Earthing The Current – A Grain Of Truth

First light… the dashboard display says 5.10am… ignition off. I gently close the car door, hoist my bag over one shoulder, rod in hand and make my way slowly along the dirt path across the heath. 

In another few weeks, the ground before me will be a startling carpet of purple bell heather, bejeweled with dew-glistened, gossamer cobwebs, sparkling silver in the early sun. 

Other early birds are active high in the pine trees above me, goldcrests, coal tits and, if my ears don’t deceive, somewhere a tree creeper – harder to spot against the bark until it flits to another perch and resumes its upward search for breakfast between the crevices.

The yaffle of a woodpecker in undulating flight drowns the minor voices momentarily before a drowsy woodpigeon continues to clear its throat in a thoughtful manner.

I pause deliberately at the corner of the pool, and gaze through the tree line at spectral columns of mist drifting across the now vast beds of lilies, pixelated by still-closed flower heads – the lotus. From the darkness comes the light. 

Alighting now in my favoured pitch at the far end of the dam, my breathing slows.

There is no rush.

Sit a while and gaze deeper, notice more.

The net-head, always first, is slowly rotated into place on its handle and quietly placed to my left. 

The canvas bag is untied top and middle, and the three pieces of bamboo cane, masterfully constructed into a thing of beauty, are slipped out and put together. A satisfying snug fit of ferrules, dulled bronze not blued.

I check the alignment of the rings, noticing one, third from the tip, is slightly askew and make a mental note to address it at some future point.

Perfection is impossible.

It’s a centrepin morning, of that I’m certain. 

A pouch is unzipped and from within I extract the Youngs reel and slide the two aluminium reel bands into position on the smoothed cork rod butt. Then a slight adjustment to feel better in the hand. 

Reel check set to ‘off’ and a spin of the drum. 

All seems well as it slows to an unhindered halt.

Now to thread the line. The still growing light and dimmed age of eyes do little to assist me. Finger and thumb pull the tail-end through the reels line-guard. 

Reel check now set to ‘on.’ 

I use the lightening sky as a backdrop to ease the line along the rod, ring by ring, carelessly letting go once and having to retrace my last two rings again.

The reel makes a short rasp as I pull sufficient length back to me from the tip-ring, and the rod is laid down to my right.

I pop the top off the leather float-tube and tip it slightly, exposing the vivid colours of quills, Avons and bobbers. 

Red or yellow today? Red…but is it crimson? Or is it scarlet? 

The eight-inch goose quill, thread-whipped throughout its length, reveals its origin, script written in Indian ink between the spirals and pleasing to the eye.

The small wooden cigar-box contains just two tobacco tins: ‘Sun Valley’ and ‘Golden Virginia’. A perfect fit.They respectively house my hooks and my shot. 

I’m hopeful I’ll discover a crucian or certainly a tench, but choice of hook sways me to select a ten over a twelve as the likelihood is that those bubbles peppering the water in front of me are from something bigger. 

Now the shot…

I trace my index finger through the tin full of mixed sizes, searching for the right one. 

I only want one shot and will pinch it two inches above the barbless hook.

Experience is hard won but to loose-feed here courts the attention of myriad rudd, mostly stunted. Instead, a just single grain is chosen.

A single grain of truth.

Two loops are pulled from the reel and a gentle under-arm swing drops the tackle a rod length or so out. Reelcheck ‘on?’ …Check.

The rod is laid flat.

Coots push around through the pollen-thickened, marginal water while a moorhen picks her way over the pad leaves, incredulously clownish, yellow feet, far too big for the rest of him or her.

All the while the sound of midsummer has been gently increasing its volume, filling all my senses. 

Fish will follow…increasingly so as the sun strikes an arc across the skyline.

A healthy basket of inevitable rudd but also several hard-fighting carp and a brace of tench too.

Each is perfection to my eyes. Impossible? No…

Writing & Images – Earthing the Current Summer 2024