Fishing in a Venn diagram

You could write what little I learned at school about maths on the back of a cigarette packet, but one thing I do recall being taught about was sets. I was never quite sure what sets had to do with numbers or arithmetic (I never progressed as far as algebra, trigonometry or complex equations) but I do remember that sets were displayed pictorially in Venn diagrams, and the overlap between sets was called an "intersection." I spent last weekend inhabiting what would have been one such intersection if my life and passions were described in terms of a Venn diagram. 

My Twitter biography (I refuse to indulge the ego of the narcissist who designed those overpriced electric cars by referring to said social media platform as "X") attests to the fact that my passions are faith, family, football and fishing. I could have added travel, literature and single malt whiskies to the list, but to do so would have compromised its pleasingly alliterative character, and so I chose not to! Anyway, the weekend brought together three of the four (faith, family and fishing) as I attended the eighth annual camping Retreat of the Christian Anglers group to which I belong. 

The excellent Purple Badger campsite in Leicestershire was once again the base for our weekend's escapades which, as is always the case, comprised of a mix of fishing, plentiful food (mostly of the high protein/high carbohydrate type generally preferred by anglers!) and times of talking and reflecting together on our different experiences of our shared Christian faith. These accounted for the fishing and faith aspects, with the intersection completed by the presence throughout the weekend of my brother and nephew, and my son joining us for breakfast and to fish on the Saturday.

After a hearty breakfast (cooked for us by Mark, the owner of the campsite) we travelled to a commercial style fishery about half an hour's drive from our base which offered the opprotunity to fish in a variety of styles, so accounting for both those who derive their pleasure by sitting behing matching rods and bite alarms as well as those who favour fishing the float, or (in a couple of cases) utilising a pole. With the exception of one inclement half hour in which the rain hammered down malevolantly with violent vigour , the elements were in benign mood, and although the carp weren't prolific, most anglers managed at least one carp and not a single angler suffered the ignomony of a blank. 

I shared a swim with my son and we each put out a carp rod and allowed it to "fish itself" while enjoying catching an almost relentless stream of smaller fish on the float. In the event we each ended up with a brace of carp to show for our efforts, my son landing the largest of them. Both of his were caught on dedicated carp tackle, while I was pleased that one of mine came on a float and centre-pin. We even managed a "double hook-up" with both fish being landed within seconds of each other. 

Around the lake others were also bringing carp to the bank, and there was an air of casual enjoyment as rods were wound in from time to time to enable  anglers to walk the bank and renew acquaintances with friends, one or two of whom hadn't seen each other since last year's Retreat. 

With the angling itch temporarily scratched, we returned to camp and spent some time talking in the sunshine about how life was going for each of us, where we are seeing God active in the ups and downs of our daily lives, and what we felt we were learning in it all. I realise that the majority of regular readers of this blog may find thoughts of such conversation amongst a bunch of anglers unfamiliar or strange, but for most of those of us attending the Retreat our faith is of even more importance to us than our fishing, and the single biggest aspect of our personal identity.

Two of our cherished Saturday night traditions are the barbecue, always presided over by chief cook and bottle washer, Pete, and the bonfire that follows it as evening gives way to night and darkness draws in.

Sunday, as has also become a regular ritual, began with a rustic service of Holy Communion in the open air, before we fished the lake on the campsite. Here the predominant species are some fine quality and beautifully coloured roach and rudd, although I was equally happy to augment the silver-sided roach and golden rudd with a procession of gudgeon, a fish for which I've had an inordinate fondness ever since childhood angling days.

As is needful for all good things, the weekend had to come to an end, and goodbyes were said and this year's Retreat pronounced by most who attended to be the best so far. We had been fed both physically and spiritually and our angling appetites were also satiated, although doubtless not for long. I drove home happy in the knowledge that three of my four passions (family, fishing and faith) had been brought into proximity and existed for a few hours in a joy inducing intersection - I wonder if there's a way in which we could work in a football match next year? It would certainly add a frisson of danger as a group of mainly aging and arthritic men tried to reclaim the heroic footballing deeds of their long gone and misspent youth!

