sound beloved by all anglers as the fish dived and bolted in its attempts to escape, and John (R) actually caught a decent example of the species we were all targeting, with a nice perch of about a pound.

At midday we gathered at the back of the lake for the "Secret Santa", a few words from me about the similarities between the Christian season of Advent and fishing (ie: a time of waiting in hope ... and there was certainly lots of waiting between bites today!), and a prayer for one of our number unable to be present as he was visiting his seriously ill father. Santa (John R, who was given the role on account of his beard and genial, jolly manner) gave me a wrapped package which turned out to contain two Method Feeders, and I mercifully escaped without either having to sit on his knee or lie about having been a "good boy" this year.

After lunch the fishing, which had never been hectic, slowed still further and became almost pedestrian, although Pete managed to catch a fine perch, handsome and defiant, which was about the same size as the one taken by John (R) in the morning, and the aforementioned of the "Johns" also landed a last gasp common carp that engulfed the worm on his "one last cast."

By mid afternoon we were saying our goodbyes. The hoped for specimen perch had failed to materialise, and the fish appeared to be disinclined to feed with enthusiasm, presumably laid up dormant in the cold and gin-clear water, but as is always the case when the Christian Anglers group get together, the friendship, conversation, lack of rivalry, and gentle banter had made the day an absolute pleasure. The fish may have been for the most part uncooperative, the air chill, the weather cold, but there was warmth in the air of a different sort: to be with good friends in a peaceful outdoor setting, away from the pressures of modern life and aware of the One who created the environment we were enjoying was its own reward. Here's to more of the same in 2019.

(click below to watch a video taken from the barbel's fight)