Quarry Bank Fishery - Part 8
Fennel continues his 12-part series about fishing at the fabulous Quarry Bank Fishery in France, this time enjoying some social fishing.
Getting lucky
The sense of relief of getting a fish on the bank, however small it may be compared to its bigger brothers and sisters, is like getting one’s first kiss. Whilst the wait might have seemed long, that split second connection (longer if you’re lucky) made all the hanging around seem worthwhile. Sure, we can stand on the edge of the dance floor, eyes scrunched up and lips puckering, patiently hoping to ‘make contact’ with lips that are not prickly, or we can keep half an eye open and shuffle into a more favourable position. Perhaps, if we’re bold, we might lurch forward and see if we can initiate something?
However it’s done, one's first kiss marks the end of the waiting and the beginning of the action. From that moment onwards, we can stand tall, pull our shoulders back, smile a wry smile, and swagger across to our mates saying, “Oh, yeah, I’m da man!”
The difference between chasing girls and pursuing fish, I have discovered, is to be found in the aftermath of the action. For starters, you can put a fish back quickly and it will thank you rather than slap you in the face; it’s perfectly okay to play another fish minutes later, and even if that contact is short-lived and you find yourself flicking silver snot-like gloop from your trousers, you’ll still be proud to show it to your mates.
This is what happened to me after I returned my Quarry Bank carp.
Is that all you could pull?
Just several minutes after returning my carp, my second rod screamed into action and I reeled in a pathetically flapping ‘minger’ of a bream that decided to cover my shorts, my net, and most of my dignity, in foul-smelling slime. It wasn’t even a big bream, just one of those anaemic-looking grey things that had somehow evaded the mouth of a catfish during its three-year life.
Booby prize? Maybe. But not like the ones on the dance floor.
Of course, I’m belittling the little bream that graced me with its presence. My heart raced when the alarm sounded “Be-beep” but then sank when it somewhat embarrassingly muttered, “De-doop. Doop. Dooooop” and left the bobbin dangling in shame near to the boards of the staging.
But a fish is a fish, and I’m sure that Little Slimer’s parents thought it was beautiful.
Relax, check your shorts
Catching that bream changed the tone of our fishing more than the relief of catching the carp. Our fishing became, how shall we say? ‘Social’.
“Hey, Fennel,” said Shaun, “do you think you could find a smaller one?”
“Or smellier,” said Tim, “you’re gonna stink worse than a kipper’s turd.”
“That’s right,” said Shaun, “and you only bought one change of clothes. Maybe you’re going to champion the ‘sneezed trouser’ look for the rest of the week?”
“Yup. ‘Fragrant Fennel’ it shall be,” said Tim. “The Stin-King ruler of Bream, wearer of the silver shorts, heir to the seat of Soiled Pants.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” I replied. “I get it. I’ll go for a wash.”
“And when you’re there,” said Tim, “sort us out some beers, would you?”
“We’ll wait here,” said Shaun, “guarding your rods. Not that there are any fish about, just in case Mr Bream comes round accusing you of inappropriately slipping your, erm, ‘net’ under his daughter.”
“Okay, okay,” I said. “I’m going now. Just don’t go catching an eel. The bream was bad enough…”
And so I trudged up to the lodge, where I showered in my clothes and scrubbed my shorts. The bream slime grew thicker and gloopier with warm water, so I had to use half of my bottle of shampoo to remove it. Eventually my shorts looked crisp, like a new handkerchief, and I felt confident that not only were they clean, I’d have no problem with ‘crotch dandruff’ for the rest of the trip.
I made myself presentable, then, before departing the lodge, I grabbed a box of bottled beers and, for good measure, a box of red wine.
First of many, the box of French red wine at Quarry Bank Fishery.
"Gissus a beer, then?"
When I returned to my swim, Shaun and Tim were waiting with outstretched arms. I handed them a beer each and, once they’d commented on how 'crinkly' my shorts had dried during the short walk from the lodge to the lake, they started laughing.
Apparently, no sooner had I disappeared from sight when my third rod tore off. Shaun had picked up the rod, felt the weight of a good carp, then the hook had pulled free.
“I’ve left the line and rig there on the decking for you to deal with,” said Shaun, as he sipped a beer. “It wouldn’t be cricket for me to have to play your fish and cast out again.”
“Oh, thanks,” I said as I opened a beer for myself.
“Didn’t surprise me, though, that 'you' lost it,” said Shaun, “when I checked your rig I could see that it was the first one you tied. I told you the hair was too short. You probably just nicked the fish’s mouth rather than getting a good hook hold.”
