In praise of ponds

 

I have never received a definitive answer in purely empirical terms to the question "what's the difference between a pond and a lake?" but intuitively when I see a body of water I instinctively categorise it in my mind as either a pond or a lake. Mere acreage has something to do with it, but at that point where size alone means that the definition could go either way (as in: "is this a big pond or a small lake?") there is always something that, although doubtless subjective, leads to me being very clear in my own mind that one small watery environment should be viewed as  a "pond" and another of equal size a "lake". 

I love ponds. In fact, I would probably go as far as to say that of all the different types of water that demand to be fished, ponds occupy the fondest place in my affections. I have fished rivers, and caught barbel, chub and pike from the mighty rivers Severn and Trent, and perch from the noble Thames, and am happy to concede the fact that, as some literary personage once said, "a river is water in its loveliest form", but for me ponds are water in their "most charming form", and I go fishing, in part, to be charmed.

For some lovers of ponds, the fondness may be a pleasant, sentimental regression into their childhood fishing experiences, but for me that isn't the case. My earliest forays into the delights of angling took place on the lakes and gravel pits of Berkshire and the banks of the  River Loddon, and so my nostalgia-tinged recollections are very different from the charming, evocative prose of George Orwell, who in writing about the mid-life crisis of George Bowling, recalls his own boyhood spent fishing (uninvited) on a small farm pond in Binfield. 

I love ponds for their intimacy and for their reassuring changelessness. Rivers are fickle, and have to be constantly rediscovered, with  floods, bankside tree cutting and the relentless pull of the current, continually altering their personality. To regularly fish a river is to engage in a high maintenance relationship. Ponds by contrast just "are." Sure, unless they receive a modicum of care and husbandry, they silt up, become choked with weed, and shallow up to just a few inches, but if looked after adequately they acquire a timeless quality as they age unobtrusively and without fuss or show. In a world in which the sands seem to be constantly shifting at a sometimes alarming and bewildering pace, ponds speak of a changeless rootedness and offer a sense of reassurance. They also, to my mind, evoke a link with a past that largely no longer is. Born in the 1960's I am perhaps representative of the very end of that era, a time in which time itself seemed to move more slowly, an idyll that barely remains and which those of us of melancholic bent have to work hard to find ways of recreating.

True ponds are also often one of the last bastions of angling in a more traditional form- an antidote to "commercial ventures" where waters that are the same size as "ponds", but which share none of their characteristics or charm, have been overstocked with voracious carp, rendering a species that was once viewed as almost impossible to catch as now amongst the easiest of species to catch. They tend to be  inhabited by species which themselves seem to represent the essence and traditions of English angling- olive-flanked tench silky to the touch, and plump, chubby and shy biting crucians. That these are usually of insignificant size is of no matter, and I could happily fish for six ounce crucians or two pound tench all day, without falling prey to the lust for a bigger specimen. That being said, not all the inhabitants of ponds are small- I have recently caught countless perch in excess of two pounds from a pond of about a quarter of an acre, fish which have grown large on neglect, small rudd, and an invasion of crayfish.

It's of no surprise to the angler that Claude Monet spent his latter years beside the pond he'd created at Giverny in 1893, entranced by its beauty and creating some of his most iconic work in response to the spell it cast over him. He created the pond, in his own words, "for the pleasure of the eye", and if when I reach my latter years I'm fortunate enough to still posses the strength to carry a stool, a rod and a net to the water's edge, it will most likely be to a pond that I'll deport myself, for the pleasure of my eye and, if fortune favours me, the odd small fish.

Fathers and sons

The lake is beginning to look quite lovely. In another couple of months it will be at its high summer best, lush, green and verdant, the water's surface dotted with lily pads and the trees groaning under the weight of their foliage. I'm inordinately fond of the Club Lake, although it isn't a venue to catch big fish from (although I haven't given up on the idea that the winter capture of a two pound perch might be a distinct possibility), but rather a place you visit for its peace and tranquility, and immaculately conditioned smaller fish. The carp (of which there are too many) average about a pound or so in weight, the rudd are of reasonable size but chiefly significant for their colour and beauty, and the whole experience is a leisurely antidote to the hectic ant-like scurrying that constitutes most aspects of modern life. The Club Lake is fishing that's good for the soul.

