Still Crazy After All These Years – The Psychotic Angler – Richard Wilsons Fish Rise

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Still Crazy After All These Years

The Psychotic Angler

By RichardWilson

“I wouldn’t recommend sex, drugs or insanity for everyone, but they’ve always worked for me.”  Hunter S Thompson.

It takes two short questions to expose just how viscerally brain-bending fishing can be.

The first is ‘Why do we go fishing?’ This isn’t subtle and needs just 3 words for an answer. Maybe there’s someone out there who’ll say they don’t go fishing to catch fish, but I’ve never met them. There’s no shortage of secondary reasons such as good company and beautiful locations, but they’re all predicated on the idea that we go fishing to catch fish.  The clue is in the name. This answer, as I will demonstrate, is wrong.

So here’s the 2nd question: What’s your most memorable One That Got Away?  The Special One. That oh-so-nearly fish of cruelly snuffed gratification? Make a mental note of your answer.

“I shall remember that son of a bitch forever,” Norman Maclean, A River Runs Through It.

We’ve all lived the moment: A fish takes, the water boils silver, sinews strain and adrenaline surges.  Then suddenly, catastrophically, the rod is weightless and a flaccid line shapes a languid downstream curl.  Time pauses until reality bleeds back in, but the void and the fish that filled it are infinite.

Many of our most memorable losses come early in life.  For example, the 3lb wild trout in a small stream when I was 14. We parted company in the dying of the day with only the bats as a witness.  And still it stalks me. This is odd because at 12 I had caught a bigger wild trout in more challenging conditions. Yet I remember every detail of the one I lost and a lot less of the one I netted. I am not alone in this, and the difference between the two matters.  People who remember a tantalising near-miss more acutely than a success attract psychologists, drawn vulture-like to a nascent psychosis.

“It is good to lose fish. If we didn’t, much of the thrill of angling would be gone.” Ray Bergman.

All fly fishing, especially Salmon and Steelhead, is conducted against increasingly steep odds. A cursory glance at the catch returns makes for dismal reading. So, as we head for the river, we save face by telling anyone who’ll listen that there’s too little or too much water, the wrong wind, nets in the estuary, bloody farmers, bloody pollution, bloody this and bloody that and, of course, bloody climate change. It’s gonna be tough.

And as fast as we lay down the reasons for why fishing is futile, we ignore them. Well, I do, and I expect you do too.  OK, the river’s not looking great, but after several blank days flogging warm, low water there’s a single lacklustre fish showing and I’m due some luck.

Look on the bright side,” I say to myself, “What are the odds against yet another fishless outing? This is going to be my day.”  And therein lies trouble because this is magical thinking. The men and women in white coats will identify it as the Gambler’s Fallacy, another red flag for psychosis.

Psychosis: noun (psychoses)

Characterized by a loss of contact with reality and an imperative belief that one’s actions are rational.

The Fallacy works like this: At the Casino de Monte-Carlo on 18 August 1913 the ball fell on black 26 times in a row. As the streak lengthened gamblers lost millions betting on red because, surely, the next spin could not be yet another black.

According to my abacus, the odds on 26 successive blacks are about 135m:1 – give or take several million. But the odds of the next spin going Red are always 2:1 regardless of what happened the spin before (for pedants, the true odds on a roulette table are 37:18). The point is that a spin of the roulette wheel is not affected by the previous spin, just as a fishless week cannot make tomorrow successful.

‘Ah,’ you say, ‘in a casino I’m at the mercy of the House, but when fishing I can make my own luck’.  This is true, but only up to a point. For example, we could go fishing only on days when all the conditions are perfect.  And we could fish well-stocked waters.  And choose a lucky fly, buy a cool hat, cast perfectly and in all manner of ways take control.

Which is why we always catch and release a creel-full. Except, of course, we don’t. The only near odds-on certainty about fly fishing is that nobody catches anything without a line in the water. Everything else is marginal. As John Gierach almost says: You can change your fly and catch a fish, or you can stick with the old one and catch a fish – or not. I know of only one exception to this rule:  A friend who caught his first salmon with a gaff (and helpful gillie) on a fine Scottish river. This is not encouraged nowadays.

