All things come to those who (don't) wait ...

“Well," said Pooh, "what I like best," and then he had to stop and think. Because although eating Honey was a very good thing to do, there was a moment just before you began to eat it which was better than when you were, but he didn't know what it was called.”

Sometimes the planning of a thing is better than the doing of it, and the anticipation more intense than its realisation. Conversely, there are times when you simply can't wait, and the urge grows and grows and you just have to jump on in. I had planned to start my perch fishing in September or October, but by mid August I could bide my time no longer, and the search for big sergeants that will dominate my autumn and winter fish bothering activity was brought forward. I'm not arguing with Winnie the Pooh; he makes a valid point, but when all is said and done he's a bear and I'm a man, and sometime's a man's gotta do what a man's gotta do.

I couldn't spare a whole day, and only had an afternoon to play with, but at midday I snapped the lid of my laptop shut, told the Church of England that it could manage for a few hours without me, and loaded a split cane rod, ancient centre pin, and a modicum of tackle into the car and headed off to meet Pete at our favourite perch lake. If you had to choose any time of the day to pursue perch you probably wouldn't choose lunchtime through to mid afternoon, but instead would opt for first light or early evening, but beggars can't be choosers, and whenever your bait (in this case a prawn on a barbless size 12) is in the water you've got a chance.

I got off to a brisk start, catching half a dozen small perch of about 4 ounces, before the first decent fish of the afternoon put in an appearance, a vision of scarlet finned stripy loveliness of probably just over a pound in weight. The fishing slowed and the sun shone far brighter than is normally conducive for catching perch, but in the absence of further perch I was kept busily distracted by a chunky rogue F1 and a rather splendid ide, both of whom showed a preference for prawns.

Pete, who is normally an accomplished catcher of perch, had been struggling for bites, but eventually he found himself attached to an indignant perch which gave him a decent tussle, trying to find sanctuary in the reed stems before finally seeing Pete's side of the argument and succumbing to the folds of his landing net. The fish when viewed on the bank looked to be a similar size to the one I'd caught earlier.

With the lake languid and languorous of mood we continued to drip in the loose feed, partly as the result of years of accumulated habit and partly because "you never know" but, in all honesty, without a great sense of optimism when somewhat unexpectedly my perch bob float began to behave in the manner its name suggested it should and following a few trembles and bobs it was pulled decisively under the lake's surface. My strike met solid resistance and after a spirited  fight that probably lasted two or three minutes the biggest perch of the day was safely ensconced in the net. This time we subjected the fish to the indignity of the weigh sling, as I always weigh any perch that I suspect of being a 2 pounder, although in the event the fish was slightly under, coming in at a very respectable 1 pound and 14 ounces.

We fished on for a further hour in which Pete caught a succession of small perch and a couple of rudd, before we called time and packed up at a leisurely pace. It hadn't been the easiest of sessions, but with three nice perch banked between the two of us we were up and running and the die had been cast- it will be perch all the way for me from now until Christmas, and far too much of my time when not on the bank will be idled away dreaming of perch and hatching plans for their downfall. I am, I confess, hopelessly addicted to large stripy fish with red fins and spiky dorsals but, as I frequently feel the need to tell my wife, there are worse things for a man to be addicted to. 

Being Peter at fifty three

If your predilection, like that of The Kinks, is to laze on a sunny afternoon in the summertime, then there's no more pleasant way to satisfy the urge than while wielding a fishing rod, and so it was that I finished work early and made for the lake where I was to meet my friend and often fishing partner, Roger and his son Ben. It's rare that the choice of fishing venue is a response to the question "how small are the fish there?", but such was the case in this instance. A while ago a friend had gifted me a sweet little 10 foot split cane float rod, a delicate tool which I instantly fell in love with, but owing its existence to an era when fish were, on average, far smaller than today, care would need to be taken when working out where to give it its maiden outing in my ownership. I opted for a diminutive commercial pond liberally stocked with small fish of a myriad of species, and chose to match the rod with a Mitchell 304, which struck me as exactly the kind of combination that Peter Crabtree might have elected to employ, resplendent in short trousers, sports jacket and school cap while accompanying his pipe smoking father on one of their angling adventures.

The burnished bronze afternoon sun enveloped me in its embrace, its warmth on my skin transporting me back to the long summer holidays of my own boyhood, much of which were also spent engaged in piscatorial pursuits. Summer angling is not only for me a casually indulged in compensatory reward for the serious and dogged pursuit of specimen perch that marks my Autumn and Winter activity, but also serves as a portal to the 1980's and an adolescent version of me, then as now leant forward with eyes squinting and concentrating on the small orange dot protruding the water's surface, and filled with the "any minute now" hope and optimism that is angling's gift to those who fall under its spell.  

Roger, Ben, and I set up in adjacent swims, and dropped our floats into the margins with a gentle pendulum type swing, and waited for them to submerge at the pull of a fish. The wait was not demanding of much patience and before long we were each bringing our first fish of the afternoon to the bank. Loose-feeding maggots and fishing close in, soon saw us amassing a good number of fish, but more pleasing than the growing total was the catholic variety of species that were being drawn over the net or swung to hand. F1's (my least favourite of all fish) predominated, but roach, rudd, bream, ide, mirror carp, crucians, gudgeon and perch also took it in turns to delight, each exquisite in its unique beauty.

The light cane rod performed admirably, with any fish in excess of a quarter of a pound being netted as a precaution to preserve its delicate tip, and as is so often the case when fishing, the afternoon proved to be the antidote to the stresses, strains and busyness of 21st Century life. A combine harvester in the field behind the lake moved up and down in ponderous straight lines, and the gentle sound of cattle lowing carried on the breeze.

My fishing began in the springtime of my life as a 13 year old at a time when I had not yet quite been disavowed of the child's ability to wonder, and now in the early autumn of my years, a summer's day spent chasing fish in pleasant surroundings can once again instill in me (if only temporarily) the ability to find myself lost in wonder, awed at the beauty of creation, and stilled by the sights and sounds of the English countryside.  While the steady procession of F1's would have been an alien sight to the Crabtrees, our tackle and methods would have been familiar and I rather hope they would have approved of the leisurely way we set about our business. There are few better feelings than that of "being Peter " at 53.