Jeremy Croxall’s – My River, Angling On One Of Our Most Beautiful Rivers

My local river courses through the valley, scouring and eroding sandstone, limestone and millstone grit, cleaving the county about its longitudinal axis. From its source high on the heather-swathed upland moors, its waters tumble through the peaks and dales over a distance of sixty miles or so, before realising its destiny, a confluence with a mightier River.

The riverine topography is diverse yet harmonious and heartening. From its seeping, trickling incipiency, high up on the mist ridden moors, it gathers impetus, surging through jagged rocky gorges, meandering fertile valleys and rolling countryside.

It washes past ancient mill buildings, where its potent energy once powered a mechanised and revolutionary era of frenetic industrial productivity. Sadly, these magnificently constructed buildings, wrought from local stone, are no longer utilised as originally intended. They are of little worth to a community where mass consumerism has eschewed traditional values and the ways of the erstwhile artisan producers. These venerable gentlemen, who plied their trades by gloriously harnessing the power of nature, to drive great wheels, belts, shafts and millstones, are sadly long gone.

There are other curios too, man-made and of indeterminate purpose, some of which have collapsed into the margins diverting and speeding the flow, creating back eddies and little whirlpools where flotsam unavoidably pirouettes at the river’s whimsy.

The sibilant burbling resonates as the flow boils over and around rocks and boulders, subsequently abating to a gentle simmer over pebbles and gravel beds where barbel, driven to a frenzy with breeding fever, spawn in the late spring.

In the quieter stretches, the stems of ranunculus sway with the stream like verdant green ribbons, fluorescing as the sun casts its probing rays into the surface layers.

The river widens and shallows before dividing itself; twin streams now veer away from each other, uniting again further downstream. In so doing they have created a small island where water birds take refuge and build nests; a haven from apex predators, save for those that swim or the avian hunters which swoop from the sky with murderous intent.

The river ambles along, winding its way through pasture and arable land, its path plotted by trees and bushes along its high banks.

A twenty-minute stroll brings me to a place where I shall position the old bamboo rod across the stream. Despite its less-than-ideal accessibility, it has that certain magnetism that attracts an angler, the sort of beguiling seductive appeal that one’s inner spirit can only yield to.

The difficult approach is, in itself, an invitation that cannot be declined. It is endowed with an aura of mystery which just has to be explored and experienced.

I decide to put up my rod before attempting to convey myself down to the water’s edge. I reckoned I could lower my rod down the slope and by holding it by its tip, bring the butt cap to rest against an exposed tree root. Once safely ensconced in my fishing position an outstretched arm will easily reach the cork handle.

I embark on the steep and tricky descent, made all the more difficult by the need for calm and stealth, whilst ensuring a safe transition to the river’s fringe. My landing net pole provides some assurance and stability but would not, in all likelihood, prevent me from plunging into the river should my boot lose its grip on the damp grass and unstable earth. I know this from bitter experience; a sagacious and wary approach is a wise notion.

Embowered beneath willow and alder, I fervently hope that my presence here is shrouded from the gaze of passers-by from above or, indeed, that my presence is not betrayed to my intended quarry, hopefully keeping station beneath the water’s glassy surface.

I have no wish to engage with my own kind today, no desire to exchange pleasantries, or partake in the ‘hail-fellow-well-met’ convention of polite folk. My faculties will be focused entirely on my quest, like a beast of burden blinkered for the avoidance of distraction and committed to a singular task.

Sitting on my old fishing creel I rest a while, observing the river from my lair. The only perceptible sounds are those scored by nature and the occasional creek from the woven willow as I adjust my sitting posture. I’m not in the least bit hasty, I do not feel compelled by an urgent need to cast my line. I’m happy to sit and consider and appraise my swim, to plan my campaign as it were, bearing in mind the wise words of my angling friends and mentors.

A few lousy casts and clumsy retrieves could render my chances hopeless. The fish may well choose to ignore my suspiciously behaving bait or simply ghost away as they perceive potential danger.

I wonder, do fish actually think or just react to external stimuli which generate an innate response to flee? They have brains, so there is capacity for thought and memory; I fancy they do think but perhaps not as we do. However, I am predisposed never to underestimate their potential to outflank and outwit a less than competent angler.

The passing of time shrouds the events of life in a mist, obscuring the truth of past encounters; I find myself observing a grand looking residence in the near distance. It has a vague familiarity; my curious gaze returns to it frequently, distracting me from my purpose.

The position of the house affords a commanding aspect from its elevated plot. It overlooks impressive gardens and grazing land dotted with late spring lambs. There’s a paddock-like post and rail fence enclosing the pasture. The property’s southern boundary is the river, where I am tucked away, although on the opposing bank.