The next psychosis red flag is the kicker for anglers, and it’s also rooted in gambling.  If you have ever played a casino one-armed bandit you’ll know how this feels: You pull the handle or press the button and the wheels spin.  Click, click, click – 3 oranges line up across the screen, left to right.  The 4th wheel spins a little longer until the last orange drops into the line, pauses, twitches, harrumphs and then shudders one place onward with its last gasp. It’s a heart-wrenching moment of loss, because in that skipped beat the ecstasy roar of cascading coins filled your ears.

The excitement of this fruity near miss is so strong that it can be seen on an MRI scan.  Brain activity hits peaks akin to sex or drugs in a scanner light show so awash with dopamine that it’s visibly more exciting, and addictive, than an actual win. The subconscious brain desperately wants to do that again, and again, and again. The manufacturers know this and are in a continual battle with the regulators to deliver plenty of these near misses. In terms of brain activity, that last orange is up there with great sex, a mirror covered with cocaine – or that fish, the really big one that got away. We want more – and we want it NOW. Which cues this:

“I wouldn’t recommend sex, drugs or insanity for everyone, but they’ve always worked for me.”  Hunter S Thompson.

As always, Thompson was onto something. Somewhere between the showboating and the drink, drugs, sex and dopamine, he rode a compulsive wave that we can all relate to, even if we can’t ride it as hard or fluently as he did.

Behavioural problems are persistent and the younger we start the harder they are to shake off. So the fish we lost as a teenager set our already hormone-addled and overstimulated brains on fire. An explosion of dopamine made us fishing junkies. That’s because our inner teenage ape was still learning how to swing through the trees – and although catching the next branch was important, having it slip through our fingers was much more memorable; but only if we survived. The biggest lessons in life are learned in failure.

In my experience, people who dabble in fishing and then quit do not have a One That Got Away. They get out before it’s too late.  Which would be laudable, but they then miss out on all the fun: The exquisite pain of that lost fish.

And as salmon aficionado and serial author Max Hastings so accurately summed up: “I can remember almost every salmon I have ever lost with much better clarity than the fish I have landed.”

So let’s revert to my opening question: ‘What’s your most memorable One That Got Away?’.  I expect it’s not really just the one, is it?  Even though I lost count years ago they’re all still swimming around in the back of my mind like fish in a deep clear-water pool, some occasionally rising to the surface before sinking back again, others always in view.

It’s not just that we regular fishermen and women are losers, we’re serial losers.

Paradoxically, we rationalise fishing as the sport of catching fish.

No, it isn’t.

______________________________________

Thank you for taking the time to read my work. It really helps me if you can do some, or even all, of the following:

Tell others I’m here:

Beware of ticks a cautionary tale

Shady River Fishing shared this cautionary tale recently that I feel is worth sharing on North Devon Angling News.

Ticks are very common in the vicinity of moorlands streams and rivers.

I THOUGHT I SHARE A CAUTIONARY TALE……
About 2 months ago I was fishing in the Devon countryside as usual. When I got home I noticed a Tick Nymph on my inside leg, so I pulled it off as I usually do when I see them on me. I’m always getting bit by ticks and did not think much of it, I just pull em out and forget about it. The next day I noticed a red rash around the bite, now normally the tick bite stays small then it goes away. This Rash was much bigger than usual and prompted concern from my fishing widow partner, who insisted I go and check it out, so I of course I didn’t do that. Anyway a few weeks later I was feeling very tired and aching knee joints and generally put it down to being over 40. After about another week or so I rang the doctor and went to see the Nurse who took some general blood tests, at this point I said “could you test me for Lymes Disease by any chance?” She said “yes we can do”, so she did.
Fast forward another four weeks and I was wondering on the test because I hadn’t improved much. I rang the surgery and was told in no uncertain terms that I had indeed contracted Lymes Disease!!!!
I was quite shocked but perhaps I shouldn’t have been as I am always up the River chasing Salmonoids and I can’t remember how many times I’ve pulled ticks off of myself, so suppose it was just a matter of time before this could happen. Anyway it’s a big long course of antibiotics and no Beer either ‍♂️ I was fishing on this occasion on the Mighty River Lyn when I got bitten, it’s full of ticks up there at certain times, but Ticks are everywhere around this part of the country and unfortunately so is the Disease. So be careful out there folks.

