I cannot lay claim to having fished in the halcyon past that Bernard Venables enjoyed, but despite beginning my angling journey in the age of carbon, my early teenage experiences of fishing were not dissimilar in feel to the pleasures recalled by BV in the opening chapter of his Memoirs, in which he writes: "our fishing was quiet; it lay in sweet meadows; its peace was untouched ... about that long-gone fishing there was ease ... a day was considered perfect in which, all day, we had been watching a red-topped float that occasionally dipped to a moderately sized fish."
For me, those old simplicities that characterised Bernard's recollection of his angling adventures in the early years of the 20th Century, and echoed in my own adolescent discovery of the joys of fishing in the early 1980's, have been rediscovered in middle age, in part as a result of the welcome loss of the size and results driven urge that typifies the competitiveness of the angler in early adulthood, and enhanced by my recently discovered love of collecting and putting to use antique and vintage tackle.
There are some who are suspicious of the "traditional angler", feeling that they detect in the traditionalist an air of assumed superiority and self-professed moral virtue, but - for me at least- this is far from the truth of the matter. My preference for using vintage tackle (much of which predates my arrival into the world in 1968) is driven not by the cult-like zeal of split cane fundamentalism, but purely from the joy of using equipment that bears the stamp not of mass production, but of craftsmanship, and which is often intrinsically aesthetically pleasing. A modern fishing rod, like a modern sports car, doubtless has qualities in terms of efficiency that the older equivalent lacks, but given the choice I'd take an E-type jaguar in pristine condition over a modern car any day, and a vintage rod over a generic modern one. Any shortfall in efficiency is more than amply compensated for by the artistry employed in the construction of the older model.
It's not only the choice of tackle utilised that has changed in line with my altered angling priorities, but also my choice of venues and definition of what constitutes a "good day's fishing." My preference these days is either for the simple, unspoiled farm pond or small lake that has been beloved of anglers since time immemorial (preferably tree-lined, set in a wooded copse or with views of rolling patchwork fields), rivers whose origins themselves are from time immemorial, and places of wild beauty, the ultimate example of which for me are the windswept "big sky" panoramas of the Fens.
Running in parallel with my adoption of vintage tackle and eschewing of big fish venues in favour of settings that are more pleasing on the eye and calming for the spirit, has been a change in my appreciation of the fish I catch. With the exception of perch (where my quest for my first three pound fish borders on obsession), I am almost entirely unconcerned by weights, reluctant to reduce a beautiful creature's worth to a mere recording of pounds and ounces. Ironically, although my preoccupation is no longer with size, the last few years have seen me improve my personal bests for barbel, golden orfe, crucian carp and (predictably) perch, the latter just one ounce short of the longed for three pounder. Perhaps the secret to catching larger fish is to be found in adopting an ambivalence to size.
In an essay published in 1981 (coincidentally the year in which my angling journey commenced), an American angling writer, Geoffrey Norman, compared the angler's fishing life with the seasons that he (or she) is so aware of around them while pursuing the gentle art. If the seasonal metaphor is employed, my "Autumn" is beginning to look not dissimilar to my youthful "Spring." The venues are similar, the simple pleasure of catching fish of any size and species is as strong, much of the tackle dates from (or predates) my earliest fishing days, in fact the only major difference is that the accumulated learning and experience of almost forty years of pursuing fish means that I catch far more of them than was true of my early forays into the world of piscatorial pleasures.
Perhaps the poet Wordsworth was correct to suggest that "the child is father of the man", and in my fifty third year a day is still considered perfect in which I've been watching a red-topped float that occasionally dips to a moderately sized fish, especially if the strike that connects with said modestly sized fish is made with a rod of venerable age and aesthetic grace, sentiments which I feel sure will continue into my angling "winter" as time continues its inexorable march.
For me, those old simplicities that characterised Bernard's recollection of his angling adventures in the early years of the 20th Century, and echoed in my own adolescent discovery of the joys of fishing in the early 1980's, have been rediscovered in middle age, in part as a result of the welcome loss of the size and results driven urge that typifies the competitiveness of the angler in early adulthood, and enhanced by my recently discovered love of collecting and putting to use antique and vintage tackle.
There are some who are suspicious of the "traditional angler", feeling that they detect in the traditionalist an air of assumed superiority and self-professed moral virtue, but - for me at least- this is far from the truth of the matter. My preference for using vintage tackle (much of which predates my arrival into the world in 1968) is driven not by the cult-like zeal of split cane fundamentalism, but purely from the joy of using equipment that bears the stamp not of mass production, but of craftsmanship, and which is often intrinsically aesthetically pleasing. A modern fishing rod, like a modern sports car, doubtless has qualities in terms of efficiency that the older equivalent lacks, but given the choice I'd take an E-type jaguar in pristine condition over a modern car any day, and a vintage rod over a generic modern one. Any shortfall in efficiency is more than amply compensated for by the artistry employed in the construction of the older model.
It's not only the choice of tackle utilised that has changed in line with my altered angling priorities, but also my choice of venues and definition of what constitutes a "good day's fishing." My preference these days is either for the simple, unspoiled farm pond or small lake that has been beloved of anglers since time immemorial (preferably tree-lined, set in a wooded copse or with views of rolling patchwork fields), rivers whose origins themselves are from time immemorial, and places of wild beauty, the ultimate example of which for me are the windswept "big sky" panoramas of the Fens.
Running in parallel with my adoption of vintage tackle and eschewing of big fish venues in favour of settings that are more pleasing on the eye and calming for the spirit, has been a change in my appreciation of the fish I catch. With the exception of perch (where my quest for my first three pound fish borders on obsession), I am almost entirely unconcerned by weights, reluctant to reduce a beautiful creature's worth to a mere recording of pounds and ounces. Ironically, although my preoccupation is no longer with size, the last few years have seen me improve my personal bests for barbel, golden orfe, crucian carp and (predictably) perch, the latter just one ounce short of the longed for three pounder. Perhaps the secret to catching larger fish is to be found in adopting an ambivalence to size.
In an essay published in 1981 (coincidentally the year in which my angling journey commenced), an American angling writer, Geoffrey Norman, compared the angler's fishing life with the seasons that he (or she) is so aware of around them while pursuing the gentle art. If the seasonal metaphor is employed, my "Autumn" is beginning to look not dissimilar to my youthful "Spring." The venues are similar, the simple pleasure of catching fish of any size and species is as strong, much of the tackle dates from (or predates) my earliest fishing days, in fact the only major difference is that the accumulated learning and experience of almost forty years of pursuing fish means that I catch far more of them than was true of my early forays into the world of piscatorial pleasures.
Perhaps the poet Wordsworth was correct to suggest that "the child is father of the man", and in my fifty third year a day is still considered perfect in which I've been watching a red-topped float that occasionally dips to a moderately sized fish, especially if the strike that connects with said modestly sized fish is made with a rod of venerable age and aesthetic grace, sentiments which I feel sure will continue into my angling "winter" as time continues its inexorable march.
