Sample chapter from Traditional Angling
It was the last day of the coarse fishing season. Eight members of the Golden Scale Club: Ferney, Demus, Angelus, Skeff, Isaac, Hedge, Max and myself, had gathered to celebrate ‘the glorious end’. Our chosen venue was the Dorset Stour. The weather had been kind and we’d enjoyed an eventful day. Breaking with tradition, we’d attempted to catch something. In fact, three of us had caught, which was better than last season when the only fish seen was a barely living four-ounce gummy-lipped roach that, we jested, Max the Pugilist had slain with an ugly stick. Today was different. Unusual. Almost embarrassing for a club that’s reputed to be eccentric and carefree.
Angelus, the club cake maker, had caught us all with a tin-full of Victoria Sponge; Skeff had landed a drowned sock and Hedge had caught the butt of Isaac’s rod as it sailed towards the water following a savage bite. Of course, we all agreed that Skeff’s sock didn’t count. Clearly, he’d bent the rules and caught it using a self-hooking bicycle clip. But he was claiming it anyway. And who’d blame him? It was a personal best on the closing day of the season.
We’d also done more fishing than usual. Two members – Hedge and Isaac – had turned up before lunchtime and Demus had cast out before finishing his newspaper. Ferney, our somnolent secretary, wasn’t breaking with tradition and arrived just after his mid-day nap. I was in charge of the Kelly Kettle. Actually, the four Kelly’s brought to sustain us into the evening. This may seem excessive to a novice tea drinker, but not to us. At two and a half pints each, there was barely enough water to make tea for the whole day. A gathering of addicted tea-heads should have known better and brought at least one kettle each. Isaac, Demus, Skeff and Max were reprimanded for leaving their kettles at home. Ferney even declared it a Club emergency, saying that if this blatant disregard for one’s survival continued then he would have to cancel our account with the India Tea Company.
Once the shock of the ‘Great Tea Shortage’ had sunk in, Skeff did the maths and calculated that if we rationed our tea breaks to two per hour then we could fish until six o’clock. After that, it was probable that we’d all be suffering from Maddocks’ Dry Lip Syndrome. (An unfortunate condition that involves wandering the riverbank in a zombified state, teacups held with outstretched arms, whilst plaguing people for a snifter of a brew.) Thankfully we all survived ‘the parching’ long enough to convene at Hedge’s cottage at the end of the day for a much-needed cuppa. The final casts of the season had been made and calmness had descended on our group.
Talking outside Hedge’s front door, Ferney remarked at how relieved he was at no longer having to fish for another three months; Isaac said it would allow him to paint his bait bucket and Hedge had plans to restore six hundred cane rods that had been cluttering up his living room since June. It would indeed be a welcome return to normality.
The coming three months – known as the closed season – would be our essential recuperation time, allowing us to return, rehabilitated, into society. At first, we’d take things slowly, attempting to tidy away all our fishing gear from the kitchen and then, once we were feeling more confident, begin mowing the lawn or going shopping with our wives. But these three months wouldn’t dictate an absence of Club activity. There would be plenty to do. It’s no coincidence that the Golden Scale Club Frisbee League runs for just twelve weeks, beginning in mid-March and culminating on the 15th June with a final ‘fling to the death’. Rumour had it that Ferney had already been practising, following news that Max had booked us a challenge match with the Salisbury Adult Fling and Swing Society. But we explained to him that eight bearded anglers would have to wield more than an eight-inch plastic Frisbee to gain entrance.
That was enough of closed season plans. Although we’d all made our final casts, we still had the evening ahead of us. Any events up until midnight would still count towards the current season’s activity. Hedge’s cottage would be a fitting destination, especially as there was the promise of more tea.
Entering through the front door, we realised that Hedge’s home was the very best sort of angler’s den. Each room was filled with all manner of fishing-related artefacts. There were nets hanging off every wall, rods stacked in corners, on bookcases and across tables. Every spare inch of shelf space was stacked high with reels, fly boxes, books, creels, varnish tins and spools of whipping thread. He’d even built a wormery the size of a garden shed outside his front door and had converted his downstairs toilet into a ‘piscatorial reflection zone’. The latter is a shrine to angling, with mountains of fishing books, a specially constructed rod rack and enough centrepins to keep you ‘twiddling your handle’ for hours. A man could go into there and never be seen again.
Hedge’s living room was, as he described, “festooned” with bamboo rods. His restoration projects were strewn everywhere with barely an inch of space for anyone to move. We had to clear the rods aside before we could sit down. Some of us opted to lean them against walls; others assembled them in precarious freestanding wigwam-like bundles, whilst the remainder were rested across our shoulders and laps. Demus, usually the fortunate one, had chosen a seat in the corner of the room and was subsequently boxed-in by a wall of cane. (He was last seen looking out, somewhat dejectedly, from his bamboo prison like a Vietnamese prisoner of war. He said that the thought of escape would have been like playing a game of Jenga with his maker.)
The sight of eight Golden Scalers in the same room can be alarming, especially after a day’s fishing. Fortunately for Hedge, most of us had abandoned our wellies before entering his home; Isaac had offered to remove his trousers and there was even consideration, once again, of using the so-called ‘soap’ invention, even though the concept had been dismissed as hearsay at a previous AGM.
