Perch mean prizes

James Legge was a 19th Century sinophile, who in addition to being an afficianado of all things Chinese was known to enjoy inventing a proverb or two of his own in imitation of the wise men of the country he'd come to admire so much. One of his offerings was "the wise find pleasure in water; the virtuous find pleasure in hills." As a member of the clergy it is an expectation of some that I will embody both of these traits, however if the saying has any truth in it I have to concede that it would result in my wisdom far outstripping my virtue! I love nothing more than being beside water. 

Today the water I was beside had a slight chop to it and my perch bob elegantly rode the small waves that the wind produced on the water's surface. It was a perfect day for fishing in general terms but less so for pursuing perch, which was somewhat unfortunate as I was fishing in the annual John Rellie Memorial Match organised by the Christian Angler's group, an opportunity to raise money for charity, remember our friend and former member John, and to compete for the trophy which is now in its fifth year, with my name having twice previously been inscribed on it.

While I enjoy fishing in the summer it is as the weather turns autumnal that my fishing gains in intensity. Summer fishing has its own compensations (chiefly related to the weather) and I busy myself using traditional methods to catch F1's (which I hate), common carp (a species for which I have only a little fondness), tench and rudd (both of which I love) and, on real red letter days, plump buttery golden flanked crucians. Autumn, winter and early Spring (in fact any month that has an "r" in it) are, for me, spent almost exclusively in pursuit of my favourite fish- the perch. 

We are all,to some degree, the result of our stories and the ways in which we've owned those stories and retold them to ourselves over the years. My fishing story began in the summer of 1981 and then, as now, perch were writ large on its pages. As young boys we would fish intentionally for perch on the pleasant rhodedendron and tree-lined lake that was set incongruously in the middle of the housing estate on which we lived. We'd stand with six foot Woolworth's spinning rods clasped tightly, a float set at two or three foot depth and a worm impaled on the hook and wait poised for the small fry to scatter accross the lake's surface, jumping and skittering in an attempt to evade the hunting packs of perch. The trick was to cast into the middle of the scattering fry and- more often than not- the result would be a perch of around 4 ounces being swung to the bank, full of bristle and spikey indignation. The perch I target now are far bigger than anything I might have dreamed of in that summer which, in addition to seeing me fish most days of the school holiday, also saw the commencement of the ill fated marriage of the then Prince Charles and Lady Diana Spencer, but my love for the species remains undimmed by the passing of time. 

So, to today's match. The weather, that staple of British conversation, was surprisingly mild for late October and at times, as has been alluded to earlier, frustratingly sunny (perch are no lovers of sunshine and prefer low light levels), but in a match in which sociability and renewing friendships is as much a factor as the actual fishing itself, the weather was, I suspect, welcomed by most. 

I caught a couple of small perch early on in the proceedings before my float disappeared for the third time and my strike met with more obdurate resistence. A couple of minutes later a fine perch of 1 pound and 13 ounces was resting in the landing net, a fish which, at the time of its capture, put me joint first in the competition. 

I always enjoy catching perch but on this occasion the pleasure was added to by the fact that I was using a newly acquired rod for the first time. Although new to my collection the rod, a Milbrolite, is probably somewhere around fifty years old but is in mint as-new condition and had, I suspect, never been used before today. The rod passed the test admirably and I have no doubt that it and I will share many adventures together before age, infirmity or mortality bring my angling exploits to a close.

In truth, it was a day of few bites (my reward for six hours of staring at a float was three perch and one rogue bream) and no single angler managed more than a handful of fish but it's a tribute to either the quality of the lake we fished or that of the anglers who were fishing it (or perhaps both) that despite the less than easy nature of the fishing eleven perch of over a pound were landed, six of which were of 1 pound 10 oz or more and one of which exceeded the 2 pound mark. John, the eventual winner of this year's trophy with a fish of 2 pound 1oz is fittingly a former chairman of The Perchfishers and backed up his winning fish with a brace of pound plus perch. My 1 pound 13 ounce sargent was only enough to secure me joint third place. 

