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- Herausgeber: Merlin Unwin Books
- Kategorie: Lebensstil
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2015
In this rich collection of angling tales, Chris Yates has paired together his experiences of carp, barbel, pike, roach, gudgeon, chub, even bass. Within each pair of essays, the angling anecdotes mirror each other in strange and surprising ways. Falling in Again finds Chris in search of a 'lost' carp lake, being mugged on the River Mole, and dangling breadcrust for chub from an overhanging tree, but throughout he is exploring the patterns of angling, the links between angling in boyhood and middle age. These are tales of fishing in innocence and experience, in which the mysteries of angling remain greater than the man, whose destiny is to keep falling in again.
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FALLING IN AGAIN
tales of an incorrigible angler
Written & illustrated by
Chris Yates
DEDICATED to my mother
We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.
Little Gidding T. S. Eliot
Contents
Acknowledgements
I would like to thank all my loyal, unselfish, mad angling friends who, as revealed in the following pages, have provided me with moral support, landing nets, pots of tea and other items essential to the survival of one so ill-equipped.
I am also indebted to the editors of various angling magazines who, for dubious reasons, encouraged me to write some of the stories published here. I would particularly like to thank Jon Ward Allen of Waterlog, Colin Mitchell of Coarse Angling, Kevin Wilmot of Improve Your Coarse Fishing and David Hall of David Hall’s Coarse Fishing.
I would also like to thank my two uncannily perceptive typists, Pat Taylor and Tina Mulliner, who somehow deciphered my scrawled manuscripts. (Would a word processor help? Not under a leaky umbrella or up a tree!)
And finally I take my fishing hat off to the patience and forbearance of my publisher and editor Merlin Unwin.
Introduction
One of angling’s great attractions is the fact that no two fishing days are exactly alike; there will always be some new challenge, marvel or mystery, no matter how similar the initial prospects. At the same time there are the changeless, enduring and constant pleasures that are made even more precious by our impermanent world.
And then there is the angler himself, with his own particular joys, obsessions and eccentricities. His style of fishing may change, he may transfer his devotion from one species to another, but he will always be an angler. Season after season he just wants to repeat the happy uncomplicated exercise of catching − or at least trying to catch − a fish.
I have been an angler for forty years and my enthusiasm is as strong now as it was when I made my first cast. However, at this stage in my watery life I would say I am more experimental, more confident, perhaps even a little more proficient. Looking back, I see there are many lessons I never learnt, or never remembered. I continue to make the same kind of mistakes at crucial moments, I continue to have too much faith in old methods, I am still a sucker for monster stories, I still put too much trust in untrustworthy fish. I can also suffer the same kind of doubts, uncertainties and feelings of inadequacy that I first knew when I was a fisherboy. Similarly, my elation, not only at catching a good fish but sometimes just at the prospect of going fishing, remains childishly intense. I am also heartened by the recurrence of odd little events which prove the effectiveness of my angler’s instinct, and intrigued by repeated occurrences that point to a possible relationship between my instinct and that of the fish.
The quirky habits of wild freshwater fish always fascinate me, and so do the repeated instances of inexplicable angling coincidences.
All these things reveal subtle patterns throughout my fishing, mysteriously circular patterns that are taking me forwards, and back to where I began. I don’t claim anything unique in this. I think the same kind of patterns are woven into every angler’s life. My theme, therefore, is familiar, no matter how personal the following stories might be. The only real uniqueness here is in the way I so often fail to learn from my mistakes. For instance, I fell in again last Thursday.
Chris Yates
September 1998
CHAPTER 1
The Coach Trip
For years I had been dissolving in water. Mesmerised by local ponds and rivers, haunted by the occasionally glimpsed marvels of the deep, I was wasting away, becoming more and more convinced I would never make a proper angler. There had, it was true, been gudgeon, minnows and even perch, but nothing to show I had truly unlocked the water’s secrets. Furthermore, I had no family or friends who could advise me. There had been an angling neighbour and though he had helped me catch my first fish he had now disappeared. But then I discovered a new ally.
