Heritage – R.B.Traditional

The rain has been relentless these past few weeks. It has fallen well beyond the point where you’d hear the regulars in the King’s Head, who are for the most part countrymen and workers of the land, saying, “we could do with a bit of rain, boy”, to the point where you now hear, “I just wish it’d stop bloody raining!” The dogs of the shooting party are as wet and muddy as their owner’s wellington boots which are parked just inside the old oak door of the said establishment. Chaps with brimming pints of ale jostle gently with each other and their dogs alike for a better place in front of the fire to dry off and steam can be visibly seen emanating from tweed and fur alike. Such is the late autumnal weather we are experiencing; wet is possibly the understatement of the year!

The fields in the valley are awash; where once there was lush grass, one now slops through tufts likened to a paddy field. Ditches and ponds are full to the point of overflowing and many have indeed done so as the streams and rivers of Kent are swollen to the point of flooding and unable to take any more. This scenario has been played out over many autumns and winters past but in the past few years has become noticeably more prevalent, much to my dislike. 

As younger men, Kev and I would look forward to this time of year, planning our pike, perch and chub fishing expeditions with great enthusiasm over a pint or two and a packet of pork scratchings on a Friday evening. Now we sit rather forlorn, mulling over where we may be able to angle come the morning. Plans that we had made on the phone during the week are often hurriedly revisited and tackles reassembled to cater for differing species. 

Quite recently I had been thinking about pike. You may say that’s not uncommon with me but given that family events this time last year put paid to any thoughts of my annual pilgrimage for ‘Old Esox’, I was keen to revisit them and cast a line over the coming weeks for this most revered of predators. In the back of my mind though there was always a concern that things wouldn’t quite go according to plan and so it proved to be. I arrived out on the marsh a little after dawn on a Saturday morning to find the river nearly over its banks and totally unfishable. The upside to my visit was that I spent a wonderful fifteen minutes or so watching a male marsh harrier quartering the flood banks for mice and voles which were beating a hasty retreat from a rapidly rising watercourse; marvellous stuff…but possibly not for the mammals! I drove homeward again a happy man; at least I’d found a top predator albeit an avian one.

Over the next fortnight gales and yet more rain lashed the outside of our old cottage high up on the Greensand Way. The rivers in the valleys finally conceded and burst their banks. From a vantage point high up on the farm I could see swathes of low-lying pasture underwater interspersed with old oaks which acted as they have done for centuries as focal points and way markers. It may be an age thing but if you work outside as I do for my daily bread, with these relentless conditions to contend with, come the weekend there is little enthusiasm for spending more time out in inclement weather, collar pulled up on the old Barbour and the wide brim of my hat pulled down. A good angling book coupled with a libation or two, sat in front of the wood burner often appears to be the more compelling option. This is exactly what transpired during that period, a hiatus from my usual wanders with a rod or bird-watching exploits of sorts. A change is as good as rest, they say…

I had been looking at the weather forecast every morning supplied by the Met Office, keeping my eye on the local river levels. On days when there was hope of a break, still the rain fell and the levels remained high. It turned into a waiting game and I knew that perhaps given three days of fine weather there may be an outside chance that there would be some angling a foot. Most cunningly, the tackles were prepared for pike and roach alike. I was hedging my bets, having been caught out before!

I remember it well, it was a Wednesday and it didn’t rain, nor did so on the Thursday or the Friday which gave us chance on the farm to complete some of the jobs which had been put in to abeyance. I’ll behonest with you here though, although I was pleased to get some of these outstanding tasks ticked off, my thoughts throughout those days and evenings at home were mostly of a piscine nature. My prayers were for more fine weather come the weekend. Early on Saturday morning, with again no rain in the forecast, ‘Monty’, the Land Rover, was packed with roach tackles, flask and bait.

Off I drove through the winding lanes down toward the river Beult. The sun was shining through the mist which lay across the landscape and the colours of a late autumn morn were resplendent; ochre reds, burnt orange with some washed out greens added to the palette for good measure. It was a sight for the eyes after weeks of dull grey skies. Next was a stop at the village bakers to collect a couple of hot sausage rolls and a freshly baked small white tinned loaf, where the lady behind the counter asked, “Fishing again?” I just smiled, chuckled and nodded in agreement.

Before long I was pulling over and opening the gate to the field leading to the river. I was pleased to see that I had the river to myself, which was not unusual at all. A heron left its post and squawked angrily as it flew away. I felt guilty that I’d disturbed his peace, as without doubt the hunting for food would have been lean these past few weeks. The river looked to be fining down well but was still carrying quite a bit of colour; hopefully I’d made the right decision to leave the pike tackles at home. I’ve found over the years that Beult pike don’t like the water too coloured, so my thoughts were along the correct lines.

