Return

Off went all the boxes and cases of fly tying materials too, finally emptying that particular room, and its many shelves, my former den. I hadn’t tied a fly in years and  wasn’t sure if ever would again, there again I hadn’t fished for years either, despite the treasurer’s yearly chats to keep me connected to the club. So next in the firing line was the rods and reels, baskets and bags, landing nets. That cherished TXL 0 weight that I had built on blanks and its unusual line, I must admit hurt a bit to hold the hand shaped cork for the last time, and handing over at the post office counter was an absolute wrench.  

This cold-blooded clean sweep even took out the original split cane rod I learnt with and the old Rimfly reel, both of which would earn me mere peanuts, but further released and unburdened me from that past. The relief of watching some chap loading up his Station wagon with many old boxes, an embarrassment of fly fishing magazines. As he and his mate struggled with the boxes, I felt liberated at last and wondered in all that printed paper, what had I actually learnt of any lasting value? ( I did however keep my early copies of Trout and Salmon magazine that I’d begged from the doctor’s waiting room as a kid.. I couldn’t be that pitiless to myself).

It was as if Ebay was a means to empty your memories and clear away grief, you didn’t have to buy a clean new start, you got rewarded for it!

I stayed my hand at the fly tying vice, She’d bought that as one of my first Christmas presents, I was stoked at the thoughtfulness, had traveled to Farlows on the Mall to ask for advice on what best to buy me; and something about that consideration and kindness, I wasn’t yet ready to let go.

And then I came to a tube and the unopened rod sleeve with the Blanks of the little 6 foot 2 weight rod I’d considered as the ideal wand for the Brook. I had the carefully selected fittings also sent over from Golden Witch in the USA. Separately they would get me next to nothing, but made up they may recoup some of what I’d paid out.

I sent them off to a rod builder, Renee in North Wales. She’d do a better job than me anyway. I figured I should also keep the matched silk line for now until the rod came back, and then of course, the reel it was stored on.

The brutality of the ruthless onslaught softening as I started to relent. Was it cold practicality staying my hand really, or was it sentimentality creeping  in?

“Whose going to pay anything for my old lanyard of essentials for fishing down the Brook?” Old Amadou fly drier, forceps, float-ants and fly patch, leader stretcher and line snips? Not worth selling, but not heartless enough to chuck in the bin.. All the fly boxes had got sold without hesitation and many flies were binned without a second thought, except my one favorite box, with my own patterns in. I figured even if I never fished again it would be nice to know I could still look at those flies in future if ever I wished. It was the one memento of my creativity worthy of exclusion from the cull.

And then, with a little dread, I relented and broke open the packaging on the books before they were shipped off to the buyer. I rooted out my edition of the Trout by Frost and Brown and An Anglers Entomology too, I just couldn’t be that hard and heartless, expelling that first book was like refusing my childhood passions, a step too far.

Finaly I faced up to my waders. The old Simms that may or may not leak, I couldn’t remember, and a pair of boots that were beyond scruffy and always seemed to be in their last season of use.

I couldn’t list them on ebay and in any case I had occasionally, very occasionally, worn them inspecting ornamental garden ponds. Chances are if I got rid, I’d find myself needing to be unexpectedly getting in a pond again soon.

Eventually Renee sent back the rod, its tiny rings chosen for the silk line, seemed for once in proportion for one of these small ultra lights. It looked lovely. I had done much research and trial and error to select these blanks and this configuration.  I was intrigued to see if I had got it right before listing it on Ebay. I lined it up to feel the rod blank, with that silk line in the eyes to dampen the tip a little. It felt good but I knew that the real answer would be discovered down in the Brook itself.

I decided to take it down the dirt track to the Packhorse bridgeone evening. Just upstream of the stone arch were always shoals of eager snappy little Dace, in the past I’d bring inexperienced (stream) fishermen here, introduce them to the Brook and put them over the Dace first to sharpen them up, before moving them up over some Trout. If their drift, line management,  or their reactions weren’t tight, they’d never hook a Dace. By comparison Trout were a doddle, but crushed the spirit more to miss! No one remembers a lost Dace!

On the way to try out the rod, for the first time in years I was drawn into the Brook. I pulled in at the Nassington road bridge to look down at the waters. This first look at the stream before fishing, even right back to those dark days of stocking Trout in the Willowbrook, this viewing had been the starting point of an adventure, away from those stocked fish where the wild creatures lived peacefully. Always achieving an almost instantaneous transformation of my mood as it would lighten with the first sight and sound of the flowing waters. Taking in its rhythm and meter, the cadence seemed to offer me a pitch to tune into, and at that road bridge the cadenza was particularly soothing. I fancied I could almost tell the height of the water I was about to encounter just by that chord of notes.

That familiar view and its notes, its accent, were etched deeply into my memory, but now it had changed, dramatically so, it seemed in those few years I had been absent from here. I no longer knew nor recognized that sound.  

