The Cult of Fishing

Introduction

When I was eight, my father brought home a young persons starter fishing set, it consisted of a pale green, solid fiberglass fishing rod (6ft) with a cast-metal reel. There was also by way of accompaniment, a small canvass sling-bag in which there was an assortment of (to me then) strange and curious objects; hooks ranging in size from the ridiculously invisible 22's through to the more pratical 12's and 14's. Strangely there was also a single size No1. which would not have looked out of place as a meat hook in a butchers shop window. Delving further into the bag I can clearly remeber discovering 2 floats; one - a jolly green colour with crimson top (just as a float should be) the other was made of quill, and it had a rather dissapointing dull yellow tip.

At the bottom of the bag was also disgorger and a few lead weights in a little plastic dispenser - this was my first introduction to AAA, BB etc. For several weeks I thought the disgorger was a small bread punch for roach, ( I assumed to go with the size 22 hooks) only it took multiple attempts to try to get the bread out, before I realised the error of my ways.

Wrapped in tissue paper and further sealed in a press-seal plastic bag I discovered five ledgers: two were coffin shaped and the other three resembled a pear-drop sweet with a little swivel attachment at the top; my friends at school assured me that these strange items were called 'Arssy Bombs' - it was only months later when trying to secure some replacements at the local tackle shop that I was updated on their actual name, 'Ardsley'; I left the shop with two replacements and a shop keeper in fits! - it seemed like a fair exchange. Finally there was a plastic bait/tupperwear box, the type of thing you were supposed to keep maggots in - more of which later.

Apparently, it was my brother’s birthday, and a fishing set was his priority request. If this was not a surprise to my father, then it certainly was to me, as I had no idea that Royston had even the slightest interest in fishing. At that time, I had no burning ambitions in that direction either, having only ever dabbled for bullheads and stone loaches - with my hands, in the stream at the bottom of our garden. I assumed that fishing with rods and reels, was only for the 'big boys'* whom, occasionally could been seen down at the mill trying their luck. Perhaps, as it was my brothers birthday, he now felt that he was old enough to join the big boys. NB* (10-14 years old is considered 'big', when you are 8 years old; anyone older than 14 was simply considered to be an adult)

So it is my brother that I can thank for the indirect introduction to fishing - a passion that has truly given me some of my most memorable days on Gods great planet. This blog is dedicated to his memory.

...getting back to the story:

These 'Big Boys' were however, normally trying their luck with the local girls, rather than the local trout; out of respect for Cambridgeshire schoolgirls, I shall not press the analogy any further - suffice as to say that apparently, some were harder to catch than others, and some were known to be repeatedly caught by more than one angler. I had guessed that this was the activity that I had heard so much about, and now understood why it was called fly fishing!

Anyway, it was the summer holidays and I pleaded to be able to tag along with the older boys, to see what they were able to do with their tackle… (I am of course, still referring to fishing). From that moment on I was hooked; fishing and I were to become inseparable partners, I lived breathed and dreamt of fishing. As a now balding 40 year old, I look back and wonder exactly how this 'cult of fishing' has affected my life, and how I have devoted many days, weeks, months and years in service to this form of religion. The blog I am currently writing seeks to explore (hopefully in a humorous way) the similarities between religion and fishing. It is not for the highbrow scholar, nor the serious minded theologian. It’s just a bit if fun, so no hate mail or letter bombs please.
I hope you enjoy reading 'The Cult of Fishing'; if you don’t fish, then you may miss a few ‘in jokes’, but I hope that fishermen/women, and 'non fishers' enjoy it all the same. If fishing is not your 'Cup of Darjeeling', then there are some nice photographs dotted about this blog (see links) and some poetry that you might enjoy.

The Picture above is of my son, now 15, with the first fish he caught from the mill, where I first accompanied my brother on his first fishing foray - OK, 'accompanied' implies some form of consent, in fact I tagged along about 100 yards behind, trying to keep out of sight, as if they had caught me following, my punishment would have been a wedgie. Incidentally, my brother, as far as I can remember, only went fishing that one time, - the 'other' trout were more to his liking, and I must say, he was rather a dab hand at catching them! - as a reference point to the novice, this is known as 'Tickling Trout'. I, being rather shy and rather young, was much more successful with the cold-blooded slippery ones with the cold eyes. - Out of the deepest respect for my darling wife, I again draw the analogy to a close. - I hope you enjoy the 'Cult of fishing'

Tight Lines!

