Writings From The Pool – The most splendid of English mornings awakes

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 possible, 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 has not had ruinous intervention here. With the passing of so many fortuitous seasons nature continues to have free reign and is gloriously abandoned – willow, beech, dog rose, ubiquitous grasses through cow parsley, yarrow 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 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.

I’m on the lookout for a familiar angular slice of field head it always appears foreshortened, as it drops away from the horizon and into the meadow below. The parsley that has been throughout my route gather to profusion at this juncture defining the meadow’s beginning. Their laced whitecaps entwined in one huge gathering. The meadow is a different terrain altogether for here the flora is multi coloured, wild scabious, poppies, oxeye, birds foot trefoil knapweed and toadflax. At the meadows end are rush, reed and yellow flag, all rooting from the shallow seeping stream that feeds into the pool. They are a beautiful sight and appear to tremble, being lulled side to side in the breeze.

Momentarily I am led away from these tantalising glimpses of the pool – a fallen oak courses me to a fine copse of alder, their shady bow’s and branches tell a generational story, they stand together with an ease of belonging that’s tangible. Once through this rich history I will be within the watery reach of the pool. My mind see’s what I am about to, mint, marsh marigolds, hemp agrimony and the drifts of meadowsweet that purchase a footing between the sedge and grasses whose whispish golden seed heads are stirred by an ever present breeze. On high is alive with the songs of summer – skylarks, warblers and buntings tune their spirits to the days frequency and every so often the cheery punctuation of a chiff chaff exclaims ‘I’m here too!’

Being at the southerly edge of the pool I look out over the expanse of reeds its the first full view of this special place, and one that always ‘gets me’ – I breathe a gentle expiration. . . . with the words ‘I’m home.’

Lillies and their numerous regal flower heads glow throwing sunlit shards across the water from their tea light centres. There is the occasional dip to a pad or a vibration along a stem, the regular flip flopping of a youthful roach or rudd and on occasion the crash of one of the very few king carp left. Willow herb erupt from the damp earth around the banks path, if indeed I can call it so, they interrupt the scatterings of nodding parsley heads that have self seeded beyond their earlier field head convergence, and appear randomly throughout. They appear without a care as their laced canopies bow this way and that finishing off natures glorious creation. I do, such is my adoration for the pool write poetic lines in my diary regarding it, but when all is reread I cannot help thinking to myself that any artistic endeavour, whether poetic or brushed and indeed by any other would be able grasp the intrinsic beauty of the place.

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 thoughts of tinca tinca. The two – this pool & they hold my imagination to such an extent that there is precious little in the by-ways of conscious persuasion for anything else. A pairing no more contestable than the comfort of a hand inside a snug and warming glove.

Above my head a warbler does just that perched upon the elbow of a branch, he sounds contented, the beech leaves affirm his presence with the slightest accompanying rustle. Every time I am here there is one voice that’s loftier than all others, today it is his, it’s a sound so familiar here but never would I take it for granted. What 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 a decaying history of fallen leaves and twigs.

A cast into the pool should never be hurried and for many reasons, however my thumping heart and current view suggests otherwise. I most definitely cannot pass the opportunity. With a modicum of bungled, haphazard stealth that only a flapping fisher can make I finally set about threading line through the eyes, looping and joining main and hook link and lastly 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 in waiting 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 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 be taken from view. 

Sweeping the cane upwards I watch line lifting from the water resulting in a fine watery mist, similar to the spray triggered from a plant mister. With my finger on the centrepin’s rim I hold until the line picks up to the point of entry – immediately I’m engaged and feel the annoyance of my adversary.

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 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 familiar bearing. With an 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 and he’s off.

Part II

My float for some time now has not moved, after the earlier excitement I have not had an enquiry to the corn placed some 6 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 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, his appearance is nothing short of formidable. Spreading his huge wings to form a cloak every now and again he becomes held by invisible hands above the water. 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.

Traveling at an unbelievable speed to a water skiers finale he arrives, 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 bristling feathers. We watch him fly off to circle the pool, the beating of his huge wings passes air rapidly, and with his intentions dashed he glides majestically over the tree tops and away.

Oh! Bugger, the tea, it will be well beyond its best. 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.’

There’s an illumination of sunbeams that dance excitedly on the water, this, as a quickly thrown switch leads to a myriad of hatches, 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 I make 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 to. 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 that’s been around since I arrived. I am drifting in thought whilst gazing at 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 above the pool and the pre migratory necessities are about the swallows & martins I have seen hobbies pick off their number – the juvenile and weak being the most vulnerable . Upon folded wings they free-fall silently and with deft precision their preys moment is gone. It is a sight to behold albeit one that fills me with sadness. Even with these small and efficient falcons present this water stop attracts many migratory birds, and for some their journey south may cover a staggering 6,000 miles to the African sub continent. I often wonder how many pools and rivers along with the inherent dangers associated with them do they frequent on their journey.

It is incredible just how rapidly a mood changes here, and always by very natural circumstance. The resumption of a lazy morning quickly passes into a lazy afternoon. With the harrier – coot debacle resolved and the flight departures of the swooping and arcing displays of hirundines having flown, the pool has become calm.

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.

Writing & Images Pallenpool – Summer 2022, North Norfolk