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.
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