THE QUIET WATERS BY. (Chapter 1, excerpt)

ALWAYS AN EMPTY POCKET

In the late 70's, as soon as the first 'tring' of an alarm clock peeled I would scurry to the bottom of the bed under the covers in a  futile attempt to get a high temperature and thus escape going to school. It never worked.
It signaled the need to adorn a rotten stuffy tie, a stiff collared itchy shirt and donning short trousers regardless of the weather. I then had to cycle uphill for 2 miles to catch a bus for the privilege of  listening to some old duffer talk in a monotonous drone for six hours, only interrupted by a bottle of warm milk, stifling guffaws of laughter because someone had farted or by a piece of chalk thrown at someone for falling asleep.

Looking back in reflection to that seemingly longer journey home, I'm visualizing that young lad trudging up the path oblivious to the fact that he had any benefited from any education at all that day. If you'd have asked me at the time, 'What did you learn today'? I undoubtedly would have replied ... "Nuffink!".
 In fact, suffice to say if it wasn't for telltale stain of ink either on my hands or in the corner of my mouth and a grazed knee you would question whether I'd actually been at all.

However, Saturday morning alarms where another thing and would be met by a whoop of delight.
How I never broke a bone whilst flying down the stairs wrestling into a t-shirt, or hopping in one shoe while fingering the other over my heel in my haste to the shed for 'champion' (didn't everyone name there bike?), Or eating toast while riding  one-handed as I sped down the lane to the village store to collect my paper round deliveries. And how I'd envied those American movies that showed the delivery boy's tossing rolled up papers into gardens! But alas, such behavior would have resulted in a 'thick ear', a slapped leg or worse still, no tip at Christmas! Taking a lollipop offered by the newsagent for my trip home I would speed 'like a streak of lightning flashing across the sky' aboard my 'wonder horse'.
The reason for my haste was for one reason and one reason only... I was going fishing.

The next half hour was spent mixing up flour and water, pilfering a tin of 'green giant, ho,ho,ho!' if there was any, lashing my fishing rod to the frame of my bike and stuffing bits and bobs into my school satchel. Whose contents of schoolbooks, a geometry set and a tennis ball were upended onto my bed to make room for my more important tackle.
 After letting the tap run for ten minutes to ensure the water was good and cold, I would make up a bottle of squash and be away.
 In one pocket I would have stuffed with blackjack's and fruit salads to chew on the way and in the other...? Nothing!
I always had one pocket  purposely left empty for things I might glean from my fishing trip like 'conkers'. That or just because more often than not it had a hole in it, such were the perils that plagued small boys with pockets.

THE QUIET WATERS BY. (introduction/foreword)

UP TO NO GOOD AGAIN

During my teens and early adult life I fished mainly ponds and lakes and was joined by several friends and family members along the way. From either lack of time, interest or just convenience I was fishing commercial waters. The fish that I caught from these lakes whilst magnificent, would have a look in their eye which, at the time, one might mistake for disdain. Only now do I realise that the look in their eyes was from their loss of freedom, and was reflected in my own. It is my belief that the inclusion of others was in some way to mask what I was to lose from fishing, replacing that sense of freedom and adventure with good company or adding a competitive streak that was not in my nature and against my principals.
Undoubtedly the places I fished were stunningly beautiful. Most lakes reflected the transformation of the trees through the seasons and the air was filled with skylarks busily bragging how high they were in the summers sky through song. But the lakes were designed for convenience to both the owners and the needs of the anglers. Trees were felled, brambles and nettles were removed and grass was mown to a lawn like length. Not to mention the inclusion of running hot and cold water and toilets on some lakes.

 One in particular that springs to mind would facilitate a kitchen with television and armchairs and freezers and fridges to store bait and drinks in a cabin on the lake. There was an extensive  breakfast menu and it was not uncommon to see the owner wander round with mugs of tea and bacon sandwiches and delivered to the swim of the hungry fisherman. This would cause me to much tutting,  shaking and scratching of my head. With the comforts of home and the shelter of bivvies along with electronic gadgetry signalling fish activity and delivering bait by a boat to precise spots in the lake, for me anyways, would signal what was wrong and what was missing from my fishing. These so called anglers were in all intents and purposes camping in their own gardens and running to mum at mealtimes or at the first clap of thunder.

