R B Traditional’s Musings From The Woodcutters Arms. . .

Please allow me to elaborate; the said venue is in fact our log store, aptly named by my close cousin Wendy, who kindly provided the signage as well. It is situated in the rear garden behind the barn where Fenton, the old Defender, resides. It is a place which is dear to my heart, a refuge of sorts, providing peace and quiet away from a busy working life, and is conducive to reading and thinking time on a calm evening. 

During the months of spring and summer, the garden and adjacent woodland are ringing with bird song of many kinds, which provides a wonderful back-drop to sitting around and doing nothing in particular. High up in the old cherry tree, a rambling rose which I planted some ten years ago provides colour and a heady scent to add to the many late-blooming flowers around the garden and adjacent meadow. Bees and a myriad of different insects busy themselves collecting nectar, readying for the onset of cooler weather and on more than one occasion I’ve spotted a wood mouse watching me inquisitively from between the logs.

Rural living provides many wonderful opportunities to be at one with the natural environment and I remember clearly both my father and grandfather telling me at a young age that if I’m quiet and still, nature will come to me, and of course they were right. Along with the mouse, I often find myself sharing space with a robin and a wren who, it appears, have made acquaintance with my humble efforts to cut and neatly stack the logs surrounding me. There’s always a hole or crevice in which to build a nest for the birds, mammals and insects alike, which is just the way we like it. 

Taking a sip of ale, I placed the book to one side for a moment and let my thoughts wander onto angling, as they often do. I’d recently been having a tricky few weeks tempting tench and bream. A combination of restricted time, clear water and very hot weather had me scratching my head. Big baits, small baits, float fishing, ledgering and freelining; all my preferred methods had only produced relatively meagre returns for my efforts. Not that this had unduly concerned me, as time by the waterside is never wasted but it was a conundrum that I had been trying to solve without much success. The last few weeks or so of late summer were upon us and other piscine delights would surely be investigated in due course, with my thoughts beginning to stray toward perch, barbel and chub, just as the lovely blonde one came through the gate smiling, walked over and handed me a plate with a toasted cheese and tomato sandwich and another bottle of ale; spoiled or what…?

I had a trip to the Suffolk Stour planned in the coming weeks and I’d already hatched a plan for the downfall of one of the big resident chub. Upon my previous visit, which was attended by a gathering of like minded fellows, I’d elected to fish the deeper, upper stretch of the river for tench without success, but the camaraderie and cuisine on the day certainly made up for the lack of bites. It’s a long drive from the cottage up through Kent to the Essex-Suffolk border but once one gets to Bures the wonderment of the countryside in these parts is stunning.

It leaves little doubt why the renowned landscape artists, John Constable and Thomas Gainsborough enjoyed painting there. Aside from the vista there is abundant wildlife and the river itself is a peaceful and beautiful place to wander with a rod, net and a creel. I was looking forward to it immensely.

I picked up the book again and the pages fell open at a chapter entitled ‘Roving for Perch’ and for perhaps the next twenty minutes I was immersed in the words of Arthur Sharp, written in 1932 within his fine book “A Fisherman’s Creel”. Oh, how our forefathers could paint a picture in one’s mind of their angling and countryside adventures with their sublime mastery of the English language. Perhaps that it is why I cherish such books from a mostly forgotten era; there’s no talk of tackle makes, bait recipes and fangled tactics, they just describe angling in its purest form; one man, one rod, in tune with the natural world.

I do wonder if angling in some quarters has lost its way somewhat, perhaps detached from its true spirit? There are anglers who I occasionally happen upon on the riverbank, or in the tackle shop, who appear to have been engulfed by the rampant commercialism punted by modern tackle manufacturers. They carry or, in some instances, push barrow-loads of tackle and bait to their chosen swim and then find themselves unable or unwilling to move their vast pile of equipment during the day in order find the fish if nothing is present in their chosen pitch. To me it seems strange to go angling and then put yourself at such a disadvantage in being unable to roam freely along the banks of a river or around a pool. Still, the upside is that their unfortunate encumbrance affords me more freedom to do just that, even though they may see me as just an old fool with a cane rod…

Those perch so eloquently described by Sharp were still in the forefront of my mind as I gently laid the book down and took a sip of dark ale. As late summer was upon us, misty mornings with a slight chill in the air and dew-soaked grass had commenced the annual manifestation. In Kent we call these ‘hopping mornings’ lent to us from times, mostly long gone, when the hops would be harvested ready for drying in the many oast-houses which dot the county, before being shipped off to the breweries to craft their fine ales. The hawthorn and early flowering wild rose loaded with berries and hips, hedgerows full of sloes, evenings drawing in, were all signs which pointed toward the annual hunt for Perca Fluviatilis. I’ve spent many happy days during my life chasing dreams of big perch, as indeed I have chub, barbel, roach, pike and tench. It is fair to say that if I’m not actually angling, then I’m either thinking about it or dreaming about it during my sleeping hours.

I mused on whether I’d always been inclined towards this predilection for fish-related thoughts and I honestly couldn’t remember if I hadn’t, rather than had. Being raised by a very fine angler within a wider angling family and growing up making friends with other like- minded souls had, I reasoned, been my downfall.

With the sun slowly departing to bring another day to a close and the shadows growing longer across the garden and meadow, I sensed that I was being watched again and upon slowly glancing sideways a pair of tiny eyes peered back at me, a nose and whiskers twitching as if to say ‘I hope you’ve left some crumbs for me’. I brushed off the plate to satisfy his needs, picked up the book and wandered back over to the cottage feeling sated and rested, with the call of a tawny owl bringing a wide smile to my face…

Hopefully, there would be a day that I could set aside for chasing those fishy dreams soon…

Writing & Photography – R B Traditional, Late Summer 2024