Looking while life lasts

Fishing is lots of things and the whole experience exceeds the sum of its parts, but chief among them, fishing is observation. An inexperienced (or lazy) angler might sit him or herself in the first waterside spot they encounter or in the swim nearest to the car, but the serious angler takes time to choose thier pitch and makes the decision based on the data taken in through their eyes. As necessary as the ability to cast with accuracy is the need to pay attention.

Rivers, lakes, ponds and streams, like poker players, have their "tells." A slack on the edge of a fast current, the protective (or ambush) qualities offered by a bed of reeds, undercut banks, or a clean gravel bottom may all provide clues to the potential of a stretch of water, along with the more obvious signals given by the ripples left by a rising fish.

It was the venerable "godfather" of angling, Isaak Walton who, almost half a millennia ago entreatied the would be captor of fish to "study to be quiet", and as year succeeds year in the unfolding story of my own obsession my appreciation of the sagacity of his advice grows.

This priority of observation also has benefits that go beyond the mere landing of fish and posesses what a modern businessperson might describe as "added value." In a world characterised by indecent haste and stress inducing hurry it forces the angler to slow down and to stand (or sit) and stare, and in looking for clues of where to locate or target fish to discover and to be exposed to wonder. As that doyen of angling literature, BB, famously wrote when describing his own experience "The shapes of things: their colours, lights and shades. These I saw" before exhorting the reader to "look ye also while life lasts." We, as humans, may  unfortunately be uniquely adept in our ability to bespoil the natural world but there is still beauty to be found and that beauty most often finds me when I'm fishing, and for that I'm truly grateful.

In search of (perchy) redemption

My only previous visit to "the Perch Pond" this year had been underwhelming. The large perch that inhabit its waters had been disinclined to make an appearance and the sparse handful of micro-perch and small roach that attached themselves grudgingly to my line were scant consolation for the ambivalent implacability of their larger brethren. 

Today's return trip, in the company of one of my regular fishing partners, David, was self-consciously an attempt to even up the score between me and the perch in the hope that, despite the bright Springtime sunshine I might be able to persuade just one decent sized perch to briefly join me on the bank. To a church minister from the protestant tradition like myself, humanity's redemption by God is soley a gift of grace but by contrast redemption of the fishing kind is brought about entirely by one's own hard work (aided often by a slice of good fortune), and so I set about my work with prawns on the hook, and maggots introduced to the swim by hand.

I dropped my porcupine quill float tight to some reed stems in a likely looking spot just feet from the water's edge, and employed a 9 foot vintage glass fibre Milbro rod and an ancient  Allcocks Aeriel centre pin  reel as my weapons of choice. My fondness for porcupine quills is matched only by my affection for small perch bobs and these two float patterns account for almost all of my perch fishing. The wait for the float to submerge was short and the first bite of the day resulted in a small but handsome rudd which had unexpectedly taken a liking to prawns, the first example of the species that I have ever taken on a prawn.

A further hour passed without any action other than the swinging into the bank of a brace of unwelcome American Signal Crayfish (which were summararily executed as the law demands is the case for these non-native and bullying interlopers). A further half hour of inactivity prompted me, after some head scratching and discussion with David, to change tactics and gamble that a switch to maggot as hookbait might result in snagging a better fish, although it would be relying on the "law of averages" to provide a larger specimen among what would doubtless be a procession of its smaller brethren. 

David was similarly struggling to persuade any fish to show an interest in prawns, and so we made the switch to maggots, encouraging ourselves with the fact that my largest perch to come from this particular pond ( a fine fish of 2 pound 15 oz) fell to double red maggot. As anticipated, there ensued a regular stream of roach, rudd, small perch and bream, but the altered approach failed to deliver the hoped for larger perch. 

