Alot of people have a mistaken belief that my life is pretty laid back, with lots of fishing, play time and a nice relaxed job to do.
Not so I’m afraid to report.
I find my time increasingly filled and days fly past, memories being filed away in my frazzled brain in short bursts, like light coming through trees onto closed eyelids on a long car journey. flash flash flash.
Stourhead, Dyrham, Barrington Court, Brean Down, Kingston Lacy, Lytes Carey, Snowshill, Hidcote, Killerton, Castle Drogo, Tyntesfield. Flash Flash Flash.
A fantastic week away in Turkey with the family. Flash Flash Flash.
A wedding in Bristol surrounded by family and friends. Flash Flash Flash.
Being a photographer helps in this, recording the odd visual moment to remind me in years to come when the mind plays tricks on me. In-between the flashes if you pay attention you’d probably be able to hear my shutter clicking away, ch-ki-rk.
I got home this evening, having not seen my river for a couple of weeks. I threw some spuds in the oven, grabbed the rod from the hooks above the back door and lept into my waders in record time. I took one extra fly and stuck it in my cap, put some gink in my pocket, set my alarm for 45 minutes and ran like hell. Actually, running in waders isn’t a sight you see every day, it’s certainly not a graceful sight and one that’s best left for quiet nights on South Street.
The second I step into the paddock and slip through the trees into the water time slows and peace descends. I can immediately see where a large tree has been removed by the estate, clear gravel showing like a fresh scar on a suntanned face. The weed has come on well in the last few weeks, although the water levels are desperately low the starwort is starting to hold up a bit of flow. I might even need to cut it at some point yet, I’d figured I wouldn’t have to this year.
A little sip off the corner of the scrappy branches I pegged in last summer registers in the corner of my eye and I freeze, the world narrowing down to a single spot. Time drags on then thirty seconds later it appears again, a subtle bulging of the water surface. Enough for me.
I’ve brought out the 8′ 5# fibre glass rod that Terry Ellmore built for me a couple of months ago and although it already feels like a part of me I haven’t cast a line in a few weeks now and the first cast lands wide, the little cdc & elk fly skittering across the surface as the leader is caught in the ever present grip of the chuckling current.
The next cast lands bang on, I’ve remembered to throw in some wiggle as the fly lands (I know there’s probably a name for doing that but hell, to me it’s adding some wiggle). Drag free, the fly sits for a few seconds before the current gets a hold and that’s all the time it needs. In an explosion of diamond tinged droplets the fly is gone and the line tightens neatly into half a pound of spotty power. Brought to hand after more ariel acrobatics that a red bull air show the fish sits in my hand, unhooked and handled without being removed from the water, every colour imaginable showing in the spots on his flanks, gills flaring defiantly. With a flick of his tail he’s gone, my last view is of the blood red adipose fin flashing iridescent in the evening light.
This process is repeated 3 more times and I’ve only moved 50 yards. Every fish is individual yet somehow the same like river borne snowflakes. Peas in a sub surface pod.
The alarm intrudes on my peace, my 45 minutes is up. All is well with the world, or at least with my little corner of it, and I wander back along south street to the jacket potato and the bath-bed-aaaand breathe routine that all parents of young children know. Another memory is processed and added to the database. Flash Flash Flash.
