Carry on Camping

 

One of the many lessons that I've learned in my time as an Anglican vicar is that it doesn't take very long for an innovation to become a tradition. This year saw the sixth annual Christian Anglers weekend retreat, which I would suggest means that the yearly camping and fishing get together now qualifies as a tradition. 

Our venue, for the second year running (which probably means that it is also on the verge of becoming a tradition!) was the excellent campsite at Purple Badger Camping and Fishing in the East Leicestershire countryside. With a rustic kitchen area and meeting space, horse boxes converted into showers, two luxury "glamping" bell tents (which were allocated on a "first to ask, gets" basis) the facilities are second to none, and the attractive way the pitches have been cut within wilder meadow areas is typical of the sympathetic way that Mark, the owner, has integrated the campsite with its natural surroundings. 

From 4 o clock on the Friday afternoon anglers from Leicestershire, Yorkshire, Nottinghamshire and Shropshire began arriving as tents were pitched and acquaintances renewed. The opening evening is always a relaxed affair and the fish and chip shop run was followed by a meeting in the "Badger's Den" which included a short Bible talk before we gathered around the ubiquitous fire pit to catch up with each other's stories and discuss the prospects for the following day's fishing.

Saturday dawned bright and sunny, the only dark shadow being cast by one of our group having to unexpectedly leave the weekend to be with his family following his seriously unwell mother-in-law being taken into hospital. A fine breakfast of enormous triple-decker bacon, sausage and egg sandwiches was followed by another short faith-building talk in the Den before we set off for the day's fishing venue. After a twenty minute drive we arrived at the small lake, a well maintained and attractive pool set in the middle of a sheep farm. For the greater part of the day the sun shone, the sheep provided a continuous and sometimes raucous auditory backing track, and the carp fed voraciously. Tactics varied, most of us electing to float fish in conventional style, with one of our number utilising a long pole, and a couple dabbling with the Method.

My results were less spectacular than that of some of the others, it taking me a while to realise that the carp were easiest to catch six inches from the very undercut bank, and once I positioned my tiny porcupine float accordingly and delicately lowered  a banded pellet hookbait  at my feet I soon found my old glass fibre float rod taking on its fighting curve as my 70 year old centre pin emitted the welcome sound that denoted an angry carp screaming off with the bait. The carp were not large by modern standards but all gave a good account of themselves, fighting hard and showing themselves to be less than sanguine at the prospect of being brought to the bank. 

We drew stumps at 4 o'clock and headed back to the sun-bathed campsite with everyone having caught fish and a general air of satisfaction pervading the party. Both the weather and the carp had been in accommodating mood, with one of our number quoting the proverb that states that "the sun shines on the righteous", although the actual Biblical quote has a more realistic take on things, Jesus pointing out that "God causes the sun to rise on the evil and the good, and sends rain on both the righteous and the unrighteous" (Matthew 5: 45, 46) but I decided that it would be an act of ungracious theological pedantry to spoil the moment by quoting texts and so refrained!

Back at the campsite we gathered for a Bible study led by one of our members before indulging in the annual rituals of barbequing and bonfires, burgers and sausages being followed by relaxed conversation around the fire as darkness drew in.

Sunday morning saw an unfussy open air communion service with a bread roll passed around and mugs being employed for the wine with an old cable drum fulfilling the role of what some might refer to as an altar, the simplicity being very much in line with the origins of this Christian act of remembrance if not with some of the ornate pomp and ceremony that on the same morning would have been being enacted in many parish churches across the land!

Suitably spiritually refreshed, we walked the couple of hundred yards to the lake on the campsite and spent the morning and early afternoon extracting good numbers of roach, lovely golden hued rudd and perch. For the second year in succession, Phil was the only angler to catch one of the lake's often elusive crucian carp, prompting one member to comment that if he succeeded in doing the same next year, then we'd be compelled to throw him into the lake. If such a happening does come to pass in 2023, I'll probably rebrand his deserved dunking as a "full immersion baptism" and claim it as a liturgical event!

By early afternoon our need to catch fish had been well and truly sated, and we began the task of dismantling tents, clearing up rubbish and saying goodbyes.

Once again, the weekend had proved to be a success, and while I have never in my 25 years of being a Vicar been accused of being a traditionalist, I have always believed that tradition (as opposed to traditionalism) can be a good and worthy thing, tradition being the "living faith of the dead" while traditionalism is often merely the "dead faith of the living", and if the Christian Anglers Retreat does now count as a tradition as far as I'm concerned it's one well worth preserving.

I suspect I'm not the only one already looking forward to next year.

A lazy afternoon in the summertime

 

I know from observation (my wife by paid profession and leisure-time choice is a gardener) that gardening is, above all, an object lesson in faith and hope. Seeds or bulbs are planted with the expectation and desire, although not the certainty, that something living, lustrous and beautiful will in time emerge from the soil. Fishing, similarly, trades on optimism, the dreaming, plotting, planning and, eventually, the execution of a fishing session being undertaken in the hope that a float will disappear, a centre pin sing or a buzzer bleep resulting in the capture of a living creature fooled by the fisherman's cunning into thinking that the bait presented was there as a result of nature's whim not an angler's artifice.

The feeling of hope known by every angler is accentuated when visiting a new venue for the first time, and so it was that Greg and I, with just a few Friday afternoon hours to spare parked and unloaded our tackle beside a new lake, nerves jangling with optimistic anticipation.

The lake was a classic small pond, rarely fished (we had to telephone the owner for him to delegate his wife to drive from their cottage to the lake's gate to let us in), verdant, green, and overgrown, with no proper swims cut into the bank or wooden platforms- a slightly wild and natural look, as if attempts to maintain the lakeside environment and a desire to leave it as natural looking as possible were being held in a pleasing state of creative tension.

The weather was summer's afternoon sultry, and Greg and I set up a few yards from each other on a small promontory that almost served to split the lake in two, and dropped our floatfished sweetcorn into the margins along with a scattering of hand fed sweetcorn. 

Bites were soon forthcoming, although until I had played around with my shotting pattern and depth setting they proved hard to connect with, the ultimate solution being (counter intuitively) to stop fishing on the bottom with just a number 8 close to the hook and the rest of the shot bulked around the float and rather to present the bait in midwater and move a BB shot three quarters of the way down the line to provide deliberate resistance as a fish took the bait. 

The sun continued to shine unabated  as we landed a succession of small but plucky carp, evenly split between commons and some particularly pretty mini mirrors. The fishing was leisurely and the action frequent, as befits piscatorial activity in the summer months.

By the end of three hours we had probably landed somewhere in the region of three score of fish between us, and the convivial conversation, sunshine, peaceful surroundings and eager to please carp had worked their magic. The pressures of work and life had receded, internal equanimity had been restored and a new lake had been added to our list of places worth revisiting. Expectation, hope and faith had been repaid and as we drove out of the soon to be relocked gates our minds were already turning to future trips and other as yet still to be discovered lakes. "Intrepid" would be stretching a point, but "exploration" it certainly is.