The big wide world beyond the Fenland scene in which I'd inserted myself was going more than a little bit crazy. The established order of things was rapidly being turned upside down, and between the two of them a narcissistic US President with an over-inflated ego and no real understanding of international diplomacy and a Russian dictator with aggressive imperialistic designs were making a mess of things and bringing us closer to a global war than at any time since the Cuban missile crisis. But on the Sixteen Foot drain as I screwed my eyes up against the wind and stared at my pike float, for a few hours the world shrunk, its problems temporarily forgotten, and I was happy to surrender the totality of my concentration to the, ultimately unsuccesful, attempt to add to my (admittedly meager) tally of Fenland pike.
I make an annual pilgrimage (an apt description considering the company with whom I make it) to the Fens with a small bunch of fellow members of the Christian Anglers group, a club that now numbers around 120 fisherfolk whose common bonds are fishing and faith, and on this occasion the group included both my son and one of my brothers.
To say that the Fenland drains can be inhospitable and less than easy to fish is to dabble in understatement, but this yearly event is one that proves all of the cliches and truisms of angling to be accurate: there really is more to fishing than catching fish, and while we descend on the drain knowing that only a few of us will catch we make the journey equally confident that such knowledge doesn't bother us.
It was probably slightly less than an hour after setting up that the first pike of the day was landed, a jack of perhaps five pounds making its way angrily into my brother Andy's landing net. We all took this to be an encouraging sign, although experience told us that the Sixteen Foot drain was likely to be capricious and (as with swallows and summers) one pike is no guarantee of whatever may or may not ensue.
The morning wore on, and as lunchtime (bacon rolls, cooked by one of our number and shared by all, always form a part of this particular get-together) grew closer, Matt struck into a pike which it soon became clear was significantly bigger than the day's first fish. A short tussle resulted in him displaying what would be the best fish of the day, a mean and magnificent looking female of fourteen pounds and six ounces.
Morning gave way to afternoon and as the sky turned cloudier and the wind grew colder, Ray, who runs this stretch of water, appeared with warm sausage rolls to keep morale and spirits high. John, fishing at the far end of the row of anglers managed a brace of early afternoon jacks to complete the day's catching.
Most of those fishing had travelled reasonable distances to do so, and with a darkening sky taking on a more threatening demeanour, we gathered to present Matt with the trophy for the day's largest specimen, to say our goodbyes, and to offer a brief prayer of thanks for what had been a thoroughly enjoyable day and another one for our friend and club member Roy, in advance of his imminent surgery.
Maybe next year will see me renew my own personal bankside acquaintance with the gloriously green and mottled pike of the Fens but, while I have only limited confidence that this may prove to be the case, I have no such hesitation in my certainty that next year's event will be as rich and full of pleasure as all its predecessors have been. As our friends in the Flyfishers Club would have it: "Piscator non solum piscatur."
