In a recent forum post I made reference to the difference between ‘a picture painting a thousand words’ and the challenge of achieving the opposite of trying to paint a picture with a thousand words. So, with my admittedly limited writing expertise, I’m going to try and demonstrate by writing about something that is in my mind, for which you might be relieved to know, I have no pictures!
What I’d like to talk about is ‘dream fishing’. Now, those following different angling disciplines will dream of different things, of course, but if you will allow, I will recount some of mine, which may or may not stir a chord in the reader’s mind.
As a tyro angler, I, along with most, always dreamt of bigger fish. It’s probably the one thing that drives all anglers on at the start. Even more so if your best mate manages to catch a bigger one than you. When I caught the angling bug at the tender age of around eight or nine, I was unfortunate enough to live in what could be described as coarse fishing desert. The only ‘fishing’ to be had around the town was the local pond. Once all the sticklebacks contained within had been re-located into jam jars and proudly taken home to display to doting parents, the challenge diminished.
There were a few resident goldfish in the town pond which were escapees from visiting fairs, but these were only ever briefly glimpsed in holes in the weed and were never so obliging as to throw themselves onto our crudely offered bits of worm dangled under such items as wooden lolly sticks or bits of twigs which passed as floats those days.
Given that, there was not much point in dreaming of catching bigger fish from anywhere nearby. So inspiration at that time came from a Mr. Crabtree book. It has to be said that just about none of the places he visited bore any resemblance to anywhere I could have dreamt of going fishing. However, I was always drawn back to that picture of a river.
This is the one where the shallows were marked with D D D’s for dace, deeper glides through the weeds where the B B B barbel reside, there were overhanging willows hiding the wily C C C chub, and a cattle drink with R R R roach at the tail. There were the odd P P P pike and P P P perch scattered around too. What wasn’t marked on the picture was the S S S’ s for the sticklebacks, which to mind was a glaring omission…
I seem to remember that this watery idyll was likened to the Hampshire Avon, and this image was seared onto my brain. I vowed that one day I should like to visit this piscatorial utopia and make my dream come true. And to this day, I haven’t. By that I mean I haven’t fished the Hampshire Avon. I’ve been past it, stopped on bridges that span it, peered over the side and marvelled at the fish I could see in it, but fished it – never!
What’s more, I never want to, because it would spoil my dream. The images I have of the Royalty, Severals and all those other evocative names are ones I don’t want to spoil with reality. And by reality, of course, I really mean fear. That is fear of possible disappointment in the venue, (admittedly not very likely) but much more a fear that my lack of angling skill wouldn’t do justice to such a hallowed river if I did get the chance to fish there.
Then there are some dreams of fishing venues where I have been in the past that I have fond memories of and have no wish to go back to. This is, I suppose, because I would prefer the past fond memories to the reality of now. One such place is Romney Island on the Thames where I spent my teenage angling years catching a number of new species of fish and setting a few PB’s on the way. I don’t want to fish there again, as I’d rather keep those happy memories as they are. And indeed I can’t because I understand it’s now in the hands of a syndicate.
Another fond memory of mine resides at Marsworth Reservoir, part of the Tring group. This was my next step up from the Thames and my introduction to a big fish water. Home to massive bream shoals, numbers of specimen roach and the promise of big pike and possibly even huge catfish. But the Marsworth bank of my memory is one of a number of tree shrouded swims along its length, each capable of holding a couple of anglers and such was the vegetation that you fished in almost total seclusion from the anglers in swims either side of you.
But that vista is no more after repairs to the bank necessitated grubbing out all the trees along the bank laving it completely exposed. The exact spots where we used to fish are still there, of course, but the intimacy of the place, the magic and the dream has gone.
Now if this all sounds a bit downbeat, there are certainly fishing dreams I have had that have been worth chasing. Minor events that they may seem, but they do hold fond memories to me, none the less. Fred Buller’s ‘Doomsday Book’ and the monsters contained therein held me in its thrall from the very first day I picked it up. Here were vivid descriptions of the capture of sharp fanged denizens of the watery deeps, but more importantly, details of just where they were captured too. To my simplistic mind, this was as good as a map as to where I could go and catch a big pike. Stands to reason, if they’ve been caught there once, they could be caught again – right?
Alright, even I’m not that naïve, but the allure of visiting a venue that had once thrown up a monster proved to be an itch that just needed to be scratched. Knipton Reservoir, once home to a marauding 39 pound beauty was selected and a visit was planned. Quite a picturesque venue, tree lined with deep water by the dam wall, it is one of those places that just looks and feels ‘fishy’.
And so it proved to be. The man-sized whole mackerel baits (recommended by the locals for the ‘big ‘uns’) were steadfastly ignored on the day, but with typical irony, the triple jointed 10’’ long plug proved irresistible to a jack that was barely 2’’ longer than the lure it tried to engulf. No matter, it was a good day out despite the result, and a good memory to tuck away. Not likely to be repeated either, as this is another venue that has apparently gone down the exclusive syndicate route.
The Doomsday book was responsible for another dream box being ticked as I went pike fishing on Loch Lomond. I should perhaps qualify that by saying that I happened to be passing Loch Lomond on a business jaunt and just happened to pack a rod and a few lures in the back of the van I was driving. I spent a very pleasant couple of hours one evening casting round a couple of bays just marveling at the ever changing colours of the heather coated mountain backdrop opposite as the day melted into a perfect Scottish sunset. Never had a thought about catching anything, let alone a monster, just so happy to have been there. The next day I put a couple of hours in on Loch Ness, well it seemed a pity to miss the opportunity to say ‘I fished there’.
But all that is in the past, have I still got some dreams for the future? Well, of course I have, but here’s where I can show you a couple of pictures. I have recently moved and very near to me I found that there is an old estate lake. Now it’s not the kind that Martin Bowler keeps getting invited to fish in, but it is quite secluded, being surrounded by mature Scots Pine trees and magnificent rhododendron bushes. There is a boathouse and a picturesque wooden footbridge spanning the narrow end of the lake.
My appetite for the place was truly was well and truly whetted as I walked round on my first reconnaissance visit. But this was only to be dashed when I reached to dam wall to find a large sign planted in the lake warning that the place was ‘Private Fishing’ Depressed now, I slunk back to the car park, ready to go home and drown my disappointment with some of Scotland’s finest malt. Almost at the car I passed an information centre, and thought I might as well go in and ask who controlled the fishing, how long was the waiting list, how rich did I need to be to join etc etc.
‘Ahhh’ came the reply from one of the rangers to my enquiry. ‘The fishing syndicate….’ They needn’t have gone any further as I had mentally switched off at that point, but continue they did.’…..The fishing syndicate didn’t renew their lease last year so the fishing is currently free’.
Result!!!!! I was back a few days later for a walk round with the lure rod, perhaps not the most productive day, but where there are little ones, there must surely be big ‘uns to dream about…
