Jeremy Croxall – Discovery & Disappointment

Angling is discovery; it reveals the reality of that which can only be anticipated with hopeful expectation. A twitching rod tip or a dipping float stirs the senses, putting our conditioned reflexes on high alert. Once we’ve committed, there’s that moment in time separating uncertainty and fact; a split second of dubiety until our emotions respond positively to a tugging fish or despairingly, as we winch a bare hook through the water.

If the gods of piscatorial fortune smile upon us, however, and lead a worthy fish to our baited hook and we read the signs well enough to hook it, then that is just the beginning of a process. In the words of an old angling mentor: “It’s not caught proper yet.”

‘There’s many a slip twixt cup and lip’ and there’s much to confound the efforts of an angler to bring a prize fish to the net; a hook-pull, a line-break a snag, a knot failure, a clumsy netting attempt. There’s an anxious few minutes to endure before one feels the relief, joy and satisfaction when finally the battle is done and our prize is safely enmeshed in the folds of our net.

Every angler knows full well that it’s always the largest fish that escapes the hook, sometimes seen but more often concealed by the depths. In fact those unseen are, without doubt, the mightiest and would easily exceed a previous best.

I hold the view that the smaller ones can drop off with alacrity; it obviates tedious unhooking and sliming of the hands for little satisfaction or reward.

Our sporting expectations are influenced by all manner of events or conditions, not all of which are directly related to our own actions, or to lack of good judgement. Nature too can play host to disenchantment. 

It is late autumn; trees are tinged with a golden glow and have begun to shed their leaves to the wind which flit and flutter like a rabble of butterflies. Such an occurrence heralds the passing of the favoured seasons. The chill of winter beckons and the inevitability of worsening weather rests uneasily on the mind.

Rain has been falling persistently for the past two weeks. Rivers have breached their banks, transforming floodplains into shallow lakes. The hills that dominate the river valley are grey foggy shadows and if it weren’t for the knowledge of their existence, the distant landscape could easily be misinterpreted.

Angling has been off the agenda, pending more suitable conditions and clement weather. There are concerns about how the deluge may have affected our angling prospects; have the fish been displaced by the turbulent flow?… what manner of toxicity has been introduced to the river by receding floodwater?… will our favourite swims remain fishable? …Has the river-bed topography been altered to our disadvantage?

We will not know until we re-visit, when nature grants us access to those much favoured havens, beloved by river anglers countrywide.

Today, I am spurred on by optimism and an overwhelming desire to wet a line. I simply have to visit my river; I have to know if it is possible to cast a line without risking life and limb.

The seemingly perpetual rain has ceased, roads are flowing with traffic again, not floodwater, and the river levels are slowly dropping, according to reports.

My journey roughly parallels the river as I head out to my intended destination. I fleetingly observe the river as I drive and, although high, it doesn’t look inaccessible. The adjacent fields, drained of floodwater, no longer resemble lakes. 

The sheep were evacuated to safer grazing land before the weather turned and the fields look barren without them. Their return will be a welcome indication that the danger of flooding has passed. 

I fear the greatest danger to me today is a lack of concentration on the road ahead, rather than the conditions I face on the riverbank, so I cease monitoring the river as I drive…

Crossing the river bridge, a cursory glance across the parapet sours the mood. The river is swollen and moody- looking. A surging torrent gushes through the stone arches and there’s wild, turbulent water beyond. The fields, happily, are no longer submerged but it’s plainly evident that they’ve suffered from the deluge. 

A walk through the churchyard brings me to a stone stile which I negotiate, then step down to a muddy path. Passing through the small wooden gate, I take a few strides towards the river then pause to survey the scene before me. 

The river has deposited all manner of debris where livestock grazed just two weeks previously. The grass is laid flat as if some giant comb had swept across the fields. Grit and sandy-silt deposits are widespread and there’s an audible squelch as I tread the pasture.

Most of the swims I normally fish are inaccessible; they have been totally overwhelmed by the surging flood waters. In fact, the entire riverscape has undergone a momentous change since my last visit. The river appears much greater in stature, it has widened considerably and its pace has quickened. If it weren’t for the familiar bridges, distant buildings, fences and other recognizable landmarks it could be an entirely different river.