“Thought you wouldn’t notice,” I said, as I meekly sipped some beer from the bottle and remembered my comment that a quarter of an inch on the hair was only the width of a piece of spaghetti.
“A quarter inch between success and failure,” said Shaun, “that fish proved the fact.”
“Yeah,” said Tim, “if you’d lengthened the hair, Shaun could have shown you your new personal best carp that you might have caught if you weren’t busy fetching us our beers.”
“But you were fetching us our beers,” said Shaun, “and you didn’t lengthen the hair, and the fish was lost, which goes to show that…”
“What?” I said, abruptly, “That the fish was never meant to be mine?”
“No,” said Shaun, “that you were meant to have fetched us those beers.”
“It’s true,” said Tim, “just think how bad you'd have felt if we'd caught a carp on your rod, what with you knowing that it would have taken less effort to have tied a new rig than fetch the beers. But you put that effort into dutiful service to Alcohlia, Goddess of Booze, and we thank you for it.”
“Oh,” I said, somewhat puzzled. “Does that mean I’m a shoddy angler but diligent drinker?”
“Yup,” said Shaun and Tim together.
“With a new badass rapper name,” said Tim.
“Eh?” I replied.
“Quarter Inch,” said Tim.
“The Notorious Quarter Inch,” said Shaun.
“The Notorious Quarter Inch Rapper?” I said. “No one’s ever going to believe a name like that. It sounds like an Oompa Loompa with attitude.”
“Could always abbreviate it,” said Tim.
“Go on then, to what?” I asked, reluctantly.
“Enquirer,” said Tim. “Get, it? N-Qu-I-R.”
“Enquirer?” I exclaimed. “It sounds like a polite and inoffensive version of The Equalizer. Like Robert McCall decided that this was ‘the day you find out why’, grabbed a pencil and pad and started ‘asking around’. It’s definitely not badass.”
“Being only quarter of an inch,” said Tim, “inevitably means that you’re only capable of gentle probing.”
“Told you,” said Shaun, “if you want a solid prick, you need more than a quarter inch.”
“Enough!” I said, there’s only one way to end a conversation like this: here – have another beer!”
“You da Man!” said Shaun.
Tim pours an enormous imaginary bottle of wine into Quarry Bank, saying, "Here, Fennel, this is how you deliver a large portion."
One, big, happy family
Of course, fishing with friends isn’t really about laddish humour and being a slurred slurp away from one’s next drink. It’s about sharing one’s time and passions with those whose company we enjoy and, almost certainly, who we care about.
Fishing is the great leveller, bringing together people from all walks of life, all locations and most persuasions, to join together with a common goal: to attempt to catch a fish and, while doing so, enjoying each others’ company.
Angling, then, is the sport where we can spend a lifetime by the waterside, seemingly alone, while being bound in brotherhood (and sisterhood) of those doing the same thing.
It’s a family thing, y’dig?
Common cause
The word ‘social’ comes from the Latin socialis meaning ‘allied’, and from socius meaning ‘friend’. Thus, it means ‘allied friend’. People, allied to a common cause, are connected, related, and bound together in shared purpose. This rather perfectly articulates fishing friendships to me in that – given the breadth and diversity of angling, and the intensity with which an angler feels their passion for the sport and the waterside world – gives us a common cause that shapes and defines our lives.
For an angler to exist most completely, he or she should fish completely and without reservation, fully embracing their love of angling. For me, this occurs throughout my life, so even if I’m not actively fishing I’m likely to be doing something related to it – like writing about fishing, speaking to friends about fishing, preparing bait, sorting tackle, reading about fishing, watching fishing programmes, and dreaming about fishing; mostly about thinking about past and future fishing trips. Especially about fishing yet to happen: dreams to be realised, adventures to be had, friends to be seen.
The sense of adventure that angling brings to our lives, really does give us ‘common cause’ and solidifies the social element of fishing. Of angling in solidarity. Sure, Shaun and Tim had ribbed me for catching the snotty bream, but we were equally thrilled to finally catch a Quarry Bank carp 'together'.
“To Fennel,” said Tim as he raised a beer aloft, “may he always remember his Quarry Bank fish, his slimy shorts and shameful quarter inch.”
We raised our bottles to toast the fish and everything else that I’d wished we rather hadn’t. But it was all part of the japes and good humour of fishing with pals.
Contrary to Tim and my concerns, Shaun had neither lost the use of his legs nor was he awaiting a surprise 'quarter inch'. He was simply taking a photo of Quarry Bank Fishery.
