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 all my life. To my young and urban mind the description of the seasons, the fish, the methods by which they may be caught, and the wonderful comic strips of Mr Crabtree and Peter, were transportations into a fascinating world of which I knew nothing.

I finished it within a week, 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 that, mercifully, seems not to have and end.

As boyhood turned to adolescence I added to my tackle and improved my technique; and 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 young mind.

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 mode 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 now the Redmire seed had awoken and was starting to grow. 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 had almost come to full bloom. I was going fishing at Redmire Pool come the next July.

As I arrived at the estate, I felt almost childlike again and, after I turned into the approach lane, my excitement knew few bounds. I was greeted by the bailiff who directed me through the gate and, after a few yards, I saw it. It was only a glimpse, but I actually saw Redmire Pool with my own eyes. Forgotten were the pictures in the books and on the internet, 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 the 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 gentle breeze 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 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 the songbirds could be heard singing, 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, and 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, and in so doing changed carp fishing forever.

In deference to these past greats, I built a free-lined set-up, put two dog biscuits 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 silent figure sitting quietly beside the lake and fishing, 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 that was struck dumb.

And, as I sat in the midst of this cathedral to Carp, I became conscious that behind all the beautiful but artificial items in my life, lovely though they may be, there is some spirit hidden of which the painted forms and shapes are but modes of manifestation, and it is with this spirit that I desired to become in harmony. I had grown tired of the articulate utterances of men and things. The Mystical in Art, the Mystical in Life, the Mystical in Nature this is what I was looking for. It was absolutely necessary for me to find it somewhere.

And here it was. Before me. Redmire Pool. More than a dream.



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.


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