A walk of about half a mile will bring me to the end of the beat, so I set forth with the intention of fishing the downstream boundary, gradually working my way upstream, prospecting likely-looking swims as the day progresses. 

The further I walk the more futile this notion becomes. Only one of my normal swims looks remotely fishable but, undaunted, I pursue my strategy and eventually arrive at my much favoured boundary swim…and my heart sinks.

A large tree, probably a victim of bank erosion, has tumbled into the river. It has been carried downstream by the current and grounded itself in my favourite swim. It’s like some great slain beast with limbs and branches outstretched, clawing the bank as if attempting to haul itself from the water in its last desperate moments. 

Flotsam gathers around its carcass, creating a raft of detritus under which the chub I seek, without doubt, now find safe sanctuary. It is an unwelcome reversal of fortunes, favouring the hunted, not the hunter. 

Nothing for it but to retrace my steps and try my luck at a swim I walked by earlier. It’s my only safe option on this stretch in these conditions. It’s not where I would choose to fish under normal circumstances and it’s a long trek. All I seem to have done today is trudge through mud and marsh-like ground, encumbered by tackle which becomes more burdensome with each stride I take. My mood is not optimistic, in fact I seriously consider ‘drawing stumps’ but my conscience overcomes my indifference. I came here to fish and that is what I shall do.

Sliding my rod from its bag, I glance across the river. It’s the colour of tea; dirty tea at that. It’s running at a fair old pace, dragging twigs and other bankside litter gathered by the higher than normal levels. Towards the near bank the flow is impeded and disturbed by the river bed and unseen obstructions. There are whirlpools and back eddies and the surface looks like a vile, simmering soup.

I thread my line through the rod’s many rings and just below the tip-ring I inadvertently let go of the line and a gust whips the line away unthreading all the rings bar the first. I curse myself loudly then glance over my shoulder, hoping I haven’t offended any dog walkers whom I see from time to time here… I am quite alone.

Eventually, and with renewed spirit, my rod is ready to fish. As is my normal practice, I ease it down the bank, handle first and bring it to rest against something so it won’t slide into the water, a clump of vegetation suffices in this instance. Satisfied it won’t tumble in, I turn my attention to getting myself down the bank.

The bank is quite steep here and the route down to the water is silt-ridden, filling me with apprehension. I shall need to tread with great caution.

I have a gadget, a home-made spike that screws in to the end of my landing net handle. The handle then doubles as a walking staff and as I attempt to probe the slope I realize the spike has broken off. If I can’t extract the threaded stump from the handle I won’t be able to attach my landing net, thereby preventing any fishing. 

My language dictates a further glance over my shoulder.

The day is presenting all manner of challenges; I feel the odds are overwhelmingly stacked against me, there’s a conspiracy of sorts, a plot to prevent me from enjoying a spot of angling. Or is it a sign: should I admit defeat and just walk away?

Fortunately the spike had not been over-tightened and with some effort I managed to recover the situation. I had to invert the handle to prevent mud and grit fouling the threads and hoped it wouldn’t slide out from under me as I pushed the blunt end into the soft ground.

Safely down the slope, I baited my hook and flicked the lead weight over the water, about three rod lengths out. The line arced across the stream and the lead bumped its way towards the bank before coming to rest. The tip bent towards the bait and began to nod gently as the line resisted the current. I attached the net to the handle and sat waiting for something to happen… It didn’t.

I persevered for three hours, retrieving and re-baiting every half hour. The only thing I hooked was a sunken twig which, for about three seconds, I thought was a barbel. As it broke surface it got off…

In melancholy mood, I pondered on the events of the day as I drove home; my hopes unfulfilled, my spirit sapped and my self-worth as an angler questioned.

My close angling chums very rarely end the day without having grassed a fish or two and, more often than not, significantly more than two, but they are fine anglers with great experience and honed watercraft.

I still have much to learn and much to endure in the process. I consoled my hapless self with the notion that without the barren days, the days where conditions are not favourable, or when one’s instincts are blunted by preoccupation of mind, then the halcyon days would be far less rewarding. In the grand scheme of things, one needs days like these…but not too many.

Writing & Images – Jeremy Croxall, Winter 2023