The day concluded with the presentation of the trophy to John amid much back slapping, expressions of congratulation and shaking of hands. It remains for others to decide whether or not I qualify as wise in line with the quote in my opening sentance but I had certainly "found pleasure in water", or perhaps more precisely in seeking (with only partial success) to plunder its aquiferous depths in pursuit of perch. I can think of few better ways to pass time than fishing in good company while raising money for a local charity. As a lover of competitive sports and for many years an amateur footballer I have never concurred with the modern primary school sports day notion that "it's only the taking part that matters" or the claim that "you're all winners" but in this instance both assertions felt as if they had the ring of truth to them- just spending the day fishing alongside friends was its own reward and the fact that someone else's name would be engraved on the shield hadn't diminished my pleasure at all. John was a worthy winner, I'd had a great time and I've got another six months to hone my perch fishing skills in the hope of regaining the trophy next year!

All the fun of the float

According to ancient Chinese wisdom "the best time to plant a tree is twenty years ago; the second best time is now." I'm not in a position to confirm the veracity of the proposition as we (for "we" read "my wife") have planted plenty of shrubs and bushes in our garden but have inherited all its trees. However, it sounds a reasonable assertion. What I am sure of is this: the ideal fishing lake is tree-fringed. I say this less from a technical point of view (although sub surface root systems and an overhead canopy do provide useful cover for the fish to hide in and features for the fishermen to target) and more from an aesthetical one.  Perhaps the proverb also resonates in that to plant a tree is an exercise in hope and patience, both virtues required of the angler.

The lake my son and I opted to fish today is one such tree-lined delight, the water's edge framed by overhanging Arcadian green leaved boughs which provide shade for the angler, throw shadows on the water, and enhance the fisherman's pleasure. As is our normal practice when fishing together we elected to share a swim, a practice we've largely maintained for twenty years. As a three year old just starting out the close proximity was essential for the unravelling of tangles that any angling parent will be familiar with, but now with me in my middle years and he a Firefighter in his early twenties who towers over me in stature, the reason for continuing our preference for swim sharing is purely social- there are few better ways for a father and adult son to connect than sat beside a lake talking of this and that. 

The sun rose in the sky and beat down heavily and the roach and rudd succumbed to our float fished sweetcorn with giddy abandon. Mostly hand-sized fish, the golden sides of the rudd and silver sheen of the roach glittered and shone in the sunlight and even the solitary bream which decided to gatecrash the party gleamed when held for the camera.

Both of our baits were fished about a rod length out where the bottom of the lake begins to shelve, mine tight to tree cover, my son's in more open water. Our tactics were identical, sweetcorn fished on the bottom, centre pin reels and light, fluffy cloud groundbait and loose fed sweetcorn employed to retain the fish's presence and interest.

Despite the regularity with which we were getting bites the morning had a relaxed and balmy feel and although we only fished for three hours the time passed at a pleasant pace, unhurried without being languid. The highlight of the session was my son's capture of a lovely plump crucian which in appearance fulfilled every cliché that attaches itself to the species in its plump and rounded buttery flanked beauty.

We had decided in the car en route to the lake that we would use a keepnet, an article of equipment I probably haven't employed for over a decade. It was a decision grounded in nostalgia- when my son was a young we invariably used one, as admiring the catch in its totality before releasing the fish formed part of the childhood pleasure of angling for him, and so this morning it once again emerged from the net-bag in which it has laid dormant for years on end as a reminder of where it all began.

The clock struck midday and despite the fact that as Englishmen we share with mad dogs the privilege of it being acceptable for us to be out in the midday sun we packed up to head for home in my case to change and head for the church office while my son was able to grab a few hour's sleep before his evening shift at the station. 

There can be few better ways to spend a summer's morning than beside a lake fishing in good company. We admired our catch as we would have done nearly two decades ago in the days when I still qualified as a young man and my son was just a child, before releasing them under the watchful gaze of trees that will still draw water from the ground and avail themselves of light from the sun long after both of us have departed the pleasures of this world for the glory of another. 

