‘The annual Kentish Canes’ Eel Championship is, fittingly perhaps, a fluid construct. Sometimes decided over a day, others, as now, a week-long affair. The championship is never scheduled in advance, so both timing and venue change.’
The August edition of TPR&F, and the first opportunity for the esteemed correspondents to recount their exploits from the opening days of another river season. Tinca tinca bubbles amidst shimmering lilly pads; golden rudd glistening in the morning sun; rods doubled over by the locomotive powers of Barbus barbus. Sadly though, for that and more Crabtree imagery, I must direct you elsewhere. Instead, for the Kentish Canes, the focus of opening week was on eels. The European eel, Eelus ericus, not to disappoint the Latin scholars.
The annual Kentish Canes’ Eel Championship is, fittingly perhaps, a fluid construct. Sometimes decided over a day, others, as now, a week-long affair. The championship is never scheduled in advance, so both timing and venue change. An early catch or two, and after a hasty bank-side consultation, the event is officially sanctioned, with immediate effect. Think of a rec. ground 7-aside football match being elevated to Premier League status after a couple of early goals.
As always, opening week this year was celebrated on the Kent/Sussex borders – marshland drains and the River Rother. Ostensibly the primary target was tench, but worms fished over-depth beneath arched swan quills (thanks Micky) saw a predictable outcome in the first hours of daylight on the 16th. The Eel Championship was immediately sanctioned. A three-man contest this year, the score after a long first day was 2-1-0. Day two consolidated the leaderboard, now 4-2-1. For completeness, but of trifling significance, assorted tench, bream, roach and rudd were also landed.
Now, it should be noted, the “1” eel was not without its controversy. This concerned the hooking of an eel by an angler who was sleeping in a reclined chair under the shade of a generous brolly in the early afternoon sun. He was awakened by his dog, which itself was raised by the approach of a fellow angler bearing ale. Shepherd Neame Spitfire as I recall, not that this was the source of controversy. The challenge for the stewards was, to whom should the aforementioned eel be credited? The defendant’s claim to have been only napping, not sleeping, was dismissed as legally baseless.
The cynical and opportunist claim of the ale-bearer was similarly dismissed, but to credit the sleeper would seem to sanction lay-lines and other such nefarious tactics. Surprisingly, no precedent could be found for these circumstances – sun, sleep, beer, dog and eel – so the best legal minds were brought to bear on proceedings. Justice can be creative, especially under the influence of sun and alcohol, and the Competition Committee’s eventual verdict was that the award would be shared between sleeper and dog, half an eel each. With Brexit behind us, the threat of an appeal to the Court of Justice of the European Union has been averted, so the English High Court now has this verdict on record as precedent in future cases.
While addressing procedural and administrative matters, it is important to highlight a critical condition of “the Championship”. Rule 1.1 reads: “Under no circumstances must a contestant make any overt effort to target the capture of Eelus ericus”. Put in layman’s terms: There is no higher standing in the Canes than that of Eel Champion, but eels must be caught by accident, the intended target being some lesser species.
This of course affords the opportunity for all manner of deception, misinformation, subterfuge and outright lies, leaving us only to wonder why the household names of British politics aren’t engraved on the Eel Champions Cup. Can’t get the time-off work in June, one must assume.
The coincidence of tench and eels is, well, no coincidence. A preference for still or slack water, and a fondness for worms. But, as knowledgeable anglers will immediately recognize, tench have much more Catholic tastes, and therein lies the challenge of successfully navigating Rule 1.1. In keeping with our traditional tackle, our chosen baits for tench are worm and corn, so the challenge occasioned by Rule 1.1 is to credibly justify the wholly disproportionate use of the worm.
“In this heat, the worms won’t keep”. “Always a chance for a nice perch”.
Hackneyed staples which draw wry smiles and deceive no one. In a similar vein, three days into the season, a lunchtime trip to Tesco to “pick up some beer” was found to have involved a visit to the tackle shop for more worms, but not a visit to the canned goods aisle for more corn. A shameless breach of the spirit, if not the rules, but such is the ruthlessness of champions. Not previously addressed in the rules, and governed only by accepted norms, was the question of competition hours. By unanimous consent, night fishing is unacceptable, but struggling competitors are prone to finding the eighteen hours of mid-June daylight insufficient.
Sadly, this year it was found necessary to explicitly ban the use of any artificial light, thereby outlawing the practice of assembling rods in the illumination of a car headlight at 3 AM. After several days of competition, tensions are high, friendships are strained. Missing is the banter and bon ami of a muddy day on the Medway or a frozen day at this same venue chasing winter pike.
“Had anything?”….“A perch.”….“Any size?”….“Yes, f****** small.”
“What was that?”….“Tench”….“How big?”….“Five-plus”…..“Inches or ounces?”
Like so much in life, COVID wrought its toll on the Eel Championship, with travel restrictions forcing cancellation for the past two years. It was last contested as a one-day affair on the river Rother. A blockbuster of a day, with a winning total of nine. Or perhaps eight or ten depending on the telling, but any which way, a lot of eels.
Only the lack of suitable tackle prevented an eel being caught on a dry fly that afternoon. This was the context after four days on the Kentish drains; the reigning champion held a three eel lead, but the venue was shifting tomorrow to the Rother at Bodiam. No lead is safe at Bodiam. Even the dog could feasibly dream of a bumper haul and a shot at the Championship.
Great sporting contests hinge on pivotal moments – think of Manchester City conceding three goals to Real Madrid after the 90th minute of their Champion League semi final last year. (Laugh, not us, honest). Such was the promise of Bodiam – a pulsating match contested by the world’s elite, the epitome of skill and drama. With such expectations, perhaps disappointment was inevitable, but never-the-less, a dull and scoreless draw was shockingly unexpected.
Revitalising efforts during half-time at the Castle Inn were to no avail. Defying all known form, the Championship leaders both went eel-less, and tail-end Charlie could only add a late consolation which did nothing to challenge the leaderboard. Such disappointment – a thoughtful and deliberate choice of word – punctured the excitement surrounding the Championship.
Tensions eased. Banter and bullshit resumed. In the final four days, eels were caught, but in only modest numbers. Consolation had to be found in several tench and bream of 5 and 6 pounds, and lengthy lunches at excellent local hostelries. Another Championship is in the book. A low-scoring affair, but not without its drama. And that will not diminish the pride with which the titleholder will bear his crown during the upcoming year. And the rest of us will never hear the last of it.
Writing & Images Paul Adams, Colorado Summer 2022
You must be logged in to post a comment.