One of angling's great joys is its mysteries and the never ending and ever changing puzzles it provides for the piscator. After four years of almost constant success (I realise the definition of "success" is subjective, but in that timeframe I have landed over a score of 2 pounders and probably three times as many pound plus fish which failed to reach the magic 2 pound mark) my last two sessions have failed to deliver a single perch of noteworthy proportions. It doesn't quite feel like time to panic yet, nor a sustained enough drought to start questioning whether the large perch population has dwindled but when Autumn comes around and my thoughts turn more obssesively to perch, what Hercule Poirot would have described as "ze old grey matter" will certainly be going into some form of overdrive. 

By midday, it was time to pack up and return home to the list of chores that my wife in her infinite kindness had left for me. Despite the non-appearance of our intended quarry, David and I agreed that it had been an enjoyable way to while away four hours and our final two hours had been ones in which our floats were continually submerging, and while the culprits were non-remarkable in terms of size each was a welcome visitor to the bank.  The weather had been benign, a kite wings spread, hovering on the thermals, had treated us to a majestic fly past, the lake's environs quiet save for our conversation and the melodic accompaniment of birdsong. The quest for redemption will now be subject to a pause until the "season of mists and mellow fruitfulness" once again comes round, allowing more appropriately Spring and Summer species to take centre stage. Here's hoping they prove less obdurate than the perch. 

The priority of the important

The late Doug Larson, a Wisconsin based journalist who specialised in writing about outdoorsy matters,  once wrote that "If people concentrated on the really important things in life, there'd be a shortage of fishing poles." The man had a point. 2023 had been a year when, for me, fishing had been relegated to an only occasional activity due to a combination of factors around work and family life, but one of my resolutions for the New Year was that there would be no repeat of such a state of affairs in 2024. Far too often in our lives we allow the urgent to squeeze out the important, and while fishing takes its place behind both faith and family in my hierarchy of priorities, it occupies a pretty close third position. So it was that today, accompanied by my adult son (who doubles up as my favourite fishing partner) I visited a lake with which both of us are well acquainted and where we have fished together since he was just a boy. We had our first night fishing adventures here (see pictures below) and this was one of the lakes and ponds on which he cut his angling teeth and remains his favourite lake, more for reasons of nostalgia and shared memories, I suspect, than for the fish it offers which are often plentiful but rarely of particular noteworthiness in terms of size.

The day didn't get off to the best of starts, as the once innocent looking youngster in the photos above now works as a firefighter, and five minutes before his shift was due to end his crew received a call out to an incident which resulted in us arriving at the lake an hour and a half later than initially planned. We set up in a swim cacooned by the trees that line the lake's banks and prepared ourselves for what we hoped would be a day's fishing busy enough to indicate a modicum of success but relaxed enough to allow for good conversation - what one might aptly describe as an exercise in purposeful idling. As is our wont, I was employing a set-up that would not have disgraced the venerable Mr Crabtree, cane rod and ancient centrepin, while James opted for a carbon rod to pair with his own centre pin. Our floats were lowered into position in the margins in the hope that they would soon be being pulled beneath the lake's surface with pleasing regularity.  

Our previous visits to this lake have more often than not resulted in large numbers of roach and rudd acquiescing to our baits, but today the fish were in reluctant mood and although we did catch roach, rudd, perch and gudgeon, we caught far fewer than anticipated and each fish was hard earned. The highlight of the day came when James struck into a fish that was clearly more substantial than its compatriots and a lively tussle resulted in him guiding a none too pleased but very handsome perch of a pound and a half into the waiting embrace of the net.

The sky  remained clear, a visiting heron treated us to an impressive flying display, and our conversation was only occasionally interrupted by the capture of fish. By mid afternoon we were ready to call time on what had been a highly enjoyable exercise in proving the truism that "there's more to fishing than catching fish." 

At some future point when my end draws near I will, doubtless, have some regrets but time spent fishing with my son will not be numbered among them. Here's hoping for many more years of fish, coffee, conversation, and adventures in idling together.