Fred Jones was our local electrician. One day in my eleventh summer, he came over to our house to unravel some mysterious business concerning popping light bulbs and smoking sockets. During the obligatory tea break he talked about things other than blown fuses and, in the course of the conversation, we discovered that Fred was not only an angler but the secretary of the Banstead Angling Society. He described the organisation as a friendly bunch who met every fortnight to journey by coach to a variety of other worlds. Fred showed me the new season’s fixture list containing such exotic and evocative sounding names as The Pevensy Haven, Barcombe Mills, Whyke Pit, Swan Meadows. I had never heard of any of these places before, but they conjured up wonderful images of dark, smooth, monster-haunted waters. By the time he left our house I had become a new junior member. Fred was pleased to sign me up and my mother was happy enough about the idea to pay my subscription which entitled me to a certificate, a club rule book and another headful of extravagant dreams.
On the first Sunday of the season I rose early, gathered my rod, tackle, sandwiches and bottle of ginger beer and set off to meet the coach. At the appointed place (outside Fred’s house) a group of men were already waiting. Each one stood by a vast and substantial creel, each had a colossal rod holdall slung over his shoulder – holdalls that probably contained the entire stock of the Alcock’s catalogue. There were also green canvas buckets full of stodgy groundbait and a few neatly bound heaps consisting of stormcoats and waders.
Now I was accustomed to seeing real fishermen at the local pond, anglers who possessed expensive looking rods, landing nets, boxfuls of floats and metal rod rests, but these giants of the Banstead Angling Society were so extravagantly equipped I felt ashamed to stand next to them. With my old 8ft spinning rod and all my bits in a school satchel, I was seriously unprepared, like a boy with a pop gun joining the army. The anglers bade me a cheery good morning and all seemed pleased about life in general, but I guessed they were enjoying a quiet joke at my expense. Fred Jones appeared on the scene, also carrying a mountain of gear. As if this was a sign, everyone looked first at their watches and then expectantly along the street. The coach chugged into view and there was a creaking of wicker as everyone heaved their creels onto their shoulders. We loaded up and piled in and were away through the deserted roads of dawn, bound for the River Medway in Kent.
The coach had already been half full and I hoped there might be some other junior member on board for whom this was also his first trip. I was bewildered by the mysterious discussions concerning ‘the sweep’. I was troubled about the questions of river board licences, the amount of maggots I’d need to buy (bait was sold on the coach), the techniques used to catch Medway roach. It would have been comforting to have shared my ignorance with someone equally naïve. But all the other juniors were obviously well versed in club lore. They looked confident and blasé. Some of them smoked quite openly and made debunking jokes about the committee – that important group of elders in earnest debate at the front of the coach. So I made my decisions without consultation.
Though not understanding what ‘the sweep’ was all about, I agreed to take part, at the cost of an extra shilling. I admitted to not having a Kent River Board Licence and was sold one for two shillings. I bought sixpence worth of maggots and was advised also to purchase a book of size 12 hooks to nylon as these ‘were best for your average Medway roach’. Though I wouldn’t have a penny left, I paid willingly, being eager to get amongst them. However, I didn’t admit that I’d never even seen a roach before.
I’d never seen the Medway before, either, and the journey to the middle reaches, at Barming, took me through the unfamiliar Kent landscape, with its orchards, hop fields and oast houses. It seemed we’d travelled hundreds of miles by the time we got there. By then the atmosphere in the coach was so thick with tobacco smoke I could hardly breathe. I stumbled out, filling my lungs with life-sustaining air, convinced that the Medway was the sweetest smelling river in England. And what a river! It was five times as wide as the Mole, which was the only other river I’d fished, and looked even more exciting. It was deep, the banks shaded by tall trees and bordered by reed and lily beds. I hung over the bridge next to the coach and stared down at the water, imagining shoals of monster roach.
