‘Again I make my way to the pool’s edge and gaze into it; here it is replete in cabbages, lily and the skittering of fry. There are no visible signs of bright-eyed activity but it looks so inviting‘
A warm breeze blew and it felt good to be journeying back to the pool, my favourite pool, and specifically a tench pool – the omens looked incredibly pleasing. I bundled the tackles into the jeep and set off with a distinctly concerning air of optimism.
There was that indescribable freshness of a new day, with the heady infusion of sweet-smelling water mint being prominent, at this time of year it may be described as rampant such is its spread. Mist sits low over the meadows making visible cloaks woven in spiders’ thread, as the sun climbed it touched the gossamer linings of newly formed clouds, conjuring hues of red and gold from the fiery furnace. I was taking it all in and I had, as yet, not set eyes on the pool.
The path, narrow and overgrown with sedge, hemp, cow-parsley and grasses is heavy and set upon with dew. I passed over the stream, upon rickety planks that still retain a customary and convivial bounce. At its end I turn in my tracks and stop; I just stare at the pool…By the pool’s side there are the busying sounds of water fowl and heron, with the ever present reed and willow warblers all in full voice. I place the tackles on the wet floor and decide to take the cut leading to the boat house; this is still very much intact and in use, its very presence exuding history. By way of verification of this it has a members’ board dating back to the 1930’s. It also houses an old dinghy and punt within its ageing, sun-bleached boards.
Again I make my way to the pool’s edge and gaze into it; here it is replete with cabbages, lily and skittering fry. There are no visible signs of bright-eyed activity but it looks so inviting. I walk back to collect my minimal tackles before making a start toward the largest covering of lily on the pool. With each footfall I recall fondly many a past encounter – eventually arriving at a clearing sizeable enough to pitch myself. I have not seen any percolations or associated fizzing of a tinca or two so, opting to cast here first, I offer up a few grains of corn each side of the channel that presents itself between the outcrops of reed and sedge. Once tackled up, and before a cast is made I find a suitable branch to hold the accoutrements.
I have dropped the float about four feet from the rod tip and the float has cocked assuringly beside a lily leaf. For now, it is hopefully just a matter of time – I tamp the tobacco down into the bowl of my pipe and fire it into a glorious plume of promise...
The sun sits above the trees that line the margins of the pool and the sublime colour-washes infuse blue and green in the early morning sunlight. Settling into a comfortable position I look out over the water; this pool is such a tranquil place, it’s untroubled and uncluttered ways being so far removed from the hustle and bustle of modern life and its cursory entrapments. A huge splash interrupts my train of thought; the splash is amplified as it cannons around the pool’s perimeter, with its ripples gaining in momentum as they make their gentle way towards me.
That splash was from was a good carp but I am here for tench. I look at my float which is glistening with tiny droplets collected from the passing water. I look on expectantly for a sign – yesterday I gathered some dried beech sprigs ready for the storm-kettle rituals of today and I decide that now the time is just right to fire it up and enjoy my first brew of the day. Before I do, I quickly fix another hopeful glance upon my float; this time it is swaying this way and that, buoyed by myriads of tiny bubbles fizzing at the surface. The tench are here: my tea will have to wait.
The angler’s hinderance – anticipation mounts…the attention given to a float is at its best an undivided one, this duration of time holds your dreams, your aspirations and whatever this span of time maybe, once the float gently rises and then purposefully slides away, we are instantly and seamlessly connected to that dream. Whatever the duration in time it will soon evaporate as if never having existed – such is one of the joys of the piscator; we constantly warp time.
The tench busily weaves his way through the lily stems, as if creating a cat’s cradle; this way and that he moves with every intention of spoiling my dream. These fish are very beautiful, with either a tinge of gold on their flanks or brushed with a translucent yellow/olive hue and of course the be-jewelled eye. Yet to see the fish I was kept childlike – credulous and brimming with excitement – its size and true colour still a secret.
Eventually I coax him, up, towards the light allowing the first tantalising glimpse of his flank and, as he rolled, the early morning sun kissed the scales, to mirror a splendid olive-gold shimmer. I now just had to keep him away from the two thick outcrops of reed and sedge previously mentioned. Still determined, weaving this way, then the other, he was not coming to me obligingly. At last, after a good few minutes I drew him over the waiting cane-handled net and in he went, resplendent in his summer’s finest.
By now the day had shuffled along and the earlier wake-up cries and calls of the pool’s inhabitants had all distilled into the order of an already perfect day.
Time now for that cuppa; I’ll put the kettle on…!
Writing & Images – Pallenpool, Summer 2025
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