Fast forwarding Autumn

 

Patience is a virtue you admire in the driver in front of you, but less so in the one behind you. It's also, according to received wisdom, a necessary virtue for the angler, but my experience of fishing has been one of barely suppressed impatience- I may sit and wait for a bite for hours at a time, but I'm always on edge, mostly alert, and sometimes almost not daring to breathe as I will my float into disappearance. Regular readers of this blog or those who know me, will be aware that perch are by far my favourite fish and my Autumn and Winter angling is dominated by my pursuit of them and this morning my patience in waiting for Autumn ran out, and so despite the fact that July hasn't quite run its course I decided to fast forward the seasons and begin my customary perch campaign.

Most of my perch angling is undertaken on the much maligned Commercials which, despite their partial sanitisation of the fishing experience, tend to be excellent venues for pursuing specimen perch using traditional methods. I'm more than happy to pay the price of a few strange looks from members of the carping fraternity and to answer their questions about my vintage tackle (which normally provoke friendly responses along the lines of "I've never seen a wooden rod before, nice one, mate.") for the sake of adding to my growing tally of 2 pound plus perch.

I arrived at the lake around 8:00am and within twenty minutes my small 1BB Harcork replica perch float was positioned inches away from some reed stems less than a rod length out. Bait was a prawn on a barbless size 12 and a few red maggots and broken up pieces of prawn were soon being scattered around the float at regular intervals. The sky was pleasingly overcast and I was soon bringing a steady stream of small perch ranging from a couple of ounces to about six ounces to the bank. About half an hour into the session my perch bob did as its name suggests and moved first left and then right, bobbing all the while before submerging. My strike met with solid resistance and a brief game of tug of war resulted in a fine looking perch being drawn over the rim of the landing net. I only submit perch to the indignity of being weighed and reduced to a number if I'm pretty sure they'll top the 2 pound mark, and this fish looked to be somewhere between a pound and a half and possibly a pound and three quarters, so a quick photo of the fish on the mat and one of it being held aloft in my hands were all that preceded its speedy return to its rightful home.

As the morning wore on the sun broke through the clouds creating less than ideal conditions for the capture of perch. As any angling text book will tell you, perch have a marked preference for feeding in low light levels, but as fish aren't known for their bibliophile tendencies I reasoned that there was every chance that the fish wouldn't be aware of how they're supposed to behave and that there may still be a chance of another sizable specimen. However, it turned out that they were true to literary expectations and although I continued to catch with metronomic regularity   it was only small perch (who feed constantly in order to grow big enough to take themselves off the menu of their older and larger brothers and cousins) who continued to be tempted by my bait.

Despite the conditions no longer being conducive for the capture of venerably sized sergeants, I did land a barbel (pause for the predictable and utterly justified chorus of "boos and catcalls"- I also am no fan of the stocking of these majestic river creatures into ponds and lakes) which provided a stern test for my ancient cane Martin James rod which was recently refurbished for me by my friend Roy, as well as several handsome ide and the very occasional roach.

By late morning, with the sun now high in the sky, I decided to pack up and return to the world of work and responsibilities. I had had my fun, recharged my batteries, and against the odds managed to land one perch of reasonable size to kickstart 2023's perch campaign. To my striped adversaries the message is simple: today was the first dress rehearsal, in September the contest will start in earnest. Until then, fish striped and swaggering, with spiky dorsal fins held erect will swim through my dreams - who knows, this Winter may be the one when I finally realise my dream to catch a 3 pounder. Hope springs eternal in the heart of the angler and while I have no desire to wish my life away, the "season of mists and mellow fruitfulness" can't come quickly enough for this piscator. 

Pond life

" There lay a pond, set in its little alp of green - only a pond, but large enough to contain the human body, and pure enough to reflect the sky ..."

I am a lover of ponds, and for me a small and intimate pond is second only to a river in my hierarchy of locations for piscatorial adventure. I concede the primary position to the river on account of its embodiment of life and movement, and its constant restless reinvention of itself as currents and floods scour out and redefine its gravel or silty bottom, an endless exercise in redefinition but the pond runs it a close second and holds a more venerated place in my esteem than larger lakes, lochs or reservoirs. Ponds spirit us back to childhood and their close confines envelop the angler in warm embrace. 