I set up my recently restored Aspindale three-piece cane Avon (…thank you Jeremy, my friend…) which has its origins in the 1940s. I coupled it with a small wooden and alloy, Slater latch, centrepin called a ‘Zephyr’ which was possibly made in the 1930s. It is certainly a lovely combination to prospect for roach. Many years back this little lowland river was likened to the Hampshire Avon for its head of big roach, though these are few and far between these days, but it still holds big fish of most riverine species.

I felt that the Avon rod would help me cope with most eventualities should they arise. An Avon crow quill would be my indication for wary enquires and with its bright red long tip could be seen at quite a distance when trotting through a swim. 

I shouldered my creel, collected up my rod and net and went ‘a-wandering’. It was wonderful to be back on my home river which I’ve fished since I was a kid. Heritage binds us closely and I have become tuned into its many moods over the time spent in its company and believe me it can be a moody mistress at times! Creeping quietly down into the dying reed-bed, washed about by recent events, I found a lovely inside crease and baited with a pinch of maggots before swinging my float out gently into the flow….

First run through produced not a touch, second run through a slight dip…more loose feed… third run through and ‘bingo!’, a small roach came splishing and splashing back toward me. The colours of that little fish were magnificent, pewter outlined by the brightest red of its fins. Slipping it back gently into the river I asked it to tell its mama that I was here, hoping for a bigger one next cast! More fish of the same size were to follow but I could hardly be disappointed catching these beautiful fish. With the sun was on my back, warming me through, I was angling again and life felt rather good. The only things missing were Kev, who had other commitments that day and Yates, my faithful spaniel, who I’d left at home with Eira. He wasn’t particularly amused, judging by the look on his face when I closed the back door to the cottage…

The rest of morning was spent dropping into likely looking swims, swimming the float down in each and before I knew it, it was time to return to the Land Rover for lunch. I leaned the rod against the side door, unshouldered the creel and perched my backside on the rear bumper. I enjoyed eating a couple of rolls as I watched the river gently flowing by. Out of the corner of my eye I spotted some movement on the opposite bank. Peering across toward me was a beautiful fox, bold as brass, soaking up the warmth of the sun’s rays and watching me intently as only a fox can. Having had enough of looking at a grizzly old Herbert like me, he slunk off along the hedgerow, no doubt looking for some easy pickings.

I decided to pick a swim for the afternoon and stick with it in the hope that the roach would find me at some point. A small seat was retrieved from the motor, together with some ground-bait and I chose a pitch not far upstream with a nice inside run against the reeds. A small, caged swim-feeder replaced the float for the time being and I sat down to await an enquiry which wasn’t long coming and produced a lovely perch, followed by another shortly afterwards. I was in the zone that only anglers and perhaps practitioners of yoga achieve, one of total relaxation and unaware of intrusion with the exception of the mellow sounds of nature. A small cough broke the spell and, rather startled, I looked round to see where it had come from; an older gentleman laden with tackle was standing at a respectable distance behind me.

Mutual greetings were exchanged and then he proceeded to ask me about the river. It transpired that he had travelled down from Colchester in Essex to give the Beult a try and was already impressed with the quiet and rather beautiful Kentish landscape. We talked angling for some length of time before formally introducing ourselves; “I’m Chris Burt” he said. “Blimey, we must be related somewhere along the line of our shared heritage! Rob Burt, pleased to make your acquaintance,” I replied. This was a quite incredulous meeting of the clan as Burt is hardly a common surname. I showed Chris some swims below me which produce roach and he settled down to fish until dusk, which was by now, after our long chat, only an hour and a half away.

Very soon the ‘roach hour’ as I like to call it was upon us. The sun was dipping low behind the trees, the shadows grew longer by the minute and my expectations grew with them. The crow quill was re-deployed and I trotted it through the swim with bread flake as the evening offering until my eyes started playing tricks with the float. Alas I had few enquiries of any note and before long it was time to break down the tackles, bid farewell to Chris and head for home via The Armoury for a pint of Kent’s finest porter ale, namely ‘Powder Burn’.

As I sat alone in the corner of the bar and supped my pint, I reflected upon my day and concluded that, even without a big roach to tell you about, it had been successful and wonderful on so many differing levels…

Writing & Images – R.B.Traditional, Winter 2023