Whilst fishing during this time I had the pleasure of teaching and introducing friends, brothers, children, nephews as well as reacquainting my father after his long absence from the sport, although not nearly frequently enough  to either of our preference. I was witness to that rekindled magic again but my pleasure was obtained from seeing it in their eyes and not my own. This realisation or mid-life epiphany, call it what you will, would rekindle a spark which in turn would ignite my enthusiasm, eagerness and excitement before I had chance to recast and wet a line.
I needed to break from the comfort of familiarity of lakes and ponds and fish alone on our wild flowing rivers and streams. Whilst this would leave me in unfamiliar territory it would create a hunger for knowledge only sated by getting out there and exploring.
 The teacher would once more become the pupil and the man would become the child again. Another bonus of being a now responsible adult living out his childhood would dissipate the perils of angry bulls, barbed wire fences, hiding from farmers and bailiffs and hopefully avoiding unnecessary dangerous risk taking.
 This time around it would dispel  general consensus of opinion that if I was missing I was probably up to no good.

RAINBOWS AND SILVER LININGS

A glance at the weather forecast for this week highlighted Thursday promising a rare break from the rain as a  brisk north/north easterly wind kept the rain over the west side of the country for long enough for the brave to venture out.

Gusts of 50mph did not favour the graceful art of chucking fluff, but undeterred I arrived this morning at my brothers to pick him up with eager expectancy and a positive mental attitude.
The time on the journey there spent growing expectations with excited voices. Creating hope and building dreams akin to childhood journeys on worn out bicycles. A memory from long gone days that paints a smile from so many remembered pictures.

Setting up rods  at the car, I chose a floating weight forward line while my brother opted for an intermediate/ sinking line. We favored the wind on our backs and strode side by side to the waters edge where we would part. Not from sibling rivalry but out of preference. With words blown away before reaching anyway, just being in sight of each other bought companionship without a need for close quarter confinement.

I selected a weighted nymph and gently teased out a cast which lifted in the breeze and seemed to take an eternity in landing on a rippled surface. It wasn't easy to take sight of the tapered leader even with polaroids on and was retrieved before reaching a decent depth despite being in shallow water. My second cast wafted parallel to the margin about three feet out, where a shelf sloped. With slow figure of eight retrieve I teased the nymph back. As it came within eyesight a flash of silver caused me to pause, long enough to curse a missed snatch at the nymph but as more often than not gave chance of second take. This time I lifted in to a small lively rainbow who was hell bent on escape, often making for what was left of some weather beaten and sorry looking rushes. As it skated over the net, I glanced up to see if the splashing had alerted Kevin of my success. I need not have worried, the knowing shake of his head and the more determined effort in his cast proof enough. We exchanged smiles.
 A quick snap and a sort out had me feeding line again and using the wind to my advantage, opting for a similar approach as before. On stripping the last foot of line before the lift a sudden tightening saw me lift into another. A heavier fish this time taking back all of my stripped line and then some, giving me a longer fight.

Its a far more nerving playing a fish on feel alone without assistance of clutches and I think more enjoyable to some extent. Its something that is hard to teach by anything less than trial and error, a feel that is governed and dictated by the quarry. No bullying here, just take line when its given  and hang on!

 The adrenaline rush is second to none.

Two fish in three casts lifted my gaze to my sibling whose mouth silently mouthed a profanity before forming another grin.

I stopped fishing and decided to have a walk,to familiarize myself with the autumnal changes. Took the time to catalogue mental pictures to serve as postcards til I venture out again. Before the rain lashes back my adventures until the frosts come once more.

PANACEA PERSONIFIED.

The spoils of a personal war

 Had taken the week off purposefully with the intention of fishing for Grayling down south with a mate and had it cancelled last minute due to the intended stretch of water being flooded.
 My local haunts that I've visited recently all appear either unfishable or do not appeal given the appearance of the water.
 This coupled with being given a month or so by the Doc to recover my health I was scratching around for something to do.
 Not wanting the devil to take advantage of my idle hands I got my fly tying and float making boxes out the shed and dabbled with a few materials , whittling away the hours whilst the rain lashed at the few remaining leaves in the trees and the breeze whisked the windfalls around the garden.