Cult of Fishing Chapter 1

The ‘Lark’ Ascending

AKA – The journey to fishing heaven.

(Click Image for Larger Picture)

It is my belief that since the history of time, there has been as much conjecture and heated debate over the divine subject of Fishing, as there has on the equally global and contentious issue of religion. At first thought, religion and fishing might appear to be surprise bedfellows, but on closer inspection, they actually have a lot in common.

Each entails an undertaking or sense of journey, that in order to be confident of success (yet never certain of attainment) requires a lifetime of faith and attentive works. As it is with religion, so it is with fishing. Some are born to it, grasping the rod at a very young age, with others, it grabs them seemingly without warning (e.g. The 'Born againers', in the context of religion, and the 'Cast againers' in the context of fishing). In either baptism, once hooked, you are a convert for life; anglers, like priests or nuns have a calling, it is said that you do not pursue fishing, it pursues you. I should also point out that religion and fishing (hereafter simply refered to as R&F) are not mutually exclusive - fishermen can often be heard consulting with their gods; some in thanks, and others in despair.

Both subjects have their mainstreams (no pun intended) and both have their cults, – you know the type of thing, small groups of individuals on the edge of society, engaged in secret and ritualistic ceremonies. Religion had the ‘Moonies’, and the cult of Jim Jones (Of Georgetown Guyana) and then there was Richard Koresh from (Waco - USA). Fishing on the other hand has that master of the dark arts Bernard Venables – AKA 'Mr Crabtree', who through his books, is responsible for the snaring of thousands of innocent (or at least unsuspecting) children in the dark art of fishing. Millions of parents unwittingly put a copy of 'Mr Crabtree goes fishing' into the Christmas stockings of their offspring, without realising the chain of addiction they were about to start.

Then we have the Wizard Master Himself ‘Chris Yates’. His appeal covers the whole spectrum from young to old, but he is particularly affective at snaring the older victim. Many thousands of people amble their way through life unaware or tempted by the dark art, and then BANG, they pick up a copy of ‘Falling in again’ at Waterstones, and before they know it, it's off down to 'Mikes Maggots' tackle shop to blow the children’s inheritance on the latest fishing gear. This catweezle-esque charismatic character, known for his work with magical potions of eye of newt and belly of worm (partucularly good for Barbel) is responsible for converting many an unsuspecting adult into the mystical art of the angle. With titles under his belt such as ‘Casting at the Sun’, you quickly get a chilling insight to this worker of astrological and planetary magic. Let us not be complacent, this is not a dsying art, there are newcomers to the battle, ‘David Churchill’, the author of “Fishing Forever” is likely to spread hysteria across the nation with his first fishing book for children, “Fishing Forever”, which as the title suggests is a one way ticket to a life of addiction. Of course, I accept the fact that due to the nature of this very manuscript, I am probably already preaching to the Converted (To those of you still in de-nial (an old play on words I know, but how could I resist)about your obesssion, may I suggest a lobworm and a number 2 hook for the Perch that are swimming around your boat – Come in, the water is lovely!).

Interestingly, the similarities between the two areas of devotion (R&F – Keep up please) continue; you can seemingly hedge your bets and have your feet in more than one camp at a time, hoping no doubt, to gain a share of the catch from either bank. I have to say however, that the more devout and principled enthusiasts, often frown on any indecision and lack of conviction to one specific cause. If taking this stance, you run the risk of never being truly accepted as a fully paid-up member of the syndicate. (One can not serve two masters you know) Let me try to put this into context; let us consider how the Arch Bishop of Canterbury might respond to a senior Deacon chanting Buddhist mantras, at Sunday Mass at a time of weakened or tested faith in his C Of E beliefs? Likewise, in the sometimes fiercely partisan world of the angling brotherhood, such divisions can arise, even within seemingly similar churches. Take for example the huge gap that often separates the Course* angler from the Game, the Game angler from the Match, and the Dry fly man from the Wet.

