Post-plague piscatorial

It's been many times observed that the optimism which often greets the New Year, although endearing, tends to be an exercise in allowing "hope to triumph over experience." However, 2020 had been such an  unremittingly difficult year for everyone that if ever the "things can only get better" platitude could be relied on to be regarded as an accurate prophetic prediction, it was when the clock struck twelve on the 31st December as 2020 gave way to 2021. However, for me things were to get worse before they got better, with me contracting Covid  just a couple of weeks into January.

It was to be mid February before I fished again, but the intervening period had been made brighter by my taking delivery of a new cane rod, a lovely 11 foot float rod, strong enough to play a decent fish, yet responsive enough to make one of more modest proportions feel worth the catching. Beautifully refurbished and restored to its former glory by my friend Michael Bartholomew, I was eager to give it its reintroduction to active angling service, and so it was that it accompanied me on the short journey to the Club Lake for my first post-plague fishing foray.

As I tramped through the wet grass and the lake came into view, sunbeams riding the ripples on its surface, it seemed to defy belief that just seven days previously Leicestershire had been coated with a layer of fluffy white snow. Today Spring seemed to be pressing home its advantage in face of Winter's retreat. Swim choice owed nothing to science or watercraft, and everything to comfort. I chose my pitch for no better reason than its situation in the sunniest spot and proximity to the car park, and was soon lowering my simple float tackle into the margins. However, while every metaphorical cloud has a silver lining, so too every silver lining might be said to have a cloud, and in this case the downside of the warmer weather was physical clouds which, for one brief period, dispensed their watery load vertically. Fortunately, despite bringing only a minimum of tackle with me, I had possessed the foresight to bring an umbrella, and was glad to sit huddled under its protection for the light shower's five minute duration. 

Hook bait was bread,  and bites were soon forthcoming, the float shooting under with purpose as the fish awoke from their winter torpor and fed with welcome enthusiasm. I had matched the rod with an Allcocks Aeriel  centre pin, and soon its ratchet was making the pleasing clicking sound that accompanies its use when fish take line against the reel. The fish were not large, and unfortunately no roach or rudd punctuated the brisk procession of small but feisty commons and mirrors. 

The rod proved to be all that I had hoped, dealing admirably and with ease as the carp lunged and attempted to seek sanctuary. The larger fish were all mirrors, the best perhaps pushing four pounds, not large fish by carp fishing standards, but good fun and a worthwhile test for the vintage split cane.

At times my fishing takes on a determined intensity (most notably when pursuing specimen-sized perch), but I am first and foremost a pleasure angler, and today's session was unashamedly focussed entirely on the pursuit of pleasure; angling hedonism, if you will. The scenery was enjoyed, bites were hit and missed in roughly equal proportion, fish were caught, and (mostly) the sun shone. If nothing else, this last year has taught us much about unpredictability and the fragility of our existence, has reminded us of our own mortality and of how little of our own destiny we really control, and brought to our attention those things that are really important. After a couple of hours of scandalously casual fishing, I was  ready for home, and as I stole one last glance at the lake I recalled BB's gentle but wise exhortation to "look ye also, while life lasts."