The ontological argument as put forward by various philosophers throughout history has been the source of much debate and controversy, a paraphrased version of this argument goes as follows: I can imagine a perfect being; therefore, because I can imagine it, it must be real. I really fail to see how such an argument could be used to explain the existence of a deity, but as Bernard Venables once said “fishing is a philosophy”, therefore, perhaps this philosophical line of argument could be adapted by fishermen.
Every one of us has, in our mind’s eye, the image of a perfect fishing spot. If we are tench fishers then perhaps we dream of misty summer dawns spent on secluded estate lakes overlooked by rustic manor houses, filled with lily-pads, and overhung with willow in which small birds sing noisily about the approaching sunrise. If we fish for the salmon then perhaps we think of a river in early spring as it pours down from the mountains, powerful and filled with leaping fish, invariably one or two of which are 40lbers.
For me, I am spellbound by the grayling, when I think of the perfect river my mind instantly departs south of my Berkshire home, for my perfect spot must surely exist in Hampshire. I know not where in Hampshire, only that when I think of grayling I think of chalkstreams.
This river isn’t too narrow, yet it certainly is still narrow enough to be considered a stream. It’s crystal clear and the gravel is pale; the fish appear as if they are levitating, indeed there is a magical feel to the place as my mind’s eye peers over the old lichen clad bridge that straddles the first pool. Whilst setting up my fly rod with a long leader and a tiny nymph of my own creation, I pause to take in the scenery before fishing. I am not alone, as how could I possibly enjoy such perfection to the full if it isn’t shared, joining me today is a good friend and fishing partner, one of whom I’ve fished in many places with, but none quite as lovely as this. I can’t quite choose between a snowy winter’s day and a colourful autumnal dawn, either way, my imagined river is perfect regardless, however, the season will have a direct bearing upon the scenery that surrounds me during this description of my imaginary day on my imaginary river.
For the sake of this description, it is mid October, the sky is clear and the sweet smell of the river rises up, tantalising my senses, surely no sweeter smell exists than that of this grayling stream. The withering leaves hang in the river side trees and hedgerows, a million patches of brown, red and gold, and indeed every shade in between. The distant wood appears as if it were a masterpiece of pointillism.
I walk down from the bridge, eager to start having spotted an aggregation of dark shadows ghosting through the pool below. Moving into position I simply cannot help but crumple the bank side water mint, so ubiquitous with this idyllic setting is the refreshing smell of this riverside herb as it intermingles with the sweet musky scent of the river; it’s remarkable how strong the imagination can be.
Crouching down, I use the dense rushes for cover, creeping low, like a hunter towards my quarry. Within range I strip a little line from the reel; the rasp of the drag momentarily drowns out the gently gurgling of the stream. Peering cautiously over the rushes, I flick my fly just upstream of the nose of the lead grayling, watching it sink and drift down, straight past his nose. Every fin twitch is visible; every movement of the mouth, the occasional tilt, one of these brutes even buries his nose into the silt, rummaging for grubs no doubt.
They do not know that I am here, watching their every move as I work my fly slowly past them. I see a little quiver in jaw of the lead fish, my tiny fly rod bends double and a great red dorsal is raised mid stream. The fish fights hard in the flow, using its cunning and wiry strength, but eventually, inescapably, it tires. In the river it appeared smaller than it does now that it’s in my net; it’s put on at least a pound since I hooked it, appearing far larger than any grayling that I’ve hooked in real life. The hook is nestled in its upper jaw, a pink creation, of my own tying.
Imaginary flies have no names, and unfortunately my imagination doesn’t stretch quite far enough to enable me to tie up a handful of this fly, which, in keeping with the perfection of the day, is naturally the most perfect fly that one could ever want for fooling a grayling. Being so large a fish, I return him gently, his silver scales glinting in the sunlight, his mottled pectorals twitching as he feels his way gently from my nursing grip, swimming freely once more through the river that meanders through an imaginary valley. If we were to really indulge in philosophy, we could possibly conclude that this valley is in fact just as real as any real valley that we remember seeing, for we all have memories that are so vague as could have been dreamt. Such is the way that knowledge is collected, the only reason we know our waking life from dream worlds is simply the fact that there is continuity in our waking life, and our dreams appear in no logical order. The only way we can really know that our fishing dreams haven’t really occurred is perhaps therefore only due to the dryness of our nets in the morning, or the lack of slime on the outfit that we wore that day.
My imagined day will continue as it began, perhaps with a lull in the sport around lunch time, which will of course be spent upon an ornate waterside bench (no chalkstream is complete without the pretty benches). It’ll be spent discussing fishing and life with a good friend and fishing partner, who I imagine could be catching less than me, or, maybe he is being plagued by trout, or only catching younger grayling. On this one occasion however I like to imagine that he is actually doing somewhat better than I, as is usually the case, for, after all, I am confident that I am letting him catch more out of the kindness of my heart.
The sport picks up after lunch, and in seemingly no time at all we’ve worked our way to the top of the beat. We’ve managed between us to catch several fish over the two pound mark, but, there were many smaller fish for every 2lber. I recall once hearing a famous fly angler say that hell is a river in which every fish weighed two pounds. My perfect river does contain fish of over two pounds, maybe over three pounds and perhaps even over the magical four pound mark, however, naturally they’re hard to catch. I’m afraid my imagination simply cannot stretch to grayling of such epic proportions, I couldn’t imagine catching one.
At the end of the beat is a house, a typical country house, one of the prettiest I’ve set eyes upon, it’s red bricks lit up in the gentle evening light, it’s well kept lawn merging with the manicured banks. My perfect house backs onto my perfect river, what a life one could have in such a desirable setting I think to myself as I feel my imaginary world collapse, daydreams always appear longer than the particularly dull A level chemistry lesson in which they’re best enjoyed.
I’ve an entire lifetime ahead of me in which to explore the rivers and streams of southern England, seemingly endless days in which to find that one perfect stream. There are however only a precious few streams that run through chalk landscapes, only a finite number of fishing days per season, and only a finite number seasons in a lifetime. Perhaps I will one day find the perfect stream, perhaps I might one day even get to fish it, perhaps I will instead grow old, too old to keep up my search and then I will die without the satisfaction of even finding what it is that I look for. Alas, we fishermen can conceive our perfect rivers, or perfect lakes, they must therefore surely exist, if only in our daydreams.
