Beyond The Wood

Have you ever wondered why one or two anglers seem to have almost supernatural powers when it comes to catching fish? Consider this tale and draw your own conclusions. It all happened nearly ten years ago……

“Here you are, it’s all there, deeds, letters, papers, the whole bloody lot!” said Frank, as he passed me a great pile of box files. The long serving club secretary, Maurice, had dropped dead from a heart attack two months previously at the age of seventy, having held the post for over thirty years. Frank, the club chairman, had got all of the paperwork from Maurice’s widow the previous week, and it had been my job as assistant secretary to sort it all out. What a mess. Thank God it had been the closed season.

Though I’d helped Maurice for the previous ten years, I’d never set eyes on the deeds. Maurice would smile his wry smile and murmur, “Just leave it to me, it’s all under control.” Yet, something had bugged me for years. When I’d become assistant secretary, Maurice had run through the waters with me. When I’d asked about our length of the Linden, he’d told me we’d been given the river back in the thirties by Sir John Dunbar. The top boundary was the start of Kemp Wood, a mile up from the Lower Bridge as shown in our club book. No one seemed to fish the water through the woods and into the meadow. The other bank was heavily forested and owned by the estate. At the start of the wood, a tall wrought iron fence with a locked gate kept out all. I’d often wondered what was beyond the wood.

One Sunday in May, I pushed back the sofa in the living room and started to open the boxes. The third box contained what I’d been looking for: the deeds to the Linden water. A map dated 1934 showed the water continuing through Kemp Woods and the narrow meadow (called Portland Meadow on the map) right up to the estate boundary. There was also an old key in the box. After the next committee meeting, I drew Frank to one side. “Did he know about the meadow above Kemp Wood?” I’d asked him.

“Yes,” he’d replied, and then went on to explain how Maurice had gone up there over thirty years ago one November morning. Something had happened but Maurice would never explain, only he’d sworn Frank to maintain that our boundary was the start of the wood and leave it at that. It was too late to change the club permits to include the extra water, they’d already been printed, and besides, few ventured past the second meadow on the river even in 1995, most members preferring to fish the club’s heavily stocked Sycamore Pool with its convenient parking and swims.

Like many club secretaries, I found far less time to go fishing that summer as I sorted out club memberships, but as things quietened down in early autumn my thoughts turned back to that Portland Meadow. The Linden was heavily weeded in summer but now as the weed cleared with the first floods it became much more fishable. According to the map, there were some interesting bends above the woods. It couldn’t have been fished for years, who knows what might lurk up there. Even a chance meeting with Micky Jones, the keeper on the estate, threw little light on the meadow.

It had been requisitioned during the war, he’d told me, but never put to any use. The access lane had become grown over in the woods, and the tenant farmer never bothered with it again as it was just a narrow, overgrown and boggy strip of land, hardly worth the bother. Micky had kept out as it involved getting over the high brick boundary wall of the estate.

There was a legend about Kemp Woods. When he was a boy, his grandfather, also a keeper on the estate, had told him to keep away from the woods and meadow. Henry Kemp had once owned the woods and meadow before he sold them to Sir John Dunbar around the turn of the century but something had happened to Kemp. It was something or other to do with an ancient crossroads. Once he’d sold up, he went to New Zealand. After that, I checked the map again and found an ancient track crossed what appeared to be the line of a Roman road. The estate had blocked access to the ancient paths years ago. There was a ford marked halfway up the meadow.

By then, it was late October. The following Saturday was the first of November, and after the flood of the previous weekend the river would be in fine trim by Saturday. It was time to try Portland Meadow. As it would be heavy going through the wood and a long walk I decided to travel light. One rod, a reel, a small haversack of bits and pieces, a landing net and a few slices of bread. Oh, and the key. As we owned the water what was there to worry about? All these old wives’ tales. It was 1995 not medieval times after all.