Piking with friends on the Fens

My successes on the Fens have been limited- prior to today's trip my previous five visits (one to the Old River Nene, the other four to the Sixteen Foot Drain) had produced just three pike (only one of which scraped into double figures) and one zander, although the figures are slightly skewed by the fact that all four fish had come from only two of those trips, so my blanks to catches ratio stood at a less than impressive 3:2 in favour of a dry landing net. However, despite my not really coming to grips with these long, straight and often seemingly featureless expanses of water I am haunted by their wild and remote beauty and find myself drawn back to them on an annual basis. 

It is hard to describe the Fens without falling prey to the use of well-worn cliche: the agricultural land in which the drains are set is flat, the skies are big, the weather is usually grim and they do seem to exude an air of wild and foreboding menace, and it's this combination that makes them so enticing to an angler like me who spends most of his time sat beside lakes and ponds that are dotted with lilly pads, surrounded by trees and which have a serene and sometimes somewhat sanitised feel to them. A trip to a windswept Fen is a journey into the wild, with the fish often as unforgiving as the environment in which they exist.

Today saw my annual pilgrimage to the Fens with friends from the Christian Anglers group for our once yearly pike fish-in (which also doubles as my annual flirtation with the world of pike angling) and, true to form, we were welcomed warmly by the local anglers we've got to know over the last few years but less so by the typically inclement weather. It wasn't only the elements that chose to be miserly, the pike were also less than forthcoming with only one being caught despite the best efforts of nine anglers. Greg was the fortunate angler, with luck looking less kindly on John whose lost pike proved to be the only other action. Greg's fish gave a good account of itself before succombing to the engulfing folds of the net, where it was discovered to have been very lightly hooked in the scissors.

However, all the anglers present are philosophical and long in the tooth enough to be sanguine about the absence of fish caught and despite the unkind weather and uncoperative pike a good time was enjoyed by all. It wasn't all hardship and privation, Matt is normally a carp angler and is consequently an accomplished bankside chef and soon the space under his brolly was looking more like a hipster deli, with samosas and toasted cheese sandwiches being heated and handed out and real coffee being brought to the boil. 

The weather became tamer as morning turned to afternoon and by mid afternoon, with threatening clouds beginning once again to gather, we drew stumps and headed for home. It had been a hard day on the Fens but the excellence of the company more than compensated for the lack of pike and we'll be back again next year. Oh, and one other bonus: the inactivity on the fishing front left plenty of time for contemplation and the shape of this Sunday's sermon began to grow in my mind while I waited for the run that never came.

Aiming at aimlessness

I have only two angling aims for 2024. One is to fish more frequently. The other, paradoxically, is to be an increasingly aimless angler.

With the exception of last winter when I barely had the opportunity to fish, my last few autumns and winters have been dominated by the aspiration to catch a three pound perch. I have come close (very close- my best was 2lb 15oz, so couldn't have been any closer!) and caught numerous decent sized perch but have, as yet, failed to reach the target weight. In truth, the goal was beginning to take the form of the proverbial "monkey on the shoulder" and so I have chosen to dispense with it and all other goals that are derived from reducing a fish's worth to a number. This change of heart doesn't signify a total disregard for weights (I'll still have my scales ready to hand in my bag) but the shift of focus will, I trust, enable me to fish with a new found freedom. In recent years in the colder months I've felt duty bound to fish for perch (which will always remain my favourite species) to the detriment of my pike fishing and if I fancied a trip in pursuit of roach or a winter "mixed bag" the thought was quickly suppressed as the 3 pound Holy Grail loomed ever large in my mind.

This year my resolve is simply to enjoy my fishing and to prioritise enjoyment over acheivement. To give myself permission to enjoy the environment in which I fish as much as the fish I extract from it. To find pleasure in the equipment I use (which is predominantly vintage or antique and worthy to be admired) and to recover the ability to view the world of lakes and rivers with the sense of awe and wonder that we sadly tend to lose when we leave childhood behind. It was the author and angler BB who exhorted fishing folk to "look ye also while life lasts", an encouragement that I intend to allow to guide my approach for these next twelve months.

