Fishing goes "Southern Fried."

 

In a spirit of honesty I need to make clear that I do not regard myself as a great fisherman-philosopher. If truth be known, I'm not even a great fisherman or philosopher, and most of the time when I think about fishing I'm doing no more than that; I'm simply thinking about fishing. However, occasionally experiences drawn from my pursuit of fish take my mind to other more esoteric realms, and catalyze "wonderings" that would not have presented themselves to me had I not been an angler. One such is my ongoing reflection on my ambiguous relationship with America's Southern states.

In 2013 I spent three gloriously self-indulgent weeks undertaking a solo road trip around some of the aforementioned states. I stayed in a mixture of motels and the homes of friends I'd made on the internet, and caught fish in locales that ranged from the Ocean off South Carolina to lakes on the Missouri/Arkansas border, drove 3000 miles, spent time in nine States, and discovered an area riddled with contradictions and paradoxes that has led to an inner conflictedness that I've never subsequently succeeded in resolving.

The land of the Jim Crow laws, legally enforced until just three years before I was born, is also the land of the "Bible belt", a phrase coined by HL Mencken in 1919. Southerners are famed for their courtesy and hospitality (and I was a grateful beneficiary of it), but as one wag once quipped "a Southerner is gracious and friendly until he is mad enough to kill you!"  For many of the South's inhabitants it appears that the collective memory of the Civil War is still one where a feeling that "we lost" (accentuated by some folk I met referring to this historical internal conflict as "the War of Northern Aggression!") persists, despite the Stars and Stripes that fly in the front yard of almost every house or trailer. To a European, there is also something unfathomable in observing that those most likely to unquestionably imbibe the dogma of the "American Dream" are those least likely to ever see its promises of advancement, material gain, and social mobility, realised in their "deep South" blue collar lives. 

The irony, however, is that despite my uneasiness about aspects of the South's past and the tendrils that reach from it into the present, given the chance I'd sell up and leave Blighty in exchange for a life in the Southern states tomorrow. None of that is in any way to minimise the misgivings already cited, but the simple fact is that I've rarely been happier in an environment than when I was a guest in the South. For a start, there's the weather, neatly described by Eugene Walter in his novel "The Untidy Pilgrim" with the memorable observation that "Summer in the deep South is not only a season or a climate, it's a dimension." I can recall stepping out of my air conditioned car in South Carolina, and within minutes my shirt being wet, the hot moisture from the air mixing with my own sweat. As someone who loves the feeling of the sun's warmth on his skin, it has to be said that the climate has a lot going for it. I warm to the story telling traditions and the bluegrass music, the priority placed on family, the food ( it has been noted that "You can say a lot about Southerners, but you can't say that Southerners as a people are duly afraid of deep fryers", and while the originator of that sentence may have meant it as a superior put-down, deep fried food works for me!), and I cannot ignore the fact that some of the nicest, kindest, most generous and friendly people I've had the pleasure of spending time with were with the friends made during my all too brief American adventure.

Add to all of the above, the Outdoorsman culture that is prevalent (go into any Walmart store- the equivalent of our Asda-  and you'll find a couple of aisles dedicated to fishing tackle), the sheer volume of water available to fish, and the ease with which one can talk about God and discuss matters of faith in the American South, and the appeal to an angler like me who defines his life predominantly through the filter of his faith is easy to understand.

But what about the contradictions and paradoxes, some just the result of cultural differences, others with more disturbing roots? I guess I'm with JD Vance, the author of "Hillbilly Elegy" on this one- cultures are complex, and resistant to simplistic analysis or solutions. That the South is haunted by the legacy of slavery and segregation is inarguable, but the white Southerners with whom I talked were all hoping for a more integrated future, but unsure as to how such a future might be achieved and attained. I must also confess that although I drove through the Appalachian Mountains, passing dilapidated but still inhabited trailer homes with rusted out refrigerators and pickup trucks slowly decaying in their sun-baked front yards, I only lodged and rubbed shoulders with blue collar and middle class Southerners, so never saw the extremes of poverty experienced by black and white communities in some of the poorest areas, and was consequently sheltered from exposure to some of the South's inequalities and problems in their more extreme forms.

So, what to conclude? During my brief sojourn in the South, I discovered what I already knew: that societies, cultures, and people are complicated, and resist being neatly pigeonholed. While retaining my European scepticism of the "American Dream" and the populist Trumpian brand of Republicanism that has gained such traction amongst working class white voters in the Southern States, I have no hesitation in saying that I enjoyed my time in the South, and that there were as many of the values that its people embrace (the importance of family, community, and personally owned faith, as well as the general outdoorsy vibe) that resonated warmly with me as there were those that disturbed me. Add to that the fact that it's still a place where you can wear double denim and it be considered not just acceptable but also almost de rigueur (always a plus for someone who was a teenager in the 80's), the weather is glorious, the pace of life slow, some of the scenery spectacular, the food comforting and plentiful, and fishing is considered an almost mandatory pastime, and it's not hard to see why I pine to return with a fishing rod in hand, and a mind as open as were the hearts of those who hosted me and fished with me on my last visit to the land of Flannery O'Connor, cotton picking, and the Grand Ole Opry.