https://www.nhsinform.scot/illnesses-and-conditions/injuries/skin-injuries/tick-bites

THOSE LESS PRODUCTIVE DAYS

Compiling reports for NDANs I see lots of images of good fish and stories of success and these can inspire but can also raise expectations leading to disappointing days. I feel sure I am not the only one who sometimes sets out full of expectation and ends the day feeling slightly deflated.
In my case this disillusionment doesn’t last long for I know that if I keep at it long enough something good will come my way. Basically, effort equals reward and if you can afford to invest time and a little thought good things will eventually happen.
I have enjoyed a few non-productive days recently, fish caught wise anyway. There is generally a positive to be drawn from less productive days in the nature that surrounds or the company that is kept.
I have already swung a fly across the River on numerous occasions in search of salmon and have learnt to accept blank outings as the normal. The salmon just are not present in any numbers so all you can do is believe in the fly and present it to the best of your ability in the places that salmon are known to rest on their migration upriver.

A trip to Chew Valley Lake with my good friend Bruce Elston in early April proved a frustrating day. We set out on a mirror calm lake after a Full English in the Lodge. With bright sunshine and only a light- breeze we knew it was going to be hard going. Plus; we didn’t know what mode the pike would be in pre or post spawning? Local guide John Horsey told us he had seen some big fish but that they were proving fickle following the fly and then turning away.
The mighty Chew holds a certain fascination as the next cast can always bring the fish of dreams.

We drifted the water extensively that day. Twenty pound plus pike followed our flies; glimpses in the clear water that failed to connect.
We took a short break from the piking to have rest and tempt a trout on a buzzer.

But with huge pike to target I find it difficult to stop casting big flies after bigger targets.
We fished until the light faded as the sun sank below the hills. A day full of memories, we exchanged many fish tales and laid plans for future trips.


Chew is a magnet for twitchers and whilst I am no ornithologist I always enjoy hearing the birdsong and watching the many birds that haunt the lake. Grebes, swans, moorhens and coots. We caught sight of a hawk gliding over the reeds and I wasn’t sure what type it was.
We will be back later in the Spring once again.

Upper Tamar lake has been hailed as a mecca for big perch anglers. I headed there full of expectation. A couple of pots of juicy lobworms from Quay Sports a bag of raw prawns and a bucket full of ground bait mixed with mole hill soil. I had been given a tip on a productive swim and arrived at the lake shortly after 8:00am.

It was the day after Storm Noa and the wind had dropped but it was still a tad breezy and cool. Bright sunshine and a cool North West Wind. I was well wrapped up and relished the early signs of spring. It was good to see swallows and martins swooping low over the water.
The bobbins remained stubbornly static throughout the first couple of hours. Eventually I started to get a few twitchy bites on the lobworm baits. As the day drifted past I eventually caught a few tiny perch on lobworm and one on the prawn. A brown trout of around 8oz and a single roach. The fish would have thrilled me fifty years ago as a young angler but with age comes expectation.


As the light faded from another day I headed for home pondering my lack of success and looking forward to the next trip.

 

2023 SOUTH WEST FLY FAIR – REPORT

The 2023 South West Fly Fair was held at Roadford Lake on February, 26th. This has become a very popular event in the West Country Fly Fishers diary heralding the onset of Spring fishing.

The format of the day allows plenty of time for social interaction with anglers from across the South West and beyond converging at the conference centre. There was a range of expert anglers at hand to offer advice on tackle, tactics, fly casting and fly tying.