This past weekend fishing with friends all of whom are fellow members of the Christian Anglers club, a group that combines two of the passions that have guided and defined my life, saw me wet a line in two different ponds, one the archetypal farm pond of less than an acre that would have seemed familiar to Mr Crabtree and his young protégé, the other a body of water that I would describe as a pond but that possibly exists in the intersection between large pond and small lake. 

Both provided good fishing, the first of them so "good" that it was in danger of going beyond good and becoming banal, so unrelentingly frequent were the captures of small yet feisty mirror and common carp. In fact for a while I opted to wind in and wind down, covering my face with my hat and allowing myself to be overcome by sleep.

The second pond compensated for what it lacked in rolling fields and the noise of decidedly vocal sheep (the first was situated on a working farm) with mature trees lining the water's edge and an avian symphony replacing the ovine backing track. 

Although the second pond does contain carp it avoids being dominated by them and they mostly manage to evade the angler's baits and escape capture. This is a pond dominated by roach and rudd, silver and golden in sheen and a couple of evening's dropping a float into its margins resulted in plenty of roach and rudd. On the first evening I elected not to fish but sat chatting to my friend Roger, a veteran of all seven Christian Anglers weekend Retreats, who was giving its first outing to a split cane Wondrex. Fishing it in conjunction with a small quill float and using sweetcorn as bait the rod was soon being put to good use with the ubiquitous roach and rudd rewarding his efforts.

The following evening I shared a swim with my brother Andy. Both now in our 50's, this was a recapturing of how we often fished as youngsters- sharing a swim and talking as we stared our at our floats wishing them into submersion. Four decades on from those early days each fish is no longer accompanied by the excited high-pitched exclamation of "I've got one", which is probably just as well, not only for the peace of the pool's other anglers but also because these days our accumulated experience tends to lead to us catching far more fish in a session that we might realistically have dreamt of in those innocent halcyon days of childhood. 

Like Roger on the previous evening, I too was christening a new (to me) yet venerably aged cane rod, and my final fish after a succession of the expected roach and rudd was my first ever bream from this particular pond, despite me having fished its waters for the best part of 15 years. The rod bent into a gentle yet pleasing arc and  for a few seconds the centre pin sang before the bream rolled over on its side and succumbed in the lazy way that typifies the token resistance that the species are wont to show. 

As I tucked my rod back into its canvas bag and shouldered my small fishing satchel the first drops of rain began to fall and I was reminded of what Thoreau wrote about the nature of the pond beside which he briefly lived while attempting to manufacture a life of simplicity: "...it is continually receiving new life and motion from above. It is intermediate in its nature between land and sky." 

I rather like that.

Coronation Carping

 

Saturday morning, May 6th. In London a carriage containing the newly crowned King Charles the Third and his Queen makes its slow way back to Buckingham Palace from Westminster Abbey to the impressive accompaniment of  the massed military bands, while in deepest Dorset two middle aged brothers are huddled under their bivvies, with the unrelenting rain tapping out a drumbeat so fast that even the most adroit drummer would struggle to replicate its time signature. The rapid onomatopoeic "splish-splash" noise of the rain on the bivvy roof is pierced by a shriller note as a bite alarm sounds and Tim, my younger brother, is on the rod and in the rain in seconds and playing his fourth carp of the session. I have yet to break my duck. 

We had arrived the previous morning at Bugley Pools in Dorset, a sweet little fishery located on a working sheep farm in bright sunshine and as we only get to fish together once or twice a year had opted to share a swim so that the long periods between fish that characterise "session carping" could be punctuated by conversation and reminiscing. We set up our respective bivvies, made our first casts and soon there were four rods pointing machine gun nest style into the lake. Traps set, we waited and waited but by late afternoon still no fish had graced our rods. We were not unduly perturbed by this lack of early action, carp are not stupid fish and we figured that the disturbance of two anglers arriving, setting up camp, feeding a few spots and casting into the lake had caused them to back up to the far end of the lake but if we employed common sense and kept noise and vibrations to a minimum we were confident that they'd return. 