We’d picked a number from a bag during the trip and now we were ‘called off’ according to our number, with about ten seconds between us. Gradually the crowd of heavily laden anglers diminished. Then my number was called and I joined the long, staggered column of fishermen, all trudging across the bridge and down the riverbank.
Naturally I had no idea where I was going. I passed ‘Number One’, who was briskly setting up his gear in a swim where a jutting bank formed a quiet eddy. Already he had a triumphant gleam in his eyes. ‘Number Two’ was a few swims further on and he, too, looked as if he was assured a momentous catch. The first dozen men away all looked immensely pleased with life as they settled in their chosen swims, but there were a few less happy expressions amongst the later arrivals.
My choice of swim was dictated by its proximity to Fred. He would probably give me a few tips about roach fishing and maybe lend a hand when I fell in. Luckily there was no one in the swim below him, so I planked myself down and prepared to fish.
The sight of the river and the bright summer morning had made me forget my earlier feelings of inadequacy. Suddenly I was optimistic. Maybe I would catch an enormous roach, win the sweepstake and be carried back to the coach shoulder high.
I asked Fred how you fished for Medway roach. ‘Like you fish for them anywhere else,’ he said. ‘Fine and light.’
Right then, five-pound line was all I had on my reel, but I’d got those 12 hooks tied to finer nylon and one of my four floats was a crow quill. I baited with two maggots and cast out. My float drifted down into the lilies and I instantly lost the hook in the stems. Next cast I had a tremendous bite and missed it. Then I had another, less noticeable bite. In fact I didn’t notice anything at all, but when I lifted the tackle out at the end of the swim, there was a small silver fish on the line.
‘Look, Fred!’ I shouted joyfully. ‘I’ve caught a roach already.’
‘No you haven’t,’ he said, sympathetically. ‘That’s a bleak.’
Roach, bleak, what did I care? They were all new and wonderful things to me and it didn’t matter that I went on catching bleak all morning. And even though Fred said that bleak didn’t count in the sweep I still felt quite proud of myself, especially as he hadn’t caught anything yet.
I put my rod down and ate my sandwiches, feeling like a seasoned society angler. A courting couple in a boat came drifting down the middle of the river, a transistor radio shattering the calm. Fred was just rising from his creel, intending to impolitely demand silence, when a sudden and powerful gust of wind, a miniature whirlwind, swept over the water and struck the boat amidships. Though the couple were not indecently undressed they had shed a fair amount of clothing and now all of it simply spiralled up into the skies along with a Sunday paper. The girl shrieked, the bloke yelled. I lay back on the bank watching with interest as all the clothes and pages gently descended into the river. Fate must smile like this on all society outings, I thought, as I happily drained my ginger beer.
The bleak went off the feed in the scorching afternoon and I didn’t get any more bites. Fred caught an eel, which I thought an astonishing achievement, although he seemed to think otherwise. News came down the bank that ‘Malcolm was really knocking them out’. He, I discovered, was the man first away in the morning.
As the afternoon progressed I began to get restless and impatient. I also began to develop a raging thirst and regretted downing my ginger beer in one gulp. Fred, however, began to fish more earnestly as if he knew he could catch fish if he concentrated harder. He followed his float downstream with the tip of a colossal roach rod. The whole Tonkin butt looked as substantial as a scaffold pole and the tip seemed to stretch halfway across the river. (He must have had arms like Superman.) He was probably only trying to appear serious, though, hoping that if he did so I might take the hint and stop pestering him with questions. He possibly wished that he’d never even mentioned fishing to me in the first place. But then his float disappeared and he upped his rod nicely. The tip curved and jagged and in came a magnificent roach.
‘What a fish!’ I said. The blue sheen on the scales and the rose red fins were simply beautiful. I gazed at it from a distance of about three inches, thinking that though it lacked the magical quality of a carp, I would still have gladly swapped all my Dinky toys for one like it.