There were numerous stalls with both new and second hand tackle, a vast array of flies and fly tying materials along with details of where to fish. Representatives from numerous angling club’s associations and trusts were in attendance.

Thanks must go to South West Lakes Trusts head of Angling Ashley Bunning and Dil Singh technical lead for game fishing who organised the event with their dedicated team. The event was opened by the familiar fair’s patron Charles Jardine. The fairs main sponsor was Chevron Hackles.

South West Lakes Trusts head of Angling Ashley Bunning( Right) and Dil Singh technical lead for game fishing

As always Charles Jardine’s enthusiasm for fly fishing was very apparent and was this year bolstered by the company of angling writer Peter Cockwill. Charles and Peter both highly respected fly fishing practitioners who have witnessed a huge amount of change in the fly fishing world and have remained at the fore front for several decades.

Charles and Peter are joining forces on June 21st at Syon Park to “ Cast A Marathon”. Twenty six miles of casting using a mix of Orvis 4,6 and 8 weights to raise funds for https://www.fishingforschools.co.uk and Castaway and to promote their love of Fly Fishing. Full details to follow.

Charles Jardine and Peter Cockwill

On arriving at the lakeside venue, it was immediately apparent that the lake is still barely half full following last seasons disastrous drought. This was undoubtedly a widely discussed issue amongst anglers as they debated last season and the coming months. Colliford in Cornwall is apparently even lower prompting the alarming question what if we get another summer of drought? Let’s hope it’s a more traditional British summer with a few downpours to keep the lakes topped up and the rivers flowing.

The experts , Charles Jardine, Snowbee’s Simon Kidd and Gary Champion delivered fine casting demonstrations with impressive flexing of rods and swirling of lines that all looked so simple in their hands despite the chill brisk North East Wind.

( Above) Charles casts his magic

 

Gary Champion explaing the art of fly casting

Snowbee’s Simon Kidd

The fly tying fraternity created many flies and lures to tempt the most discerning of anglers. Talks were delivered with humour and wisdom with plenty of audience participation.

The trade stands and expertise are an integral part of the show but above all it is the angling community that is at the heart of this event. Each year friendships are rekindled and plans made for the coming year. I’m sure its not just me who discusses plans for the season to then find that time and life intervene as for any keen angler will testify there is so much water and little time.

Topping up the tackle – Homeleigh Garden Centre – Angling Department – 

A cheerful smile from John Aplin of Casterbridge Fisheries LTD

Put a couple of hundred anglers together for a day and there will be a huge amount of discussion. That great angling writer H.T. Sheringham penned several classic books in the early part of the last century  the titles of which would cover many of the debates undertaken. Trout Fishing Memories and Morals, Elements of Angling and perhaps more appropriate “Fishing its Cause Treatment and Cure”.

Debate about tactics and morals have raged within angling for centuries. When does an artificial bait become a fly? Is Upstream dry fly fishing superior to upstream nymph. Is the use of an indicator akin to float fishing? Are wild trout more worthy than stocked? What of the future of fishing? Cane, carbon or fibre glass? Is social media toxic or is it the anglers that post upon it? Is competitive angling good or does it bring out the worst in people?

I joined a discussion with well-known West Country Fluff chucker Rodney Wevil debating on how to catch mullet on the fly. Are they the most difficult fish to tempt? Despite considerable success with the species Rodney believes they are indeed among the most challenging of fish.

Talk of Fly Fishing and twenty years ago most would have thought of trout or salmon. Today fly fishing enthusiast’s target a very wide range of species in both salt and freshwater. Predatory fish such as pike have become top targets as have carp. The tactics used to tempt these species open up an entire new spectrum for anglers to debate.

Rodney Wevill

Another item very high on the agenda is the river environment a topic that is now gathering a far wider audience due in part to the sterling efforts of Feargal Sharkey and the like. As anglers we have a very close affinity with water and are very aware of change.

As waters closer to home suffer from mankind’s actions it is perhaps inevitable that those who can afford seek fish from distant lands. I talked of fishing the richer waters of Norway and Iceland.

