My float for some time now has not moved, after the earlier excitement and spectacle I have not had an enquiry to the corn placed some 7 feet below it, and apart from a ripple that lapped into the reed courtesy of a passing coot all has remained rather quiet.
Leaving one of the many estate tracks I pick up the just about signposted public footpath that this season leads through a golden, bristling crop of barley. At its furthest edge the footpath heads west but I will be crossing the stream to then pick up an almost hidden navigation eastwards. It’s narrow and come May’s end is completely overgrown. In only a few steps and as expected my pass is just about, the creel reassuringly rides my back with every footfall, and ahead of me butterflies – skippers and meadow browns take to flight.
The path here ends rather abruptly at a hedgerow of hawthorns whose armour is softened with wild plums, crabapple and the ever greening ivy together they almost conceal the greying timbers of a barely holding gate – its still serviceable but if chanced upon a stranger would never think so – its function seemingly long passed, appearing forgotten being claimed in the bine and lichen that only the passing of time bestows. Beyond this keeper of secrets awaits a sanctuary, a place far from the world’s busyness and relentless affectation where time ticks quietly and with an ever present stillness.
Once through I return the gate to a close. It is discernible that few if any have walked this way in a very long time and man in generality has not had ruinous intervention here. With the passing of so many fortuitous seasons nature continues to have free reign and is gloriously abandoned – alder, willow, dog rose, ubiquitous sedges and the swathes of grasses through cow parsley, yarrow, wild carrot and thistle, all benefiting in this splendid isolation. A more bucolic scene one could never imagine.
This path being so close to water enlivens the senses, the romance of divining water and what lay beneath begins with and by this proximity; the allure of a sweet smelling pool brimful in water buttercup, mint, the frothy sprays of meadowsweet and the hundreds of lilies that appear to progress the land further are all calling a little louder.
Becoming ever closer to the pool, I look for signs that suggest the same, and before long I see the familiar angular slice of a field head, it appears foreshortened as it drops away from the horizon and into the meadow. As I near this coming together the parsley that has been throughout my route seems to involuntarily gather to profusion, a mass making any route water bound unclear.
Experience and for those without, observation alone suggests their laced white forms are being held and contained. I know this juncture is merely the beginnings of another terrain and indeed another world for beyond the mass of parsley caps and the other riches of this meadow are reeds, swathes of them all trembling in their beds, their tips suggestively pointing toward the watery otherness.
Momentarily I am led away from the tantalising spread of reed before me and course to a fine copse of alder. Their shady bow’s and branches are timeless with generation upon generation standing together with an ease and sense of belonging that’s tangible. Before the woods end there is a moment where the lowland meadows return to a view but now with the watery reach of the pool satiated below, with this marked change in topography and habitat there are ragwort, marsh marigolds, hemp agrimony and the drifts of meadowsweet that purchase a footing between the sedge and rush grasses with their whispish golden seed heads shaking in the breeze. Here nature is on high, being alive with the songs of summer. Skylarks, warblers and buntings tune their spirits to the days frequency and every so often the index finger punctuation of the chiff chaff exclaims ‘I’m here too!’
Eventually the path returns me to the parsley and reed deception left a little while ago. Now however I am at the Southerly edge of the pool looking over the expanse of reeds into the upper most point in the meadow. Finally I am able to greet the water. My first view of this special place always produces a breath of gentle exhalation and announces ‘I’m home.’
Lily pads abound and their numerous regal flower heads glow throwing sunlit shards across the water, it is as if they have tea lights for their centres. There is the occasional dip to a pad or a vibration along a stem, an unseen paradigm connecting this other world to mine. Willow herb erupt from the damp earth interrupting the scatterings of nodding parsley heads that have progressed beyond the earlier natural blockade. They appear listless with their laced canopies bowing in the gentle breeze. This glorious scene could never be replicated by an artistic endeavour whether poetic or brushed – every single thing is a joy that collectively takes the breath away such is its natural beauty.