The scene was that of typical club fashion. Angelus sat with his back to the room, huddled in the corner attempting to discretely eat what looked like a slice of stolen cake. Isaac was caressing a rather nice centrepin whilst cagily looking around the room, waiting for an opportunity to slip the reel into his pocket. Skeff and Max were debating how many digestive biscuits they could balance on a turtle. (They nearly agreed once, settling on a number between twenty-six and thirty, but Skeff sparked the argument off again by suggesting that the figure depended on whether the turtle was stationary or moving and how much glue was used to fix the first biscuit to its back.) Whilst all this was going on, Hedge was in the kitchen boiling the kettle and I was nervously brushing the carpet near to where I sat, hoping no one had noticed the maggots that had wriggled free from my coat pocket. Ferney, who by this time was properly awake, was asking for his breakfast and was questioning why a turtle should get to have biscuits before him anyway. Also, he was complaining that the lights in the corner of the room were too bright and that rocks, being rocks, should never move.
Blinding lights and moving rocks? Go back to sleep Ferney. You’ve not even noticed Demus trapped behind a bamboo screen.
Ferney was right. In the corner of Hedge’s living room was highly illuminated glass tank. It looked like a fish tank but with no water inside. Three light bulbs were working overtime to heat the gravel and rocks below, which, as Ferney had observed, were moving from side to side.
Shouting through to Hedge in the next room, we enquired what was going on in the glass tank. The reply came: “That’s my reptilium. Now sod off you scroungers and let me finish making the tea.” How very factual he was.
Bingo! Isaac remembered Hedge speaking of this contraption before. The reason the rocks appeared to be moving was because some were not rocks at all, but stone-coloured reptiles lying beneath the light bulbs for warmth. Ferney and Skeff, being our grass snake experts (and likely candidates for the ‘prod it with a stick’ Boy Scout badge) must have known what the reptiles were. So we questioned them. With their newfound sense of importance, our experts ‘knowledgably guessed’ that the creatures were Bearded Dragons, or Hairy Lizards or something equally exotic. Angelus, who had now finished eating whatever it was that he’d concealed from the rest of us, remarked that they could be small alligators and that their mummy could be skulking behind the sofa. But the rest of us agreed they had to be Iguanas. They looked too chilled-out to be anything else. If they were wearing sunglasses then they’d have been classed as ‘regular dudes’. Like Max.
Of these two ‘Iguanasumminks’ in the tank, one was laid out and taking it easy. The other was hobbling between the rocks.
“That one’s got a limp!” remarked Demus, from behind his wall of rods.
“Nah, it’s not a limp, it’s a swagger” stated Isaac, as he craftily slipped the reel into his pocket.
“You think he’s got problems,” said Max, “look here – Hedge has got maggots crawling across his floor; that mummy alligator must have died!”
“I don’t care,” said Angelus, “hasn’t any of you noticed that there’s no front on the tank? What if they’re hungry? Maybe we’ve been brought here as their supper?”
Angelus was right. The creatures were not contained at all and could wander freely about the house, obviously in search of food or, as Skeff speculated, to play on Hedge’s computer.
“How many of these things do you have, Hedge?” shouted Isaac, the responsible one.
“I bought five,” replied Hedge, “but you only tend to see two or three in the tank at any time; the rest can be anywhere.”
After a pause, Hedge added, “Have you seen Spike? He’s the one with the bruised foot”.
Spike was obviously the one we’d seen hobbling across the back of the tank.
“The name ‘Spike’ sounds a bit too ‘Hells Angel’ for our crowd” said Demus.
“Let’s call him Colin,” said Ferney. “Colin’s a proper Club name.”
“Worthy of being our mascot,” said Isaac.
“And we’ve just tidied his living room,” said Angelus.
Hedge then entered the room carrying our tea on a large wooden tray. He was walking with some trepidation, looking towards the floor. Our makeshift tidy-up had seemingly impressed him and he was studying the carpet that hadn’t been seen in months.
“Impressed with the cleaning?” said Isaac.
“No, just checking if it were safe to come in,” replied Hedge.
“We don’t bite!” exclaimed Max.
“Need to check for my dragons” said Hedge.
Hedge then told us that last time he’d had guests, he’d carried the tea tray into the room only to promptly embarrass himself and his visitors. The first he knew of it was when one of his guests pointed to a noise coming from beneath Hedge’s foot. It was a wheezing, whispering “whuerrrrh”. He’d looked down, lifted his foot, and seen that he’d trod on poor old Colin, who’d had all the air squeezed out of him like a punctured whoopee cushion. By some miraculous feat, Colin had regained his composure – and breath – and scurried off to find sanctuary beneath the coffee table, albeit none-too-pleased with his bruised foot.
We gazed over at the reptilium. There was Colin, sunning himself beneath a light bulb like a Brit on holiday. He looked up, saw us all staring at him, noticed the tea tray, shuddered, and then dashed for cover behind his stone.
It seems that the promise of tea is not to everyone’s fancy…