Catching carp in the setting sun

 

"If there is magic in this planet it is contained in water" wrote the anthropologist Loren Eisley, who was once described as the "modern Thoreau." Whether Eisley deserved such an ascription I'm not qualified to judge, but having enjoyed two magical evenings at the Club Lake in the last few days, I certainly agree with his premise.

Both were spent in the company of my friend Roger, the first with another friend, David also joining us on the bank, and each of the evenings encapsulated summer evening fishing at its best. The fish were compliant, small carp that almost seemed to form orderly queues behind our floats so desperate did they appear to make our acquaintance, and the grass, trees and foliage that surround the lake wore their livery of emeralds, sages, and jades with flamboyant panache. 

Roger and I always elect to deploy vintage tackle as our weapons of choice at every opportunity when the situation allows (and sometimes when it doesn't- both of us have redefined the notion of split cane and experienced that sickening sound of the wooden fibres shattering and a prized possession becoming kindling!), and on the first evening we both used cane rods (mine an Allcocks Wizard, Roger's one made by the Steadfast company), while on the second Roger persisted with his cane rod, while I gave a first outing of the season to an ancient glass fibre rod manufactured by the now defunct ET Barlows of Thames Ditton. David, our partner on the first evening, eschews our romantic attachments to all things piscatorially ancient, and pragmatically opted for carbon.

The musical score that accompanies the angling activity are the sounds of birdsong and bees buzzing, the former rarely visible but gently audible, the latter very visible in their yellow and black striped rugby shirts, their constant activity and relentless endeavour the antithesis of the somniferous summer evening. The sunsets that signify that the time to pack up and return to our wives and domesticity is almost upon us shift their hue from vibrant, iridescent oranges and pinks to more muted dusky heathers and purples before conceding the inevitable victory to night time darkness.

William Wordsworth was of the opinion that "a lake carries you into recesses of feeling otherwise impenetrable", while my take on things, although lacking the poetic grace and less profound than his, is that if you're lucky enough to spend an evening by the lake, you're lucky enough. As others have sometimes remarked I'm easily pleased, and for me spending the cool of the day being led by still waters is to walk  a path that leads to contentment and refreshing of the soul.