Catching carp in the setting sun

 

"If there is magic in this planet it is contained in water" wrote the anthropologist Loren Eisley, who was once described as the "modern Thoreau." Whether Eisley deserved such an ascription I'm not qualified to judge, but having enjoyed two magical evenings at the Club Lake in the last few days, I certainly agree with his premise.

Both were spent in the company of my friend Roger, the first with another friend, David also joining us on the bank, and each of the evenings encapsulated summer evening fishing at its best. The fish were compliant, small carp that almost seemed to form orderly queues behind our floats so desperate did they appear to make our acquaintance, and the grass, trees and foliage that surround the lake wore their livery of emeralds, sages, and jades with flamboyant panache. 

Roger and I always elect to deploy vintage tackle as our weapons of choice at every opportunity when the situation allows (and sometimes when it doesn't- both of us have redefined the notion of split cane and experienced that sickening sound of the wooden fibres shattering and a prized possession becoming kindling!), and on the first evening we both used cane rods (mine an Allcocks Wizard, Roger's one made by the Steadfast company), while on the second Roger persisted with his cane rod, while I gave a first outing of the season to an ancient glass fibre rod manufactured by the now defunct ET Barlows of Thames Ditton. David, our partner on the first evening, eschews our romantic attachments to all things piscatorially ancient, and pragmatically opted for carbon.

The musical score that accompanies the angling activity are the sounds of birdsong and bees buzzing, the former rarely visible but gently audible, the latter very visible in their yellow and black striped rugby shirts, their constant activity and relentless endeavour the antithesis of the somniferous summer evening. The sunsets that signify that the time to pack up and return to our wives and domesticity is almost upon us shift their hue from vibrant, iridescent oranges and pinks to more muted dusky heathers and purples before conceding the inevitable victory to night time darkness.

William Wordsworth was of the opinion that "a lake carries you into recesses of feeling otherwise impenetrable", while my take on things, although lacking the poetic grace and less profound than his, is that if you're lucky enough to spend an evening by the lake, you're lucky enough. As others have sometimes remarked I'm easily pleased, and for me spending the cool of the day being led by still waters is to walk  a path that leads to contentment and refreshing of the soul.

Reflections on a sonnet

 

I love a good sonnet. Reading one, that is, not writing one. I have on a number of occasions tried to put pen to paper and give birth to a sonnet of my own, but have never been successful in resolving the tension between form and imagery to my satisfaction. I find the formula of quatrains, alternate rhyming lines, and stressed and unstressed syllables constricts my use of words, and am forced to admit that, although a lover of poetry, I am, sadly, no poet. My experience of fly fishing has been similar- the juxtaposition of fluidity and artistry with the metronomic rhythm of casting was too hard a thing for me to master. I tried twice, caught three rainbows, suffered innumerable casting disasters and returned to taking permanent refuge in my known world of coarse fishing!

All of which is a preamble to sharing with you the thoughts that a recent rereading of Sonnet 73 by Shakespeare (the playwright and poet, not the tackle manufacturer!) evoked in me. It is a strange malady which afflicts me, but I have a tendency to view all kinds of non angling related things through a piscatorial lens, and so it was in this instance.

For those unfamiliar with the poem, sonnet 73 has the poet contemplating his own mortality in the autumn of his years, and eavesdrops on his attempts to pass on to a younger friend something of the impermanent and transitory nature of life and existence. One of the attractions of poetry is the way in which it draws the reader in, and in a manner that avoids feeling egocentric inserts the reader him or herself into the poem, and so it was that the poet's observations around aging began to connect with my own.

In my early 50's, I am far from my dotage, but am conscious that I am in the process of gently transitioning from the late summer to the early autumn of my life as time continues its inexorable passage. I have for long been aware that I fish as much to capture memories as I do to capture the fish themselves, and realise that a time will come when the memories I make will be less for my benefit and more for those with whom I make them. Both of my children are now grown up, but the memories I made while fishing with them as youngsters will live with them for longer than they will with me. Similarly, my circle of fishing friends includes those both younger and older than I, and the memories that we create become the stories that we retell, and one day there will be one less person around the fire, and the stories in which I feature will belong to those who remain.

As a firm believer in life beyond the grave, with a worldview that chooses to locate the cramped quarters of time within the wide open spaces of eternity, none of this perplexes me overmuch, but does induce a mild state of melancholy, although nothing approaching the pathos that pervades sonnet number 73. I find myself once again drawn to the written word, although this time not to poetry but to prose, and the closing words of Norman Maclean's classic novella, A River Runs through it, as the narrator now an old man reflects on those who have enriched his life but who have now passed from time to eternity and observes : "Eventually, all things merge into one, and a river runs through it. The river was cut by the world's great flood and runs over rocks from the basement of time. On some of those rocks are timeless raindrops. Under the raindrops are the words, and some of the words are theirs." 