Following an evening meal of burgers, sausages and bacon all sourced from a local butcher and provided for us by the fishery owner, we returned to our fishing base and settled in for the night. We hadn't long been ensconced in the warmth of our sleeping bags when the rain began, a "shower" of fierce intensity that lasted from before the fall of darkness right through until 2 oclock the following afternoon. As we had anticipated, the carp regained their confidence, and during the night we were disturbed on three occasions with Tim landing three nocturnal carp, the heaviest this mirror of just over 14 pounds.

First light came, the rain continued unabated and Tim landed another carp before my bite alarm finally sounded for the first time and I happily drew my first fish, a "scraper double", over the folds of the net. 

From there on in, Coronation Day settled into a pattern. Casting was kept to a minimum, with baits positioned just inches off the far bank for Tim, and equally close to cover but in a small bay to the right for me. Rigs were fished with slack lines and back leads to avoid spooking the carp, and handfuls of hemp, tiger nuts, pellets and crushed boilies were scattered by hand around the positioned baits. Every couple of hours the silence (or more accurately "near silence"- as a busy woodpecker beat a staccato rhythm from time to time on a dead tree on the far bank) was broken by the sounding of an alarm and another beautifully scaled mirror carp, or more occasionally a common, would be reluctantly brought to the bank. The majority of these carp, it has to be admitted, falling to Tim's baits, rather than mine! 

By early afternoon the rain had relented, ceasing as suddenly as it had begun, almost as if somewhere a switch had been flicked by an unseen hand. Time passes slowly when carp fishing, but not in the same way as it does when engaged in some laborious and unwanted chore, but at a pleasant pace far more conducive to one's wellbeing than the frenetic one that typifies much of our modern lives. It was late afternoon when my bait was picked up by my fourth and final carp of the trip, which turned out to be my biggest fish and one that turned the dial on the scales to a pleasing 16 pounds and four ounces. 

The final night was a quieter affair with my bite alarms remaining resolutely silent, and Tim just adding one small common to his tally. Our conversations drifted nostalgically back into childhood and teenage memories, as is to be expected when two brothers with over half a century of shared memories get together, before sleep enveloped us as darkness had the light. 

The following morning we packed to leave for home (Tim's in South Wales, mine the East Midlands) to reconnect with our families and everyday lives. Predictably, Tim whose carp angling ability far outshines mine, managed one final carp while packing up, another mirror with apple slice scales typical of the type we'd grown accustomed to over the preceding 48 hours. Our final tally for the weekend was nine carp for Tim, while four succumbed to my rods.

The Sunday morning drive home from Dorset to Leicester was pleasant, the A34 being almost empty, and I basked in the contented afterglow of someone who, although somewhat sleep deprived, has experienced the re-energising effect that spending quiet time in the outdoors brings with it. I had neither worked in nor attended church on this particular Lord's Day, but rather had spent time in one of the Almighty's "outdoor cathedrals." Old time theologians used to talk about "the Book of Nature", seeing the created order as a secondary form of revelation behind Holy Scripture that pointed the "reader" to God. I can't help thinking that they were on to something.

Fishing in the son shine

The earth had just completed its 55th orbit of the sun since my coming into existence, and there seemed no better way to celebrate my entering my 56th year than to spend it fishing with my son. I find myself musing on the meaning of fatherhood far more now than I ever did when both of my now adult children were small. As they have become increasingly less dependent on me (my daughter married and a home owner, my son a firefighter who towers over me in stature) my happiness has become increasingly dependant on theirs. I have had my adventures, made my mistakes, momentarily basked in my mini-triumphs, but while I hope that there's still quite  a bit of life in the old dog, it is their flourishing that means most to me now. In my own imperfect way while they were children I tried to provide the shade under which they could grow, one day in the future as I enter my dotage I may come to rely on them to provide the shade that protects an enfeebled version of me, but now in the early autumn of my life and the springtime of theirs we meet as friends and equals.