The Saturday dawned grey but mild. It was misty, enough that I couldn’t make out the start of Kemp Woods when I parked in the car park by the Lower Bridge. There was scarcely a breath of wind as, freed from the usual encumbrances of carrying a backbreaking load of gear, I almost cantered through the four meadows above the bridge. Half way up I had met old George, fishing his usual swim. “Where you off to? Then?” he’d rasped. “In a bloody ‘urry at that rate, int’yuh. Getting a few roach s’morning already. See yuh later.”

I wasn’t in the mood for listening to his drawn-out tales that morning.

I walked briskly on until I got to the gate. This key had better fit, I’d thought as I reached it. The fence was about twelve feet high with spikes, no chance of getting through that lot. Amazing that it hadn’t rusted away years ago. Someone didn’t want anyone in there all right. To my amazement, the key had turned easily in the old box lock and the gate swung open, albeit with a creak. I had hesitated a moment before entering the gloomy woods.

A few yards from the river, there was a track that had remained free of the scrubby ash and sycamore trees that had filled the gaps in the oaks. Perhaps the path was passable after all. This must be the Roman road for it ran straight. All through the woods I could glimpse the river yet not get near enough to fish through the blackthorn bushes that lined the banks. I pressed on in the silence of the woods, skirting one or two fallen oaks. After five minutes, I finally saw the edge of the woods. Slowly, a meadow came into view. The grass was long though this late in the year it had died down. As I reached the edge of the woods, I saw the river properly for the first time. A steady glide flowed down towards me, further upstream, there were some shallows where a fish topped. By that point, I’d had enough of walking, and this first swim would do nicely to start with. After lunch, I’d explore the rest of the meadow. It was still misty and silent.

I fished the glide for a couple of hours. Now and again I caught a nice roach about half a pound, then after an hour an absolute cracker of a roach of two pounds five ounces. I took a couple of photos before slipping it gently back. After that, it went quiet. As noon approached, I picked up my rod and net and walked upstream. As I drew level with the shallows, I could see that this was the site of the old ford. There was a hillock near the side of the track from the ford where the Roman road crossed at right angles. “This must be the ancient crossroads” I had mused. I put my gear down by the hillock and got out my sandwiches. Funny how there were no water birds up here, I’d thought, must be too many mink.

As I stared up the river, munching my sandwiches, I suddenly felt cold. In the distance the village clock struck twelve. I heard a rustle. I turned around.

A man stood there about three yards away. He was dressed in typical gamekeeper garb, old Barbour, scruffy shirt, old green jumper, old brown corduroys, and wellies. He looked about sixty and had peculiar eyes, almost blood-red pupils. They seemed to look right through me. He held a clipboard in one hand and a pen in the other.

He spoke, “I’ve been expecting you, I’m the keeper, ole Nick they calls me. Just a bit of paperwork if you want to fish this meadow. Just sign ‘ere and you can fish ‘ere for ever.”

He held out the clipboard with what appeared to be a contract clipped to it. At the bottom was a dotted line to sign. Curiously, my name was already printed below. The print of the contract was very small. He held out a fountain pen for me.

“Don’t ‘ee worry ’bout the small print. I’ll take care of ‘ee, no worry.” He continued. “Tis the finest roach fishing you’ll ever find, that’s for sure, there’s nothing like it on earth. You’ll be blessed with roach fishing skill such as none can match that’s for sure.”

I stared at the contract. How could he know I was coming here? Who was he? How come Micky had never mentioned him? Where had he suddenly appeared from? Why did I need to sign a contract to fish when we already had the rights? The thoughts raced through my mind.

The keeper grew impatient. “You’ll not regret it. The pen works, look.” He tested the pen on the edge of the contract. It made a mark like blood. The hairs stood up on the back of my neck.

I continued to stare at the contract. Then a phrase caught my eye. “…having forsworn his soul rights to the keeper shall remain forever privileged to fish the aforesaid waters, until the end of eternity shall render this contract void.” I’d once studied law; surely, it ought to be “sole” not “soul”? “…end of eternity?” The language was beyond the usual legalese. Another phrase swam before my eyes, “..shall gain extraordinary ability to angle beyond mortal grasp.” I felt uneasy. My legs began to shake.