*(Course as apposed to Coarse, being reference to the type of fish they catch, rather than commentry on their deportment or upbringing) To the casual observer they are all but one brotherhood. To those in the know however, they are potentially mortal enemies. Before we fully explore the stormy relationships between these disparate factions, we should consider how these unsuspecting victims are first attracted, and then ensnared in the cult of fishing. It is often said, (under hushed tones of course) that it is easier to escape from the Moonies, than to free yourself from the curse of ‘Piscator Piscator’, for just like the narcotic 'Crack' Cocaine, once you try it, you are apparently hooked for life. *

*N.B: It should be noted that the cost comparisons between the two addictions are similar; both result in the uncontrollable desire to spend ridiculous amounts of cash in pursuit of satisfying the obsession; both make you regularly lie to your friends and family about your everyday coming and goings. For the 'Crackhead', this simply means stealing your mother’s handbag and your neighbours DVD player and selling it on for a ‘fix’. To the angler however, the lies and deceit can be much more damaging, and the desire for a fix much more compelling. – There will be a number of persons reading this, that when describing their catch down at the ‘Trout and Tippet’ pub on a Saturday night, will have added several inches to both the length and girth of the fish they caught. Resulting in what is known in the trade as a ‘double-figure' lie (not to be confused with a double-figure fish, which in 9 out of ten circumstances are actually single figure fish, whos weight has been enhanced by adding 1/2 a house brick to the weighing sling just prior to the scales pulling past the magic double-digit mark on the avery scales).

If these lies were not reason enough to hang ones head in shame, the deceit continues apace... The perpetrator, by now on his third pint - escalates the lie when describing the 'perfect' delivery of the fly, to the trout’s nose. ("…as you all know, I only ever cast a fly to a rising fish, none of this wet-fly nonsense and trawlin’ with big fluffy lures…") when in fact a neighbour had spotted you just the other evening scanning the front lawn by torchlight, looking for the biggest and juiciest lobworms you could find. Mark my words, Fishing will make a liar of us all at some point - the evidence is conclusive, my lud, and I charge that the facts disclosed, put beyond all reasonable doubt that Accountants, Lawyers, Estate Agents** and similar professionals of excepted standing within the community, can be drawn into this web of lies and deceit, by the cult of angling. -

**For the purposes of this manuscript, Estate agents have been italicised as they fail to fully qualify as honest and upstanding members of the community, as they are often known to work on the ‘frayed and fringed’ edges of the law. So, as promised just a little while ago, let me return to the subject of that first addictive encounter, but before we do that, please see the table of figures below, which outlines the scale of lies often adopted by anglers. The scale or ‘value’ of the lie (increasing in size from smallest to largest) is calculated on the MACKIE-D scientific scale which was later adopted by a global brand of Fast Food merchandisers to describe their burgers.

Mackie-D Scale

Level - Name - Implementation – Technique

1 - The ‘¼ Pounder’ [This is the size of the fish you quote when actually having caught nothing.] - [‘They were all under a ¼ of a pound, so I put them back’]. NB* A note to the novice, do not attempt to use this excuse to the bailiff.]

2 - The ‘¼ Pounder with Cheese’ [This is when you catch a small fish while adding a lump of cheddar to your fly.] - [Under no circumstances, identify this killing technique to the bailiff or any other living person.] - This text will self distruct in 30 seconds.

3 - The ‘½ Pounder’ [This is when you catch two undersized fish of ¼ pound each and declare that your catch was a perfectly respectable single fish of ‘take-able’ size.] - [Wrap both fish up in one plastic bag and ensure they overlap to give the impression of a larger fish. – *By all means, weigh you catch on the club house scales, but remember to keep them in the bag, and not weigh them independently.] *NB: – To attempt to pull this trick off in public, simply courts disaster and is not recommended for the inexperienced or the infirm of hand.

4 - The ‘Whopper’ [This is perhaps the most often quoted and over used of piscatorial non truths]. [‘It was an absolute whopper...’] - [Can be used several times in the life of an angler, but must be used sparingly and punctuated every now and then with the odd real life specimen so that your audience can believe that you are capable of producing such a fish.]

5 - The ‘Whopper with Cheese’ [As per the last entry with the addition of cheese.] - [This is the most serious and heinous of all lies and for maximum effect should only be attempted once in an anglers lifetime. - Be sure to choose your audience carefully] - [You may have indeed caught the biggest Trout on record, however it fell to a piece of ‘Double Gloucester’ which, to the layman, can be explained-away as a 'special dry fly', whose fly tying anatomy is a jealously guarded family secret. To all other persons with even the smallest amount of fishing knowledge, no mention of cheese or cheese related regions of the country should be made.]

