Like most readers of FISHINGmagic I work for a living and time away for fishing is quality time. The opportunity to escape from work and get on the water is too good to miss and, like most anglers, I view anything that interrupts a fishing session with horror and distaste.
I managed to organise things so that I could get an afternoon away from work about this time last year and I took myself off to a favourite fishery in the Yorkshire Dales. It was a perfect day for fishing; warm enough and with a gentle breeze that kept sweeping clouds across the sun and a helpful ripple on the water. When I arrived at the fishery there was no one else fishing and it was a picture of promising serenity. Great!
I booked in at the office and the attendant informed me that there was a “Corporate Day” on the water. That news didn’t bother me immediately but I began to harbour vague feeling of unease when he then told me that they were all down at the pub.
I tackled up and began to fish. The trout seemed to be in cooperative mood and I brought two good rainbows to the net inside the first twenty minutes. About mid-afternoon I became aware that soccer style chanting had started somewhere over the adjacent fields. The chants (all relating to Leeds United) came nearer and nearer and then a motley group of men adorned in fishing gear and yellow baseball caps appeared at the gates of the fishery. The “Corporate Day” returning from lunch.
There was only a dozen or so – it just sounded more – and, with booze-fuelled bonhomie, they spread around the lakes and began their afternoon’s activities. The first of which for one member of the team was to urinate in the rushes at the edge of the water. There was one guy in a red cap who I took to be the team captain, firstly because of his cap and, secondly because he then commandeered a boat and began to row around the water to encourage his mates. His uncoordinated rowing was accompanied by jocular remarks, for example “What’s that big spotty thing in your hands, Jason? A trout or what? Ha! Ha! “
I really found out how sound is magnified as it travels over water because just then the “captain’s” mobile phone started to chime (The 1812 Overture complete with cannon fire) and I was treated to the full “effing and jeffing conversation”; it was certainly not about fishing and the caller was a mere fifty yards away on the opposite bank anyway.
An elderly squad member made himself comfortable on the grass and leaned his back against a boulder. He cast out but got his fly caught in a shrub. I heard him moan “Bugger it” and he settled down for a siesta. The fly and line remained in the aforementioned shrub whilst he slept.
At that stage, another of the squad made his way over to me and asked how the fishing was on my part of the bank. I was naive enough to tell him that it was quite good. No sooner were the words out of my mouth than he was casting his line, standing shoulder to comradely shoulder with me. I could not believe this total lack of etiquette. I told him politely but stonily to go away. He looked at me for a moment, weighing up my words but with some growing awareness that I was getting upset. He departed away down the bank muttering something about selfish, miserable old bastards. I decided to let it go.
He began to whip the water nearer to his friends who seemed dedicated to creating as much foam as they could whilst shrieking and laughing at the fun of it all. At this point, the attendant came out of his hut and ran over and began to harangue the captain. The captain rowed over and yelled at his team to keep the noise down because the attendant’s dog was having pups and noise was unsettling her! Dear God! I was beginning to feel like a piscatorial Victor Meldrew.
I was on the point of packing up and asking for a refund when, happily, tragedy struck. My erstwhile casting companion had by this time joined his captain in the boat. As they began to row away from the bank he stood up and pulled the opener on a can of Stella. “Give us a sup, you greedy bugger,” yelled the captain and made a grab for the can.
Cans, grabbing and boats do not mix and there could be only one result. The boat overturned and the captain and his mate disappeared over the side. Fortunately for them, the water was only three feet deep but they both got a soaking and the captain lost his mobile phone. It was a sight to behold as they struggled and spluttered to the bank. The man with the can had tenaciously managed to retain his grip but I suspect the lager content had been diluted a little.
This event, apart from the formalities, marked the end of the corporate fishing for the day. All the anglers, the drunk and the sober, the wet and the dry went to the car park for the presentation of the trophies by the captain and then, thankfully, departed in the direction of the pub. Their morale improved with every step towards the pub and by half way the football chants were under way again, “If you hate Man United clap your hands…” Now, at last we had something in common!
I know fishery owners have to make a living and I know that this group was an exceptionally bad example of a corporate fishing day but I have vowed never to set foot in a fishery again if I know that there is a corporate day booked in on that particular day.
Tight Lines!
Eddie Caldwell