We had celebrated my 53rd birthday slightly prematurely, with weekend gatherings in both my own garden and that of my parents-in-law, each restricted to just six people as is the legal limit in these plague-aware days, but on my birthday itself I switched my computer off at 3:00pm, turned my back on my lengthy work "to do" list, and accompanied by my son, James,  headed off for the Club Lake. While fishing is not for him the passion that it is for me (slamming into people on a rugby pitch is what gets his heart racing faster), he has been an angler since the age of three, and usually manages to catch as many or more fish than I do. Some of my most prized photos are of him fishing as a small child, complete with the "old man's cap" that he insisted on purchasing from a charity shop.

Now almost twenty one, he's turned into a fine young man and sometime whisky drinking partner. Parenthood may be the ultimate game of roulette, with children from good and loving families going "off the rails", and the whole thing seeming like a game of trial, error, and random chance, but whether by luck or judgement or merely God's good providence, my wife and I have been blessed to have emerged from the intensive "hands on" years of parenting with a grown up daughter and son to be proud of, and I have full trust in both of them that when the time comes to pick a Care Home for me that they'll choose wisely and well!

I always enjoy the two minute walk from the car park to the lake, taking pleasure in that moment when it appears in its small hollow, trees standing sentinel-like along its edges, and the sun dancing on and dappling its surface. We elected to share a swim, knowing that the sacrifice in terms of efficiency and the halving of the number of fish we each stood to catch would be more than compensated by the conversation and company. As is our usual practice, we were both using centre pin reels, mine matched with a split cane rod lovingly refurbished by my Devonian friend Michael, with James employing a modern carbon float rod.

We fished for three hours as afternoon gave way to evening, and the fish proved to be in an  accommodating and compliant mood, although not as extravagantly so as is sometimes the case. Tactics were simple, with float-fished sweetcorn being all that was required to provoke a steady stream of mostly carp to join us on the bank before being slipped back into their watery abode. Double hook-ups were common, and the evening proved to be the perfect way to round off the marking of my entering my 54th year of existence. 

The American novelist James Baldwin once said that "if the relationship between father and son could be reduced to biology, the whole earth would blaze with the glory of fathers and sons." I think I know what he meant.

"As good as a rest..."

 

"A change", according to received wisdom, "is as good as a rest", and as my fishing had taken on an uncharacteristically restless mood over the last fortnight perhaps a change was required. The restlessness had been induced by what had started out as a whimsical desire to catch a 2 pound perch from the Club Lake, a desire which was beginning to become something of an obsessive compulsion. I'm no stranger to 2 pound perch, having caught a fair few fish of such stature in recent years, and have only in the last fortnight turned my attention to angling for them in the Club Lake, but for some reason the "Club Lake project" has taken hold with a vengeance that contrasts starkly with my normal laid back approach to matters piscatorial.

My first two sessions had seen me on each occasion landing a single perch of about a pound within the first hour, and thereafter being periodically bothered by carp, with perch conspicuously absent for the remainder of the session. In both cases I had stayed in one likely looking swim and float fished prawn, while attempting to build the swim by feeding red maggots. It was clearly time to try something different, and so I arrived at the lake determined to take a more mobile approach, and to replace the prawn hookbaits with small live baits. The change of tactics was completed by me forsaking the venerable old split cane rods and centre pin reels that I normally choose to employ, and opting instead to use the lovely carbon rod that my rodmaking friend Don Morse from the USA custom built for me a few years ago. At just six and a half feet long, and as light as the proverbial feather, it would be the perfect companion for a mobile session, and having in the past handled pike to just shy of 20 pounds, there was every reason to feel confident in its ability to tame a mere 2 pound perch. 

After a period in which the weather had seemed to have got itself stuck in some strange indecisive liminal space between Winter and Spring, the day was warm and (alas for perch fishing) sunny, but despite the conditions I stubbornly resolved to stick to the plan and try for perch. I had been joined by long-time fishing companion David, who had accompanied me as an observer, as he plans to join the club for next season and wanted to get a sense of the place. The livebaits had thankfully proved predictably fairly easy to catch, and before long a small liphooked rudd was swimming around enticingly beneath a particularly attractive perch bob float, complete with a Kingfisher feather decorating its bulbous body. (the float, that is, not the rudd!)

