A DREAM EXCEEDED
It took me thirty years, but it was worth it in the end.
I
don't know what inspired them, as my parents had shown not the
slightest interest in fish or fishing all their days. To this very
moment I wonder at it; but forever have I thanked them for the book
they gave me on Christmas Day, 1976. I was twelve years of age.
Almost
as soon as I picked it up, “Mr Crabtree Goes Fishing” held me firmly in
its grip; a grip it has retained my whole life. To my young and urban
mind the description of the seasons, the fish, the methods by which
they may be caught, and the comic strips of Mr Crabtree and Peter, were
transportations into a fascinating world that was fresh and new.
I
finished the book within a day, and was soon badgering my parents for a
fishing starter kit. As time passed a familiar story unfolded: the
hoarding of pocket money for bait and more tackle, many a day out
devoid of even a silver fish, several bird's nests to undo or, more
usually, to cut, and the obligatory, but no less “splendid perch” as my
first prize. I had not come very far, but I had at least taken a few
steps on the angling road. A road that, mercifully, seems not to have
an end.
As boyhood turned to adolescence I added to my tackle
and improved my technique. I also paid several visits to the library
where, instead of revising for my school exams, I headed straight for
the fishing section. I read everything I could find, and it was here
that I first came across a fish called Clarissa, a man called Walker,
and a pool called Redmire. I didn't realise it at the time, but an
immutable and eternal seed had been sown in my youthful consciousness.
As
adolescence in its own turn became Manhood, and as my mind veered
towards issues of career, my fishing time diminished and then slowly
disappeared, as did my piscatorial studies. Finally, the transition was
completed and I became a slave, bent to the wheel of commerce, a
worshipper at the altar of Mammon, and a man most firmly under
authority. The items that populated my life began to change. Gone were
the lilly pads, mighty oak trees, and shining waters; to be replaced by
artwork, sculpture, and business class travel. I measured the content
of my character by the size of my house, and I told myself I was
successful. I had arrived at a place that most would call fortunate,
some would obtain, many misunderstand, but from which only a very few
can ever hope to move on to a higher and better plain of existence.
But, even as it was sleeping, the Redmire seed was still there, kept in
a secret chamber of my mind; a chamber of which I knew little, or
perhaps even nothing.
After many years, and a career almost
ruinous to my health, I decided, upon my fortieth birthday, to re-join
my fellow anglers on the lake side and to introduce some much needed
peace and calm into my life once more. I became a carp angler. With
time, I like to think I became a reasonable carp angler. And, as my
fishing grew, so did the Redmire seed stir and awake. Moreover, the
passage of time allowed me to lay aside the old books and explore the
new medium of the internet. And it was in this way that I rediscovered
the one true Mecca of carp angling. But not only that, I found Redmire
had its own website, a forum, and, glory be, it was open to the public
via a booking system. It took me four years of trying, but eventually I
succeeded in securing a booking slot. The seed had grown good and
strong now and was almost come to full bloom. I was going fishing at
Redmire Pool come the next July.
As I arrived at the estate, I
felt the child laughing inside me again and, after I turned into the
approach lane, my excitement threw off its bonds. I was greeted by the
bailiff who directed me through the gate and, after some yards, I saw
it. It was only a glimpse, but I saw Redmire Pool with my own eyes.
Forgotten were the dusty books and faded pictures, this was the real
thing. But the glimpse I was afforded was merely a tantalizing canapé –
a taster to ready me for the feast yet to come.
Of course I
stood at the dam end and, like every other Redmire angler before me,
admired that enchanting view. I had waited thirty years to take in this
vision, and every sense was put on high alert to drink in its maximum
fill.
The breathing air came across me from the east, freshening
my face, and casting ripples around and between the weed as it went.
There was an aroma of recently cut grass, some sapling trees I could
not place, the heavy scent of silt, the slightly sour odour of long
soaked weed, and a suggestion of mint. I gazed along the eastern bank
down to the south, and then back along the western side. I was looking
for the legendary pitches of which I had heard so much - Inghams, The
35 pitch, Pitchfords, and, of course, The Willow Pitch. What came to my
eyes was a master-work of Mother Nature, a crucible of natural glory,
and, as I stood, the sun cast a dappling light upon the water, the
breeze made a rustling in the myriad leaves, and, across this vista,
the voice of songbirds could be heard, as if to bid me welcome. I was
transfixed by this Aphrodite of natural perfection.
I had known
this pool all my life, better than any other, but now it was made real
for me. Here it was, right before me, a glorious coronal of history, of
nature, and of legend. Only later did I know the true meaning of
Wordsworth's words:
“I gazed, and gazed, but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:”
I
felt ashamed as I moved my equipment into the ancient Willow Pitch. It
didn't seem right to bring such modernity to the very place where Mr
Richards caught his 31lb fish on honey paste and roach tackle, and also
where Mr Walker landed Clarissa on crusted bread and a home-made rod -
changing carp fishing forever as he did so.
In deference to
these past greats, I built a simple rig, put two grains of corn
straight onto the hook, snubbing the modern hair, paused for a moment
as if in silent prayer, and then cast my line onto the timeless water.
At long, long last – I was fishing Redmire Pool.
Anyone watching
my hushed figure sitting motionless beside the pool would have little
or no reason to look again at so unremarkable a thing. But, for me, the
time, the air, the colours, light and shade, the very shape of things,
stirred within me a profound change. Out of my spirit came a new and
exciting freshness; an abandonment to Nature that was thrilling to
feel; quiet and peace, calm and contentment, happiness that laughed
silently, wonder that could find no voice, jubilation struck dumb.
Would
that I could live each day as that day; would that I could again be
subsumed so easily into the natural world; and would that I could take
my place alongside the deeper and more rewarding modes and
manifestations of life, with no idea of mastery in my mind, only
gratification - my guilt assuaged; my faults remedied; my past
misdemeanours held up to a higher forgiveness, and my mind rested
within the bower of Mother Nature and given solace and essential
succour there.
If only that day could last forever. A dream, truly, exceeded.
S Williams
July 2009
Accreditations
Paragraph 11 – direct quotation from the poem "I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud" by William Wordsworth.
Anti-penultimate
paragraph – a passing familiarity with a poem (author unknown to me)
that appears in “Confessions of a carp fisher”, by B B.
Penultimate
and anti-penultimate paragraphs – indirect quotations and inspiration
drawn from “De Profundis”, by Oscar Wilde. And to Jack (Zander1), for
opening my mind.
A Dream Exceeded