I also had a very interesting discussion about the fishing in the Southern Hemisphere. I had seen pictures of adventures with huge seatrout, brown trout and rainbow trout posted by Peter Cockwill.

Peter enlightened me about how these fish have thrived in pristine waters of the Southern hemisphere after being stocked many years ago by us northerners. Waters that had no significant fish populations now have these fish that many think of as wild. They are not of course truly wild but illustrate how mankind can redistribute nature to his own ends. Mankind is undoubtedly decimating the marine ecosystems of the world how nature responds is complex.

         The 2023 Fly Fair was a very enjoyable event that will hopefully run as an annual event for many years. I arrived home late afternoon with a head full of fishy thoughts. In the middle of the night I awoke; discussions of fish populations in our rivers swimming through my mind. A common theme amongst anglers is how it used to be. Each generation has its own bench marks.

Keen to record my thoughts I left a warm bed to compose the following:-

I REMEMBER WHEN

The old guy said,

 

I remember when the salmon poured into the pools,

Packed like sardines you could have walked across their backs, (1983)

 

I remember when some anglers caught one hundred salmon in a  season,  (2003)

 

It’s been a better season we caught forty from the river last year,  (2023)

 

I remember when there were salmon in the river,     (2043)

                                                                                                  

I remember being told there were once salmon in this river,  (2063)

 

(Above) Zoe Latham keen Dartmoor Fly Fisher – With her fish and fly art works

                                                                                                

http://www.bannisterrods.co.uk

 

Invasive Species – 

Casting into the ever flowing river

The intricacies of nature

A mild and mellow early Autumn day as I cast a line across the familiar River Torridge. I had fished the beat three days previously and was optimistic that the turbidity would have dropped out but the water was still murkier than I would like. The water level had dropped back and was lower than ideal.

After such a long dry summer surely there was hope that a few salmon had forged up river on the small spate that had preceded my visit?

Hope is vital in fishing of course as in life. When we fail to catch a common phrase quoted is that if we caught fish every trip our hobby would be called catching instead of fishing.

Autumn was undoubtedly hanging in the air as I fished. A few trees were showing signs of the oncoming season and the occasional leaf drifted downriver. Blackberrys, mushrooms and hazelnuts all indications of the transitioning of the season. Grey Squirrels were busy leaping in the branches high above another subtle sign of the season.

The recent passing of HRH Queen Elizabeth has enveloped the nation in a melancholic mood that I have perhaps brought to the river. I cannot help but think that if this was just ten years ago salmon would at least be showing. The decline of salmon is a great concern and I am sure I am not alone in fearing the demise of these iconic fish within a relatively short time.

As always the casting of a fly and drifting it across the current was therapeutic and despite my pessimism I remained hopeful. The continuity of the flowing river is always reassuring and the pull of life from a plump wild brownie was welcomed.

After several difficult years of political turmoil, pandemic, war and the rising cost of living it  is easy to be despondent. Life goes on like the river, a new King takes the reign politics will rumble along as always. England will win the cricket and just maybe things will take a turn for the better.

There are just three weeks left of the season and we can only hope for more rain and a big spate to bring those silver bars into the river. They have been seen leaping in the estuary so that hope of success remains.

Spring time tench

posted in: Coarse Fishing, Sidebar | 0

Many thanks to Mark Lamude at Quay Sports for this delightful contribution on the joys of spring tench fishing at one of North Devon’s hidden gems.

“So after neglecting a springtime Tench for many years, I dusted off my favourite waggler rod and headed out to Rake myself a swim amongst the spring Lillie growth. After applying some classic simple tactics I managed to build a lovely little swim full of roach and skimmers throughout the session. Fortunately after several hours of plugging away the rod hopped over and I had my first Spring Tench on the end of my rod for a long time and it fought hard, much harder than I thought it would anyway. I had Three nice fish in the end, they were all around the 3.5 to 4.5lb bracket but the size mattered not it was just incredible fun. It’s amazing how good a packet of quality groundbait and a pint of maggots can be when prepared and applied in the right way.”