We had elected to fish a local small commercial lake, largely for the sake of convenience and for its pleasant facilities. This was to be a day when the fishing would be casual and as much a backdrop to conversation and each other's company as a frenzied pursuit of fish, and while commercials are often much maligned, they have their place and the fishery we had opted for is clean, well managed and provides a pleasant angling experience.

We opted to share a swim, happy to sacrifice efficiency on the altar of sociability and following the obligatory depth plumbing rituals began fishing in the margins, the bait no more complicated than double maggot. We were each employing the use of a centre pin, mine matched with a very light split cane float rod, while my son favoured a rod of the less romantic but arguably more efficient carbon variety. My first cast saw my float disappear and a brief tussle resulted in an F1 of maybe a couple of pounds being drawn into the waiting folds of the landing net. A couple of small perch followed before my son connected with his first fish of the day. By lunchtime we had landed a catholic selection of fish, with gudgeon, perch, roach, rudd, bream and small carp forming the supporting cast with the majority of fish being F1s. Lunch, which consisted of large breakfast rolls, was hurriedly taken in the onsite cafe before we resumed our piscatorial activity.

The weather, although mercifully dry, was cold and a brisk wind caused the lakes surface to be a rolling mass of small but constant waves, while beneath its surface an undertow moved briskly from right to left. Despite the challenging conditions a procession of fish continued to make their way to the bank, with numbers being roughly equal although my son's fish were consistently of a larger size than mine and included this diminutive but rather beautiful dark-backed little mirror.

As we entered the last half hour we noticed that fish had begun boiling near the surface as our loose fed maggots entered the water, and so despite the cold temperature we decided to experiment with fishing "summer style"  and shallowed our floats to about a foot and a half's depth and intensified the feeding, which resulted in a bite a cast and an increase in the rate of fish caught, prompting us to wonder how many more fish we might have caught if we had fished counter-intuitively from the start.

After four and a half windswept hours and with an estimated forty fish between us we decided to cheat the forecast rain, pack our tackle away and head for home. It had been a wonderful slice of father and son time and a fitting start to my birthday celebrations. Under my tutelage my son caught his first fish when he was just three years old, and I hope that there will be plenty more opportunities over how ever many years I have left for us to share a swim, enjoy each other's company, exchange thoughts and opinions and (occasionally) catch the odd fish. 

A friend once told me that fishing is his favourite way of wasting time. I disagree. Time spent fishing is never wasted, time spent with one's children even more so, which -by means of logical extension - leads me to conclude that time spent fishing with one's child has few qualitative equals. Today I feel like the luckiest of men. 

"All quiet on the Eastern Fens"

 

A fortnight before the close of the river season I returned to the Fens for the first time in two years and was delighted to discover that very little has changed. The horizon remains flat, the skies big, the wind biting, and my landing net an unnecessary accoutrement as I registered my  third consecutive blank on what had, until Covid intervened, been an annual pilgrimage. The Fenland waterways had seduced me into thinking that they were easy, my first two trips to these vast, straight and foreboding arterial waterways resulting in the capture of three pike and a solitary zander, but the rivers and drains were merely toying with me, causing me to fall in love with their teasing, but ultimately refusing to reciprocate.

I was, as in all but one of my previous forays East, fishing in the company of fishermen from the Christian Anglers group I belong to, and as ever we were hosted by our good friend Ray who owns the rights to the section of the Sixteen Foot Drain that we prospect for pike.

Shortly after we'd all cast our deadbaits into the murky depths the day's first pike was being drawn to the bank by Martin, a feisty cub of a pike that must have weighed about five pounds. and before much more time had elapsed Matthew's float was sailing away with purpose, a short fight resulting in a fish of similar size to Martin's being held aloft to be photographically captured for posterity.

The action slowed with only the occasional missed run bringing hope to the eleven wind and rain swept anglers before Andy joined the ranks of those who had avoided the blank with the first of a pair of pike both of which took a liking to a deadbait positioned just feet from the near bank.

