There comes a moment on a winter Sunday morning when a man, cocooned in a duvet and spooning a couple of overlay large pillows like they’re long-lost lovers, asks himself a very serious question: do I really need to go fishing today, or can I just lie here until capitalism collapses? The bed was obscenely warm, the sort of warmth that whispers sweet nothings about sick days, early nights and the radical notion of “just staying in”. Outside, the world was minus five and actively hostile. Inside, I was 50/50 on even putting a toe out from under the covers.
But Monday loomed, as it always does, like a BAA bailiff with a clipboard and their archaic rule book. Another week of being one of the many alarm-clock Brits, shuffling through life trying to keep the wolf from the door while the wolf appears to be driving a newer car than you.
I’m getting fed up with work if I’m honest where the industry I work in automotive had been in decline for years. The years tick by, the alarm clocks get louder, and the enthusiasm quietly slips out the back door. Still, there are mouths to feed and a roof to keep over our heads, so self-pity was packed away with the pyjamas and it was time to suck it up and get on with it.
So yes, at 8.00am sharp, I was back out the door, breath freezing mid-sentence, fingers instantly numb, questioning every life choice that had led me to this moment. The Jimny was loaded like a prepper’s bug-out vehicle. Because I could drive onto the farmland, I took full advantage and brought everything short of a dishwasher.
The Jackery 1000 v2 power station was in. The travel kettle was in. And yes, brace yourselves, the air fryer came too. I’ve reached that age where comfort is no longer optional, and frankly I’m fed up of trying to coax gas canisters into life by holding them near the Jimny’s defroster vent like some sort of deranged bushcraft ritual.
This, I decided, was my entry into the 21st century.
The plan, as always, was beautifully simple and therefore doomed to complication. Rock up at the top of the stretch, pre-bait a few likely chub-holding swims with nuggets of cheesepaste and liquidised bread, then fish each one for 15 to 20 minutes in the hope of winkle-ing out a bite.
The water temperature was a bracing 3.5 degrees, which in angling terms is roughly equivalent to fishing in a gin and tonic with extra ice. Still, I’ve caught down to 2 degrees before, so hope that most foolish of companions was allowed to tag along.
After that, assuming either success or spiritual defeat, I’d reward myself with breakfast and a proper cup of tea bankside. Not flask tea actual tea. There is a vast and under-appreciated difference. A flask is a compromise. Freshly brewed tea is a statement of intent. With the high pressure bringing blue skies and sun, I planned to trot maggots through the deepest section on the stretch. Objectively, these were probably the worst fishing conditions imaginable, but fishing has never been about logic, has it? It’s about optimism with a rod licence.
I actually had the tea first, because I am nothing if not chaotic. And I was right — there is simply no comparison. A proper brew, steam rising into frozen air, the first sip burning your lip just enough to remind you you’re alive. I don’t do it often, but the convenience of the syndicate stretch allows these little luxuries, and I leaned into it shamelessly.
Eventually, guilt pushed me into action and I started fishing. Immediately, I noticed the cormorants. Loads of them. Milling about like guests who’ve realised they weren’t actually invited. After a group of ten flew overhead, two more tried to land in the river near me about fifteen minutes apart.
Both spotted me at the last second, flared indignantly, and did an aerial about-turn like I’d personally offended them. The river had cleared considerably rich pickings for the black death and I knew, deep down, that bites would be scarcer than optimism at a staff meeting.
Two swims came and went without so much as a nibble. The third, though, looked right. A nice slack just round a bend. Breadflake settled nicely on the deck and within minutes there were tiny taps. Then sharper pulls. That electric little something that cuts through cold, doubt, and cynicism in one go. I struck.
At first, I thought I’d hooked a roach that brief, fluttery resistance but then the fish shot off to the right and the rod hooped over properly. A proper bend. The sort that makes you forget the cold, the early start, and the existential dread of Monday mornings.
Chub.
In the icy water it didn’t fight as hard as they often do, but then pike are the same, aren’t they? Cold turns warriors into philosophers. Soon enough it was in the net. A lovely 3lb 13oz chub not massive, not legendary, but absolutely perfect. Proof that getting out of bed had been the right call. Proof, if you like, that life occasionally throws you a bone.
