There's a world of difference between solitariness and loneliness. Loneliness is the unhappy bedfellow of isolation, while solitude is a choice. Today, for just a few hours in the afternoon sun, I chose solitude and broke with my normal pattern of fishing in company to enjoy a solo fishing session. It's rare that I fish on my own, mostly electing to share the bankside and make memories with friends, but on occasion choosing to venture to the lake alone brings an added piquancy to the angling experience. The sights, sounds and stillness, (it would be a misnomer to describe it as "silence" as the rustling of wind in the leaves, birdsong, the noise of fish rolling or carp slurping, even insects rubbing their legs together, ensure a constant pianissimo backing track to the angler's endeavours) are all intensified, as too are whatever emotions the fisherman carried with him, baggage-like, to the water's edge.
Everything about the afternoon was to be simple. My tackle always leans towards the minimalistic, and a light split cane float rod and ancient Mitchell 304 reel made up the hardware, with a small dart float with maggot, that most ubiquitous of baits, impaled upon a size 18 hook forming the business end of the arrangement. This, a landing net, unhooking mat, small shoulder bag and chair were all that was required, and on a scorching hot summer's afternoon the fish were not slow to respond, and before long I was swinging in or playing to the net a succession of lively little fish. The great attraction of the lake I had chosen to fish is its variety, and the procession of fish landed ranged from sleek and slippery mini green tench to blue orfe, perch, carp, ide and some fish which looked remarkably like crucians but almost certainly weren't genetically pure examples of species Carassius carassius. The lake is also home to some stillwater barbel (yeah, I know, I'm not a fan either!) and the biggest fish of the afternoon was a barbel that probably weighed somewhere between about two and a half to three pounds. Thankfully, most fish were just a few ounces, which was a relief as any fish too significant in size and stature would have posed a quite possibly fatal challenge to the light cane rod, but the attraction was in the catholic colour palate, the fish a kaleidoscope of greens, golds, silvers, oranges and browns.
The poet Mary Oliver, who drew most of her inspiration from the natural world, once remarked "to pay attention- this is our proper work", and this was an afternoon for paying attention. Admittedly, my attention was not as rapt as it should have been when it came to watching my float, but this was an occasion for attending to the natural beauty around me and to my own thoughts and feelings- an afternoon to prove true Walton's axiom that fishing is "the contemplative man's recreation."
Over the years fishing has become for me an increasingly aesthetic pastime. I elect to use split cane rods of venerable antiquity, ancient centre pin and fixed spool reels and handmade floats not for their practicality or efficiency but simply because they are pleasing to hold and behold. Today the split cane was alive in my hand, pleasingly transmitting every determined thump of a fish through my wrist and into my arm, and the beauty of cane rods is that, perhaps as a result of being craftsman-made, each rod seems to be endowed with its own personality in a way that a mass produced factory rod never can be.
Halfway through the session I paused to light and enjoy a cigar, laying my rod down and taking in the sights and pondering how much of my angling is an attempt to briefly reconnect with that time when I was drifting from childhood into adolescence and fishing every hour that absence from school permitted. I began angling in the summer just after my 13th birthday in an era that seemed far simpler than today, my parents operating the "benign neglect" method of parenting that was the norm in the 1970's and early 80's which left me with plenty of time to stare at a float and gaze under the surface of a lake and to experience an enchantment that I can still make contact with as an adult drifting no longer from childhood into adolescence but from early into deeper middle age.
More fish followed, including a miniature mirror carp that was almost black in colour, until the moment when something inside me clicked and I "just knew" that it was time to pack up and head for home. I'm not a greedy angler, and although I could have carried on catching steadily for as long as I wanted to with the fish in a compliant frame of mind, I had no need to prolong the experience. I had come, paid attention, glimpsed the glory of creation and now was ready for home. I adjusted my "Huckleberry Finn" hat, surveyed the lake one last time and turned to head for the car. As someone once observed "if you're lucky enough to spend an afternoon at the lake, you're lucky enough."