Fred whipped out his anglers’ ruler and laid the superb specimen along it. ‘Not even a goer!’ he said, flipping it back in the river. Suddenly a great shoal of roach went mad in Fred’s swim and he hauled them out one after the other but not one of them made the coveted eight inch mark, not even if you stretched their tails. I wouldn’t have minded whether any roach of mine was a ‘goer’ or not, but there were to be no roach for me that day, big or small. I was still not a proper angler; yet, with so many proper anglers around me, that status now seemed less impossible.
‘That’s it,’ said Fred, abruptly. ‘Six o’clock, time to pack up.’ We put away our gear and began to walk back towards the bridge, overtaking several more fortunate anglers along the way. These men were laden not just with creels and holdalls but were also carrying their groundbait buckets now full of water and alive with ‘goers’. I glimpsed the dark shapes of the roach within. Some were circling round and round, one or two were too tremendous to move at all, just purple crescents lodged against the canvas sides.
By the bridge two committee members were assembling a complex structure of bars, chains and weights. It was supported by a tripod and a large wire basket hung from its centre. One by one the anglers weighed their catches and I stared agape at the spectacle. Suddenly Fred’s roach seemed almost insignificant; there were fish there over a pound!
Malcolm was waiting till the end, holding his fish in a cavernous keepnet by the bridge. He appeared eventually, to a cheer from the gallery, his expression a nice mix of modesty and victory, his net bulging with miraculous roach. Naturally he won the sweep, collecting the fabulous sum of almost £3.
The fish were released (not looking as pristine as they should, thanks to the wire basket) and we loaded our gear onto the coach. But we didn’t set off home straight away. There was a riverside pub nearby and the entire membership poured through the door as purposefully as the Medway flowed through the bridge. As I said, I’d spent all my money on the coach, so although my throat was parched dry, I could do nothing more than hang about outside, dehydrating.
Through the pub’s open window I watched the ranks of red faced anglers lifting their jugs to their lips and swallowing the cool looking liquid, but after an interval I had to look away. Fred eventually appeared through the door, a long glass in his hand. Ice chinked against the sides as he came towards me. ‘One day you’ll catch a roach, son,’ he said. ‘In the meantime, have some lemonade.’
It was as good as if I’d won the sweep.
CHAPTER 2
The Bass Trip
It was something to do with the tides. Apparently they were the highest −or lowest−of the year and, according to Parker, this meant more bass. ‘What about ordinary tides,’ I’d said, ‘at normal times of the day?’
I’d been disturbed by Parker’s insistence that to take advantage of the tide we’d have to be out on the rocks before sunrise which would entail a very early start. I have never been good at early starts, especially on Sundays. But my feeble protests were simply ignored.
‘If you’re going bass fishing on the Dragon’s Teeth,’ said Parker, ‘you should go when conditions are as near perfect as possible.’ He came round to collect me at three o’clock the next morning and we set off in the dark towards Beachy Head.
I should add that I have occasionally caught bass before. I wasn’t a complete novice. But I had never caught them properly: in the other words, they had always happened accidentally when I was, say, casting a spinner from a beach for mackerel. I had never set out to fish for them on purpose, nor had I thought that close reading of tide tables could lead me to the best chance of catching one. Parker, however, was purposeful in bass fishing. He knew everything, from the best casting times to the best rigs, from the best baits to the best marks, which included, of course, the one we were heading for. Yet if he seemed a class bassist next to me, he was, next to his brother, Berol, still only dabbling in the basics. Berol, who would be waiting for us on a cliff path later, was serious about everything −money, women, football, work and fishing. I remember once at a weedy overgrown farm pond, where there was always a good chance of a carp, he tut-tutted at my floppy rod and cranky reel and said, ‘You can’t muck about here.’
Mucking about was what I always did, though. It’s what I still do. If I have a better understanding of weedy ponds and lowland rivers than I do of rocky shorelines and mountains streams, it’s because of long and happy familiarity rather than deliberations and study. As long as I’ve got a line in I’m content and my methods have always been as simple and straightforward as possible. I don’t in fact like to be conscious of my tackle at all, using it only as an extension of my feeling for the water. And if I haven’t got any particular feelings then things are not difficult, just slow, and I simply have to muck about a bit more, with my line doing the feeling for me, until I begin to get the picture. But the problem with shore fishing is that you don’t get much time to muck ahout before the tide comes in and washes you away.