I am happy to both be a "word" in the stories of others and to accept the gift that is their being a "word" in mine. And so, I grab my rod, reel, and net, and make for the door intent on creating memories of which I am temporary custodian but not sole owner.

Fishing goes "Southern Fried."

 

In a spirit of honesty I need to make clear that I do not regard myself as a great fisherman-philosopher. If truth be known, I'm not even a great fisherman or philosopher, and most of the time when I think about fishing I'm doing no more than that; I'm simply thinking about fishing. However, occasionally experiences drawn from my pursuit of fish take my mind to other more esoteric realms, and catalyze "wonderings" that would not have presented themselves to me had I not been an angler. One such is my ongoing reflection on my ambiguous relationship with America's Southern states.

In 2013 I spent three gloriously self-indulgent weeks undertaking a solo road trip around some of the aforementioned states. I stayed in a mixture of motels and the homes of friends I'd made on the internet, and caught fish in locales that ranged from the Ocean off South Carolina to lakes on the Missouri/Arkansas border, drove 3000 miles, spent time in nine States, and discovered an area riddled with contradictions and paradoxes that has led to an inner conflictedness that I've never subsequently succeeded in resolving.

The land of the Jim Crow laws, legally enforced until just three years before I was born, is also the land of the "Bible belt", a phrase coined by HL Mencken in 1919. Southerners are famed for their courtesy and hospitality (and I was a grateful beneficiary of it), but as one wag once quipped "a Southerner is gracious and friendly until he is mad enough to kill you!"  For many of the South's inhabitants it appears that the collective memory of the Civil War is still one where a feeling that "we lost" (accentuated by some folk I met referring to this historical internal conflict as "the War of Northern Aggression!") persists, despite the Stars and Stripes that fly in the front yard of almost every house or trailer. To a European, there is also something unfathomable in observing that those most likely to unquestionably imbibe the dogma of the "American Dream" are those least likely to ever see its promises of advancement, material gain, and social mobility, realised in their "deep South" blue collar lives. 

The irony, however, is that despite my uneasiness about aspects of the South's past and the tendrils that reach from it into the present, given the chance I'd sell up and leave Blighty in exchange for a life in the Southern states tomorrow. None of that is in any way to minimise the misgivings already cited, but the simple fact is that I've rarely been happier in an environment than when I was a guest in the South. For a start, there's the weather, neatly described by Eugene Walter in his novel "The Untidy Pilgrim" with the memorable observation that "Summer in the deep South is not only a season or a climate, it's a dimension." I can recall stepping out of my air conditioned car in South Carolina, and within minutes my shirt being wet, the hot moisture from the air mixing with my own sweat. As someone who loves the feeling of the sun's warmth on his skin, it has to be said that the climate has a lot going for it. I warm to the story telling traditions and the bluegrass music, the priority placed on family, the food ( it has been noted that "You can say a lot about Southerners, but you can't say that Southerners as a people are duly afraid of deep fryers", and while the originator of that sentence may have meant it as a superior put-down, deep fried food works for me!), and I cannot ignore the fact that some of the nicest, kindest, most generous and friendly people I've had the pleasure of spending time with were with the friends made during my all too brief American adventure.

Add to all of the above, the Outdoorsman culture that is prevalent (go into any Walmart store- the equivalent of our Asda-  and you'll find a couple of aisles dedicated to fishing tackle), the sheer volume of water available to fish, and the ease with which one can talk about God and discuss matters of faith in the American South, and the appeal to an angler like me who defines his life predominantly through the filter of his faith is easy to understand.

But what about the contradictions and paradoxes, some just the result of cultural differences, others with more disturbing roots? I guess I'm with JD Vance, the author of "Hillbilly Elegy" on this one- cultures are complex, and resistant to simplistic analysis or solutions. That the South is haunted by the legacy of slavery and segregation is inarguable, but the white Southerners with whom I talked were all hoping for a more integrated future, but unsure as to how such a future might be achieved and attained. I must also confess that although I drove through the Appalachian Mountains, passing dilapidated but still inhabited trailer homes with rusted out refrigerators and pickup trucks slowly decaying in their sun-baked front yards, I only lodged and rubbed shoulders with blue collar and middle class Southerners, so never saw the extremes of poverty experienced by black and white communities in some of the poorest areas, and was consequently sheltered from exposure to some of the South's inequalities and problems in their more extreme forms.