FREEDOMS LOST

posted in: At the Waters Edge, Sidebar | 0

I was fortunate to grow up in North Devon and as a teenager in the mid to late 1970’s I realise looking back how lucky we were. I wrote a  short piece a few weeks ago reflecting upon the wild brown trout that were abundant in the local rivers including the River Umber that runs through Combe Martin.

Lost treasures of childhood days

As youngsters we also enjoyed the freedom to explore and fish the local coastline. In those days access to the coast was far more readily available and even were land was private a courteous request would generally secure access. In many cases free access was taken for granted as normality as it had been for many generations.

Over the years I have seen these freedoms slowly eroded partly due to the ignorant actions of the few and partly due to the ever increasing population of this crowded isle.

We took a stroll along the Old Coast Road near Combe Martin a familiar path and part of the Coastal Path. This old road provides access to several fishing marks that have been a pleasure to fish over the past fifty years. Many memories came flooding back as we walked beneath those old trees where as a young angler we paused to catch our breath after trudging up the steep steps from the rocky foreshore.

Sadly, the signs of restriction have appeared forbidding vehicular access. Physical barriers to prevent access and numerous signs stating the area is now out of bounds for vehicles. I understand that this was in part caused by an influx of people following the first COVID lockdown combined with articles in the National papers extolling the beauty of this stretch of coast.

The loss of freedoms once enjoyed have been brought about by many factors including a combination of an increased population, Lack of respect for land and an intolerance of landowners.

Access to vast areas of the coast have been lost or restricted over the years. As anglers we need to do our bit by ensuring we leave no litter and respect landowners only crossing land after gaining permission or perhaps paying the relevant toll.

This sense of loss can also be felt inland with many old lakes and ponds lost to angling. Whilst we are fortunate to have a vast number of commercial fisheries those smaller club waters have dwindled.

I revisited a local pond once rented by Barnstaple & District Angling Association. The deep dark waters were surrounded by trees their leaves resplendent in rich autumn colours. Fallen limbs disappeared into the depths and the brooding atmosphere held a certain fascination as I recalled those days of forty odd years ago when I had fished in the weekly matches held by B&DAA.

The glimpse of a kingfisher brought a flash of colour to the day. A couple of pheasants rustled through the brambles.

I read on a sign of the plans to turn the area into a holiday complex. Supposedly eco- friendly and in tune with nature. I cannot help but think that the place would be far better left alone with perhaps the occasional angler contemplating the disappearance of a crimson topped float. These neglected corners of the countryside are precious and should not be sacrificed without serious consideration.

 

Catching a store of memories

 

A gentle surf broke onto the beach as I paused to take in the view after tackling up a pair of rods. There was no rush with high water a couple of hours away and the sun still high in the sky. I walked along the high water mark to see what the previous tides had left behind. Pieces of driftwood smooth and weathered, where were they from I wondered? Flotsam and jetsam always fascinates me wondering what stories it could tell.

(Flotsam and jetsam are terms that describe two types of marine debris associated with vessels. Flotsam is defined as debris in the water that was not deliberately thrown overboard, often as a result from a shipwreck or accident. Jetsam describes debris that was deliberately thrown overboard by a crew of a ship in distress, most often to lighten the ship’s load. The word flotsam derives from the French word floter, to float. Jetsam is a shortened word for jettison.)

The cliffs showed signs of recent erosion and I noticed that the remains of an old building that once showed on the cliffside had slipped away. My generation would perhaps recall the ruins but as times slips past no one will be aware that the buildings ever existed. There is much that we see in a life time and fail to register, sign posts that tell of times gone by and of other’s lives.

The geographical rock strata with its tortured twisting shapes reflects the power and dynamics of this ever changing world in which we live. Millions of years etched upon the face of the cliffs as erosion reveals a distant history that is hard to comprehend.

As the sun slowly sank lower on the familiar horizon I cut fresh bait and threaded it carefully onto the large sharp hooks. A gentle lob put the baits at the edge of the shingle where I hoped a bass or huss would be on the prowl..