“I, I, I ca ca can’t sign it.” I blurted out.

“You shan’t fish then.” He exclaimed as he snatched back the clipboard, picked up my rod, walked swiftly down to the ford and crossed the river. He clambered through the trees and vanished. It all happened so quickly I didn’t move a muscle. I stared at the mud at the water’s edge. There were no footprints. I’d only taken the one rod and reel; no point in carrying on. I looked into the water. It was two feet deep yet the keeper had crossed as if it were barely ankle deep. I looked upstream to the two bends. There was a copse by the first bend and a reed bed just beyond. I couldn’t fish anymore but at least I could go for a walk to the top boundary. Perhaps it would clear my mind. The first bend had a lovely pool, ringed with the decaying remains of a lily patch. I skirted around the reed bed to the second bend. As I approached, I could see someone fishing.

He looked up as I came up the bank. He looked vaguely familiar. Bit like Maurice really. Maybe Maurice had had a younger brother. The angler’s float dipped. He missed it. Next cast, he wrapped the line around the top of the rod. And again the next cast. This angler had problems all right, for every cast tangled, the bait fell off, or he missed the bite. It couldn’t be Maurice after all, though the resemblance was uncanny, for he had been the most accomplished roach angler I’d ever been privileged to watch. He’d won the roach cup and club championship year after year, almost without fail. His skill at floatfishing had become almost legendary. But this poor wretch plodded on, patiently sorting out the tangles, whilst great big fat roach rolled right in front of him.

“Just one of those days that seem to go on forever. Sheer hell.” He said without rancour.

I wondered what he could mean. After that, I watched for a while as he miscast again, the lost bait eagerly taken by a huge roach.

“I didn’t expect to ever see you up here, thought you had more sense.” He unravelled yet another tangle.

This was getting more puzzling by the minute. First, a strange keeper who disappears with my rod then someone who looks like Maurice, except he’s been dead nearly nine months. I decided to walk on up to the top boundary. As I reached the top boundary, the village clock struck one. At least I met no one else up there. I started the slow walk back. When I got back to the bend there was no sign of the angler that had been there just twenty minutes before. I continued walking until I got back to the hillock. My rod was lying on the grass, but I had no desire to continue fishing that day. I picked up my rod and followed the old Roman road back through the woods to the gate. I locked the gate and trudged back downstream.

“No good up there then?” said George as I stopped behind him. “I’ve had a few today alright, good uns too. Dunno why you wanna go all that way to the top field when there’s plenty down ‘ere. You alright, you’re as white as a sheet, you seen a ghost or summat?”

When I got home, I was still shaking. My wife thought I’d got flu but all I wanted was a large brandy. I replaced the gate key in the box.

By the following Monday I’d calmed down a bit. At lunchtime, I took the film into the nearby photo shop. “Ready tomorrow lunchtime, mate.” Said the assistant. I returned the following day. “Sorry, two of them didn’t turn out at all, must be a fault with your camera, hope they weren’t anything special.” He said as he handed over the prints. I looked through the thumbnail print. The two shots of the roach were blank.

A couple of weeks later, I phoned up Frank and arranged to see him. I told him what had happened. About the absence of bird life, big roach, the crossroads, the ‘keeper’ and the contract, the angler that looked like Maurice, and the significance of the date, All Hallows day.

Frank went pale. “You didn’t sign anything? Did you?” he asked.

“No, I saw something in the contract that worried me.”

Frank continued, “Kemp and Maurice both went there on that date. Maurice said he’d signed something then regretted it afterwards but never explained properly what. No one knows what happened to Kemp that day, only that he never ventured up there again.”

That was all nearly ten years ago. I found being club secretary encroached far too much on my limited free time, and at the end of that season, I handed over the job to a young fellow with few other responsibilities and plenty of enthusiasm. Kevin, his name is. Within a year, he became an outstanding angler, almost unbeatable in the matches, and has an uncanny ability to catch big roach. Hard to understand, really, because he hadn’t been much good up till then……