R.B. Traditional – Searching for Weald Gold

Take a look at an Explorer series Ordnance survey map covering either the Weald of Kent or Wealden Sussex and after a while something will become apparent, a multitude of little blue dots covering the landscape laid out on paper before your eyes – it is indeed a wonder.
It’s hard to imagine but from the early Iron Age which commenced around 1200 BC, through the Roman conquest, the Anglo-Saxons, Viking Invasion, the Norman conquest right up until the middle of the 18th century, this now largely pastoral countryside was covered with heavy industry.

The extraction of Iron from the local sandstone rock helped shape early Britain and in doing so left us with the remnants in the shape of so many ponds, most of which are tucked away in the quieter corners and have become home to a whole host of wildlife – including fish.

These thoughts and others were flitting around my mind whilst I watched a nuthatch perched on the bird feeder outside the cottage as I sipped a refreshing cup of tea, although late in the morning it was far too early in the day for an ale even by my rather loose reckoning and the sheer beauty of its shape and plumage captivated my attention for some minutes before it eventually alighted and left me wondering where it was heading.

Yates and I were not long in from our daily wandering, I never like to refer to them as walks as that seems to imply a need or a chore being undertaken, this is never the case when we are spending time together, often we take a diversion down an ‘unknown’ path and this can and often leads to discoveries of those afore mentioned quiet places, mostly untouched by human intervention save for nearby farms.

Corners of fields overgrown with nettles and brambles with a few adjacent goat willows or alders are the ones which instinctively draw me onwards for a ‘look-see’ Sometimes I’m met with just a shallow depression where a pond has succumbed to the elements and time but occasionally I’ll find water and that’s where the sitting and watching begins in earnest, the merest ripple will require further concentration until perhaps I can see or be sure that fish are present and of course I’ll be making mental notes of the surrounding flora and fauna as the link to healthy freshwater is inseparable and countryman and angler alike should be in tune with the ways of nature.

Many of these Wealden ponds were stocked by landowners in centuries past with carp as a source for food, the carp though not native to these shores is considered to be naturalised, as far as vague historical records allow us to speculate it may have been introduced in the 15th century.

This typical ancient strain of smaller carp are now considered to be wild carp or affectionately known as ‘wildies’ as opposed to the bigger king carp strains found across the country which have become prized trophies in the wider angling world. Not for me though, growing up in Kent I’ve spent many an afternoon boy and man searching for ‘Wealden Gold.’ Within a short walk or drive from our current abode I am fortunate to have access to waters holding these treasures and as the current hot weather has curtailed my marsh tench fishing earlier than usual this year due to the prolific aquatic weed growth it is an easier option angling wise and perhaps a rather pleasant interlude instead to pay a visit to these hidden gems.

Without further ado I selected one of my favourite two piece Avon rods from the rod rack and a reel from the cupboard, I put a few small crow quills in a float tube, some shot, hooks and a can of sweetcorn into the creel, I propped them against the kitchen wall and awaited the coming of the late afternoon.

I’d had one particular pond in the back of my mind for a few days, I knew it well having fished it many times over the years and thought that it would proffer some wildies regardless of the relentless heat we were experiencing. Laying within the confines of some mature oaks and sheltered to some degree from the sun it would be the perfect place to sit and while away a few hours watching a float regardless of any bites from enquiring fish.

The countryside adjacent to the cottage is parched, the grasses have taken on a deep bronzed apparel, trees are shedding leaves in an effort to survive and the birds undergoing their annual moult are much quieter now and noticeably not so visible, there’s an eerie calm, still, silence about the landscape, one of almost total submission whilst it awaits the onset of autumn a month or so hence. Sheep and cattle hunker together not for warmth as they do in the depths of winter but for what little shade they can find close to the hedgerows and copses, this is high summer.

I have to admit that August is not my favourite month, I look at it as a long month, dog days, the arable harvest is mostly in a full month early this year, the promise of early summer is over and we now await the joys of cooler, softer misty mornings, heavy dews and the more clement weather of September and October along with the top fruit and hop harvest.

The heat of the day has passed by early evening and I’ll have around three hours angling before dusk makes her entrance to bring the close of another day. I’d taken the time to set the rod up ready for action whilst whiling away the afternoon in the relative cool of our old cottage, there’s something to be said about old houses compared to their modern counterparts and at and 150 plus years and counting in the case of this one is testament to longevity and thoughtful design.