I persisted with the livebait for a couple of hours, and both rudd employed for the task did their bit by swimming around gamely, before being unhooked and released, but there was no sign of any interest from perch, nor I concluded as the sun rose higher and hotter, was there likely to be. I admitted defeat, and decided to make the best of the glorious weather and spend the remainder of the day float fishing maggots for whatever chose to happen along. It took a few attempts to master striking with a short rod at the float's dipping, but before long a succession of pretty carp were being played to the bank with pleasing regularity, the procession of commons and caramel flanked mirrors being occasionally interrupted by a roach, rudd, juvenile perch or, on one occasion, a bream. This was carefree fishing in a manner that reminded me of my early childhood forays into angling, fishing at its simplest, although as a boy I would have caught far fewer fish and today's catch would have constituted a "red letter day."

I took a break from fishing to enjoy my first cigar for over half a year, appropriately on the day that the Queen said farewell in the Chapel at Windsor to her husband of just shy of 74 years, a Punch Petit Coronation, a cigar first manufactured in Cuba to mark her coronation in 1953. As I savoured its sweet yet peppery flavour, a muffled single bell tolled solemnly from the village church, a reminder of the funeral taking place in Berkshire, and that even when enjoying an afternoon in the sun, this world, though infused with beauty, is also a vale of tears.

A few more fish were added, before I bade goodbye to the lake, strangely satisfied despite the lack of the perch I had set out in search of that morning. In a sense the failure to connect with a large perch was a relief. The weather had sent a message, that it was time to forgo the serious quest for specimen perch until the Autumn, and to enter into the spirit of Spring and Summer fishing, which for me is always a more casual and carefree enterprise. I had come, seen, and failed to conquer, but the Club Lake's perch haven't seen the last of me, and refreshed by a Summer of relaxed and lazy angling, they will be returned to with purpose and determination when the leaves turn to russet and the first frosts fall.

"One last session ..."

 

Unlike the majority of my angling friends I am not afflicted by "one last cast" syndrome. I reach a point when I've had enough for the day and, without prevarication, neatly and tidily pack up, sometimes even committing the unpardonable sin of packing up my rod and reel first. I have fishing partners whose "one last cast" can last in excess of an hour and see them propelling their rig into the lake any number of times. However, lest the reader thinks I am revelling in a sense of superior self-righteousness, I  must confess to suffering from a different, although related, malaise: "one last session" syndrome. Yesterday, was my second "last session after perch" in a week, and the summer species will have to wait another few weeks, as, now thoroughly addicted to the quest for a Club Lake two pounder, I have been forced to admit to myself that there are likely to be several more sessions in pursuit of perch over the next few weeks.

I arrived at the lake towards lunchtime, with the April weather once again more wintery than Spring-like, with a chill in the air and a fair wind whipping the lake's surface into peaked waves. I dropped a prawn into the margins, and after about an hour my second bite of the day (the first had produced a small carp) resulted in the capture of the target species which, as last week, if weighed would have probably registered around the pound mark. Plump as a football and resplendent in its striped and red finned glory, living proof that its species is the handsomest of fishes.

That, however, from a perch fishing perspective, was to be as good as things got. I was trickling red maggots into the swim, a fact that the lake's voracious hoards of small carp became aware of, and although sport wasn't brisk, the next three hours saw several of these bending the split cane and being drawn reluctantly to the net.

Dave and  Matt joined me as the session wore on, but their worms and prawns could similarly only induce carp to feed, and perch were conspicuous by their absence. The lack of perch failed to diminish the enjoyment of the day with the lake's attractiveness being accentuated by the constant backing track of birdsong from a (mostly unseen) avian choir. I struck up a friendship with a curious robin, although the friendship came at the cost of red maggots, which my newly found feathered acquaintance would gratefully accept from me before flying back to his favourite branch of the tree behind me with the prize gripped firmly in his beak.