*This is by no means a definitive list, as there are as many anglers’ untruths, as there are stars in the heavens. – In the fullness of time, the novice will be able to navigate his way comfortably by the stars.

Cult of Fishing Chapter 2

The End OF The Addiction

In a favourite book of mine, ‘Fishing, its cause, treatment and cure’, (Sheringham and Study 1954) the opening illustration (by way of explanation of the book title) depicts a two-year-old boy peering intently into a fish bowl. It is obvious to the viewer that an angler lives in the house, as the hefty volumes that the child is standing on, are books on the mystical art. A new model train is left unattended on the floor; the fish clearly hold a much greater interest for this ‘about-to-be-converted’ victim - or A2BCV as they are known.

The exposure to these fish at such an early age is clearly the ‘Cause’ of his soon-to-be life long addiction to fishing. It will also be noted by the more observant, that the fish in the bowl, are not mere goldfish; the result perhaps of a fairground triumph with coconuts, but are clearly native fish of freshwater, and in my professional opinion are probably of the Carp species (Cyprinus Carpio for those that like the Latin tags - This assumes that they are Common Carp - further more I feel the need to clarify that the reference to Common, is not an identifier to acknowledge that they are easily seen and or caught, and it is also not a reference to their Coarse - nature). – For the *novice anglers that may be reading, may I suggest that you look hard and long at these specimens, as this will be the closest you are likely to get to these mysterious and most elusive of fish for some time - if ever in fact. -

*A word of warning about Carp Fishing: Mere boys of 8 years of age have been known to go in search of Carp at tea time on a Friday, and have not returned home until 11:15 PM on a Saturday. This you may think is not unusual, however – the time between their setting out, and their return was some forty years. They returned as pale, gaunt, shadows of their youthful selves. Yes, return they did, but a single Carp they did not catch. They were broken men from that point on; the twinkle in their once bright-eyes, is now a dull ember of light - on the edge of being extinguished forever. *Definition 'Novice' In angling terms, the tag ‘Novice’ is used to describe any person with less than 50 years practical experience of the sport. After 50 years, you are upgraded to ‘Apprentice 5th class, and for each subsequent year of service, you progress up a level until reaching Apprentice 1st class. After this, the level attained after 55 years in faithful service is ‘Piscator’. Piscators are as rare as rocking horse dung, and should be venerated at every opportunity.

For mere mortals this is the top of the tree of angling achievement. There is however one last level of attainment… When we pass on to the 'big water in the sky', assuming our journey is upward rather than downwards, if we have had a lifetime of attentive works to the art of angling, as the meek become angels, the Piscator becomes an ‘Izaak’ - named after the founder and Grandmaster of fishing, Izaak Walton– God bless him and love him. If you are unaware of the angler’s Bible written by Izaak, ‘The Compleat Angler’, then you must purchase a copy without delay and study its content from cover to cover.

Very little is know (as death is one of the qualifying factors for attainment) about the 'Izaaks' and so while it is every anglers dream to achieve this level of Nirvana, it requires a journey of faith and attentive works. Can you see dear readers, how the connection between R&F continues to grow? The closing illustration in the Sheringham book, (see the opening illustration in chapter 1) is of the same person, only now greatly advanced in years; white haired with a long santa’esque beard (look carefully, as here is a man worthy of the title 'Piscator', - there he sits on the brink of transformation to the immortal status of becoming an 'IZAAK'. He is contentedly sat in his favourite armchair by the fire, incapable of rudimentary movement. The walls of his parlour are covered with trophies of glass and oak – the coveted prizes of halcyon days. He has no pictures of children or wife, and it is clear to see that his life’s devotion has been to that of the angle. He is however, a contented individual – imagine gentlemen if you please, a life of fishing with no demands to put up shelves or walk the dog, here is a man who has lived life as a king.

