Now there are certain doors in life that are never meant to be opened. For me it's Groundhog Day having worked in automotive design for such a long time, but Area 57 (Sam's own words) within an automotive design studio is one of them.
A mythical place whispered about in hushed tones where outsiders imagine dragons, laser sharks and at least one engineer who communicates entirely in CAD file extensions.
Sam wandered in looking like he'd accidentally won a competition he didn't remember entering, and, to his credit, only looked mildly concerned that security hadn't escorted him straight back out again.
His first day was a glorious blur of interior designers, 3D Alias, concept cars, virtual reality, packaging, hard model making, five-axis milling machines and enough 3D printers to make a sci-fi film director quietly weep with envy. Everywhere he looked there was another machine making expensive noises while quietly turning blocks of material into things that looked impossible.
By lunchtime he'd probably seen more automotive wizardry than most people manage in a lifetime and was still pretending he understood what everyone meant when they said, "We'll just tweak the Class-A surfaces."
Then came Roy. Every workplace has a Roy, the sort of chap who could carve elegance out of a lump of clay while simultaneously making a cup of tea and explaining why deadlines are merely optimistic works of fiction.
The pair clicked instantly, proving that if you put enthusiasm next to experience, something rather wonderful usually happens. Roy handed Sam the sacred tools of the clay modeller and let him loose under careful supervision.
Before long Sam was shaping automotive clay himself while listening to stories about the latest McLaren W1, the hyper car Roy had worked on, which apparently suffered more delays than the likely white elephant HS2, as well as stories on other McLaren cars such as others as the Speed-Tail and Senna,.
It turns out creating automotive perfection takes time, particularly when perfection keeps changing its mind every Thursday afternoon.
As if that wasn't enough, Roy casually sorted him out with four kilograms of proper automotive modelling clay to take home. The only slight snag is that the stuff needs warming to about sixty degrees before it's usable, meaning Sam's biggest engineering challenge now is persuading his mum that occupying the family oven with industrial clay is a perfectly reasonable culinary decision.
Nothing says "responsible parenting" quite like opening the oven expecting lasagne and discovering the beginnings of next year's concept car instead.
By the third day, fate dealt Sam the cruellest hand of all. He was assigned to me. My world of studio engineering involves over checking guidelines, tolerances, interfaces, feasibility, passenger airbag packaging studies and enough technical discussion to make a calculator ask for a coffee break.
I bravely soldiered on with explanations that even I was beginning to suspect required subtitles. After approximately the fourth yawn, I accepted defeat with the grace of a man realising he's become educational wallpaper. Rather than continue committing crimes against teenage attention spans, I quietly negotiated with the clay modelling department and arranged a swift transfer back to civilisation.
The reunion with the clay gang was like watching someone return home from an expedition across the Arctic. Smiles reappeared, conversation flowed and mysterious lumps of clay slowly transformed into shapes that actually looked like cars instead of my attempts, which generally resemble melted potatoes. Frankly, everyone won, including me, because nobody had to hear another thrilling explanation about datum structures.
What was lovely to watch over those three days was how confidence quietly sneaks up on people. On day one there was understandable caution, careful questions and that slightly wide-eyed expression of someone trying not to touch anything that costs more than their house. By day three he was chatting away, getting involved and looking completely at home among a bunch of people who clearly enjoyed having him around.
That's probably the real magic hidden behind the mythical gates of Area 57. Yes, there are astonishing machines, clever software and technology that feels like it's arrived from the year 2045, but it's the people who make the place memorable. A few days, a brilliant mentor called Roy, four kilograms of clay, one terrified domestic oven and one studio engineer who finally knew when to surrender—I'd call that work experience done properly.
Anyway to the fishing, every club has one member who can look at a perfectly innocent stretch of river and declare, "There's a swim in there somewhere." Most of us nod politely while wondering if he's recently misplaced his glasses. This time, rather annoyingly, he was right.
In the close season armed with saws, loppers, enthusiasm and only the occasional tea break, the club who are trying to reinvent themselves set about giving one forgotten corner of the river a bit of a makeover. Brambles surrendered, nettles retreated and several stubborn branches were persuaded that they'd enjoyed enough years attached to the tree. By the end of it, daylight had reached the water for what was probably the first time since decimalisation.
What emerged wasn't a motorway service station of a peg with room for a bivvy, barbecue and three wheelbarrows of tackle like the other pegs on this stretch seem to be at the moment 🙈. It was simply a proper little swim where an angler could sit without looking as though he'd lost a fight with a hedge. You could even cast without donating two rigs and a hat to the overhanging willows.
Naturally, the rumours I suspect started before the last twig had hit the bonfire. Apparently, it's already home to a barbel the size of a Labrador, a chub with a mortgage and several fish that only appear when nobody else is watching. It's remarkable how quickly an ordinary bit of river acquires mythical status once you can actually get to it.