After two attempts the perch from the Club Lake have set me an intriguing  set of puzzles that demand to be explored and answered. On both of my sessions I have landed one perch of less than the target weight but of respectable size within the first hour, and then caught only carp. Perhaps I need to adopt a more mobile approach and feed several swims and drop into each for an hour, maybe it is simply a case of regularly picking off the odd perch, wading through the carp, and fishing in determined, attritional, style until eventually one of the larger perch succumbs. However, today did bring with it one slice of unexpected good fortune which may yet prove to be a game-changer; I met Geoff, the Club Secretary for the first time, and my casual remark that "I bet a small roach or rudd on a live bait would sort them out" prompted the unexpected reply "as long as you catch 'em from here and use a barbless hook, there's nothing against it in the rules." 

It may take me a week or two to return, but return I will, for "one last session" (which may yet become two or three!) to try again, but this time with live bait. Although I have over the last few years acquired a reasonably respectable portfolio of two pound perch captures, the "need" to add one to the collection from the Club Lake is already teetering on the precipice between desire and obsession, and the only cure for this malady will be the capture of same. In the meantime I can, and will, both plan and dream.

An ill wind but with cheer ...

 

Success is a notoriously slippery concept. The metrics used to determine success are often both subjective and relative. What constitutes success for one person may differ  from what it looks like for another. Three years ago, following some research, I discovered the lake that I refer to as "the Perch Pond", which according to my subjective definitions has been for me a theatre of almost constant success. I have only ever blanked there once, and almost every trip has produced at least one 2lb perch. All of this has led to a collection of photos of which I'm justifiably proud (and which might mislead others into regarding me as a better angler than I really am!), and some wonderful memories of encounters with large and beautiful fish. However, success has a tendency to breed complacency, and I was aware that I needed a new and more complicated challenge to add interest to my perch fishing, and so plans were made and the die was cast.

The final two days of March saw the UK the beneficiary of a mini-heatwave, before temperatures plummeted dramatically over night. More fool me for electing to fish on April 1st. With Spring already having sprung and with the long, lazy, days of summer just around the corner, I fancied one last trip in  pursuit of perch. Curiosity about the untapped perch potential of the Club Lake (fuelled by rumours, hearsay, and half remembered anecdotes from long-time club members) had got the better of me, and so, for the reasons given above, I eschewed my usual "go to" perch pond and chose instead to embark on an exploratory foray to determine if rumour could be turned into stripe emblazoned reality from the Club Lake.

Armed with my trusty Allcocks Wizard, which was being given its maiden outing of 2021, an Aeriel centrepin, a modicum of optimism and an absolute minimum of clutter, I arrived at the lake at midday, and elected to fish on the side of the lake where the deeper water sits, and where tree cover and shade increased the likelihood of encountering perch. Tactics were unremarkable, red maggots being trickled into the swim with regularity, and a float-fished prawn impaled on a size 12 hook. First cast saw me swing a perch to hand that was barely any bigger than the prawn it engulfed, shortly followed by a rogue carp with a penchant for seafood. The third time my 1BB mini perch bob submerged, saw me connected to something which felt much more like the intended target, and after a brief game of tug of war, a beautiful plump perch of about a pound was being drawn into the enfolding safety of the landing net.

With the fish unhooked, admired, photographed and returned, I settled back into the routine of feeding maggots and staring at my float as it rode the incessant waves, and trying in vain to warm myself against the biting wind by consuming copious quantities of coffee. No further perch deigned to put in an appearance, but half a dozen small carp provided a not entirely unwelcome distraction, each putting a pleasing bend in the cane and eliciting the ratchet "music" beloved of centre pin enthusiasts.

After three and a half hours of being battered by the wind, and bettered by the perch, I judged that it was high time to  avail myself of the Skoda's effective in car heating and head for home. Although  on this occasion I had failed to tangle with the monsters of myth, I was delighted to have made the acquaintance of such a handsome perch, and a proper perch campaign on the Club Lake has made its way to the top of my angling "to do" list for next Autumn. I suspect that amid the gnarled tree roots and reeds there are a few old warriors to be tangled with, and a 2 pound perch from the Club Lake would feel like a veritable triumph, and a much harder won prize than a fish of the same size from "the Perch Pond."

There are many worse ways of spending an afternoon than grimacing against the cold and watching a brightly coloured float, but few better. A two pounder from the Club Lake- now there's a worthy ambition to harbour, and a fitting obsession to fuel my dreams. I suspect that today was only the beginning of an angler's tale yet to unfold, and, all in good time, waiting to be told, and today's prologue to the tale feels to me like a modest but successful opening page.