The Green Pool

He put on a pair of Polaroid’s and looked up at the sky. The sun was already beginning to lose its heat so he quickly went to the back of his car to take his tackle out, knowing he had only a few short hours before sunset.

He crossed the road to the gate, opened it and went through, bugger, he thought, the bloody cows are out. He hurriedly crossed the field, nervous of the cows which were now inquisitively following him.

Half way down he skirted the spring and crossed the little bridge towards the style in the corner. Two of the cows were right behind him now and he half ran the last few steps to the style and then he was over it and into the copse of trees which surrounded his goal. Down the path and through the bushes and suddenly he could see the water glinting through the undergrowth. He instinctively slowed as he approached the water and, half crouched, he scanned the water to see if he was alone. He was, and he reached behind him and unhooked his rucksack.

His mind drifted back to the first time he had come here almost three years ago, he was with his wife and children and he remembered the kids’ glee as they excitedly pointed out the small trout to each other. He and his wife lay on their bellies under the beech trees looking down into the clear water. It was his wife who saw the bubbles and it was her who quietly pointed out the big green/black shape that was swimming slowly ever nearer and oblivious to their presence.

There was something magical and mysterious about this fish and they lay there transfixed until suddenly the two youngest children ran whooping out of the trees and the fish melted back into the thick blanket of weed from which it had emerged. From that day he was determined to return and fish the pool, and he had returned, many times since.

His hands shook with anticipation as he opened a can of sweetcorn and in an empty Tupperware box mixed the drained contents with a couple of good handfuls of tiny strawberry pellets and finished it off with a liberal amount of red maggots.

Still crouching he proceeded around the pool stopping at three different swims and threw a couple of small handfuls of his mixture into each. On reaching the last swim he feverishly set up his net and his rod, setting the float at about three and a half feet depth he carefully hooked two red maggots onto a size 14 hook and swung the rig out into the clear patch in the weed he had prebaited a couple of minutes before.

Nothing stirred for about five minutes when suddenly the float twitched once and then sailed away. He struck and was immediately into a fish, the 14 foot match rod bent over but almost immediately the fish was tamed and in the net. Bollox, he thought, a spotty dace. Carefully unhooking the six inch long trout he put it back and backed out of the swim. Keeping low he pushed through the undergrowth and went to the next baited swim and froze as he saw the streams of bubbles hissing up from the bottom. Yes! He thought, this was more like it.

He repeated his actions of the previous swim and was soon staring intently at his float, willing it to go under, which it did in the most unusual way – straight down, no trembles or swaying. He struck and the rod bent double and the clutch gave line. He moved forwards, trying to get the rod down low to the water quickly enough to apply the side strain needed to stop the fish from reaching the overhanging branches to his left. Too slow! Bugger! He could feel the line rasping and grinding on the underwater branches and he knew what was going to happen next, the 4lb test line parted as if it was cotton and the rod sprang straight.

The silence was shattered as the man swore at himself, the fish and anything else he could think of. He sat down on the bank watching the ripples gradually subside, dreaming of the monster that had just snapped him off, when a pheasant let out its strangled cry in the woods to his left dragging him back to reality with a start.

Five minutes later he had retackled his rod and was again creeping around the pool. He glanced at the sky, the light was going fast. He looked at his watch, Christ he thought, I’ve been here for over two hours. Realising he only had one more chance before dark he silently debated which of the two remaining baited swims he should fish. In the end he chose the middle swim on the dam wall.

Keeping low he carefully dropped the float into the water just 18 inches from the bank, tight into a small clump of rushes. He threw in about twenty maggots and sat back to wait. Ten minutes passed and he saw bubbles appear to the left, about three feet from his float. Then his float pushed ever so slightly sideways then back again. The bubbles now were all around his float which by now seemed to have come alive, dancing and shaking in the soft gloom of dusk. He swore softly to himself. “Come on, come on.”

He found it really difficult not striking at the little pulls and tugs on the float, then, suddenly, as he thought his nerves could take no more, the float dipped half way and stayed there momentarily before sailing away.

He struck and the water exploded into a froth of spray and bow waves. The rod again bent double. This was a good fish he thought, as he applied steady pressure. Slowly gaining line the fish’s lunges were becoming weaker and weaker. He brought it to the surface and deftly slipped the net under it, Yes! He thought. Yes! This is the one he’d been after since that first day three years ago.

He quickly weighed the tench at 6lb 3oz. Allow 4oz for the net that made it an ounce under 6lb. He never had a camera nor a witness but as he returned the dark green beauty to the water he was happy, he knew, and that was all that mattered.

Almost dark now he packed up his gear and trudged back to the car. The cows were still out in the field but for once his mind was on other things, he would be back again for sure, that much he knew, for now that was all that mattered. As he walked he thought of his wife and kids waiting for him at home and quickened his step eager to be home and in their company.

What a great life, he thought. What a great life.