Even in this black and white picture, you can see that his face is a ‘happy red’, not just from the warmth of the fire that he thoughtfully gazes into, but from a lifetime of fishing, and collected memories. If you look a little closer into the fire, (click on the image for a larger picture) you can see fish leap and dance in the flames. His contentment is incontainable and his eyes join in the smile that clothes the rest of his face. His rod, in its well-worn case, leans against the parlour wall, just out of reach. We both know that he will never use it again, but like an old friend, it is comforting to know that it is never far away. He has had a life complete, and when it is time for him to ‘turn in his season ticket’ to the great bailiff in the sky, I know that he will be content, the host of heavenly Izaaks will greet him as an old friend - a fitting end I think you will agree. I like to think that when we turn in our tickets, we will be promptly be transported to Heavens gates, where we will be greeted by St Peter, the under-bailiff; whom in addition to his obvious saintly qualities, is clearly a man from good stock, - having been a fisher of fish, before he became a fisher of men. It is generally thought that in order to ascertain ones final resting place in the afterlife, you are granted an interview at the gates of Heaven.

After completing a brief survey of your life, (not dissimilar to filling out an insurance claim form - you know the type of thing, [Name, Age, Smoker, Labour or Tory, Liar or Cheat? - the last two questions seem to me to be asking the same thing, but hey I'm just a cynic) After interrogation, you are then either accepted, or rejected, or should I say EJECTED. Rejection taking the form of a swift dispatch down a trap-door, to the lower echelons of the earth. Here it seems your qualifications, which barred you from entry to Heaven, will guarantee you a lifetime’s membership to this new club.

Having not yet been personally interviewed for membership, I can only imagine that on arrival for selection, St Peter shows you two doors, one of Dante Red, with flames licking around the hinges, and a distinct smell of sulphur emanating from within. The other, is of sky Blue, with wispy clouds drifting around the hinges and handle; the sound of strumming harps can be heard in the distance. We can only imagine the wonders that lie behind the Blue door… On entry you are presented with an exquisitely made fishing rod, crafted from one of the large pin-feathers of your guardian angel, and a reel made from the pressed gold of a unicorns Maine, your creel is woven from the hair of mermaids (more of which will be discussed later). As you walk further into this paradise, you see a perfect chalk stream* (Please feel free to substitute for your own preference – e.g. Carp lake, Mill Pond, Salmon River etc). When you arrive at the waterside, you find a bench with your name on it, and in the cool shade of a weeping willow, you are greeted by two beautiful nymphs ready to serve your every whim (Yes, every whim, this is supposed to be Heaven after all). Ladies, (and or gentlemen) feel free to substitue your attendants accordingly E.g. - Brad Pit, Denzil Washing etc.

This, my dear readers is the UPSIDE. There does however - in the interests of balance, possibly exist a DOWNSIDE …I am unsure if you are familiar with the plight of poor old Mr. Theodore Castwell, a character introduced to me by that most famous of fly-fishing practitioners G.E.M Skues (George Edward Mackenzie) - Not heard of him...? Please let me enlighten you. On 'surrendering his season ticket', (Mr castwell not Mr Skues) he found that the ‘Keeper’ and the facilities, were not quite to his liking. He complained to the ‘management’ about how badly this particular syndicate was being run, and commented in the strongest possible terms, about the dubious nature of some of its members.

As some of you will know, complaining is a thirsty business, and so Mr Castwell asked for a large Gin and Tonic (ice, no lemon) to cool his now sweating brow - for conditions were rather warmer than Mr Castewll was use to. Mr Castwell was refused a drink by the keeper - an odd-looking chap of strange complexion. The Keeper, who I think introduced himself as 'Nick' also advised Mr Castwell, that there was no ice available for several miles in any direction, either up or down. ‘Good Heavens’ exclaimed Mr Castwell, 'No Sir, it is not', replied the keeper!

Cult of Fishing Chapter 3

The Power of Prayer for the Fisherman

Having dragged you unceremoniously from a 'birth to death' explanation of the cult of fishing in just two chapters, I have realised the error of my ways, and the shortness of this manuscript. For those that like their books, if not their life abridged, feel free to stop here, sound in the knowledge that you have missed nothing significant on the way. For the rest of you that are perhaps waiting in for the gas man to show up, or are enduring the late arrival of yet another delayed train, feel free to read on. The topic of this chapter (as the more literate of you will have already surmised), is Prayer. - The questions we wil be asking and answering are: What is prayer, when and how to use prayer, and perhaps most importantly, does it work? So, what is Prayer? - For the sceptical, prayer can be seen as the way in which the practising party (The Prayer) attempts to improve his /her lot in the eyes of the deity they seek to please (The Prayee).

