Article - Coarse
On Reflection
By Ian, added on 02/03/2008
"Fond memory brings the light of other days around me.”
Sir Thomas More, 1477-1535
It is said that you should not chase a memory in case it has changed for the worse, or is not as you remembered. Well, having written about my first ever fish in a previous article 'The First Time',
a family need arose to revisit old haunts, and I could not resist the temptation to include a trip to the scene of my angling initiation.
I had not been back to the village where I grew up for at least 20 years, and even before that when I had visited, it had been a whirlwind affair with no time to stop and contemplate. On reflection I find this strange, because some of my happiest times were spent tramping the woods and hills of Derbyshire, and also, of course, on the riverbank. Perhaps I have been afraid to go back, in case I find that the memory is not as comforting as I now recall. Despair is possibly too strong a word to describe the emotion I fear I might find, but disappointment would be bad enough.
However, having explored the recesses of my memory to write the article in the first place, it kept on nagging at me, even to the extent that I sought out a secondhand reel to replace the one I had used that day, but since lost. For the equivalent of a few pints of beer, I now had a working example of a Galion 12, and at that point I had to use it, and in an appropriate manner. George Orwell wrote in “Killing an Elephant” of the point of no return, when expectation overcomes rational practicality, and I, too, had reached that juncture. The circumstances of the visit were not the best, involving taking my sick mother to visit relatives, but I resolved to find an hour or two when I could, without guilt, escape to the river and pursue a passion.
And so it was that, on a cold and damp February morning, just as the sun was breaching the eastern horizon, I drove the two miles or so from my cousin’s house to Darley Bridge and approached an old friend – the Derwent. Satisfyingly, everything had seemed more or less as I remembered it, if on a somewhat smaller scale, when I had popped down the day before to try to pick up a day ticket from the Square and Compass and have a quick recce. There was, however, nobody at the Inn.
The following morning I thought I should at least try again to get a permit before fishing, so I knocked at the pub door. Eventually an upstairs window opened and a young lad leaned out. I asked if I could buy a day ticket. The reply was apologetic but negative. Apparently, just some three weeks before, the brewery had decided that they would stop day tickets and only allow anglers from their own club to fish this stretch. This decision had partly been made because of complaints about the amount of litter left by visiting fishermen. I was deflated and angry all at the same time. Why is it that some anglers can be so insensitive of their environment? What makes them leave litter on the bank? I fear it is the same mentality that prevails when similar brainless types chuck rubbish out of their cars onto roadside verges. Last week I passed a field, alongside which were a fridge, a computer monitor, the computer itself and a vacuum cleaner, each about 20 yards apart, so clearly jettisoned from a moving vehicle. What, if there is one, is the thought process involved here? Why, if such idiots can load the rubbish into their cars and drive into the countryside to unload it, can they not also drive to the Council Recycling Centre which will gladly take all these items, and is open 7 days a week? I fear an imminent attack of grumpiness approaching, but such a careless attitude is symptomatic of an uncaring, sick society and, when perpetrated by anglers, does nothing to promote fishing in the eyes of the general public.
Crestfallen, I then walked downstream of the bridge. This used to be free fishing, mostly because it wasn’t very good. Unfortunately, there was a large sign in situ proclaiming that this stretch now belonged to another club and that fishing was strictly private.
Now, I could have poached in either stretch most probably, just for a short time, without harming anyone, but that seemed to be the antithesis of why I was there. In being denied access to these waters, my dream had been broken, and if I couldn’t do it legally I didn’t want to do it all. I suppose I wasn’t really surprised by what had transpired. Ambition thwarted, I returned to my car and drove away.
I then decided to try to find the old dams in the woods by the lead mine where I had tickled trout as a lad, so I followed the track as best as I could from memory. I found the stream leading from the dams, but unfortunately the woods themselves were wire-fenced and there were numerous signs forbidding entry and warning of security patrols and CCTV. Quite why this level of protection would be needed I couldn’t say, but it was clear I couldn’t get anywhere near the water.
Litter and over-zealous security: two curses of our modern age had prevented me from revisiting my past. This seemed somehow inevitable, and so I just drove on and up into the hills. Derbyshire is bleak at the best of times, but on the high peaks around Monyash it seemed particularly forbidding that day and mirrored my black mood. It was there, paradoxically in sight of the ancient stone circle at Arbor Low, that I resolved not to look back further and to concentrate on the present, at least as far as fishing goes. Should I return to Derbyshire again with a rod, I shall endeavour to seek out new waters rather than old. Memories should (mostly) be allowed to remain where they belong and not dragged out again for inspection. Like everything, they decay and perish when exposed to the light.