The rods sat poised upon the rod rest silhouetted against the golden light of the sun as it reflected upon the calm waters of the bay. Rob who I was with moved across closer to my station after successfully catching a wrasse having cast out before me, perhaps a little more eager to catch than I was.

I didn’t expect to catch until the sun had set and the tide had reached its high point. The wind was also in the East which gave little confidence but failed to extinguish all hope.

A flotilla of boats paused in the bay carrying sightseers who had undoubtedly paid good money for a spectacular sunset cruise.

The sun eventually sank from sight. The tide peaked and with it ebbed away hope of success. We packed away an hour after high water and trudged slowly back up the slippery cliff path pausing frequently to catch our breath. The air was warm and grasshoppers chirped in the grass. Slugs had emerged to feast in the darkness gliding slowly across the path. The sound of the waves crashing upon the shore far below slowly faded into silence.

At the top of the cliff, we again stopped and looked out over the bay. Where Lights twinkled on the shoreline. As we climbed over the brow we saw the village lights familiar in the valley below. A wasted night some would say but there is more to fishing than catching fish.

A few days later I embarked upon a short mullet fishing session at Lynmouth. It was high tide when I arrived and the tide was pushing up under the main road bridge. I would often take a look to see if any big mullet were present at the top of the tide where fresh and salt water converge but on this occasion I was keen to get set up and start fishing the ebbing tide.

A couple of hours before I had been lying in bed listening to the pitter and patter of rain on the skylight and had briefly contemplated not bothering; fortunately, the quest for a mullet was strong. The morning was by now bright and dry with light clouds drifting slowly across the blue sky.

Fishing trips are sometimes remembered for reasons other than fish as on this occasion. At the top of the slipway, I noticed that a gentleman dressed in what I perceived to be Victorian clothing was arranging a camera and tripod. The object to be filmed was a boat and lady dressed in similar period costume. The boat was being skill-fully manoeuvred by Pete Mold sculling at the rear of the boat. Aware that they might not want an angler casting out at an inopportune time of the film I enquired as to what they were doing. They were performing a piece of classical ‘Elgar’ for their You-tube Channel.

 (Above) Mezzo-Soprano Patricia Hammond informed me,  “Edward Elgar’s “Sea Pictures”, five pieces for alto and orchestra, which Matt Redman has arranged for alto and guitar. We’ve now filmed four of the five…two others are up on the channel already, and the fourth we filmed in the Valley of the Rocks”

I was told I would not be in the way  at all. I was  privileged to have a front seat for the performance with the Classical musical notes drifting around the harbour. The morning felt slightly surreal with the towering wooded hillsides, wisps of mist rising from within, the calm sea and boats bobbing upon the waters of the tranquil harbour.

I contemplated upon  the contrast between the serenity of the morning and past nights spent fishing the harbour mouth as winter swells surged over the wall. Nights when icy rain beat down and north winds that chilled to the bone as the rod tips reflected light from the head torch.

Later a good friend Andy Huxtable who once lived in my home town of Combe Martin joined me for a chat. We reminisced about fishing and our youthful days in Combe Martin rekindling many good memories. The tide ebbed away and the rod tip rattled as a couple of small mullet interrupted the morning.  After a hot coffee from the takeaway I ran out of water and set off for home.

Shortly after arrival I opened the back door of the van to find no fishing bag!! A quick drive to Lynmouth and my heart sank for there was no sign of  it on the wall where I had been parked. I enquired in the adjacent shop if anyone had handed in a green fishing bag? A negative response, but as I walked out a lady commented. “ Did you say you had mislaid a bag?” . Yes I replied to be told it had been handed into the National Park Centre at the Pavillion. I was very relieved to collect my tackle bag and camera faith in human nature fully recharged.

A celebratory Ice Cream followed for Pauline and I.

A memorable morning fishing with poor piscatorial results but one that will resonate in the memory for a good while. There is certainly more to fishing than catching fish.