The sudden realisation dawns upon my foggy recollections: I once sat astride a horse in that field. It was my first riding experience, with my grandfather; he led the great brute with a lead rope.  I was six years old and a little intimidated by the colossal beast I appeared to be tethered to by leather straps and ironmongery. My grandfather was the gardener here, a part time position he took on after becoming restless in retirement.

The owners’ grandchildren had tired of equestrian activities so granddad took over the care and welfare of the ageing appaloosa. He was fond of animals, being of farming stock, and tending the horse probably restored memories of a youth spent working the land.

The great ornate greenhouses are still there; I can see him in my mind’s eye, in shirt sleeves and braces, taking geranium cuttings. To this day, nearly sixty years later, I cannot embrace that sweet earthy aroma of geraniums without thinking of my granddad.

With the mystery solved and my mind’s wanderings tamed, my full faculties are concentrated on my ‘raison d’être’.

My baited hook has been in the water for about twenty minutes, with not so much as the faintest tremble to the rod tip. The eager anticipation and enthusiasm that one’s first cast generates had dissolved.

Do I leave it longer?…is the bait still there?… did a fish take the bait whilst my attention was diverted?…is there a fish evaluating the bait at this very moment?…will I spook it by retrieving the tackle for inspection, should I feed the swim…?

Such dilemmas prevail upon all anglers I imagine, although I’ve not witnessed an angler fidget and twitch as I must surely be doing, and which would be plainly obvious to an observer by my countenance and bearing.

Ten more minutes have stolen away during my deliberations and hesitancy; the notion to retrieve and re-bait is almost overwhelming but something within me forbids it.

My focus alternates between the rod tip and the point at which the line enters the water. Where will I see the best evidence of a fish mouthing the bait? The rod tip is easier to monitor but perhaps lacks the sensitivity of the line’s interface with the water. Angling is awash with imponderables…

I estimate the distance from the bank to my hook to be about a rod length and around twelve yards downstream from my sitting position. If I hook a chub, and I still have hopes that I shall, it will no doubt bolt for the sunken willow roots or other unseen snags, in its attempts to throw the hook.

I shall have to have my wits about me and bully it away smartly from the tangled mass of sub-surface obstacles into clearer water. There’s a bit of weed in front of me but not the type to present a problem should a fish dive into it.

Damsel-flies flit and flutter in my line of sight; one alights on my bamboo rod. I’m always drawn to their airborne ballet and striking colours.

A tap on the rod electrifies my senses, my eyes now transfixed on the rod tip. There’s a flutter, a pluck, the tip judders and bends, I sweep the rod in an upstream direction and there’s solid resistance. My reel screeches as a fish powers away downstream and there’s little I can do to arrest its astonishing progress.

This isn’t a chub; it has to be a barbel. It seems like minutes later but will have been just seconds, when I stop the fish with the rod hooped over. There was a moment of equipoise as the rod matched the fish’s strength and energy. The fish obligingly moves towards me and I am able to recover the yards of line it stripped off the reel by its charge downstream.

I have the fish under control and just as I think it has conceded, it turns downstream again. Line leaves the spool at an alarming rate, the ratchet howling like a screaming demon. The second run is shorter though, no doubt that first powerful charge sapped much of the fish’s energy. As I retrieve line, the fish comes up from the deeper water and there’s an amorphous golden apparition evident for a few seconds. It must surely be a barbel?

I have ceased winding, the rod is raised and like a bamboo spring it absorbs the fish’s lunges and rolling; it uses the current in an attempt to resist being drawn further upstream. Suddenly and heart-stoppingly, the line goes slack, the rod straightens and I fear the worst.

There’s a splash and an explosion of spray as the fish clears the surface and becomes momentarily airborne. I wind furiously and feel that glorious pull and tremble; I’m still connected to my fish.

It is obvious now; it’s a trout. It’s a powerful amber-flanked brown trout and of good lineage judging by its strength and energy. As I steer it towards my waiting net, there’s a tinge of disappointment; I had embarked on a mission to catch a chub. Had this fish been a barbel, then that would have been quite a satisfactory outcome. However, I retired my fly rods because I had become too familiar with salmonids and wished to pursue other river species.

The spotty, amber-flanked creature came to the net twice, evading my attempts to pluck it from the river. On the third attempt I scooped it securely in the mesh and it now lay at my feet, resplendent in the sunlight, a truly magnificent specimen.

My wife is quite partial to a trout supper but this magnificent specimen was not going to end up on a plate. It was returned to the water and despite its recent exertions shot off like a torpedo.

The swim was well and truly trashed by the antics of the last ten minutes; a move to another was in order.

I gathered my kit and clumsily and without any stealth, clambered up the bank to the flat meadow. I spoke to the sheep. I always speak to the sheep, I don’t know why, it just seems impolite not to…

Writing & Images – Jeremy Croxall, Autumn 2023