Together
Whilst angling as a sport brings people together and binds them in common interest, a deeper and more connected bond exists between those fishing the same water. Even with all the secrecies that sometimes go on between anglers targeting a particular fish, or seeking to ‘unlock the code’ of a specific lake, there is a common goal that links all activities. This is especially evident when two or more friends are fishing the same water, sharing strategies, tactics and jointly celebrating successes. And perhaps the ultimate form of this is found in places like Quarry Bank Fishery and in meeting people like Neil Shipman. They might live a great distance from us, but the values and dreams embodied by and within them are the same as ours. Which is why Quarry Bank is so very special – it brought us together, sowing the seeds for great times ahead.
Character
I love fishing with close friends such as Shaun and Tim (and now, proudly, Neil and Lin), especially when we have the opportunity to be together for a week. It’s a similar enthusiasm I get for fishing syndicates where you can put all your thoughts and conversations into discussing and exploring just one water, so that the water itself becomes personified and spoken about as if it is part of the social circle: the ‘hostess’ (sometimes ‘temptress’) who may or may not let you in or give up her treasures.
Quarry Bank’s character was that of a deep, mysterious and slightly playful friend who would welcome you and then run off singing “Catch me if you can” or, after a long wait, shout “Coming, ready or not!”
The pool was definitely female (way too decisive and headstrong to be male) and seemingly grateful for her new life as a fishery. But there was a stillness about her, perhaps a tinge of melancholy for her past life as a quarry, for the losses of life that occurred when men expected too much too soon.
As Aretha Franklin sang, “I’m only one step ahead of heartbreak…One step is all I have to take, backwards, to be the same old fool for you.” It made me appreciate the danger of taking ‘one step’ too far off the end of the staging, to fall and sink into the depths, to join the lost souls that glide unseen in her dark waters.
'One step ahead of heartbreak' – the deep and mysterious Quarry Bank Fishery.
The same old fool for you
So, yes, Quarry Bank was female and worthy of our and Aretha's ‘R-E-S-P-E-C-T’. There was a delicate balance of danger and ‘deep reward’ evident at the lake, that one had to show – and continue to earn – the respect of the pool, through due consideration, attentiveness, courtesy, and civility, for the privilege of getting to know her. This would need to be maintained at all times, so no rowdy or drunken behaviour (not that we’d be like that anyway) would take place – even with the prospect of a box of beers and a box of wine.
No, we would not get drunk.
Actually, that’s not strictly true. We were a different sort of drunk, not from alcohol but from the joys of being able to do what we love, with friends we love, in such a lovely place.
Yeah, man, it was happenin’ dude. Tim. Shaun and I were tripping on the joys of life.
But as Hunter S. Thompson said of the Summer of Love, “The thrust is no longer for ‘change’ or ‘progress’ or ‘revolution,’ but merely to escape, to live on the far perimeter of a world that might have been.” So our drunken bliss was not the result of tripping through flower meadows, or shaking hands with 'Lucy in the Sky', rather from the contentment of knowing that our slow and stress-free existence at Quarry Bank was a world away from what we might otherwise have been doing at home or at work. We were on holiday, fishing with friends, in the most wonderfully sleepy and quiet place imaginable. And we’d caught a fish.
“So, Fennel,” said Tim, “when you gonna catch another bream?”
“Or open us another beer?” said Shaun.
It seemed that the carp, that we had worked so hard to catch, was all but forgotten, replaced by a sense of euphoria in us being together and just 'enjoying the moment'.
Living the life
We stayed in my swim, chatting, laughing, lounging, and generally marvelling at life until, at around 5pm, we felt the rumbles of hunger. We got up, then walked up to the lodge to cook dinner. Shaun did the honours, cooking a ‘Paella Best’ in a special electric cooker in the lodge. Neil and Lin joined us and we savoured one of those wonderful evenings where time happened ‘elsewhere’ and we enjoyed the tranquil delights of a French summer evening. All, of course, washed down with that box of ‘nicely warmed’ red wine.
Shaun cooks us a special paella.
A fine dinner eaten in the early evening sun.
If ever anyone asks me what carp fishing is all about, I’ll think of Shaun, Tim, Neil, Lin and me sitting around a picnic table, with Quarry Bank carp pool behind us, eating paella and drinking wine, laughing until our sides hurt at the sight of the silver ‘blessings’ on my shorts and the rumour that I’d been 'out-manned' by a piece of spaghetti.
In Part 9, Fennel gets 'up close' with the nature of the pool.
Quarry Bank Fishery is a 5-acre water in southwest France, about a two-hour drive from Limoges airport. It is set within 14 acres of private grounds, which are sensitively managed for their wildlife interest. This makes it a haven for both anglers and fish. The fishery is available for exclusive bookings only, for up to five anglers.