The first person to fish it will, of course, either blank spectacularly or catch the fish of a lifetime. There is absolutely no middle ground in these matters because fishing folklore simply won't allow it. The rest of us will be watching from a respectful distance while pretending we weren't planning to beat him there.
Whether it becomes the club's next legendary honey hole or just another pleasant place to spend a few hours beside the river hardly matters. The real success is that another swim on a club stretch of water is now fishable again instead of existing solely as a sanctuary for brambles and mosquitoes. Mind you, if it does turn out to be full of monsters, don't expect anyone to admit exactly where it is.
The plan, because there is always a plan, was beautifully simple. Start in the honey hole (hopefully) despite the river looking like someone had drained all the confidence out of it, with water so low and clear you could almost count the fish's eyelashes. Then, as dusk was on the way, move to the peg where only a few days ago a double-figure barbel had materialised from nowhere, had a good look at me, and decided I wasn't worth the effort.
Now this wasn't just any old barbel. This was one of those fish that had clearly completed an advanced course in angler avoidance and was probably handing out certificates to the others. It had the calm, smug attitude of a fish that had seen every trick in the book and probably written a few extra chapters.
First came the rolling lump of meat. It watched it drift by with all the enthusiasm of someone reading the terms and conditions on a washing machine warranty. Not so much as a twitch. No matter, I thought, because every great angler has a Plan B. The static bait went in looking absolutely irresistible, at least according to the bloke holding the rod. The barbel remained completely unmoved and somehow managed to look disappointed in me from several feet underwater.
Right then, time to get clever. Out came the scaled-down pellet on a band, the sort of bait that whispers, "Go on, you know you want to." The fish gave it the aquatic equivalent of a raised eyebrow before casually wandering off to continue whatever important business highly educated barbel get up to.
By this point I was beginning to suspect the fish wasn't avoiding the bait. It was avoiding me personally. Somewhere beneath the surface it was probably updating its mates with, "He's trying again that Piscatorial Quagswagging bloke, lads. Same time next week?" Still, the plan remains the plan. Fish the honey hole, wait for dusk, and hope over confidence that this time the old professor slips up. After all, if fishing has taught me anything, it's that hope is free, but barbel lessons can be painfully expensive.
With a club trying to reinvent themselves they've had the banks landscaped so well it looks like Spaniel-smuggling Charlie Dimmock arrived with the DIY SOS crew, leaving every peg flatter than a pancake and straighter than a surveyor's tape measure. It's all wonderfully convenient for seat box frequenters, but unfortunately the fish seem to have read the same brochure.
Every peg I dropped into carried the unmistakable signs of recent angling occupation. On a stretch this small, that's about as welcome as finding someone has pinched the last bacon sandwich from the tackle shop café, because once the fish have been pestered enough, they simply clock off and refuse overtime.
If I'd known what I know now before setting off, I'd probably have stayed at home and reorganised the pellet bucket. But fishing has a habit of scratching an itch that common sense never quite reaches, so off I went to the old honey hole with optimism outweighing logic... as usual.
The sun was still hanging around like an overstaying pub regular, and after an hour and a half I'd managed one decent chub pull on the pellet and inconspicuous paste wrap enough blank rod-tip staring to qualify for a hypnotist's diploma. Then, completely out of the blue, after a few rattles and little 'chu-bangs', the rod lurched over with all the confidence of a proper barbel.
Alas, it was a chub in fancy dress. Mind you, at around 3lb he was a very welcome actor, because avoiding a blank is a bit like escaping a parking ticket you don't care how, you're just relieved it happened.
After another half hour of stubborn optimism produced absolutely nothing, I admitted defeat and moved on. The honey hole hadn't exactly covered itself in glory, although I'll undoubtedly be back because anglers have remarkably short memories and endless supplies of hope.
I wandered down to the famous corner swim where I'd once tempted a cracking double-figure barbel. It still looked absolutely perfect dark, shady and full of promise—but then again, so does the dessert menu when you're on a diet.The thermometer had settled nicely as the evening cooled, and by now the witching hour was edging ever closer. Surely, I thought, this would be when one careless whiskered resident made a mistake and I'd be hanging on for dear life.
Instead, the river went quieter than a library during a chess tournament. No clonks, no knocks, no rattles and certainly no wrap-around that leaves your heart somewhere around your throat while your arms suddenly remember they're attached to something very powerful.
By the time I packed up, even the owls seemed to be wondering why I was still bothering. The fish, meanwhile, were probably sat under a raft somewhere with their fins up, discussing the latest bait trends and marking anglers out of ten.
Back at the cars the other two anglers appeared wearing exactly the same expression I'd been practising all evening. Their report matched mine almost word for word—small chub, precious few bites and enough silence to make you wonder if the river had been switched off at the mains.
So, it's probably time for a rethink. Either the fish have become masters of avoidance, or they've formed a union and voted unanimously against cooperating with anglers until further notice.