Upon arriving at the little pond I call “Wood Pool” after the rather wonderful book written in 1958 by “BB” the naturalist, angler and wildfowler, I’m rather grateful to find a slight breeze rippling the water surface in the shadow of the grand old oaks, I sit for a while on the northerly bank and just breathe, taking in the sights, listening to mellowed bleats from the flock of sheep who are sheltering close by and watch, watch for signs. It takes a little time for my eyes to adjust in the dappled light but sure enough I spot a couple of basking wildies close to the fallen tree.

Even though I have limited angling time nothing is rushed, I introduce a little corn close in here and there and then go for a walk over the field toward the pond I call the “Spitfire Pool”, as often sitting upon its grassy and reed fringed banks I’ll see a spitfire coming in low in readiness to land on the adjacent airfield, now that is a sight to behold! There are crow feathers dotted all over the place and I soon collect a handful to pass onto my friend and fellow Kentish cane Sussex Micky to work his magic and produce more of his sublime artisan float creations and just for good measure I find a buzzard feather and a couple of little egret quills too.

Sitting beside the pool I hear a familiar high pitched bird call “Ki-Ki-Ki” a hobby swoops across from a lone oak and perches in a hawthorn at the far end of the pool where it continues its plaintive call, it’s a juvenile bird as it isn’t yet showing the red rump plumage of an adult bird, presumably its warding me off and I decide to leave it in peace and return to wood pool for a dangle, I rue my forgetfulness in not bringing the big camera as a photograph of the bird would have made my evening…the trouble with travelling light.

Patches of bubbles and plumes of mud appearing over the couple of spots I had lightly baited earlier are the first thing that catch my attention, I have ‘tuned in’ so to speak. There are a few days where I never fully switch on, allowing other things to cloud my thoughts and although the day is never wasted I feel that with a little more tuning I could have made better use of my bankside time with less fishing and more observance, such is life.

I creep up to one of the bubblers and lower the bait in suspended under a small float, sit down and focus my attention on the red top sitting in the ripple, the sparkling light making it an effort to see, there are a few twitches and a lift but not a definitive bite and it looks like the fish has moved on. Slowly I extract myself from the position and I move onto the next bubbler carefully creeping into position, the same thing happens and momentarily I am distracted by the trilling call and flash of blue of a kingfisher flying low and fast over the pond, crikey what an evening and I haven’t yet banked a fish.

I decide to move closer to the fallen tree and cast a line toward its trailing branches, I give it half an hour and although there are signs of piscine activity below those treacherous branches I decide that I were to hook a fish here the outcome could be decidedly one sided.
I reel my float in and lay the rod in the bankside grass. The sun is slowly giving way now and as I consider my next move in this intriguing game of chess the sky above me becomes full of chattering jackdaws and cawing crows returning to their evening roost full of grain I suspect from their day foraging on spent crops…the vista before me is incredible, it is if someone has dimmed the lights, there are thousands of birds, I feel humbled to witness such a gathering of the clans. Much maligned but corvids have a special place in my heart.

I’ll have once last chance now to hook a fish before the light finally disappears. I spot a few bubbles and what I think are elements of bottom debris being thrown up to the surface, I cast my float and baited hook well over the patch and slowly retrieve the line until the float is just in the right spot, I let it gently settle, my heart is quickening as I see a little tremble on the line. The float sits up and sails away and is met by a firm pull round to my right to set the hook, the fish powers away to my left and side strain applied just stops it reaching a particularly nasty snag, leading the fish into open water a battle of wits ensues, the fish is the certainly the master of its territory and knows just where to head in an effort to avoid a visit to terra firma. Finally a fight of epic proportions in respect to the size of both pool and fish is settled and it slides into the folds of my waiting net.

A bar of gold is laying at my feet in the soft grass, the last rays of light shimmer off its armour plated scales, the beauty of its very ancient being is something to behold, an afternoon to cherish and surely one to raise a pint to…but where, The Bell, Rose & Crown or The kings Head?

Writing & Photography – R.B. Traditional, The Weald Of Kent Summer 2022