On a basic level, the truth of the matter is that the Prayer is simply wishing to gain some degree of favour and improve their current position with the help of the Prayee. It has not escaped the notice of many, that this seems to be a singularly selfish arrangement, with those furtively engaged in prayer simply praying for themselves. This is not Strictly true, as other people are often the focus of the prayer - if not always fro the right reasons. Take for example the often practiced novice prayer which goes something like this ‘Please god, don’t let anyone be in my favourite swim when I get to the river’. – Sound familiar? - No? - well what about, ‘Please Lord, just let me get this one in the net before the line breaks’ – If you do, I will make a donation to the church roof fund on Sunday, and be kind to little chldren and old ladies, oh, and I promise not to swear for the rest of the week'. Or what about the prayer you pull out of the bag when some 'big wig' shows up at the river with all the latest tackle, a Des O’Connor day-glow tan and a gold medallion the size of a dinner plate. You know the prayer, the one that you use just as he is crossing that particularly slippery plank on his way to your swim, while you are left in the car park wrestling with the rusted lock on your clapped out Vauxhall Viva.

Incidentally, the Des' day-glow-tan, due to its neon glow, scorches the lining of the trout’s eyes, sending every trout in a half-mile radius deep into cover. Do not waste your time fishing this stretch of water for at least 6 months, as it takes this amount of time for the fish to recover from the effects. Not dissimilar to that of 'Snow blindness '- perhaps better termed Des- itus, in these particular circumstances. Note to the Novice, while it is true that anglers wear polarizing sunglasses to help see deep into the water, to avoid blinding reflections, they are also an essential part of the anglers kit to prevent the effects of Des-itsus. Please put your sunglasses on before getting out of your car, and be aware that Des-itus is not just a summer hazard, its effects can be particularly nasty in the depths of winter, when the barren landscape is incapable of soaking up the blidning organge glow from medallion / Tango mans forehead. – You will have been told as a child, that certain activities can make you ‘go blind’ – fishing, I am sure was not what your parents had in mind!

When and how to use prayer, is the next question posed. Apart from the few examples already mentioned, it is worth taking a few moments to look at how and when to use prayer effectively. Historically one of the greatest miracles of all time was the turning of a a few fish and a loaf of bread into thousands of fish and many hundreds of loaves of bread. (A feat not lost on the carp anglers among us - who on many an occasion have managed to reverse the miracle, by converting hundreds of loaves of bread into no fish). This single example of prayer, may be the inspiration or root of all subsequent prayers used by fishermen around the world, and this example does not sit alone, remember if you will, the time when fishing on lake Galilee, when the disciples were instructed to cast their nets on the other side of the boat (for they had been fishing without result for may hours). After prayer, they were given the ‘nod’ and to their immense surprise (for it never pays to be too confident in the results of prayer) they found their nets full to over flowing. – I think I need not press my case too much further as the evidence is irrefutable. Prayer does work, and thus I have answered the last question posed in this subject area.

A note to the wise: The next time you are ‘having a day of it’ and all seems to be going wrong, look over your shoulder to see if you are in someone else’s swim. If you see a 'camo-clad' figure hunched in the bushes with a 'weegie board' and the entrails of a chicken, spread out over a pentagram, you might be better off trying your luck further upstream. TOP TIP: On your next trip to the tackle shop, if you wink at the shopkeeper, and ask for ‘bunny protection’. – He, being a man of the world will disappear 'out-back' where the special tackle is kept, and return with a rabbit’s foot. Pay whatever price he asks, and keep it in your breast pocket, close to your heart whenever you return to that stretch of river - protection is thus garunteed. - This is also your chance to pick up a pair of sunglasses if you don't yet have any; thus offering you multi-level protection.