So, what to conclude? During my brief sojourn in the South, I discovered what I already knew: that societies, cultures, and people are complicated, and resist being neatly pigeonholed. While retaining my European scepticism of the "American Dream" and the populist Trumpian brand of Republicanism that has gained such traction amongst working class white voters in the Southern States, I have no hesitation in saying that I enjoyed my time in the South, and that there were as many of the values that its people embrace (the importance of family, community, and personally owned faith, as well as the general outdoorsy vibe) that resonated warmly with me as there were those that disturbed me. Add to that the fact that it's still a place where you can wear double denim and it be considered not just acceptable but also almost de rigueur (always a plus for someone who was a teenager in the 80's), the weather is glorious, the pace of life slow, some of the scenery spectacular, the food comforting and plentiful, and fishing is considered an almost mandatory pastime, and it's not hard to see why I pine to return with a fishing rod in hand, and a mind as open as were the hearts of those who hosted me and fished with me on my last visit to the land of Flannery O'Connor, cotton picking, and the Grand Ole Opry.

Success, failure and chasing fish

There is a myth that Vicars are universally wise, and that when presented with a problem, whether a personal and pastoral one forged in the fires of real life suffering or a hypothetical philosophical, or theological one, after a few seconds of thought and earnest chin stroking words saturated with insight and profundity will fall from their lips. I am living proof that this is not the case. My best efforts at gravitas usually disappoint, and while I firmly believe that there is a satisfactory "God-shaped" answer to any question, I often struggle to find that answer, much less to articulate it. However, of one thing I am certain: once rescued from the tyranny of chasing success, it is impossible to fail at fishing.

Here's what I mean: as long as enjoyment isn't dependant simply on fish caught or targets achieved (unless that target is simply to have fun) then failure ceases to exist as a concept because of the multi-faceted nature of any fishing trip.

For starters, there's the natural beauty which surrounds us as anglers, and into which we insert ourselves, when fishing. The ripples and reflections, the backdrops of trees, woods and fields, the changing of the seasons, and the musical accompaniment of birdsong. Then there's the discernible slowing of pace, as the pressures that constitute so much of modern life recede and time seems to realign itself to the speed at which it passed in childhood, when minutes felt like hours, hours like days, days like weeks, and the first sixteen years of life seemed to last longer than all that has followed in the (in my case thirty seven) years that have followed them. Many times I've fished and lost all sense of time, with only the movement of the sun and the drawing in of darkness providing a clue to the fiction displayed on my watch. 

Further pleasure is derived from the tackle we use, in my case accentuated by the aesthetic pleasure of my self-imposed decision to almost exclusively use either genuine vintage tackle or (in the case of floats) traditionally styled equipment with a retro feel. The latter is, of course, merely my own choice, and perhaps to an extent an eccentric indulgence, but any angler's tackle box, whether they choose to follow the traditionalist's creed or the latest fashions in carp fishing, is an Aladdin's treasure trove of accessories and gadgets that almost demand to be regularly re-ordered and rationalised in their position in the box and fiddled with and fettled, adapted and improved. Every man becomes a boy again when faced with a tackle box full of accessories and the ephemera that we convince ourselves is indispensable for a day at the water's edge.

Add to the above the angling company that we keep, and the notion that failure is a redundant concept for the angler continues to become more compelling. Over recent years I have realised that my angling is as much an exercise in creating memories as it is in capturing fish, and the pleasure of making those memories with good friends multiplies the sense of enjoyment. As I've grown older the friendships associated with my fishing have grown in importance, and I've had as much pleasure making modest catches with my closest angling associates as I have catching far more notable fish when on my own.

And then, finally, there are the fish themselves. Each of them, whether large or small, a thing of wonder and beauty in its own right and our protagonists in the game of underwater chess that holds us spellbound and enthralled. Sometimes we catch them in prodigious numbers, sometimes to great size, sometimes we only succeed in fooling tiddlers, and at times they keep us humble and aware of our fallibility by eluding capture altogether, while always maintaining the power to keep us trapped in our happy addiction.

And so I return to my opening premise. If fishing is understood in holistic terms failure is an impossibility because the "doing of the thing" is its own reward, and fishing contains too many charms to simply be reduced to being viewed through the lens of fish caught. I gave up playing competitive Saturday league football at the age of 30, and I sometimes miss it, but mostly can live very happily without the smell of liniment, the banter of the changing room, the sliding tackles, goals, and half-time orange slice and cigarette, but if anyone were to deprive me of my fishing I really wonder how I would cope. It's been a fortnight since I last fished ..... it's been too long.

