Waking on Purpose: Memories of Bernard Venables
Bernard Venables (1907-2001) was a famous author, artist and angler. He was also my friend. In his ninety-first year he and I sat together, having one of those mentor-apprentice chats that are common when one respects and listens to one’s elders.
"The secret to a long and fulfilling life,” said Bernard, "is to wake up on purpose. As you go to sleep, always know what you intend to do the following day, so that when you wake, you can leap out of bed with all the gusto of a child who, when opening their eyes, sees the sun shining brightly.”
I thought about Bernard’s words then, and now, realising that when seeing the sun, a child is compelled to go outdoors and play. Their day has but one purpose: to be filled with fun and abandonment. But their actions are impulsive. Going outside wasn’t planned the night before. They didn’t go to bed thinking about what they would do if it was either sunny or rainy the next day. What drives them is subconscious desire – something that we adults apparently need to make conscious if we are to keep our child-like singular focus – our pure ‘life energy’. This was Bernard’s message to me, and my lasting memory of him. It is his legacy, which I share with you now.
Bernard Venables was, in his own words, "an artist first, writer second and angler third”. Yet it was his achievements in angling (albeit as author of angling books, editor of angling magazines, and broadcaster of angling television and radio programmes) that made him famous. Was it therefore his compulsion to fish, or to write and paint about the subject he loved so much, that made him so successful? His influence over a generation of anglers (establishing the Angling Times newspaper and Creel magazine; penning the hugely successful Mr Crabtree Goes Fishing book and cartoon strip, writing a further 22 books and illustrating or contributing chapters to 17 more, publishing countless articles and hosting many exhibitions of his artwork, and of course being awarded the MBE for services to angling) was more a result of his talents as a writer and artist than as a catcher of fish.
"I paint, I write and I fish,” said Bernard. "This makes me who and what I am. I have to do at least one of these every day. If I fail to do so, then I fail to exist. It gives me purpose, which keeps me active regardless of age.” There’s much to be learned from this. Bernard may have left us thirteen years ago, but he lives on through our actions. In fact every time we experience something that triggers our inner poet, when we’re compelled to pick up our fountain pen or sketch book, we are living as he did. In those special moments, we seek to capture what we feel within, so others can share in ‘the beauty of the moment’.
I think about the ‘Waltonian’ interpretation of angling: that it is ‘a contemplative man’s recreation’. Fishing in this way gives us time and opportunity to sit quietly, observing and savouring the beauty of a natural environment and our place within it. Bernard believed that there was no ‘going into nature’, because we are as much a part of it as it is us. Angling to him was a symbiosis of place, self and time where all of life is intertwined. It was no surprise, therefore, to discover that Bernard was not a Christian; there was no heaven for him when he died. His faith was in natural things and the organic cycle of life. After his funeral, his wicker coffin was lowered into a hole next to an oak tree in a woodland burial site. There was no headstone, only life renewed in the glory of England’s finest tree.
And here is the lesson in all of this: that embodiment is about bringing to life the things that define us, and in return others will associate us with those things and seek to connect with the same energy. In one word, this is what ‘inspiration’ is all about. It, like organic things, is a perpetual cycle of transferring energy. (Think how the heart of a traditional angler flutters when they caress the silky finish of a swan quill float, or hear the ‘relaxing sigh’ of a vintage creel opening, or smell the honey-like perfume of a newly-varnished bamboo rod. All of these sensations are associated with Bernard and his world, which the traditional angler emulates every time he or she goes fishing. But in doing so, and feeling the same things that Bernard did, means that he and the angler are together. The energy has transferred. His and our loving hearts will always beat. As Bernard often said to me, "Paint what you feel as much as what you see.”)
If you knew, perhaps in old age, that you had limited time remaining in which to savour the beauty of the world and understand its emotional affect upon us, then your every action would be quickened and your gaze would grow ever more intense. You’d keep looking, listening and feeling for a deeper and more fulfilling understanding of everything – be it something new or ‘blindingly’ familiar. Why imagine this fate? Each of us is on limited time from the day we’re born. Our existence may be finite, but the number of potential experiences – and interpretations of those experiences – is infinite. This excites me, and it excited Bernard. You can read it in each of his books. His was an artist’s view, captured in words. Even when he was being ‘plainly descriptive’, there’s beauty so he seen and heard; even if it’s only revealed by the slow and considered pace of his writing.
Bernard may have been elderly when I knew him; he was physically diminutive, and virtually blind from cataracts, but he had a brilliant and ‘learned’ mind. The wisdom of his years, and the passion to know instinctively whether something was right or wrong, were always evident. But I never heard him say that something was ugly. He might have objected to certain things (like the eagerness and urgency of modern angling, or the unsightliness of Swindon – which he described as "A boil on the backside of Wiltshire”) but it didn’t sour his love of the sport or the countryside of his home county. He was a relaxed, contemplative, caring, considerate, generous, encouraging, creative, mindful (and strong-minded) person who lived by his beliefs.
Bernard’s guidance fuelled me, and still fuels me, to be active and productive every day. In true author style, I constantly ask myself, "What do I seek to achieve today?” and then, and the end of the day, I ask, "Did I achieve it?” On those special days when I exceed my expectations, I can look back and see that my greatest productivity was first thing in the morning, or before I was properly awake. It’s when the notebook on my bedside table is filled with ideas that have poured from my mind during the night, answering the questions and creative challenges posed by my brain as I was falling asleep: when I’ve closed my eyes and worked out exactly what I’ll do when I wake in the morning. But doing things ‘on purpose’ doesn’t necessarily mean being productive.
I remember receiving a long letter from Bernard and his wife Eileen, sent after they’d received a Christmas card from me in which I’d put a letter summarising all my achievements for the year. They cautioned me against being busy for busy’s sake, and urged me to put as much effort into doing things that others might see as doing nothing. "Make time to study the clouds, and everything beneath them,” wrote Bernard. To him, there was no value in chasing one’s tail. Instead, it was far better to be attentive, appreciative, and present. That was his path to understanding, which enabled him to feel connected to things. Such was his fascination with the natural world.
If you ever wonder what you could do to be more like Bernard, or to feel close to the master, then all you need to do is this: as you lie in bed settling down to sleep, think about and decide exactly what you will be doing the following day. Feel the passion and the eagerness to do the things that matter. So that when you wake, you’ll wake up on purpose.
Taken from The Lighter Side, Fennel's Journal No. 10. You might also like Traditional Angling, Fennel's Journal No. 6.
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