Lunchtime saw us refuelling with our usual midday fare of bacon rolls and, with the sport having slowed, rods were periodically wound in as one or other of our number walked the bank to chat and enjoy the friendship and company that, more than the pike themselves, are the real reason we make our annual visit to the bleak beauty of this region rightly famed for its rich agricultural and angling heritage.

Both my float fished and popped up legered baits were untroubled by pike and my brief wandering with a lure rod was equally lacking in success. Andy, however, proved to be top rod on the day, his second pike (which tipped the scales at nine pounds exactly) completing his brace and making the journey from his Hertfordshire home well worth the early morning start.

By mid afternoon we were wet and, for the most part, fishless but as we posed for a photo and began the task of packing cars and vans for our respective return journeys home it was unanimously agreed that we'd had a fine time, had been hosted generously by Ray and that, God willing, we'd be back to resume our quest for pike next year. Hopefully in twelve months' time the waters of the Fens will treat me with the generosity and  beneficence that they showed on my first two visits and will once again yield me a pike or two, but even if that proves not to be the case my affection for their bleak exposed beauty will remain keen and undimmed.

Winter Perching

One of my favourite poems is called "Adlestrop". At just four verses it hardly qualifies as an epic and, other than a train stopping at a station on a June day and a blackbird singing, nothing happens. Its significance lies in the date of its composition. Written in 1917, it describes a moment of poignant normality, a normality that seems incongruous in the light of the War taking place elsewhere in Europe at that time and the underlying and unspoken threat with which the poem's context is pregnant was sadly to be realised- its author was not to survive the war. A poem in which very little happens, but what little does happen does so beautifully. My favourite novel, Marilyn Robinson's "Gilead", is similar. It has little in the way of plot, no twists, turns or shocks but exists as a masterpiece of description. Perhaps my obsession with pursuing perch makes my literary tastes unsurprising - in my fishing too, very little happens but does so surrounded by beauty; I sit and wait, reposition my bait, trickle in loose feed, wait some more, light a cigar, take a sip of coffee, time passes slowly and occasionally the reverie is broken by my perch bob living up to its name and agitatedly bobbing before disappearing and inducing from me a reaction. Today was one such day.

Initially, the weather was as might be expected in early February, with the air cold and the boney fingers of trees still denuded of their summer foliage clawing at the grey sky but as the morning drew on the wan sky was transformed from smoky grey to duck egg blue as the temperature incrementally rose to a pleasantly mild nine degrees. My tactics for the day could hardly  have been simpler- red maggots fished under a sarkandas reed float and positioned close to the cover provided by the roots of a tree that had at some time in the past encroached into the lake's margins. A miniscule perch and a barely bigger roach were the reward for my first two casts, but thereafter the fishing took on a more leisurely aspect with bites being more few and far between than fast and furious, leaving plenty of time for conversation with my fishing partner David and for me to give my mind permission to wander in a manner that would have drawn approval from Walton who famously described angling as "the contemplative man's recreation." The American essayist, philosopher and poet Ralph Waldo Emerson advocated that one should  "adopt the pace of nature" observing that "her secret is patience" - I don't know if he was angler, but the quote leads me to think he might well have been, and if he wasn't he would have made a rather splendid one. 

Periodically my float dipped and disappeared but the hoped for perch failed to materialise in any sizeable form, but half a dozen small but feisty carp proved a pleasant diversion along with a similar number of juvenile perch and modestly proportioned roach. David in the next swim along caught double the number of fish but half the number of carp before we decided that the large perch were unlikely to make an appearance, and packed up for home following a pleasant morning characterised largely by soul nourishing  inactivity

The fish had been unremarkable in size and modest in number, but as I shouldered my tackle bag and reached for my bucket and rod to take my leave of the lake, as in the poem, a songbird sang only this time the avian troubadour wasn't a blackbird but a friendly robin who, for the price of a few maggots,  had chosen to keep me company throughout the session. In such small things is happiness found and I re-entered the busyness of the "real world" content with my lot and at peace with myself and the natural world that I'd had the privilege of immersing myself in for a few unhurried hours. If my middle years have taught me anything it's that contentment is a vastly underrated state of mind.