To my non-fishing friends I'm something of an oddity with my desire, if not need, to go fishing. Many people more auspicious and worthy than me have, over the years tried to find a way to express their reasons for fishing. Like them, I'm not sure that my own ramblings can convey my feelings. I've struggled trying to explain what it about fishing that captures not only my attention, but also that of the millions of others in the UK that share my piscatorial predilection but I still have to have a shot at it.

To some it may seem like it's simply a case of having something to do, an excuse to be outdoors. You know, wind in your face, sun on your back; That sort of thing. I've always been an outdoors sort of guy and there is definitely an element of that general outdoors, feel-good nature to fishing. That said you can also get that same level of connection from a myriad of other activities. If it's only a fix of fresh air that's needed I can cycle, walk, surf and a whole host of other such things and knowing this I find myself back again with the question of why fish?

To my mind, beyond the connection garnered from the above, fishing provides one with the opportunity to form a deeper bond, to delve a little further into the natural world. I find that when fishing my attention is drawn to the minutiae of life; The birds, the trees, the weather, the flies and insects around you, the sunlight, the shade, the ripples, swirls and currents of the surface. Added to this there is the mental picture of a subsurface world of gravels, reeds, weed, roots and bankside cover, sunny shallows and deep dark pools. Together they all merge together into a rather one sided conversation between river and angler. Perhaps what fishing allows me to do is to be more able to listen to that babble and have at least some success at translating the multiple channels into manageable chunks. On the whole a successful angler is either just plain lucky, or is someone who has the ability to process that one sided conversation and in some way understand the conflict in a fish between caution and the need to grab food quickly, before someone else does.

I suppose there's the inevitable conclusion of the hunter gatherer about fishing and this does ring somewhat true. There is something that draws you back in time, something that takes you away from the modern world and reinforces your need, on a basic level to be able to fend for yourself. It reminds you that no amount of iphones or fancy cars can quite remove you from that deeper, darker animal background that underpins every one of us.

I have a sneaky feeling that what draws me to fishing is, ultimately, greater than the sum of it's parts. My belief, unfounded as it may be, is that there is a deep seated connection between our psyche (some more than others) and the natural world. A primeval bond that can't be fully explained. I'm sure there's a fantastic research paper in that somewhere...

My own experience has shown me that over and above the connection that comes through fishing I am grounded to the natural world increasingly through physical work on the rivers. Perhaps it's in my nature, perhaps it's bigger than me but saw in hand, blisters, cuts and nettle stings I find I can achieve a true peace. In this world of needing money to survive, constantly striving for that next pay rise with gadgets and stuff being a measure of an individuals worth perhaps I actually fish as a replacement for the fact that in truth I should have been a gamekeeper, riverkeeper or warden? Perhaps it's actually about time that these jobs, the living breathing custodians of our natural world, were paid a fair wage?

Oh blimey, I rambled off on one there and haven't even had a drink! Brought on no doubt by another sterling work party on the rivers last weekend. Thanks again guys!

The usual photo essay for the week follows!











~ malcolm

Much as I should be really pleased and thankful that the rivers are high up the banks, the fields saturated and the aquifers recharging I can't quite get past the fact that it's bloody miserable. I just wish it'd stop raining for a few days and give us some nice crisp cold weather, I'm so fed up of soggy, miserable weather. I want to be able to get out for a long walk, feel crunchy frost underfoot, sit and let the winter sun warm my back and just feel refreshed by the outdoors. Some whit always comes up with the 'there's no such thing as bad weather, only inappropriate clothing' remark. That's fine and dandy but no amount of good clothing will make this sludgy, brown, sloppy mess of countryside feel exciting. Fields that during the summer held corn or happily grazing sheep, now look like marshland. There were swans grazing on the road verges as I drove towards Stapleford yesterday, a sure sign of how awful the fields must be if they are so unpleasant that swans are displaced.

In previous years I've had the distraction of running away to the snow to lift my spirits. This year, the failure to sell the house, the new job and the added incentive of reducing my carbon footprint mean that I'm here for the duration. Every sodding sodden last minute of it.

Funny though, how things go in circles. Life follows art follows life and all that.

I seem to remember slopping around in mud last year, looking at snowdrops on the banks of the nadder. Today I found myself doing the exact same thing. A reminder if you will that spring is just around the corner, light is at the end of the tunnel and hopefully, it isn't an oncoming train...

Just close your eyes and imagine a warm day, mid may. The river is glistening, the mayfly are streaming off and you have the place to yourself. Trout are rising, the surface dappled like raindrops. Close your eyes and feel the warmth flow into you as the sun invigorates your senses. Not long now and this year you will get that epic day on the river, I can feel it.



~ malcolm

I've broken the record for my most disastrous car journey within the UK. I spent Thursday up at Tyntesfield, near Bristol airport (ironically as it turns out, looking at water resource issues). The drive up was a tad damp to say the least, some large puddles on the roads, especially driving through Chew Magna. Nothing out of the ordinary though just your average wet British winter day albeit as gloomy as A A Milne's famous thistle eating donkey and as wet as a stage dive in Billingsgate fish market.

About halfway through the afternoon the rain turned to a very very thick, wet, snow like substance. It wasn't a real snow, more a cold thick ice, slush puppy in appearance. Probably somewhere between kyck uck yackuck and yuckyck kyck cayuck in inuit (hey, that's what the weather forecast used to sound like when I lived in Canada). Anyways, the murky grey stuff fell thick and fast and I left the estate through an inch or so of slush on the roads. Trying to cross the Bristol to Weston road proved tricky, a ford focus was sat at a 45 degree angle with water up to it's windows, something told me I wasn't going to get through, unlike the people in the golf who drove past me pooting their horn, straight into the flood, straight up to midway up the doors, a soaking, and an expensive repair bill. What then transpired was that every road I tried to get south from the area was flooded at one point or another and traffic was starting to gridlock. Ahahaaa! a brainwave... I turned round and headed for Nailsea and the m5 thinking a quick trip north and then along the m4 a little and I'd be home in no time. After about an hour to cover 10 miles, getting totally lost in Nailsea I made it to the m5. Nailsea for those who don't know it is another place, like Yate, where signposts to get out of the town don't exist. I assume its the sort of festering pusshole where the council can't afford to let people know how to get out else there'd be no-one left in the place. It truly has to be Bristol's stinky wet armpit.

I foolishly thought that things were going well as I passed Gordano services, the motorway moving freely however I soon ground to a halt along with hundreds and hundreds of others. Eventually the radio informed me of an accident but that the traffic was still moving, albeit slowly. After an hour of stop-go traffic the cheery radio informed me that the m5 was now, infact, closed. ARGHHH.

Still, off the motorway, into Cribbs Causeway, into Clifton, another hour and a bit, and I was in Bath and feeling like I was on the home straight. That last kick in the ass however was a succession of people driving at 35/40mph along the road. Why do people buy 6 litre Audis and BMW's etc and then drive them around like horse carts?

Six long hours in the car and I was home, safe in the embrace of my little corner of Wiltshire. What I really want to know, is how did they move Bristol up north of Manchester without me noticing?









~ malcolm