The sea looked pale and indistinct as we stared out at it from the clifftop, with Berol, at sunrise. Down below were the Dragon’s Teeth, of bass fishing legend – jagged fangs of rock extending out from the chalk cliffsides. They looked black in contrast to the sea, which, directly below us, was made milky by the constant erosion of the chalk.
I’d not remembered just how rocky the shoreline was below Beachy Head, but that, as Parker explained, was only so evident now because of the extreme tide, with the lunar influence at its most powerful and therefore the rocks not only more visible but also more accessible. The whole point of the day’s exercise was therefore made much clearer to me. We could get right out onto the Teeth, collect softback crabs for bait and begin fishing as the tide began to turn.
We clambered down the steep path, out of the slightly chilly north-westerly breeze, hearing the sound of waves growing steadily louder as we descended, smelling the salty cabbage-ness from the acres of exposed seaweed.
With the rest of our gear left on a rock, Berol took just a bucket and a cunningly bent length of wire over to the rock pools and for an hour we helped him tweak crabs out from their various craggy boltholes. Hard shelled crabs were no good for bait, said Berol; what the bass liked best were the poor soft backs who were between carapaces, having shed one but not yet formed the next. When we’d laboriously collected a couple of dozen −the crab population had obviously been taking a battering recently −Berol said that, despite the bait shortage, we’d better tackle up. Already the tide had turned and the bass would be advancing.
As I said, I’d never deliberately set myself up for bass so now I had to watch carefully as Parker and Berol made up complex swivel encrusted paternosters weighted down with devilish four-ounce grip leads. Naturally I had no swivels or grip leads, but Berol was impressed with my alternative. In fact he could hardly stop himself laughing at the sight of the one-ounce bored bullet (as a running Ieger) which I thought would be perfectly adequate. Yet if he was amused by my choice of tackle, he was amazed by my choice of rod.
‘What’s this?!’ he spluttered. ‘Is it a carbon rod I see before me? Where’s the split cane?’ I explained that I wasn’t going to risk chaffing one of my lovely bits of bamboo on a barnacled rock, especially when Hardy’s had so recently presented me with this eleven-foot carbon whopper stopper. They had hoped I might find it useful for big carp, but it was really much too stiff and unresponsive for my kind of carp fishing. Once Berol had got over the shock of seeing me caneless, he said it would probably do. Naturally, both he and Parker had beefy carbon sea rods, complete with large multiplying reels, while my reel was an old Mitchell 300 loaded with 12lb braided line.
Berol was less critical of the reel than the line which he said, in these circumstances, was a dubious choice, though he didn’t explain why.
We got down close to where the waves were breaking over the rocks, baited our hooks and cast out. Parker and Berol cast much further than me, not only because they were using four-ounce leads, big rods and multipliers, but also because they were wearing waders. They had sloshed out to a casting position on a big rock that I couldn’t reach in my wellies. Yet when my bait landed in a deep gully between two of the Teeth, I felt reasonably confident – especially when, after only ten minutes, the rod tip was dunked twice and hauled decisively over.
‘A fish!’ I yelled. Thirty yards out, where the rocks were gnashing the sea into foam, something was pulling slowly and heavily. Both Parker and Berol turned to stare. They looked appreciatively at the bent and pulsing rod and Parker was about to shout something when the line snapped down at the hook.
I don’t think I’ve ever hooked such a big fish in the sea before. Once I landed a 5lb wrasse off the Cornish coast, but that bass − if it was a bass − felt much larger. Parker and Berol turned back to their fishing without saying anything and I went off for a minute on my own to bite chunks out of the cliff. The tide, the big spring tide, was coming in quite quickly. I was tackled up and fishing
