Rose Tinted Polaroids

This enforced ‘rest’ has little to do with my heavy winter work load as mostly it will be ignored until spring. Nor is it concerned with the difficulty of forcing fish to feed, or my own personal discomfort during the colder months. It’s a more personal problem. In recent years any attempt to angle once autumn has released her grip has invariably ended in disaster. Trees and reeds will grab my tackle at every cast, lines tangle with remarkable ease, even my favourite float, won’t, sinking out of sight whenever the whim takes it. To actually catch something worthwhile is now, you will discover, reserved for my imagination.

A primitive form of solar power

I’ve now reached the conclusion that my ageing rods and reels require a dry warmth to operate with any degree of certainty. I believe that they’ve become dependent on a primitive form of solar power to bend or spin. Below 5 degrees they’re unreliable. Just a collection of fibreglass and bamboo sticks, obscure works of engineering, painted feather stems. They rest in the garage, gathering winter dust along with an old motorcycle, which alas suffers a similar affliction. The normally reliable half century old Panther ignores my strenuous efforts with kick start and choke. Her brakes remaining stiff and unyielding as if reluctant to leave the shelter of home till spring.

From experience I’ve learnt its best not to force the issue nor dwell on my transport and tackle’s shortcomings. Instead I invest in oak logs and fine port, intent on spending the winters worst enjoying the pleasures of angling from my armchair. Recalling through rose tinted sunglasses last summer’s triumphs.

For the benefit of those brave and waterproof folk with their dependable tackle and Japanese motorcycles I’ll recount the last time my angling urges required subduing.

In search of carp

On this occasion I reminisce a fairly recent foray in search of carp, my last of the summer that ended as a red-letter day that needs little rose-tinted enhancement.

The venue in question, an irrigation lake built 40 years ago to feed the surrounding fruit trees, was the subject of a love affair 10 years ago. Two miles from the nearest road, nestled in a valley skirted by woodland, orchards and sheep grazed marsh. It was a place of atmosphere and peace. The carp within her two acres were no monsters. A double was something special but having rarely been caught their reaction to being caught was extreme, unstoppable runs and soft mouths resulted in more hook pulls than nettings, making the fishing frustrating but always exciting.

The water became a second home for several years, but with time the fish started to gain in size, making the water more popular. The original members began to drift away, replaced by carp anglers and all that that entails. With a tear-filled eye I reluctantly left them to it the day I was subjected to a man, seemingly unable to catapult or cast, use a dingy to row his baits the forty yards to the far margins in a desperate effort to beat the 16lb lake record.

This was to be my first visit to the pool since that day. I rode the well-remembered route along the endless farm tracks checking as usual for fresh tyre marks in the mud. On rounding the last bend I saw with relief that the grass approaching the lake remained unblemished; no cars had been this way for several days. I continued past the lake and on first sight the water appeared a little jaded and worn but basically unchanged. It felt rather like bumping into an old girlfriend complete with the three small children you didn’t know she had had. Past memories flash though your mind, the things you loved are still there but you can’t quite believe she’s still the same person.

On reaching the top of the field I hid my old bike behind a hedge at the top of the woods. I’d decided caution to be the best option. I’d been offered the chance to fish the water but that was some time ago and I wanted to avoid any unwanted attention.

The fish were still using the same routes

Shouldering my gear and shunning the woodland path I made my way though the trees and bracken to my favourite corner of the pool where an alder tree overhang the margins. The water beneath it appearing to hold her at an impossible angle. I was pleased to see her still there and not removed in a snag reducing effort. I climbed her bankside branches, looked down into the murky depth and with time my eyes grew accustomed to the gloom. Grey/black shadows began to materialise three feet below the surface. A forced diet of boiled paste and particles had done the fish no harm. Even accounting for my poor view I saw nothing under 10 pounds and some nearer 20. They were moving slowing along the margins, using the bank side trees for cover as they visited the shallows. I smiled to myself; the fish, like the local badgers, were still using the same old routes and well-trodden paths they’d always done. I hoped their taste in food had remained. In the old days the fish, for some unknown reason, had fed only reluctantly on our offerings of corn, worm or maggot, instead preferring a humble fold of flake.

Moving well back from the lake I prepared my trap. Threading an old quill float I felt my hands begin to tremble. Moments such as these are rare in life and an inspiring sense of correctness overwhelmed me, a glimpse into the future, an unarguable conviction that something was about to happen. Others have written about this piscatorial sooth-saying so it’s not just me. If only we could summon these premonitions at will; life would be far less complicated and much more successful. Never mind, I told myself, at least the bread question had been answered.

A venue best

With unusual confidence I cast my baited hook to the edge of the overhanging Alder. Within seconds, or maybe it was hours, I’m not to sure (duration can never be measured at times like these). My float signalled the start of an epic struggle with a classic lift bite before it sailed away towards the distant rushes. The rod hooped over, the Aerial’s ratchet sung her urgent song, time stood still yet again as the quiet pool became the stage from which we both performed until my prize surrendered to the waiting net. She lay perfectly still within the folds of the mesh as if acknowledging her defeat. The old carp reduced to an angler’s trophy by a humble piece of bread. A venue personal best for me by far, and I offered admiration and respect for the reluctant fish. I down-loaded her image to the hard drive of my mind. My inept photography skills would not have done justice to her Autumn splendour. With a sincere apology for ruining her day, she’s returned to her watery world. I watch as she swims slowly away to sulk in the dying weedbed beyond the marginal shelf.

Suddenly, a noise awakes me from the spell. A vehicle could be heard approaching. I force myself back to reality, grabbing rod, net and creel and slink like a guilty fox into the evening shadows of the trees. Hidden by the trunk of a mature oak I hear doors slam and voices drift over the water. I make my move whilst they busy themselves with rod pod and bivvy. For the second time that day I allow myself a smile. With the disturbance of my fish plus the noise he is making with that mallet the fish would not feed again this day.

An uphill, long-winded route through the woods and orchards allowed me to reach my bike undetected. With unusual ease the old bike fires up and I point her in the direction of home. But I’m unable to resist temptation and turn back towards the lake. I pick my way though the apple trees, the lack of rear suspension unnoticed in my contented mood. I stop beside my newly arrived fellow anglers.

“Nofing bigger than 15lb”

“Any luck?” I pretend to inquire.

“Na, not yet mate, just got ‘ere.” Came the reply. “Nofing’s been caught fa weeks. Oi, did ya know its private down ‘ere?”

“Sorry” I lied in my poshest voice. ” I used to fish a place like this and heard about the syndicate whilst fishing the river this afternoon. I thought I’d pop in to see if there were any vacancies.”

“Wouldn’t bother if I were you. Fished it all season and ain’t had nofing bigger than 15lb. This place is really hard and miles from the nearest takeaway. A waste of time ‘un money. There’s no bogs, me bivvy only fits in this swim ‘un we ain’t allowed to chop the trees down to make the fishing better. Anyway, ya ain’t got the right gear. That fing won’t hold a decent fish in ‘ere ya know.” He said, belching, as he pointed his half-empty can of larger at the old cane rod slung over my shoulder.

“Ya need these carbon higher whoppers 13ft, 3 un a ‘alfs with big chuck reels to keep the buggers out of the snags. You wouldn’t even be able to cast there with that.”

I shrug my shoulders and try to look enlightened

“You could fish beside the snags, buy a float and try bread.” I suggest before I turn to start my bike. The reply I failed to hear. Just the words ‘village idiot’ reach my ears above the steady beat of the engine. As I reach the end of the farm track a third self-indulgent grin spreads across my face.

I’d forgotten to tell them that they’d also need some rose tinted Polaroids.