Signs That Might Be Omens

The first tench trip of the season, and I managed to wake up almost early enough. The car actually started, I remembered the bait this time, and the weather was set fair. Things were looking good.

The breaking dawn found me driving through deserted country lanes to the pool. Then I saw it by the side of the road: just the one, a magpie. You know, a ‘one for sorrow, two for joy’ variety of magpie. Moreover it was stone dead. Look as hard as I might, I could not find another within range to change the forecast. Actually I couldn’t remember ever seeing a dead magpie on the road before.

Now I am aware that there are some anglers amongst us who can detect a specimen at seven miles range, know its size to the nearest scale, where and when it will dine, and even what bait is sure to fool it. Such anglers are incredibly attuned to all sorts of signs. I am not. But even I could not fail to imagine the import of one magpie which has ‘ceased to be’ when it was so blatantly exhibited in my path. If it’s ‘one for sorrow’, and I always assumed that meant one living magpie, then ‘one dead’ must be much worse.

I tried hard to convince myself that the fact that the bird dead might offset the expected effect on my fortunes. I’m an eternal optimist, but could come to no conclusion other than that one dead magpie must be even more portentous than one live one. In spite of this ill omen (ill, it was terminal!), I forged ahead to the pool, keeping a keen eye out for signs that might redress the balance. I saw none. So I was relieved that my car, all my tackle, and I arrived unscathed, to find the pool almost deserted, and so early in the season! I might have guessed the reason. But what place reason? I was fishing. ‘Forget that superstitious magpie nonsense’ I said to myself, ‘there are tench to be caught.’

I set up in my favourite pitch, next to an ash tree that would shade me from the best of the sun until at least eleven o’clock. By half past five I had set up, and baited my swim. All I had to do was wait.

The tench in this pool don’t run particularly large, but they are numerous. Which is why I was there. So I waited with anticipation for my first tench of the season. I had almost forgotten the omen. And I waited. The omen loomed larger in my mind. And I waited. Noon came and went. Not even a line bite that I could pretend was a proper take. I had not seen the exuberant bubbling that is a trademark of these tench. I had no tea left. By now, the menacing magpie was in complete control; then the final straw. A man with a large, very noisy lawn mower turned up to cut the grass next to the swims. Now this is a normal, small club water, not an exclusive syndicate run by exiles from some Wessex chalk stream, used to manicured lawns running down to the water. So I was surprised, somewhat perplexed by the mowing, but by now quite resigned to my fate. Before the local synchronized jet-ski troupe could parachute onto the lake I left, by a route that would take me nowhere near that bird. As I said, what place reason?

Of course, all this omen mumbo-jumbo is so much nonsense. The tench weren’t feeding (they always feed here). The weather wasn’t right (it was just what I would have chosen). The pitch was wrong (it’s usually very productive). I cast to the wrong spot (what, every time?). The bait wasn’t right (I tried all my favourites, which are usually favourites of these tench too). Perhaps I dreamed the whole thing. No, the sign had said it all. ‘Turn back tench-fisher, the tench are not at home today. Go home and touch some wood.’

I decided to delay my return to the pool until signs seemed to signify an upturn in my fishing fortunes. In the meantime I tried elsewhere. I tench-fished another pool or two, which always give up a few small tench even to tyros, but obviously not to those under the curse of the mummified magpie; I blanked. I even tried to outwit this particular demon by carp fishing. Usually, my carp fishing forays turn up tench by the truckload. Not now. All I caught were carp!

Finally I had my signs. On the Friday night I went to an open-air concert in the grounds of a local stately home, on the banks of a marvellous mere (which holds fine tench itself). Despite it being in the Manchester area, the weather was glorious, as was the music. At the end, there was a fine fireworks display against the full moon. We went home happy. On Saturday, I attended a game fair where I finally met someone with whom I had been corresponding for years. This really was lucky, as I turned up a day earlier than I had said originally (I had got my dates in a muddle), and had I arrived when I should have, my correspondent would have been miles far too far to the south. I had a fine time. I even bought his book. I even bought him a book!

So, I finally felt that I had sufficient positive signs, to offset the awful omen. I returned to the original pool the very next day. Needless to say I caught my first tench of the season. This was due entirely, of course, to overcoming the original omen. Either that, or it just might have been the killer tench bait divulged to me by my correspondent, which I used for the first time. Surely not?? No one believes in magic baits nowadays do they? It had to be the good omens. For myself, I will continue to ‘avoid old women who squint’. And give a wide berth to any mouldering magpies.