Looking down from the bridge, this stretch of river had always been a few good mounds of gravel in mid-stream almost the perfect depth of water for Trout Redd’s, some felled trees trapped bankside in the edge of the flow, early habitat work of mine to catch the silt, and to squeeze the flow onto those precious mounds. Then in the patches of light created by felling those trees deep luscious beds of Ranunculus grew in places that I had transplanted them deep in the gravel.

Of course every year with the floods it would change a little, a bit more gravel on the beds; a new channel cut deeper; more debris gathered in the undergrowth at the sides; squeezing that flow in ever tighter. And more, or less ranunculus in those beds, depending on whether we had had grazing Swan’s nesting nearby in the past year. But despite these changes, that song of the stream that accompanied the view essentially remained the same to my ear and I’d hear it from the car, long before I saw the waters.

So what I imagined and what my ears recalled, was not what I was greeted with that day. It made me feel almost a stranger to this spot. This sound was higher and thinner, less fluid and musical.. a rattle almost. I looked over the bridge and the brook was wider, it filled out the banks with shallow waters running ankle deep over a wide gravel bed that stretched out for many yards ahead bereft of the relief of weeds or boulders. A transformation. And in the middle of the stream a large rusty, heavy looking metal box, a wall safe from a bank dumped over the bridge from one of a spate of recent robberies, its front panel and contents long gone It was now an object for Grannom caddis larvae to attach their cases to, and a handy landing for the adults to settle on before climbing back down its sides to release the little egg balls in the bed of the stream. It was now a benefit to the stream, some extra habitat, but not the cause of this influx.

My first reaction was “Wow look at all that gravel!” The stuff this stream so badly lacked and had been cruelly robbed of in the past, now gathered up at the lowest end of our beats.

This wasn’t from a local quarry this was the natural bedding stone of the Brook. But where had it all come from? It was now too shallow for Redds really, held no weed, and offered no respite from the constant flow to make it desirable for fish nor beast. I got back in the car to drive up to the Packhorse not knowing if what I had witnessed had been a good thing or an ominous warning of some bad changes in the Brook. It troubled me that my stream might be suffering.

The squeaking complaints of the hinges for the farm gate entering the bridlepath to the Packhorse bridge however, sounded exactly as I remembered them. The deeply rutted and seemingly permanent puddles carved into the dirt track, were exactly as I recalled, and negotiated with the same zig zag swinging slowly across the track, avoiding the deepest undercarriage scraping pits and bumps. So familiar I could do it with my eyes closed. That tree canopy in this avenue: the lengths of the wild grasses up to their trunks; even the nodding white, flat saucer, heads of the Queen Anne Lace flowers that lined and illuminated this track, were all the same height as in my mind’s eye; the occasional gaps in the high hedge to the left, the cascading Elder flowers; the crows, wood pigeons, clacking cock pheasants;  all of it, just as I remembered, like yesterday.

“Hello old friend, you haven’t changed one bit over the years”. I could have and should have, uttered to the track.

The stone on the top of the bridge is flat and broad and very ancient, put there before the American Indians or Australian aboriginals had ever seen white skin. Fissured with the carvings of names from idlers in the past who’ve blunted pocket knives and left their marker, or driven by the consuming passion of a sweetheart, had declared their undying love, etched into the surface of the rock.

Maybe even, in the last days before leaving for a war or trip from which they feared; to these lovely laneways and villages, they might never return. And while looking out over the pastures, watching the stream sweep around the old forked ash tree, they scraped away. It flowed down towards them, sweeping under the bridge they were busily disfiguring, and staying a while in the deep pool of big Chub, down below, before again gurgling away off through the riffles towards the seas. A passion, or emotion, flowing through these folks that required carving in permanence. Souls needing a bridge to cross. Here in a spot so rarely visited that they can be assured their endeavors would not be disturbed suddenly, and no shame or embarrassment earned.

A few years back, I’d have blunted a blade here too, probably with the initials; NGTCMW… and let future generations puzzle over that cryptic message. A few would get that meaning and we would connect over the years passed between. “Nothing’s going to change my world”. My stolen mantra of the happy, contented times.

The rains and frosts and winds of the ages, have softened and smoothed away those oldest carvings, the names and initials.The hearts and arrows of ‘tru-love’, barely visible now and becoming lines in the gentle growing finger print of the stone. Or a new generation of idler, or lover, had dismissively etched its names over them, those old letters becoming ghosts, and that once declared, undying love, now fading away into dust.

And, it was a different man stood on that bridge that night. Since his last visit, oblivious of the approaching maelstrom, scarred now, like that slab of stone, with those recent cuts now losing their raw edge. So glad he never carved those letters, which would surely have stared back and mocked him now on every visit; his life changed in oh-so-many-ways.

That slab of stone had become a place of ritual; for the daily dog walkers, a place to pause on each and every visit without fail! It demanded them to look out over the view and study the waters below while resting hands and elbows on that rock, leaning against that sturdy wall. Before a session down in the water, for me, it was a place of transformation.

Like on this evening, instead of doing it practically, at the nearby car like a normal, rational person. I’d spread out the necessaries for an evening’s fishing on and around the rock, and threaded up the rod, greased up the line, put on the waders; all the while watching up stream for rising fish and discover what flies were on the wing. While my ears were saturating with the rustling of wind in the trees, and the waters’ melody; that deep buzz of the bees; the sweet silver solo of the skylark above; and the chorus of the chattering finches all around; milking it in.  

