On being "In the club..."

According to Brian Adam's the summer of '69 seemed to last forever, although as I was only one year old at the time I feel unqualified to adjudicate on the veracity of his observation. However, 51 years on and the late spring/early summer of 2020 seems already to have been a protracted affair with minutes, hours, days and weeks feeling as if they pass with much less haste than is customary. No doubt the blurring of the normal delineating lines that we use to regiment our days has been a contributory factor with many people furloughed from work, others like myself working from home, children kept from school, and  weeks of confinement at home having been  necessitated as a national response to the coronavirus pandemic. Also playing its part has been the weather, with summer starting earlier than usual and Britain enjoying week after consecutive week of languorous, somnolent sunshine. And so it was, in the middle of a Tuesday afternoon in the first week in June, with the sun high in the sky, my son James and I, accompanied by James's girlfriend Emma, made our first foray to the lake owned by a club we'd just been invited to join by an angling friend and neighbour. After years of mostly day ticket angling I was back in the world of cardboard covered club membership books, newsletters, AGM's and lakes far from the madding day ticket crowd.

We set up in lilly pad fringed swims next to each other, both electing to float fish. I had opted to deploy my vintage 10 foot fibreglass avon rod, matched with an Allcocks Record Breaker reel, and soon both of our floats were dipping and disappearing regularly. Bites were lightening quick, and more were missed than hit, but the result when fish were hooked was a procession of the most beautiful small carp, wonderful scaly mirrors with caramel coloured flanks and darker commons, every one pristine in condition.

Set amid trees, quiet, peaceful, and litter free, this was summer fishing at its most pleasing. Baits were traditional and simple (a can of sweetcorn and a loaf of bread) and the pleasure of fishing was accentuated by the pleasure of fishing as father and son, a pleasure that began when James caught his first fish aged just three and remains as strong sixteen years on. The carp were joined by the occasional roach or rudd (even Emma took a break from spectating and sunbathing to catch her first ever fish), and as late afternoon gave way to evening we packed up and walked back to the car enveloped by a glow of gentle satisfaction. This was simple fishing in pleasant surroundings and good company. Izaak Walton would have approved and understood.