“A handy thing to be so close to the river in the line of business” so speak many of this fact, and yet so often the reality and the perception of the river on the doorstep can tempt one onto the path of an ill thought out venture, in which a momentary lack of foresight can lead to an “interesting” situation
This December day finds the town of Bakewell gripped in the very depths of the worst winter weather for many tears. Despair and desolation roam the laborious and mercantile classes, and recent news of the councils proposal to increase the parking charges for ones very cab or indeed carriage does little to lighten the encircling gloom.
However, finding myself at a loss how to traverse the unkempt pavements of the town, I hit upon the ruse of bringing out me own stout Wading boots, well endowed with metal studs to afford purchase upon the rivers bed when I am fishing. These are admiral indeed for snow and ice, but that they are so natured to fit over the extremities of my wading breeches or stockings so perforce I find myself a journey to my place of employment by the way of trade whilst altogether appareled for the river itself.
And so, be booted, be wadered, and be buggered if I spend another hour confined within a trade less shop. The glorious river, steamy in the frost and snow bound banks is calling and thus, I venture forth open the very instant.
Ah, the crisp blanket of untrammeled snow stirs the spirit of adventure which lurks in the heart of every desk clerk who has acquaintance with the tales of fortitude upon the snowy wasteland, as my efforts to tramp a mere 40 yards leave me in some doubt as whoever, I too “may be some time” with the receding snow discovering my mortal remains, clutching my rod in gallant but futile gesture of a true English gent…but enough! The soft gleam of the river beckons with a different quality to that known to the effete summer angler. The Autumnal scouring after the long drought of summer have left a cleaner river and a sense of purpose within the snow bound banks
My mighty rod and my trusty net, both seized upon the instant from my carriage which is so arranged to be visible to the passing gentry with on occasion, a sign denoting the presence of my establishment (forgive my stooping so low as self aggrandisement) are ready for action, and my leader carries pair of such weighty flies as would plumb the depths of Davy Jones locker,
I sense my empathy with the river surging as my skilful casting as dazzling as the snowy banks produce upon almost my very first cast a fish! A mighty fish indeed and to boot a very fine grayling indeed. In truth a perfect specimen, gunmetal scales over/shot with all the colours of the rainbow, at least a few of them, all along the length of its full four inches.
My confidence becomes even higher now, and I take a moment to anoint my gleaming rod with two diverse unction’s from my own establishment, to wit a rubbing and besmirching with the substance known as mud, this to the gleam off me rod, and another cunning ointment to cease my line a freezing within me very ring pieces, so as to speak.
And now upon a fresh part of the river, my pair of flies probe the nervous scours and eddies and my finely honed senses detect a microscopic variation in the path of my delicate leader. Mayhap helped a little by the presence of great gobbet of brightly coloured yarn, but an expectant lift of my trusty rod brings the unmistakable knocking of a mighty grayling indeed deep in the swirling currents.
Oh happy moment! My skilful handling of my mighty rod began to take the measure of this Umbar as these fishes were so called in ancient days, and only the tiniest doubt in my mind as to the advisability of my scoop net, so hastily seized upon my earlier impulse to venture out in the first place. And I sense a weakening of fishy resolve upon the end of the line.
Holding out my net and gently kneeling open the banks of the river as if to receive a benediction, I then discover that the so lovely blanket of snow conceals base treachery beneath a mantle of innocence. My kneeling leg becomes tucked underneath my nether regions as my other leg slides over the hidden edge of the river and I commence an inexorable slide towards an icy fate!
There is a practice I understand among the commoner sort of folk, of laying upon snowy place, and, wafting their arms about their person so as to leave the outline of an angel, may their impiety be forgiven.
May my own impiety and un angelic utterances be also forgiven as I most frantically emulate the making of a snow angel, a very strange angel upon one leg and juggling with net and rod and fish and creaking knee joint as me Achilles tendon began to merge with my lower cheeks if you will forgive frankness, and the unmistakable thumping of the grayling on the line as it scoured the mighty depths, corkscrewing with a grin across its own fishy cheeks no doubt.
An omnibus of our most senior citizens had been passing over the nearby bridge and I must have presented such a spectacle to them. The driver had paused as if to consider if a rescue were necessary, if they could have stopped laughing for long enough forsooth.
I know not how long my struggles continued , but with sideways squirming and most undignified travails I managed to prevent further disaster , and to enfold the grayling for a moment in by landing net only to discover that it had been replaced by some alchemy with a still nice but very much smaller fish than I had first envisioned .
After much turning about, with the sound of cracking joints matching the crunch of treacherous snow, seizing and scrabbling upon spiky bank side vegetation mixed I fancy with the voiding of our waterside fowl, I begin at last to retrace my footsteps across the snowy fields towards the township, the afternoon fast losing its charm, I could not help but notice that my net was becoming encrusted with tiny icy diamonds, yea even as my privy parts.
What a handy thing to be so close the river and to be in the way of business to be sure.
Merry Christmas!
Bakewell (December 2010)