Placing the tackles upon the lower branch of a beech tree I settle into the bushels of reed cover – dragons and damsel are busily setting about harvesting the early morning offerings, rudd cloop the surface to take wayward fly stranded in the meniscus, their golden flanks visible as they roll – I adore rudd and here they attain a size, weight and colour that is never an easy pass. If it were not for my most singular thought of tench. The two – this pool & they entwine and hold my imagination to such extent that there is precious little in the by-ways of conscious persuasion otherwise, a pairing no more contestable than a hand inside a snug and warming glove.
Above my head a warbler does just that perched upon the elbow of a willow he sounds contented, an ash affirms his presence with the slightest rustle of leaves. Every time I am here there is one voice that calls to me above all others, today it is his, a sound so gratefully received and familiar, a fitting accompaniment to this, the most splendid of vintage English mornings.
After a time listening to him, I turn my gaze and intentions towards water – with disbelief I at once feel excited and then heart stopped. I look on at the scene the pool has offered from its depths – uprooted, wayward cabbages make their way to the surface amidst the decaying history of fallen leaves and twigs.
A cast into the pool should never be hurried and for many reasons, my current view suggests otherwise, I most definitely cannot pass the opportunity. With the modicum of stealth that only a fisher can make an eventful and bungled hash of I reach my creel, cane and net. I set about threading the eyes, looping and joining lines and lastly to position the quill. The shotting is guessed although this is not so important as the depth, which having been here so often is thankfully a well known measure. I place the corn into the procession of rising matter.
Pin heads efuse, erupting upon the surface to underscore this special calling card, I sit pensive, coiled even in the wait for matters to be taken below. In what seems an age but in reality could only be 30 seconds or so the float registers its first percentage of interest. I am sure these are liners as we anglers call them, but all things being equal this should lead to a disappearing orange tipped quill. No sooner had this thought began the crow quill eased its way skyward, reaching its tipping point and onto a gentle rest to then purposefully taken from view.
Sweeping the cane upwards I watch line lifting from the water resulting in a fine watery cloud, similar to the spray triggered by a plant mister, with my finger on the centrepins rim I hold until the line travels to the point of entry – immediately I engage and feel my adversary’s annoyance.
Pads and cabbages proliferate here, and as I mentioned earlier they really do seem to afford the land an extra furlong or two such is their complete covering in places. Having ‘fish on’ never means ‘fish in’ the trick is to hold, apply pressure and coerce into open water or at least a clear channel, fortunately I have both, with a relatively problem free lagoon of around 8ft that leads to open water in front of me. This Tinca is a good one, I can feel his every flexing, muscle bound move through the ever revealing split cane.
Having coaxed him twice from the lilies he has thankfully exited straight into the channel, I need to turn his attentions here and quickly for it appears he would like to get to the even thicker pads on the other side. After a 5 minute give and take he is in the net, scales iridescent and awash with the colours of summer, his eye takes on the customary stare of forlornness, there always appears to me a sadness in the centre well of a tench’s eye, nonetheless they are beautiful and one of a kind. Keeping the fish within the bounds of mesh I release him from the deception and ease him to a bearing. With increased motion to the pectorals I slip the net from under him – he remains in full flowing movement without physically going anywhere – and then a twitch of the tail, a retraction of the dorsal to a return and he’s off.
Part II
My float for some time now has not moved, after the earlier excitement and spectacle I have not had an enquiry to the corn placed some 7 feet below, and apart from a ripple that lapped into the reed courtesy of a passing coot all has remained rather quiet. The yard arm is well on the way to passing midday and thoughts of a cuppa cannot be denied. At the boathouse I place the tackles on the grass prepare the storm kettle and set it alight, with the alchemy in process I tread the boards around its edge to find some shade and to rest upon its impressive Edwardian doors.