Small fish will not be despised, their larger brethren accepted gratefully as a gift, and blanks (although hopefully not too many of these) received with equanimity. I have a tendency toward hyper-concentration when in pursuit of fish and have never really mastered the art of relaxing while fishing, but my hope is that this season will see me learning something of the gentle art of idling in imitation of Walton's maxim about fishing being "the contemplative man's recreation."

And so as we enter Spring and the season of rebirth, I have no fixed plans beyond next month's trip to the Fens. Beyond that I intend to allow myself to be carried along on the breeze of my whims- if I wake up with crucians on my mind I'll fish for them, if I feel in the mood for tench then tench it will be, if in the moment I fancy a mixed net of small fish, then small fish it is. It may be that at some point in the future I return with serious purpose to the quest for a three pound perch but for this year my only plan is to fish unencumbered by projects, plans or targets.

When I embarked on my passion for angling as a carefree 13 year old in the school summer holiday of 1981 my only goal was the sheer enjoyment and pleasure to be derived from the practice of fishing- 43 years on I'm hoping to recapture what I felt and experienced in the days of my angling naivety. It may be that the truism that states that "it's impossible to put an old head on young shoulders" is fair, but if I can rekindle some of the innocent enthusiasm of youth as I teeter on the precipice of my dotage then I'll be a more than happy man.

Paradise regained ...... and lost again. (with apologies to John Milton)

If it were not for the fact that angling's central skill is that of deception there would be something almost pre-lapsarian about fishing. We venture into places that often exude an almost Edenic beauty and insert ourselves into our own private paradise in pursuit of fish. Time slows and we exist in a strange tension between relaxation and intense concentration and for a while the world ceases to be a place of toil and trouble and we rediscover the innocence of humanity's infancy. 

I had barely fished during the Autumn and Winter of last year, a combination of work responsibilites and consequent tiredness resulting in me failing to summon the energy to make more than just one solitary trip to the bank betwen the beginning of September and the ending of the year. However, as 2024 dawned, bringing with it the annual triumph of optimism over experience, I refound my enthusiasm and determined to set out once again  with a spring in my step and perch on my mind. 

In the event my return to angling was not only uneventful but also had to wait until February of the new year, as a planned January trip had to be aborted due to the lake's completely frozen state. I set up in a swim that seemed to offer promise, with reeds on both of its sides, and didn't have long to wait for my first bite. It appeared that the lay off from angling hadn't dulled my speed of response (you can't lose what you never had!) and I promptly missed my first couple of bites as is my usual custom. However, on the third occasion of the float's  submergion I made no such mistake but my delight proved to be short lived as the culprit turned out to be an angry and unwelcome American Signal Crayfish.

I was shortly joined by Dave, one of my frequent fishing partners, but after an hour of patiently feeding our respective swims with a trickle of red maggots both of our floatfished prawn hookbaits remained untouched. I briefly flirted with a smaller hook and double maggot, but this only produced a couple of bites and a small roach that momentarily glinted and glistened in the morning sun before being returned to the lake.

The lake continued to portray a disinterested and sullen air, with no visible signs of fish movement and only very occasional movement on our floats. The "Perch Pond", which for me and a select group of friends has been our own private paradise in recent years, had swapped its usual benificence for a miserly  surliness. ( a typical example of its previous generosity is shown below) 

As the nearby village clock struck midday, it was time to depart and rejoin the real world of toil and chores. Our tally of fish was a desultry three roach and one solitary perch for me and two roach and a perch for Dave, all of them small and each of them the result of changing from prawns to maggots as bait. If their total weight was aggregated we may just have scraped a pound, and to add injury to insult the bailiff politely enquired as to whether I required "a senior citizen's ticket, sir?" I suspect our next session may see us regaining our angling self-belief by visiting a different iteration of paradise!