Back on the bank and back in camp

 

According to a well known maxim "the sun shines on the righteous". The Bible, however, takes a more realistic approach, with Jesus declaring that it "rains on both the just and the unjust" (Matthew 5), but whichever of those two statements you concur with (as you might expect, I'll take my stand with Jesus' pragmatic observation!) the sun certainly shone on the 15 members of the Christian Anglers Group who gathered for their 5th annual Weekend Retreat in June.  The event had been billed as an opportunity for fishing, food, and fellowship and it certainly delivered generously on all three fronts.

2020 had seen the first ever cancellation of the weekend since its inception in 2016, so it was good to be back together and enjoying each other's company. Our first two Retreats had seen us camping in a friendly farmer's field and embarking on day trips to local fisheries, our second two saw us located on the banks of the mighty River Trent fishing for barbel, while this year we took over the whole site of the Purple Badger Camping and Fishing set up in East Leicestershire. The camping facilities were ideal for our requirements, a lovely field with showers, a covered kitchen area, a small covered social area in which we held our meetings, and showers and toilets, all with an attractive rustic, countryside vibe. Add to that the friendliest and most helpful site owners and hosts you could wish for, and all was set for a wonderful weekend.

Friday afternoon saw anglers arriving from Leicestershire, Yorkshire, Cambridgeshire, Hertfordshire, and Shropshire, tents erected, old friendships renewed and new friendships formed, a barbeque, and the first of our meetings, all of which featured a short talk drawing lessons from the life of a Biblical character. The obligatory bonfire preceded a night under canvas that, for me at least, was punctuated by dreams of what I hoped to catch on the morrow.

Saturday dawned bright and sunny, and following a hearty breakfast and our second meeting, the assembled anglers dispersed and scattered themselves in likely looking swims around the site's two lakes. Reasonably sized rudd and roach featured prominently, along with small but voracious perch, and a solitary crucian that fell to Roy's rod. Some anglers found the fish more obliging than others, but everyone caught and no-one fell prey to the dreaded blank. 

We fished until mid afternoon, before breaking for a Bible Study which was followed by free time. Some anglers elected to return to the lakes and add to their catches, while others preferred to stay in camp talking, socialising, and making the most of the laid back atmosphere and hospitable weather. 

After an evening meal of jacket potatoes and chillie, we lit a fire and lazed around swapping stories, chatting, talking nonsense, and "chewing the fat" in the manner men are wont to do when camping. 

Sunday morning dawned bright and early with bacon, egg, and sausage sandwiches, followed by a short open air communion service, before we resumed our battle of wits with the lake's fish. Once again, roach and rudd predominated, but the second crucian of the weekend made an appearance, Phil this time being the fortunate captor.

As the afternoon wore on there was a reluctant acknowledgement that even good things have to come to an end, and in dribs and drabs, tackle and tents were packed up, goodbyes said, and anglers departed to resume their normal lives. As in previous years, the weekend had proved itself to be a success, the desire to catch fish had been sated, the company had been congenial, the setting glorious, and the opportunity to explore our faith together as a group of like-minded Christians and anglers had been a much needed fillip as life continues to emerge from the spectre of covid19 and all its attendant challenges. 

Plans are already afoot for next year's Retreat, and I have a strong suspicion that I'm not alone in admitting that I can barely wait.

Look back in angler

I grew up in an era that looked to the future not the past. And why not too? It was the 1970's and those in the know knew that by the end of the Century we'd be speeding around the streets in flying cars, holidaying on Mars, wearing skintight spandex one piece suits (what was all that about?), living in underwater cities, and walking would be deemed redundant on account of the jetpacks we'd all have strapped to our backs. The past was a foreign country where they did things differently, and we knew which side we wanted our bread to be buttered. 

Nearly half a century on, and I see things somewhat differently. For, while I have no trouble in concurring with  the truth contained in the Billy Joel lyric which states that "the good old days weren't always good, and tomorrow ain't as bad as it seems", and have no desire to return to the dubious delights of tuberculosis, the Workhouse, lower life expectancy, and no NHS, there are things about a simpler bygone era that do call out enticingly with siren voice; and one of those is fishing as it once was. Fishing that owes more to the creed of Walton and Venables than to the practices of the latter day disciples of the scientific and forensic approach that is the legacy of Richard Walker. Fishing that resembles art more than science, that relies on an intuitive almost mystical aspect often referred to as "watercraft", and where the surroundings and natural world that the angler inserts him or herself into is as much a part of the pleasure as the landing of fish. An angling ethos that elevates rather than reduces the status of every fish because each one is treasured, not just those which reach a certain weight. Fishing which remains true to old Isaak's description of angling as "the contemplative man's recreation."