The crux of my problem is mustering enthusiasm of late, a sense of treading water, trying to remain afloat waiting to either drift to calmer water or being yanked under by the unseen and the unexpected.
It seemed befitting then that I would seek solace and therapy from turning my attention to fashioning floats from a few simple and abundant materials from the dark recesses of my shed and the bustling chaos of the garden.
To sit still and recharge my batteries and try to concentrate on something else rather than focusing my attentions on the gloom outside quite literally and mentally, would take a small but purposeful step towards recovery.

Now I don't confess to being particularly talented or patient but this abundance of free time had to be filled and whilst I would have rather been staring at a float on the water, I did at least find that same peace and sedation from fashioning a few myself.
With a few bits of cork and elder pith and some useful tips and ideas from far more experienced and dedicated float makers I dabbled at giving it a go.
I can't say their as perfect as I would have liked but I did find comfort from it and the process of their manufacture therapeutic somewhat. Aesthetically they soothed with their handmade, somewhat rustic appearance. And offered a touch of colour and brightness to the gloom. A sort of personalized panacea if you will.
I will at least be comforted in the knowledge that they are usable and provide inspiration which has alluded me of late. Besides which, they cost  nothing but patience to make and will at least not cause any ill feeling when adorning some far reaching tree or entwined round some lily pad come calmer waters and sunnier climes.

Piscatorial Panacea. 

AUTUMN FIRE

GARDEN TREASURE

As I take those first purposeful steps from my back door during Autumn, I'm often stopped dead in my tracks by the blaze of colour from a little shrub.

Its name escapes me but I know its from the sumac genus and 'sumac' traces its etymology from the medieval latin word 'sumach' which  means 'red'.

For a few seconds it can  fool your eyes with the impression of a fire and draw your gaze like those enticing log fires spent in the hearth, warming hands as a child. Inviting a peaceful mesmerizing stare into it.

Each leaf like a flickering flame of red or gold that symbolizes a uncustomary welcome of change. 

The sumac provides me with that last flurry of colour, reminding me that the gardens visual rewards are what makes those cold days scratching around with a fork during those cold wet months worthwhile. A reminder that the colour of summer has gone and the long drawn out winter awaits us. Its sometimes difficult to envisage a treasure trove of abundant colour from the wet and dirty almost barren garden during the the autumn/winter seasons.

AUTUMNAL DELIGHTS

And in that momentary lapse of reality I'm drawn to thoughts of the red fins of perch, rudd and roach which await the more weather hardy angler that makes the effort of venturing out during the more inclement seasons. The sharp contrast of each trinket of treasure rewarding the angler visually against the grey skies and the drab backdrop of the surrounding scenery.

As well as ensuring interludes between the monotonous humdrum of work its often peaceful too, not encountering a soul on a stretch of water. The absence of  fair weather fisherman who have hung their rods away to gather cobwebs and dust in the shed. Providing more freedom to roam and explore unhindered.

It provoked enough incentive to venture out with light trotting gear to practice my techniques and to restore some much needed tranquility. Away from  tiresome work and troublesome maladies.

Is it credible or even plausible to welcome this period of transition even though I hate change. The not knowing whats round the corner but the familiarity of the unexpected welcomed equally. 

I suspect it not the only change that beckons and anticipate more thoughts and contemplation.

The reminder also, that my own fire still burns eagerly within me with just as much enthusiasm and eagerness, but now fueled with the damp kindling of the encumberment of everyday life.

REWARDING TRINKETS

GARDEN OF EDEN

Al fresco breakfasts were made of this

Not too bad a view from our cottage garden huh!
 Ignore the dates on my photos, was using a new camera and not sure how to turn the darn date thing off.
 My good lady mentioned something about 'instruction manual' but all I heard was yadi-yadi-yada!

Knew the climb would be worth it

A weeks well earned rest and relaxation was well overdue and as I'd not been to the Lake District before we decided to book a cottage near Penrith with the River Eden running by the garden.
A chance of viewing  leaping salmon, red squirrels and all manner of flora and fauna as well as situated close to the Lakes if we fancied a venture out.
 Getting me and my brother away from the  river was going to be a challenge for somebody!