Three more swims produced nothing at all, because fishing likes to restore balance. I moved the car down to the trotting peg just as the sun finally showed up, blue skies stretching overhead and a welcome hint of warmth seeping back into my fingers. This, I decided, was air fryer time
Yes, yes I can hear the purists sharpening their pitchforks. But the air fryer was loaded with a couple of Aldi Ultimate pork sausages and some onions, sizzling away merrily while I pinged maggots little and often into the swim. They were decent sausages, mind you.
Not quite a Lashford which are practically a local religion but respectable. More than respectable enough for bankside dining.
And I’ll admit it: at that moment, with hot food, blue skies, and tea on tap, I could finally see the appeal of the bivi-dwelling carp angler. Just for a moment. Fresh food bankside, no rush, no alarms. Then I remembered the bivvies, the beeping, and the waiting, and snapped out of it.
With a full belly (healthy eating has apparently started you’ll be pleased to know), I spent an hour trotting maggots through the deepest run. And yes, you’ve guessed it: not even a sucked maggot. Not a tremor. Not a courtesy knock. Absolute silence.
Still, I drove home content. One chub, hot sausages, real tea, blue skies, and a brief escape from the grind. And sometimes, that’s more than enough.
There are traditions, and then there are Traditions, the latter being the sort you only continue because you once did them twice and now it feels legally binding. Ours is the ritual incineration of the Christmas tree, an event that sits somewhere between pagan sacrifice, bushcraft cosplay, and a mild cry for help.
It begins, as all good post-Christmas endeavours do, with a sense that something has gone wrong. The tree, which only days earlier stood proud and sparkly like a well-fed pike in a garden centre aquarium, is now leaning slightly, dropping needles, and smelling faintly of disappointment.
Much like an over-wintered keepnet, it has served its purpose and must now be dealt with.
Out come the tools. The chopping of the tree is undertaken with great seriousness and no small amount of misplaced confidence.
Branches are lopped off and stacked with the sort of care normally reserved for building a swim that nobody else will fish. The trunk is separated like a prime barbel from its entourage of bleak. This, we know, is the good bit the proper firewood, saved for later like a secret flask.
The Weber BBQ is dragged out, protesting loudly, having expected nothing more strenuous than sausages and vague regret. My wife and I stand around it in the cold, huddled like two homeless philosophers warming themselves over a barrel fire, wondering aloud how we got here and why our noses have stopped working.
The branches burn like nobody’s business. Honestly, if DEFRA are looking for proof that climate change is real (or not real, depending on what day it is and who’s shouting), they should watch a Christmas tree go up.
It’s less “controlled burn” and more “Norwegian black metal album cover”. Needles crackle, sap pops, sparks fly it’s all very festive in a last days of Rome sort of way.
We stand there, drinking something warm but inadequate, making the same jokes we make every year. “Won’t need eyebrows anyway.” “This is probably illegal.” “Should we be doing this?” All excellent questions, none of which receive answers.
Later, once the kids are finally in bed having asked at least seventeen times why we’re burning a tree “like mad people” the trunk is brought inside.
This is the civilised portion of proceedings. The open fire, a good film, and the quiet realisation that Christmas has gone for another year, like a season that never quite fishes as well as you remember.
This year’s choice was School of Rock. I hadn’t seen it for years, which is angler code for I’d forgotten most of it but remembered liking it. It turns out it’s still really rather good. Jack Black plays himself, but with more shouting and fewer fishing rods a role he was clearly born to play. The fire crackles, the room glows, and for an hour or two the post-Christmas slump loosens its grip.
And that, I think, is the point of the whole ridiculous business. Not the burning, or the cold, or the faint whiff of singed pine lingering in your clothes like a bad session. It’s the small, daft rituals that stop the year tipping too abruptly into grey normality. Much like fishing, really standing around in the cold, burning through resources, telling yourself it’s good for the soul.
Next year we’ll do it all again. Probably. Tradition’s a funny thing. Once it’s got you, it’s very hard to unhook. 🎣🔥
0 comments:
Post a Comment