A day’s worth of sunshine had cooked into that slab of stone making it a pleasant touch, just warmer than the breeze. This inert slab, feeling instead, full of life and history and blessing your presence.

It was a great spot to feel the benefit of whiling away a moment or two, and after the rush to the water’s side, this ancient bridge would shift you down through your gears, make a mockery of all that recent urgency and haste, dispel any worrying thoughts as frivolous and gently, gently slow you down, down until your reached an idle. A final sag and sigh, and you had arrived, ready and worthy at last; to greet the waters, become part of its community, and share in its secrets again.

This was only part of the rite. On returning after an evening out in those flows between the wild grasses and weeds, the flowers and creatures, pushing forward constantly through the gentle press of the current, becoming briefly, just one of the multitude of lives, whose being and little universe is anchored to these waters. Walking back high on the bankside, fly rod in one hand, and your other, drifting loose by your side being stroked and brushed by the seed heads of the meadow grasses passing through your fingers, occasionally disturbing bright white moths that flutter between the tall stems like tiny spectres,  before turning in on the track that led you back up to the bridge

Revisiting this high alter on the return from the water, maybe blessed with meeting a few Trout, or not, or even better, more sacred, the attention of a hunting Barn owl close overhead, maybe the bejeweled fly past of a kingfisher, or two. Or that ultimate blessing, a brief encounter with an Otter.

You would return to this spot, place your gear upon the rock, and feel the last radiant warmth of the stone while you tackled down, savoring the evening with the glow of orange light on your face and chest, warming those developing memories as the sun sets behind the Pheasant clucking coppice, entreating you to stay a while and drink in every last drop of loveliness; make this moment endure.

Your hands flat on the stone at last after the gear is packed away, fingers involuntarily wandering and feeling the ridges and dips; tactile exploration, connecting with those ancient messages from the past. Feeling the energy stored up in the stone, and maybe those old carved emotions too, the last of the day’s sunshine on your brow and, coming up through your palms. Consummating the ritual.

Once I stood there, held in the deepening glow of an increasingly glorious sunset, with no desire to leave even though the world around me had become cameo like, black silhouettes against the orange and purple glow. From round that bend of the forked Ash tree, in the gloomy light, something extra was on the surface of the waters. Something strange.

As it came into my focus, I thought it was a small log drifting and bobbing down with the flow. Then closer it came and two smaller logs were either side, these were not just gliding along with the current. A family of Otters passed under my feet. I rushed across the bridge to try for a last glimpse of them before they disappeared downstream into the gloom of the encroaching night. 

I needn’t of rushed. Below the bridge in the deep Chub pool the last rays of orange sunlight passed under the arch of the bridge and caught in the silty waters making them glow a little. Here mum and two pups played around diving and tagging and twisting in the waters as I watched down from above, the game lasted the brief moments until the sunlight faded in the pool and they departed, thin ripples of white water etched the lines of the families silhouette as they continued journeying downstream into the dark, quickly fading from view, but never from memory.

As I lined up the new rod that evening with the silk line, to try it out. The silk much thinner than normal fly line, I soon found the first flaw in my plan. The line passed smoothly between the tiny rod rings I had chosen, but the connection knot to the leader barely made it through, this was going to be an occasional pain in the career of this rod, and would need addressing if it was to be sold on as planned.

Down below that air above the water was full of life. Thousands of small flies, Dance flies near the surface, clouds of Midges drifting around caught in the breeze, Silverhorn caddis flies traced a conga line of dancing bodies up the stream into the distance, the odd lumbering mayfly clattered and careered around preparing to drop the last of her eggs, a dull buzz of a giant bumble bee inexplicably crossing the waters back and forth, and every so often a small ‘Up-wing’would arise up from the surface, emerging through this throng of insects, rising calmly up above that hussle and bustle. Medium olives? Pale Wateries? Pale evening duns? I had no idea which label to stick upon them, but there was a fishy feast above the waters tonight.

The question became what fly to tie on? The clues were all around, but unable to decipher I just lazily put on a Whinging pom. I could see the shoal of Dace that I knew would be here waiting, but I was distracted from them, close to the left bank before that shoal, under a tussock of grass sticking out over the Brook, a Trout was feeding. Also out in the food-lane sweeping around the Ash tree corner in the distance, a bigger Trout was active and rising with metronome regularity. Who wants to fish for Dace ?

Below the bridge to the right was still there, the gentle grassy mound, a few feet above the water surface, where you could sit and just dangle your feet. Or, if like now in waders, holding a fly rod, and armed with an evening’s expectations; you could instead, gently lower yourself into thigh deep cool waters and set off on an adventure up stream; a pilgrimage. Until you return, changed somehow for the better, along the path, back to the rock to complete that ceremony, and become blessed again.

Amen.

Hope all’s well, healthy happy and peaceful out in Sexyloops land.. have a great week.

Chris Avery