Sitting comfortably I begin to survey the pool scanning reed and and tree lines, my eyes fix on the pitch where the drama unfolded earlier and where another was about to unfold. To my amazement a Marsh harrier appears from nowhere, not the typical glide in but from below the reeds. Rising to just above the reed tops, he appears abjectly formidable, spreading his huge wings to form a cloak every now and again. What followed I had never seen or heard before; an incendiary plea reaches my ear and in an instant a coot until then also unknown to me returns the call and immediately hurtles itself from underneath the boathouse, performing the most unusual but effective combination of skittling, flapping and toed perambulation across the water that I have ever seen.
Travelling at an unbelievable speed to a water skiers finale, encouraged by his galant entry the female also confirms her brazen disregard for the harrier and together they leap, flap and scream there objection toward the threat that towers above them. By now the harrier must surely be thinking ‘what the hell is going on?’ So when the female coot takes a lunge and hangs of a talon the harrier slips the assailing beak and ascends with feathers all ruffled. We watch him fly off to circle the pool, the beating of his huge wings passes air rapidly, and with his aspirations dashed he glides majestically over the tree tops and away.
Oh! Bugger, the tea, it will be ruined. I get back to the kettle, like the coots it is all a fluster with steam emitting in a plume of continuous expletives. The kettle being lifted from its engine room relaxes, I am pleasantly surprised that some water is left in the chamber. I pour the over brewed tea and take a sip, mmm not bad considering and return to the boathouse doors, resuming the view, this time however it’s a little more in the way of ‘normal’.
The sun illuminates sunbeams that dance excitedly on the water, this as a quickly thrown switch that leads a myriad hatches to congregate, their numbers being swollen rapidly as I watch. I hope they are Chironomids. They ascend to fall chaotically swirling in a thousand trajectories, I am not sure of there kind but pray with their number they are not in the ways of flesh piercers.
Leaving the fly’s and boathouse behind making my way through flares of loosestrife that colour burst between the dappled shade of alder and willow they are with me all the way to the point. Here is a lovely place to continue my relaxed disposition. I ease into the face of my creel, tip my hat in a downward persuasion whilst still being able see the float.
The quill remains as everything else since I arrived at this spot – still and unmoved. The heat of the late morning sun is telling but thankfully being tempered by a gentle breeze. I am drifting in thought whilst gazing at the orange tip of the float and then without announcement something away from here stirs and alters the mood – sensing the change I sit up; riding the breeze I hear a swell of birdsong, warblers and buntings then the vocal equivalent of a corked trumpet canons of the pools thick reed clumps and marginal cover – the coot and waterhen and then like a conjurers deft trickery the martins & swallows appear falling from the blue sky to take a drink and have their fill of the hatch. The air is replete with their customary agile displays of aerobatics accompanied by constant chattering counterpoints, they never cease to fill me with ore.
As the summer winds down and when the migratory thoughts are about the swallows & martins I have seen hobbies pick off their number – the juvenile and weak being the most vulnerable – it is a sight to behold albeit fills me with sadness. Upon folded wings they free-fall silently and with deft precision their preys moment is gone. Even with these small and efficient falcons present this water stop attracts many migratory birds. For some their journey south may cover a staggering 6,000 mile flight to the African sub continent. I often wonder how many pools or rivers they frequent on their travels?
It is incredible just how rapidly a mood can change, and with only a very natural intervention. Why this occurs I do not know, that it does just adds to this places inherent magic.The resumption of a lazy morning quickly passes to a lazy afternoon and with the harrier – coot stand off being brushed aside the pool has become alive with new scenes and voices.
Confidence in all its manifestations are the footings of optimism for most anglers, but in all honesty I am not ‘feeling’ this at present. It’s far too hot and with the bright and clear sky being rarely broken by the fleeting cumuli, relief is little and far between. It has always intrigued me how clouds seem to avoid the rays of the sun when most needed – and so with this relentless and searingly hot sunshine I conclude to pack my day, with the tackles and memories all being taken care of, I enjoy a bottle of ale that’s kept unbelievably well conditioned in the creel, and amble leisurely all the way back to whence I came.
Pallenpool Late June 2022, Norfolk
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