The Chub Stream is tiny, even by small stream standards. In over a mile of walking there are only two, maybe three workable swims. The rest is pure streamer weed. I’m stressed. After weeks of battling to maintain the business amidst media speculation about ‘credit crunches’ and recession, I’ve lost my perspective on the world. I need a break. A holiday, but can neither afford the time nor the cash to indulge. But I know that if I can immerse myself in the stream for a while, that reality, real reality, rather than perception will emerge.
I’m sitting in the passenger seat of the car with my laptop on my knee and the St. Ives lakes complex outside my window beckoning me to indulge. After two hours of tapping away on something that I hope the client will love, I think I’ve earned a break. We’re well past the time when there’s any chance of finding the tench and bream feeding. It’s hot, humid and relatively still. Plan B then.
I take out the beautiful little Free Spirit Avon, attach a centrepin loaded with 5lb line, and tie on a size 4 barbless hook, with a couple of swan shot two feet above. Screw the landing net on to the pole; coffee, bread and camera in the bag, and I’m off down the lane towards the Chub Stream.
There really ought to be a wardrobe or something at the end of this lane between two of the lakes, because, just as in the tales of Narnia, as I cross the threshold of the field I am transported into a different, purer and definitely more realistic world. As I stroll through the long dry grass towards the stream, I remind myself of those pledges and promises I made to myself in the hospital bed four years ago, when it was touch and go whether I would ever get this second chance! I’m ashamed to say I’ve lapsed. I’ve allowed myself to be sucked back in to the shallow and meaningless hurly-burly of commercial life, and yet again, as the Great Ouse valley cleanses and purifies my thinking, I swear that this time I will retain my perspective and put my fishing back into its rightful place in my (second) life.
Arriving at the water, I take the Polaroids from my pocket and survey the impenetrable wall of weed before me. I swear that there is more weed than water, and I smile as I remember my match fishing days when a water like this just wouldn’t get a look in. Now though, it looks just like paradise! I walk slowly and stealthily downstream, looking intently for either signs of fish or small holes in the weed where there just might be a chance of holding a bait briefly.
Disappointingly, there is little sign of either. However, I do know that if I make my way downstream to the bridge, near the Chub Stream’s confluence with the main river, there are a couple of relatively free areas to wet a line. It is of no consequence. I’m here to fish and unwind. Catching a chub or two would certainly enhance the day, but not catching will not diminish it. I’m lucky and privileged to be here at all.
I finally reach the small arbour of trees at the bottom of the stretch where the stream winds a little and creates a couple of deeper pools, overhung with classic chub willows. Sitting and savouring the first cup of metallic coffee from the flask, I soak up the sunshine and blissfully anticipate that first cast (drop would be a more accurate description) into the crystal waters.
It’s time.
Taking a slice of bread from the plastic bag and into my pocket, rod in one hand and net in the other, I creep in a tense slow motion to a point where I can swing my bait under the tree and into the undercut bank. Provided I can manoeuvre into position without detection then I know that no feed is necessary. This is very often first cast or nothing stuff – if they are going to take it, they will usually do so on sight. The large gobbet of breadflake is counterbalanced by the two swan shot and I lower the rig into the water and start the reel turning to ‘trot’ the bait through without the benefit (and beauty) of a float.
At first, I can see the bait as it slowly sinks through the swim, but then it nears the bottom and the overhang and I’m feeling for a bite. It has to be said, though, that sensitivity is not really a pre-requisite and within seconds of leaving my sight there is a firm pull on the rod and I am attached to a very surprised and somewhat irritated chub.
Now I must move fast. I jump up and push the rod out over the stream with the reel firmly clamped to stop the fish diving in under my feet. There’s a brief, heavy thumping impasse and I win the day as the chub’s head is turned and he is out in the current amongst the streamers. I can take my time now and enjoy the moment, as I can’t ever remember losing a fish on a size 4 hook throughout my angling lifetime. Indeed, if truth were told, for 40 out of my 50 fishing years I don’t think I owned a hook bigger than a 14.
In fairly short order, I’m putting the net under a pristine golden Chevin that might just go 5lb if I were to weigh it – which I won’t. He looks balefully back at me as I clear the undignified mass of weed from around his body in the net and quickly extract the hook from his mouth. A swiftly taken photograph with the triumphant tackle as a memento and, in minutes, he is sliding gracefully out of my hands and back to his own world amidst the weeds and water.
During the long match fishing years, not only would I not have been on this little stream in the first place, but every fish was played, netted, unhooked and in the keepnet with nary a second glance, irrespective of species or size. Immediately every fish was safely caught, the focus was on the next one. In these latter years however, having had the privilege of disturbing Mr. Chub’s normal routine, my own day is complete. I have accomplished my goal, and I savour the moment, not caring a jot if it is repeated today or not.
I pour another coffee and lie back in the warm grass to smell the world. There are no other anglers here. No walkers, boaters or dog exercisers that usually bedevil this lovely valley and so, for once, it is mine to love and to cherish.
Coffee drunk, tackle tidied, I pack the bag and wander quietly back upstream to explore the upper end of the field. It’s even narrower up here, and the weed is, if anything, even more impenetrable. However, just as I’m thinking I ought to get back to work, I notice a dark movement amongst a tiny hole in the weeds. I stop, like one of those Pointer dogs when they spot a prey and peering deep in amongst the waving weeds and fluctuating flow I can just make out – astonishingly – a bream! Not a big fish, maybe two or three pounds at most, but nevertheless, well worth fishing for and catching.
Looking back, I don’t know why I should be so surprised to see a bream here. After all, I’ve caught hundreds of them over the years from fast water, and in this instance, we are only about half a mile from the Great Ouse proper, which is full of the things. This fish probably made its way up here in an escape plan against the marauding cormorants.
I cagily reverse back up the bank and extract another slice of bread from the bag in readiness to repeat the previous operation. The hole in this weedbed really is incredibly small, and it takes a couple of aborted attempts to get the bread exactly where I want it before I release the reel and watch the bait slowly sinking down through the water. I can no longer see the bream but I am hoping it will smell the bread and come running (metaphorically speaking). But as I watch intently from nowhere appears a long torpedo shape whose thick lips immediately engulf the whole lot and I lift the rod firmly to engage in battle with another chub, almost identical to the first one. The battle is brief and brutal, with once again the Avon and centrepin winning the day.
Now I really am satisfied with my morning’s endeavours and, after another short walk without the tackle, I decide to call it a day.
It is indeed, at this moment, that another realisation dawns. As I look up, I see the beautiful old mill where I live over in the distance. These wonderful, wild fish have lived and been caught within sight of home!
I quickly arrange the tackle in a neat little display against a tree and capture the moment for posterity. By the Fenland border town of St. Ives, this has been a classic morning of work, rest and play.