Success, failure and chasing fish

There is a myth that Vicars are universally wise, and that when presented with a problem, whether a personal and pastoral one forged in the fires of real life suffering or a hypothetical philosophical, or theological one, after a few seconds of thought and earnest chin stroking words saturated with insight and profundity will fall from their lips. I am living proof that this is not the case. My best efforts at gravitas usually disappoint, and while I firmly believe that there is a satisfactory "God-shaped" answer to any question, I often struggle to find that answer, much less to articulate it. However, of one thing I am certain: once rescued from the tyranny of chasing success, it is impossible to fail at fishing.

Here's what I mean: as long as enjoyment isn't dependant simply on fish caught or targets achieved (unless that target is simply to have fun) then failure ceases to exist as a concept because of the multi-faceted nature of any fishing trip.

For starters, there's the natural beauty which surrounds us as anglers, and into which we insert ourselves, when fishing. The ripples and reflections, the backdrops of trees, woods and fields, the changing of the seasons, and the musical accompaniment of birdsong. Then there's the discernible slowing of pace, as the pressures that constitute so much of modern life recede and time seems to realign itself to the speed at which it passed in childhood, when minutes felt like hours, hours like days, days like weeks, and the first sixteen years of life seemed to last longer than all that has followed in the (in my case thirty seven) years that have followed them. Many times I've fished and lost all sense of time, with only the movement of the sun and the drawing in of darkness providing a clue to the fiction displayed on my watch. 

Further pleasure is derived from the tackle we use, in my case accentuated by the aesthetic pleasure of my self-imposed decision to almost exclusively use either genuine vintage tackle or (in the case of floats) traditionally styled equipment with a retro feel. The latter is, of course, merely my own choice, and perhaps to an extent an eccentric indulgence, but any angler's tackle box, whether they choose to follow the traditionalist's creed or the latest fashions in carp fishing, is an Aladdin's treasure trove of accessories and gadgets that almost demand to be regularly re-ordered and rationalised in their position in the box and fiddled with and fettled, adapted and improved. Every man becomes a boy again when faced with a tackle box full of accessories and the ephemera that we convince ourselves is indispensable for a day at the water's edge.

Add to the above the angling company that we keep, and the notion that failure is a redundant concept for the angler continues to become more compelling. Over recent years I have realised that my angling is as much an exercise in creating memories as it is in capturing fish, and the pleasure of making those memories with good friends multiplies the sense of enjoyment. As I've grown older the friendships associated with my fishing have grown in importance, and I've had as much pleasure making modest catches with my closest angling associates as I have catching far more notable fish when on my own.

And then, finally, there are the fish themselves. Each of them, whether large or small, a thing of wonder and beauty in its own right and our protagonists in the game of underwater chess that holds us spellbound and enthralled. Sometimes we catch them in prodigious numbers, sometimes to great size, sometimes we only succeed in fooling tiddlers, and at times they keep us humble and aware of our fallibility by eluding capture altogether, while always maintaining the power to keep us trapped in our happy addiction.

And so I return to my opening premise. If fishing is understood in holistic terms failure is an impossibility because the "doing of the thing" is its own reward, and fishing contains too many charms to simply be reduced to being viewed through the lens of fish caught. I gave up playing competitive Saturday league football at the age of 30, and I sometimes miss it, but mostly can live very happily without the smell of liniment, the banter of the changing room, the sliding tackles, goals, and half-time orange slice and cigarette, but if anyone were to deprive me of my fishing I really wonder how I would cope. It's been a fortnight since I last fished ..... it's been too long.

Back on the bank and back in camp

 

According to a well known maxim "the sun shines on the righteous". The Bible, however, takes a more realistic approach, with Jesus declaring that it "rains on both the just and the unjust" (Matthew 5), but whichever of those two statements you concur with (as you might expect, I'll take my stand with Jesus' pragmatic observation!) the sun certainly shone on the 15 members of the Christian Anglers Group who gathered for their 5th annual Weekend Retreat in June.  The event had been billed as an opportunity for fishing, food, and fellowship and it certainly delivered generously on all three fronts.

2020 had seen the first ever cancellation of the weekend since its inception in 2016, so it was good to be back together and enjoying each other's company. Our first two Retreats had seen us camping in a friendly farmer's field and embarking on day trips to local fisheries, our second two saw us located on the banks of the mighty River Trent fishing for barbel, while this year we took over the whole site of the Purple Badger Camping and Fishing set up in East Leicestershire. The camping facilities were ideal for our requirements, a lovely field with showers, a covered kitchen area, a small covered social area in which we held our meetings, and showers and toilets, all with an attractive rustic, countryside vibe. Add to that the friendliest and most helpful site owners and hosts you could wish for, and all was set for a wonderful weekend.

