"Old men", TS Eliot contended, "should be explorers."
While not yet quite an "old man", my years on earth to date would qualify me as one who inhabits that brief and necessarily temporary space in time best described as "too young to be old and too old to be young", and I am aware that with age and passing years I have gained a greater appreciation of the fact that every trip with a fishing rod is an adventure; an escape from the responsibilities that restrict and define modern life and a journey back into something altogether simpler, a now fast disappearing world that once existed. A world that takes me back to the earliest days of my angling journey, themselves explorations and adventures in which visits to an old-style tackle shop (sometimes just to stand and stare), evenings spent pouring over the same collection of fishing magazines and books, and the drawing of maps of lakes and keeping diaries were as much a part of the adventure as the plucking of modestly sized roach, rudd, perch and the occasional plump tench from the local club lake.
Perhaps my fishing is a returning to something I thought was lost. Perhaps that's why I choose to continue my adventures with vintage rods and reels. Perhaps that's why my favourite of all British fish is the first fish I ever caught: the perch.
With Spring almost upon us, and Autumn and Winter nearly spent I had opted for one last session in search of perch and returned to the "perch pond" that has accounted for some fine specimens for me, in the knowledge that soon the adventures will change shape to become forays after tench and crucians in keeping with the changing of the seasons.
Float fishing triple red maggot on a size 18, I was soon experiencing bites, which resulted in a succession of tiny perch and the occasional 3 or 4 ounce roach being swung in to join me on the bank. This is a pond where large perch lurk but, whether using worm or maggot, the voracious hordes of small fish have to be waded through before connection is made with the prize.
After about an hour and a half of striking and making contact with either "thin air" or a mini perch or small roach, I found myself attached to something much more substantial. The vintage glass fibre avon took the strain and after a tussle of two or three minutes a wonderful fat-bellied perch was being drawn over the waiting net. A glance at the fish in the folds of the net led to me wondering if I had, at last, fulfilled my ambition to land a three pounder. The fish was shaped like a football, and I knew it would be a close thing. In the event, it couldn't have been any closer: the digital scales, once the weight of the net had been subtracted indicated a perch of 2 pounds and 15 ounces.
I slipped my prize back into the water, and spent the next quarter of an hour sitting behind my fishing partner for the day, David, and chatting. It didn't feel right to dive back into the pursuit of perch without savouring the after-glow of a new personal best.
David was legering with pellets as bait, his intentions for the day revolving around carp and barbel. (yes, I know: always controversial when stocked into stillwater, but we don't own the lake, we just fish it, and in all fairness the barbel of this pond always fight with determination and look as fit as the proverbial fiddle.)
Sport had been slow for David, with just a few small roach and an F1 to show for his efforts, but eventually his quivertip swung round and a muscular fish powered towards the middle of the lake, leading a few minutes later to him admiring and holding aloft for the cameras a handsome barbel.
By lunchtime I was ready to pack up. In married life there is "no such thing as a free fishing session", and there were two lawns to be mown. The sun was high and hot, the perch had faded away into the shadows (although I did contrive to lose another perch, that looked to be about a pound and three quarters, a loss which disappointed me less than it might have done but probably more than it should have done, in the light of my earlier success.)
In conclusion, this morning's short adventure contained all that is best in fishing; beautiful scenery, good company, memories made and a fish glorious in both appearance and stature.
There are many worse ways to spend a morning, but few better.
And so, for this "old man explorer" the quest for a "three" (and thereby the adventure), for the sake of a mere ounce, continues ...
Float fishing triple red maggot on a size 18, I was soon experiencing bites, which resulted in a succession of tiny perch and the occasional 3 or 4 ounce roach being swung in to join me on the bank. This is a pond where large perch lurk but, whether using worm or maggot, the voracious hordes of small fish have to be waded through before connection is made with the prize.
After about an hour and a half of striking and making contact with either "thin air" or a mini perch or small roach, I found myself attached to something much more substantial. The vintage glass fibre avon took the strain and after a tussle of two or three minutes a wonderful fat-bellied perch was being drawn over the waiting net. A glance at the fish in the folds of the net led to me wondering if I had, at last, fulfilled my ambition to land a three pounder. The fish was shaped like a football, and I knew it would be a close thing. In the event, it couldn't have been any closer: the digital scales, once the weight of the net had been subtracted indicated a perch of 2 pounds and 15 ounces.
I slipped my prize back into the water, and spent the next quarter of an hour sitting behind my fishing partner for the day, David, and chatting. It didn't feel right to dive back into the pursuit of perch without savouring the after-glow of a new personal best.
David was legering with pellets as bait, his intentions for the day revolving around carp and barbel. (yes, I know: always controversial when stocked into stillwater, but we don't own the lake, we just fish it, and in all fairness the barbel of this pond always fight with determination and look as fit as the proverbial fiddle.)
Sport had been slow for David, with just a few small roach and an F1 to show for his efforts, but eventually his quivertip swung round and a muscular fish powered towards the middle of the lake, leading a few minutes later to him admiring and holding aloft for the cameras a handsome barbel.
By lunchtime I was ready to pack up. In married life there is "no such thing as a free fishing session", and there were two lawns to be mown. The sun was high and hot, the perch had faded away into the shadows (although I did contrive to lose another perch, that looked to be about a pound and three quarters, a loss which disappointed me less than it might have done but probably more than it should have done, in the light of my earlier success.)
In conclusion, this morning's short adventure contained all that is best in fishing; beautiful scenery, good company, memories made and a fish glorious in both appearance and stature.
There are many worse ways to spend a morning, but few better.
And so, for this "old man explorer" the quest for a "three" (and thereby the adventure), for the sake of a mere ounce, continues ...