In recent years this approach to the gentle art has been accompanied for me by the choice to undertake  almost all of my fishing adventures with vintage fishing tackle. I'm pragmatic enough to acknowledge that modern tackle is more efficient and ergonomic in its design, but the trade off for me is that I place a higher premium on aesthetics than efficiency and the old cane rods, with their lustrous varnish and patina, are infinitely more intrinsically attractive than a modern carbon wand. Sure, a whole cane rod can be heavy to hold after a while, and a willow basket can prove to be (quite literally) a pain in the proverbial after a few hours, but what thing of worth wasn't achieved without a degree of discomfort or sacrifice?

The irony is that when I turn my mind to deliberately targeting bigger fish  (which isn't that often!) I seem to have been far more successful in my "vintage phase" than ever I was when sat behind matching carbon rods, baitrunners and bite alarms, all pointing machine gun nest style toward the centre of a gravel pit. Perhaps some strange algebra of fate is operative  that determines that the more you enjoy the "doing of the thing itself" and less you care about the results, the greater the reward that ensues. One thing, however, does seems certain: this angler intends to continue going "back for the future" for the foreseeable. After all, if it ain't broke, why fix it?

Targeting Rudd for Respite

When life and work take on a claustrophobic feel, and the pressures of the everyday start weighing heavily, there are two remedies that I find efficacious. The first is that I turn to the Old Testament book of Psalms, and find a sense of peace in those inspired poetic records of how the Psalmists navigated life's trying times and were held by God in their struggles, while the second is that I grab a fishing rod and escape to quiet places and still waters to refresh my soul. The last Zoom meeting of the day finished at 5:00pm, and I duly grabbed an old Rodrill float rod, a net and a bag of bits and headed for a very small pond of probably less than a quarter of an acre, surrounded by overhanging trees, and full of rudd, roach, and carp for a couple of hours of restorative soul-refreshing angling. 

I had been joined by my friend and fellow vintage tackle enthusiast, Roger, and soon we were dropping our lightly shotted floats into the margins and enjoying the stillness of the early evening. Our target fish were the gloriously golden rudd that inhabit the pond, although there was an inevitability that carp would, from time to time, seek to muscle in on the loose feed and provide a sterner test for our ancient rods and reels. 

The occasional frog popped up to satisfy his curiosity, briefly staring bog-eyed at the two grown men fishing the type of pond more normally associated with young boys wielding cane poles and bent-pin hooks or jam jars on strings, before popping back beneath the water's surface, while the breeze carried the pleasing aroma of wet grass and damp earth on the air. 

In the event the hoped for rudd failed to materialise, and it was a steady stream of bully-boy carp that occupied our attention and bent the rods into the shape of their fighting curve. Before long we were both catching steadily, Roger's vintage weapons of choice for the evening being an old glass Pegley Davis float rod matched with an un-named centre pin reel, while I had decided to take the fixed spool option and had paired the Rodrill with a sweet little CAP style Mitchell 304.

In keeping with the capricious and unpredictable nature of the weather in recent weeks, we enjoyed spells of bright sunshine punctuated by less welcome overcast skies, scudding clouds, and  diluvial deluges of brief but ferocious intensity. 

The soakings failed to dampen our spirits, and fishing side by side we chatted, caught up with each other's family news, and speculated as to the reasons that the hoped-for rudd were conspicuously absent. Every few minutes the conversation would be punctuated by the dipping of a float and an upward sweep of the rod as one or other of us bent into an indignant carp. 

Eventually I managed to hook a fish which, by virtue of its lack of a spirited struggle, gave away the fact that it wasn't a carp, and I swung to hand the only rudd that was to grace us with its presence. We both admired it's golden sheen, worthy of a place in any jeweler's shop window, before slipping it gently back into the pond whose banks form the boundaries of its watery world.

A few more carp and we decided to call it a day. It had been a charming evening, which despite the regular catching of carp had taken on the unhurried feel that characterises a good fishing trip. Time felt  as if it had  slowly collected rather than passed with any pace or purpose.

There had been something Crabtree-esque about the evening's gentle and unhurried unfolding, accentuated by the atmosphere of the quiet pond where it had been spent, and as we packed up, I in my 50's and Roger just turned 60, it was hard to tell if we were the eponymous pipe smoking hero of the iconic  Venables cartoons or young Peter. As I get older it strikes me that the secret of truly being contented as a man resides, at least in part,  in the ability to never lose sight of the boy within.