Article - Coarse
The Retiring Angler
By Dave, added on 05/06/2009
It was mid February and I was within a few months of retirement from the large organisation where I’d worked in variety of capacities for forty years. The gradual process of handover to my deputy and tidying up many loose ends seemed to be taking for ever. I scanned my desk diary for the coming week only to be reminded that I was expected to attend a meeting in London. Whilst I pondered on what I might need by way of preparation, one of those unexpected turns of good fortune was about to present itself when I clicked open an incoming email. It transpired that a colleague was attending the meeting and she, kind soul, offered to cover for me. Was this a nice way of saying I was already redundant, not needed, washed up and of no further consequence? Call me naïve if you like but I accepted the offer at face value, mainly I must confess, for the fact that I could translate a blank afternoon in my diary to a fulfilling half day on my favourite stretch of the Thames.
February on the river can be tough on the angler and indeed I can still recall an article by Dave Steuart in Angling entitled February Yeuk. Well, the weather wasn’t too bad – overcast with a light breeze and warm enough not to need a layer of thermal underwear. I started in my banker swim fishing flake on small hook set eighteen inches from a light lead. I expected average sized roach, chub and bream. I had no bites, no flickers, not so much as a glimmer of interest. A light drizzle started. Sometimes you can have rain that doesn’t make you especially wet. At other times you can sit in drizzle and get absolutely sodden. Quite why this should be so I have no idea; all I knew was that I rapidly became very damp.
It is rare for me to tote a brolly so I sought refuge in a swim that lies in the shadow of a high bank. I hardly ever fish this swim because it requires insinuating oneself in a thicket of hawthorn and scrub willow. My intention was to give the swim fifteen minutes and then pack up. I flipped the light lead out some 20 feet to the nearside edge of the crease and tightened gently to give just the merest bend in the quivertip. After 10 minutes there was a flicker. I leant forward in readiness for a more satisfactory pull. The tip pulled over slowly for an inch then eased back and simultaneously the line went slack. I struck and found myself connected to a heavy fish that fought doggedly. It slogged it out for a couple of minutes but other than a short and solid lunge to the willow roots it gave me no scary moments. I figured it was one of the large bream but as the fish slid over the net it turned on its side revealing the bronze scales of a large chub. I lifted the net, thinking that here was one big chub and easily my best ever. I disconnected the handle from the net and lifted the fish onto my tubular Salter balance. I was beginning to get wobbly legs as I felt the full weight of this huge fish. By way of an aside I should say I’d cleaned and oiled the balance the day before and I’d also highlighted the etched ounce and pound divisions with white enamel paint. The combined weight of chub and net went right the way down to the stop, Hells bells! By now I was turning into jelly. I slipped the fish into a plastic bag, hoisted it up and saw it went 7 pounds 5 ounces. I put the fish back into the net and placed it in the water whilst I set up the camera. I was convinced my so called friends would not believe me so I reweighed the fish and took a photograph of the reading on the balance. I took two quick pictures of the fish and then the batteries died on the Canon. Phew. My good friend Roy still reminds me of the gibberish phone call I made to him a few minutes after my “fish of a lifetime”.
Now here’s a few points to ponder: I went fishing during stolen hours, the uncomfortable rain forced me into a swim I hardly ever fish, I made a difficult cast under branches because I didn’t much mind if I got hung up as I was on the verge of packing up, and lastly what possessed me to overhaul my spring balance? Was my good fortune just that or were other forces at work? Which ever way you cut it I suppose if I was destined to catch the fabled fish of a lifetime then being on the verge of sixty years old and having fished for fifty of those years I suggest that the chub was a just reward for half a century trying!
So the question must now be posed; what is in store for this aging angler with so much wisdom, technical ability and experience? Well I can’t answer that but what I can assure you with absolute truth and accuracy is that retirement is pretty darn good. You see there is time to do things in a leisurely fashion. Gone are the rushed weekends of the weekly grocery shopping, visiting aging parents, tending the garden and the 101 chores that are to be tackled and between times there may be a half day to spare on the riverbank. With retirement you can shop when the shops are almost enjoyable, drive when the roads are empty and take all day to mow the lawn.
I now have five week days to go where I please when I please and for the whole day should I so chose. Strangely, I soon found that I did not wish to fish each and every day. Indeed, more often than not I will fish for a couple of pleasant hours, catch a few fish and be more than satisfied. Perhaps the greatest advantage is that the prevailing conditions for one day to the next do not change greatly unlike the working angler who has a whole seven days by which time he is faced with a complete about face from the weather gods. The retired angler is not greatly concerned by the wrong choice of venue – bugger I should have fished the river instead. It doesn’t matter, I can go to the river tomorrow. Time is the key. Time to relax, time to do a job properly, time to be unhurried, time to be totally at one with the chosen activity. Gone is the ever present mental nagging - only an hour to go and then back to the five day grind tomorrow.
Perhaps the most surprising thing I’ve found is how very different mid-week people are from the weekenders. Fellow fishermen are, more often than not, retired folk who, like me, relish miles of empty river banks and of lakes uncluttered by bivvies and buzzers. We take the time to chat, to exchange strategies and techniques and discuss favoured swims. You don’t get that with the tightly focussed weekend angler.
It’s the same with passers-by, even on popular locations such as the Thames. People are affable, interesting and genuinely interested in what makes the dedicated angler tick. I suppose this is of no surprise for who else but fellow retired persons, (or people of “independent means”) would be walking the banks when others are sweating at their desks or in their workshops.
Now there is one very important aspect of retirement that cannot be ignored. It is that one is entering the twilight years. One is conscious of the unavoidable certainty of ceasing to be. So long as I depart with my wellies on then I won’t worry overmuch. What does concern me though is all the fishing tackle, the books, the pictures and the diary. My dear wife says it will all end up in the village jumble sale; “How much for that cane rod? Oh let’s call it fiver.” My son does not fish so what is one to do? Well, here’s my wish. My good fishing friends (you know who you are), after a suitable period of mourning, should approach my wife (take a print out of this article with you) and lay claim to the whole lot; every last rod, reel and swivel. Each book, magazine and ancient manuscript. All I ask in return is that you raise a glass, at the Blenheim summer outing, to Mr Pastry and his big fat chub.