Friday afternoon saw anglers arriving from Leicestershire, Yorkshire, Cambridgeshire, Hertfordshire, and Shropshire, tents erected, old friendships renewed and new friendships formed, a barbeque, and the first of our meetings, all of which featured a short talk drawing lessons from the life of a Biblical character. The obligatory bonfire preceded a night under canvas that, for me at least, was punctuated by dreams of what I hoped to catch on the morrow.

Saturday dawned bright and sunny, and following a hearty breakfast and our second meeting, the assembled anglers dispersed and scattered themselves in likely looking swims around the site's two lakes. Reasonably sized rudd and roach featured prominently, along with small but voracious perch, and a solitary crucian that fell to Roy's rod. Some anglers found the fish more obliging than others, but everyone caught and no-one fell prey to the dreaded blank. 

We fished until mid afternoon, before breaking for a Bible Study which was followed by free time. Some anglers elected to return to the lakes and add to their catches, while others preferred to stay in camp talking, socialising, and making the most of the laid back atmosphere and hospitable weather. 

After an evening meal of jacket potatoes and chillie, we lit a fire and lazed around swapping stories, chatting, talking nonsense, and "chewing the fat" in the manner men are wont to do when camping. 

Sunday morning dawned bright and early with bacon, egg, and sausage sandwiches, followed by a short open air communion service, before we resumed our battle of wits with the lake's fish. Once again, roach and rudd predominated, but the second crucian of the weekend made an appearance, Phil this time being the fortunate captor.

As the afternoon wore on there was a reluctant acknowledgement that even good things have to come to an end, and in dribs and drabs, tackle and tents were packed up, goodbyes said, and anglers departed to resume their normal lives. As in previous years, the weekend had proved itself to be a success, the desire to catch fish had been sated, the company had been congenial, the setting glorious, and the opportunity to explore our faith together as a group of like-minded Christians and anglers had been a much needed fillip as life continues to emerge from the spectre of covid19 and all its attendant challenges. 

Plans are already afoot for next year's Retreat, and I have a strong suspicion that I'm not alone in admitting that I can barely wait.

Look back in angler

I grew up in an era that looked to the future not the past. And why not too? It was the 1970's and those in the know knew that by the end of the Century we'd be speeding around the streets in flying cars, holidaying on Mars, wearing skintight spandex one piece suits (what was all that about?), living in underwater cities, and walking would be deemed redundant on account of the jetpacks we'd all have strapped to our backs. The past was a foreign country where they did things differently, and we knew which side we wanted our bread to be buttered. 

Nearly half a century on, and I see things somewhat differently. For, while I have no trouble in concurring with  the truth contained in the Billy Joel lyric which states that "the good old days weren't always good, and tomorrow ain't as bad as it seems", and have no desire to return to the dubious delights of tuberculosis, the Workhouse, lower life expectancy, and no NHS, there are things about a simpler bygone era that do call out enticingly with siren voice; and one of those is fishing as it once was. Fishing that owes more to the creed of Walton and Venables than to the practices of the latter day disciples of the scientific and forensic approach that is the legacy of Richard Walker. Fishing that resembles art more than science, that relies on an intuitive almost mystical aspect often referred to as "watercraft", and where the surroundings and natural world that the angler inserts him or herself into is as much a part of the pleasure as the landing of fish. An angling ethos that elevates rather than reduces the status of every fish because each one is treasured, not just those which reach a certain weight. Fishing which remains true to old Isaak's description of angling as "the contemplative man's recreation."

In recent years this approach to the gentle art has been accompanied for me by the choice to undertake  almost all of my fishing adventures with vintage fishing tackle. I'm pragmatic enough to acknowledge that modern tackle is more efficient and ergonomic in its design, but the trade off for me is that I place a higher premium on aesthetics than efficiency and the old cane rods, with their lustrous varnish and patina, are infinitely more intrinsically attractive than a modern carbon wand. Sure, a whole cane rod can be heavy to hold after a while, and a willow basket can prove to be (quite literally) a pain in the proverbial after a few hours, but what thing of worth wasn't achieved without a degree of discomfort or sacrifice?

The irony is that when I turn my mind to deliberately targeting bigger fish  (which isn't that often!) I seem to have been far more successful in my "vintage phase" than ever I was when sat behind matching carbon rods, baitrunners and bite alarms, all pointing machine gun nest style toward the centre of a gravel pit. Perhaps some strange algebra of fate is operative  that determines that the more you enjoy the "doing of the thing itself" and less you care about the results, the greater the reward that ensues. One thing, however, does seems certain: this angler intends to continue going "back for the future" for the foreseeable. After all, if it ain't broke, why fix it?