| KEVIN PERKINS | |
Never mind smelling the flowers, don’t forget to take time out to see the satirical side of fishing life and grab a laugh along the way as well. So here’s a regular column from Kevin Perkins to remind us that life is for laughing at, or taking the p*** out of, whenever we can. |
OPENING DAZE Ah well, the Glorious Sixteenth is upon us once again, and to me, as an angler of some long standing, it is still a ‘special’ day. Many years ago, in fact at the tender age of five, I was given my introduction to fishing on a river, and memories of those first trips will never fade. I still can’t make up my mind about the current Close Season regulations, but even if it were abolished tomorrow, the Sixteenth will always be a meaningful date. It used to mark the beginning, a day to look forward to after the long, long three-month lay off. Months that had dragged by with the weekly angling papers full of nothing but trout and sea fishing reports and stories. Then the ‘preparation’ articles would start to appear, whetting your appetite for the ‘off’. Suffering real pangs of jealousy when you saw the reports of those lucky, lucky Yorkshire tykes getting off to a flyer on the 1st June. Wondering why it was in those early days that it seemed the sixteenth never fell on a Friday or at the weekend, meaning that you had to ‘wag’ a day off school in order to be on that bank side bright and early on ‘the’ morning
So, that was then, and this is now. The start of the season proper still has meaning to me, it may be just symbolic, but I don’t feel the fishing year has really started until I’ve had that first day on the river. These days I don’t necessarily have to be there on the appointed day, but I still look forward to that first session with a mixture of apprehension and excitement, probably as close to feeling like kids on Christmas morning as we adults are allowed to get! But where to go on that special morning? I know I have said it before, but for me, the surroundings far outweigh the possibility of a momentous catch. I have the perfect spot in mind; it is a relatively small pool, fed by a spillway from a lock cutting that gently merges into the main current of the river. The swim itself is fronted with reed mace, offering concealment, and it means you have to fish over the top of these reeds, which are dense enough to act as a rod rest. Mature trees edge the pool and completely frame the view out over the main river. On the opposite bank are ancient meadows, and on the horizon, sharply silhouetted against the skyline are the jutting spires and battlements of an ancient and imposing chapel. There is a certain comfort to be found in the knowledge that generations of anglers will have sat in this same spot and enjoyed this same view for hundreds of years. Those leafy trees around the pool afford protection from the sun as it travels round its daily arc, allowing occasional shafts of light though their green canopy to sparkle on the water, along with ever-changing patches of dappled shadow.
But now I’m here, what tackle to use? As the pool itself is one big lazy eddy, it just begs to be float fished. Now, although I am harking back to halcyon days, I wont be calling on the services of a cane rod matched to a wooden centre pin. We live in modern times and the carbon Avon/Quiver will be brought out of the rod bag. One concession to the past will come with the use of an old, battered porcupine quill, complete with chipped paint and finished off with bottom ring, the internal bore of which will easily accommodate a WF12 fly line. I know I should be using a Crystal waggler, but there is nothing quite like the sight of that less than perfect red top meandering around the creases of the eddies, drunkenly nodding, first to one side then the other, and at other times being caught up in little swirls and being spun round like a top. Perhaps a bit later in the day, I’ll change over to the quivertip, with just a couple or three SSG shot being needed to hold the bottom as I position the bait right on the crease where the pool meets the main flow. Rod top propped up high over the reeds; I can sit back and watch the scarlet tip as it gently nods away, the line being playfully plucked by the current. This seems a more relaxing form of fishing; you have time to take in the surroundings, whilst still managing to keep one eye on that tip. The end of the rod almost seems to have taken on a life of its own with the tiny nods and plucks settling into a rhythm, but all the time you are alert to the slightest change in the sequence of movements, watching to see if the tip will pull round indicating a fish is showing interest in the bait, or perhaps a piece of passing debris just upset the equilibrium for a brief moment. All in all, a perfect day, and a perfect way to ‘start’ the season, I feel. There is just the tiniest point, probably hardly seems worth a mention, but – there were no bloody fish! There again, I am fishing a river…… So, another year, another beginning, and also, for me, a day that will always have a special meaning. June the 16th is also the anniversary of the day my father died. His one enduring legacy is that he was the person who introduced me to fishing, and for that, I will always be in his debt, and of course, will never forget. |
