‘The near bank provides good fishing to an angler who chooses his swims according to the mood of the river. I’ve fished here man and boy, and had my fair share of success I might add, thanks to the guidance from Mr Allen, the kindly gentleman who passed on his knowledge to a young boy keen to discover the secrets of the river’
I’m watching a quill float in one of my favourite swims. I call it Bakers because Doughy Allen told me about it, he’s the local baker. I never knew his proper Christian name; I asked his daughter once but she just smiled and walked away. Maybe she didn’t know either?
It’s not easy to get to, but well worth the effort as it’s a peaceful place to spend a few hours, observe nature and reflect.
From the village church a path winds through the graveyard and up on to the high meadow, it continues on through a copse, where I sometimes watch the badgers as dusk approaches. I like to see the cubs frolicking and wrestling with each other, pausing to dig for worms or to scratch the old stump which bears the parallel scars engraved by their claws. I watch their antics whilst they remain blissfully unaware of my presence.
Beyond the copse is a cart track, the left fork of which winds its way down the hill where it meets the river. Here the river widens and, unless in full flood, it’s possible to cross to the far bank and the pasture beyond. Cattle stir up the muddy shallows as they drink and cross from one side to the other, swishing their tails at the flies which pester them incessantly. Today, I notice a calf which has paused midstream, staring into the water. I wonder if it sees its reflection and wants to play with the calf looking back at him? Its mother calls to it with a gentle mooing and swaying of her head, the youngster obeys and wanders over to join the herd, as it ambles up to the top of the pasture.
The near bank provides good fishing to an angler who chooses his swims according to the mood of the river. I’ve fished here man and boy, and had my fair share of success I might add, thanks to the guidance from Mr Allen, the kindly gentleman who passed on his knowledge to a young boy keen to discover the secrets of the river.
He actually gifted his fishing rod and reel to me. Having taken over the running of the bakery business from his father, he no longer had time for “leisurely indulgences” as he put it. I was very grateful as my old rod was a home-made affair and somewhat crude by comparison.
So, a young urchin, suitably tackled up with a proper fishing rod, crow quill float and a bag of bread, was all set to become the angler of his far-reaching ambitions.
This was of course many years ago, yet today, as I focus my attention on the quill with the brightly painted tip, it seems like only yesterday.
There have been many yesterdays though, with much recounting and re-living of times gone by. Wars have been fought, kings and queens crowned, countless discoveries made and space conquered. Progress has brought many good things but, equally, many bad things. There have been happy memories, sadness too, and all those things that life etches on one’s soul, defining character and spirit.
I continue onwards towards my favourite haunt. It’s not far now. At the end of the field, where the cattle drink, there’s a gap in the stone wall through which a man can pass but sufficiently narrow to keep the cattle out of the adjacent field. Another two hundred yards or so brings you to a group of willows below which is ‘Bakers.’
No one else knows it as Bakers. I’ve never shared my knowledge of it, perhaps through selfishness, but I felt privileged to be entrusted with its existence and couldn’t therefore betray my benefactor by making others aware of its location.
I was challenged once by the landowner who considered me a trespasser, a formidable looking shotgun-toting character,dressed from head to foot in heavy sporting tweeds. In my mind’s eye I could see him wearing tropical attire whilst shooting tigers in India with an entourage of shikaris and beaters. His quarry that day was rabbit and, with a just a spaniel at his side, he appeared quite different from my mind’s meanderings.
Once he knew I was there at the favour of Mr Allen, his demeanour mellowed considerably. I imagine there may have been a mutual arrangement, whereby fishing rights had been traded for morning goods.
Today, as I approached Bakers I was surprised to observe two abandoned bicycles; hideous, brightly coloured monstrosities which had no place littering the beauty of this hallowed ground. This is a place I considered sacred, although not holy in the true sense of the word. I would have placed my bicycle tidily, propped against a tree, where my rod could be untied from the crossbar and my tackle removed from the saddlebag.
As I drew near, silently and imperceptibly, I picked up the threads of youthful conversation…
I stood behind and slightly to the side of the second willow trunk which afforded a clear view of the swim. Whilst I could see a black rod-tip and a float a few yards downstream of it, the boys were hidden by bankside foliage. I could see a pair of boots belonging to one of them but the other was totally obscured by the undercut bank and dense vegetation. One, or both, of them were smoking cigarettes and I could see tobacco smoke rising above their position.
I paid more interest to their float than to their conversation. I thought to myself that they should have been taking more interest too because, whilst observing for just five minutes or so, they missed two good bites. The float bobbed again, sank below the surface for a few seconds and reappeared.
I was quite irritated by the fact that they had discovered this place, even more so by their incompetence. They were quite unaware of how special this place is and totally unappreciative of its charms. The float dipped again, the line tightened and the rod tip pulled around. Even these buffoons couldn’t miss a bite like that?
Sure enough there was great excitement, the rod was raised and I heard the reel’s ratchet as the handle turned and line clumsily retrieved. The fish made for the submerged willow roots and snagged the line, most likely a chub. There was a ping as the line parted, followed by a few choice expletives from one of the boys and mocking laughter from the other. I couldn’t help but snigger; they were unworthy and their quarry had got the better of them.
I melted away, retracing my steps. An owl quartered the field searching for its supper and I wondered if the badger cubs might put in an appearance this evening? The sun dipped just below the horizon as I walked through the copse but there was no sign of activity at the sett.
I continued on towards the church, and walked to the top of the graveyard, resting a moment beside a headstone on which is inscribed: “James Barret 1847-1931 RIP.” I often rest here.
Oh, and my name…? Well, people generally referred to me simply as JB…
Writing & Images – Jeremy Croxall, April 2024
You must be logged in to post a comment.