Jeremy Croxall Has Some Bankside Musings

Fishing with rod and line, is the perfect excuse to immerse oneself in our precious and miraculous natural environment. Trees, flowers, bugs, birds, and all manner of critters thrive in this life sustaining habitat. There are endless opportunities to study and marvel at Mother Nature’s endeavours; she has been good and kind to some, cruel and uncaring to others, but that is her way. There has to be balance in the natural order of things, to ensure succession and survival. A toppled ash, hitherto towering and magnificent, brought down by disease, provides a haven for some, a killing ground for others.

A spider’s web, so intricately and skilfully spun, is a thing of great beauty, belying its macabre purpose. For those of us who can observe and appreciate such things, nature is pure theatre.

As I sit amongst the willows, alder, and balsam, I become almost hypnotised watching the tip of my cane rod gently rise and dip in a steady rhythm. Its movement is akin to the conductor’s baton when requiring pianissimo from his orchestra, although the only melody I detect, is of nature’s making.

I am watching and willing this feeble looking piece of cane to twitch and go round with the pull of a good fish, however it resists my wishes and continues to rise and fall with the pull of the current as the river washes by. It puts me in mind of a teacher at school, whose name escapes me, who preferred to gesticulate rather than utter his instructions. He would raise his arm, point his skinny index finger, and slowly and theatrically raise and lower his outstretched digit, according to his wish for us to sit or stand.

Such was his hold on us we would instantly obey his whim, or face detention, or be tasked with producing lines of text, repeating a message which was supposed to become etched upon our minds, thus discouraging further transgressions.

The rod tip judders and dips slowly and deliberately; I casually pick up the rod and retrieve line. I know this is not a fish; it’s either weed or a twig on the line.

I re-bait my hook and with a gentle underhand cast, drop the baited hook into the current about mid-river, pausing momentarily as the line pays out, a dab of my finger halts the lines progress, bringing my end tackle closer to the bank.

The weight bounces a little as it finds the riverbed before settling in the slack water. I am satisfied that the bait is presented in what I judge to be a good position for any fish searching for its next meal and await events.

My mind wanders again, I am back at King’s School, in the science lab listening to the biology master. I have remembered his name, Mr Gregory. Strange thing the mind, how is it that one’s memory can utterly fail you then, suddenly, it’s as sharp as a hook point?

A kingfisher flashes past, bringing me back to a world beyond that which occupied my thoughts, a real living world that one can observe, smell, and feel. I cannot help but wonder, why is the kingfisher not drab in colour like all the other avians that frequent the riverbank, it’s a hunter after all and must remain oblivious to its prey in order to facilitate an ambush. Surely, concealment requires camouflage, yet this character has bright dazzling plumage, the like of which seems alien to this place, something you would expect to see in some far off tropical jungle perhaps?

My strategically positioned rod tip seems an ideal perch for my flamboyantly attired little friend, from which he could observe his riverside larder. I am hoping he will indulge me and alight on my cane, so that I may study him at close quarters. He’s on the opposite bank now, in a tree above a raft of weed, has he spotted a juicy minnow? He’s crossed the river to my side now, he’s no more than five yards away, perched on a willow bough, seemingly oblivious to my presence. He’s in and out of the water in a flash, a small unfortunate tiddler struggles to escape the clutches of his stiletto-like beak. I try to photograph this magnificent halcyon bird but he’s camera shy, and with a flash of iridescent turquoise he streaks away downstream.

Was that a bite? Could just be the weight moving, yes, think that’s it, nothing doing, time to brew up. There’s something comforting about the smell of wood smoke, whether it’s from an autumnal garden bonfire, a cosy fire in the grate at home or a roaring log fire in a favourite pub, or as is the case today, my Kelly kettle. Smoke swirls, twigs crackle and flames dance as a prelude to a cup of freshly brewed leaves and, as has become a convention, a slice of fruit cake.

The Kelly kettle is a relatively foolproof bit of kit and provided you remember the matches you can’t go far wrong. This fool, however, has been known to forget this essential item and had little choice, other than to drink cold water from the kettle. There is nothing more frustrating than having all the kit to brew up but lacking the means to ignite one’s kindling. I did try the boy scout trick but however much I toiled, generating flame by rubbing two damp sticks together is an arduous and futile pastime and not to be recommended, especially if one’s survival depends upon making fire. Our ancestors somehow created fire this way but their damp sticks must have dropped off a Swan Vesta tree.

I prefer to drink tea from a bone china cup but fine china isn’t necessarily compatible with the great outdoors. An enamel mug is a much safer bet, and even I would struggle to cause it harm. An enamel mug travels better and such is its versatility, it can be pressed into service as a makeshift hammer, small shovel, dinner gong or mud foot for your fishing chair should you lose one. It is truly the most robust of drinking vessels and every self-respecting alfresco tea junky should carry at least two, or even four, if the legs on your fishing chair are prone to sinking into soft ground.

There’s nothing worse than your knees prising off your broad brimmed hat, when your backside overtakes your feet, as your chair legs sink into soft mud. I think the reason I like the Kelly so much is because I’m not very good at fishing. If there’s little action in the fish catching department, usually due to my ineptitude, my patience is tested and my concentration lapses. I therefore need a distracting activity to maintain my interest.

Making fire is a primordial notion buried deep in our DNA and a desire to create flame can be satisfied by the dubious necessity to brew up over an open fire. Advanced technology has provided the convenience of super-efficient, portable cooking contrivances but that’s all a bit too easy really. No; a decent cup of tea, can only be properly enjoyed, if there has been an epic struggle twixt kindling and lip.

Brewing up is also an excellent method to encourage bites from the largest fish in the river. In fact, whilst your back is turned, as you’re attempting to fire up, or indeed tame the inevitable conflagration surrounding your Kelly, your rod tip will be nodding furiously like a head banger at a rock concert. It may even rattle in its forked twig rod rest as you begin to pour boiling water from your kettle into your enamelled mug.

Ignore this sign at your peril; left unattended, your rod and reel will be hauled from its rests into the murky depths, towed by the largest barbel in the river. Should you cease pouring, however, and rush to attend your bucking cane, you will discover that the fish has merely made off with your bait. After an expletive or two, stepping back as you wind in, it is all too easy to knock over your abandoned mug and/or kettle, scalding your lower legs in the process. Hopping up and down, doing the scalded ankle dance, must present quite a comedic spectacle, because ducks laugh out loud….

Writing & Images Jeremy Croxall Summer 2023