This is how we rolled :o)

Armed with light fly gear, my brother and I would be found winkling out some wild brownies from dawn til dusk most days with moderate success.

Huckleberry in his camo gear

 






 But like most times when fishing such idyllic  locations, it was just about being there. It was  therapeutic to pioneer a previously  unexplored  waterway together. Capturing and embracing fond memories of the past, retracing footprints left as young boys.

Best fish of the week

My rod comfort me still

I laid in bed at night listening to the feint roar as the water cascaded over rocks giving the impression of storms outside and made the warmth and coziness of the bed just that little bit more... snug.

STEAM TRAIN!!... damn missed it!

Exploring the adjacent area I was treated to some interesting sights. Opposite the cottage on the far side of the river it was possible to make out where the wheel from a mill was placed in times long gone. 

                               

The neighbours had long gone

 Caves and carvings in the red sandstone gave you images and impressions of its history and left you in awe and wonder, limited only by your own imagination.   

A shelter from the rain

We ventured out for a trip across lake Windmere on the ferry with the masses, visited a Bird of prey centre
and got dragged around various shops at the amusingly named and well documented Cockermouth, the location of some serious flooding a few years back.

Not my camera, hence missing date!

The surrounding landscapes were a visionary feast for the eyes and made the women ooh and ahh whilst us men took it in our stride. No doubt thinking about what fly to tie once the wives need for retail therapy was exhausted and we returned to our aquatic paradise once more.

Bear right the sat nav said.

A thoroughly relaxing atmosphere where you could do as much or as little as you wanted and still enjoy it.

Rising early and taking coffee and hot buttered toast on the patio while watching a busy dipper on the other side of the river, red squirrels up real close, buzzards high above the tree tops with the back drop of the splendid river was wonderful.

 If you gazed at the small waterfall long enough you could witness the odd flash of silver of juvenile salmon leaping but it happened so fast you question whether your brain was playing tricks on your eyes for staring too long, and given my track record for spotting fish it was probably best kept to myself.

A hawk from the future? 

All in all a very enjoyable and well deserved break in idyllic and tranquil surroundings. 

Totally relaxing and nice to be out among the fishes again. 

My next venture is a crash course in Japanese just so I can translate the instructions on this bloody camera!

SEA OF GOLD

 This time of year brings with it happy  memories of the past.

And like the fruitful reaping of the harvest, a time to reflect back and reap the rewards to days gone by with fondness. Times of summer haze and idle days. 

During my teens I had a Jack Russell called 'Pickles'. I spent  much of my time wandering, exploring all that was to see, and have adventures together. Sometimes I would get us up to mischief and sometimes Pickles could sniff out his own. Whether it was poaching, scrumping, trespassing or hunting we were inseparable.

One such fond memory surrounds golden fields of corn.

 I remember resting on a stile whilst Pickles flushed pheasants from a wood next to a vast field of golden corn. I had the idea of carefully making my way along the tramlines left by the farmers tractor to the very center of the field and hiding from the dog.

I reached the spot and lay down on my back out of sight. I remember the warmth, the clear blue sky framed in gold by the corn and I listened.

The whisper of the corn in the gentle breeze, a skylark twittering high in a thermal. I could pick out sounds for miles and pictured images in my minds eye. A distant shotgun emptying both barrels and a tractor carting trailers of corn on the distant downs. The occasional surprise and misplaced call of monkeys, peacocks or parrots at a wildlife park  a couple of miles from where I lay. The occasional rustle of corn further down the field, no doubt a familiar canine the cause whilst he scurried after scents. A hammering of nails coming from the village, somebody obviously fixing a fence or a roof whilst the sun shone. A medley of swallows chitting as they swooped low gathering insects on the wing. A blackbirds alarm alerting all of  a crouching cat in a garden. Rooks cawing their displeasure at being disturbed  high in the trees. The rhythm rocking of a distant train passing through the valley. Occasionally an passenger plane  would leave vapour trails on my otherwise plain azure canvass framed in gold.

 A whistle, followed by bristling of ears of corn as Pickles came brushing through the field in search of me, stopping momentarily for my further whistles to pinpoint my location. His over excitement and pleasure marked by slobbering all over my face and signalling his calling of time to my sound imaging and inertia.