Now after all of that, the layperson may be excused for thinking that us anglers are purely engaged in the dark arts for all the wrong reasons, where as we know, that we often use prayer for good. How many times have you tried to introduce a friend to fishing? Did you not pray that the great god Poseidon would himself, attach a fish to the end of your friends line – for we all know that once they catch one, they will be back for more. What about time when your son or nephew enquired about accompanying you on a fishing trip? – It's true you no doubt looked skyward for divine intervention to make sure you caught something first. (Can’t have you shown up by a 6 year old now can we?) However, to your credit, once your duck was broken, you did ask for a fish to fall to your novice attendant – albeit under the caveat of ‘please don't let him catch one bigger than me'. - After all, it does not serve the novice well spoil him early on with big fish, as if this happens his career is likely to be one of disappointment, never again achieving greatness on such a scale, it is better to start them small, so as to inculcate faith and passion that they might go on to greater heights.

Cult of Fishing Chapter 4

Ceremonies and secret practices of the Angler

Religions and Cults across the world are known for ritualistic ceremonies and secret practices, after all, if you were to remove ceremonies, and rituals from religion, you would not be left with much to practice. The Masons apparently, have nipple clenching, trouser-leg rolling, and funny handshake rituals, - not surprisingly held in secret. The Aztecs had very public sacrificial rituals, where the hearts would be torn – still beating from their sacrificial victims. – Millwall football club have a similar practice when visiting West Ham supporters arive en-masse at the temple of Upton Park.

The point is that these ceremonies are very important to the enjoyment and sense of belonging to your chosen cause or religion. Anglers have their own set of ceremonies, some specific to just one or two individuals, and others, more widespread across the the angling fraternity. Some oft' quoted practices however, are simply not true, they are based on hearsay, not backed up by solid evidence, and are often the rumors of opposing groups, spitefully made to cast a bad light over a riavl party. After all, we all know (as per my earlier discourse) that Masons are supposed to roll up their left trouser leg, clench their right nipple, and swear never to cut corners. How many of us have actually seen this done? I rest my case; hearsay is indeed the mischief-maker.

With this in mind, we should consider that idle gossip and wild speculation, might be just that, and have no basis in fact. Take this as a warning, especially those that have not had first hand experience in such matters. Let us explore over the next few pages some of the strange (some true, some fiction, some down right lies) practices of the angling brotherhood. Warming Maggots under your tongue Take this as a warning to novice anglers, not to believe everything you hear, or think you see. It is common knowledge among non-anglers or laypeople, as we will call them, that all anglers keep maggots under their tongues, to keep them warm in wintertime, (no, not the angler, the maggot) because a warm maggot will wiggle better on your hook than a cold one. So what do you think? Fact or fiction... Well, while it is true that cold maggots don’t wiggle as much as warm maggots, placing them under your tongue IS NOT a recommended way to go about it – unless you wish to suffer from the nastiest of biological disorders from the billions of deadly bacteria that live on, around and near maggots.

Let me clarify; before those of you that have put maggots under your tongue, get up to write me a letter telling me I am wrong. Here is the secret... The only people who were ever foolish enough to perform this trick were typically novices, who were told (by friends) that, this is what they were supposed to do. Similarly, when starting a new apprenticeship at a paint factory, at some point on your first day, you will be asked to go and fetch 10 liters of striped paint from the stores; or perhaps when starting at a butchers shop, you might be asked to go down to the larder and ask for 1/2 lb of hens teeth. If you are still putting maggots under your tongue, looking for striped paint, or waiting for a delivery of hen’s teeth, I hope you may now be hearing the penny dropping – all be it, v-e-r-y s-l-o-w-l-y.
Most people are told after a minute or two that they have been tricked and to spit the maggot out; this is normally followed by much spitting and swigging of cola. If you are still performing this nasty practice, then please stop it at once, your so-called friends are still having a laugh at your expense! While on the subject of maggots, let me remind you all not to forget to empty your bait box and dispose of any maggots that you are unable to use.

I remember the first time (I was still at school), I had purchased a 1/2 pint of maggots, and kept them in a white Tupper-wear box in my school bag. Not being particularly hot on Biology, I thought nothing much more about them. A week or so had passed and I had not been fishing, but still had the Tupper-wear box in my bag. During a particularly boring school assembly, I decided that I would treat myself to a nibble on a sandwich, while the headmaster droned on about the importance of being proud of our school, and keeping it tidy. If I remember correctly, it was just after his comment about how litter can cause a potential epidemic of flies and rats, that I popped open the lid of the wrong tupper-wear box, releasing thousands of blue bottles into the air. There ensued chaos, it was like a scene from a Hitchcock movie, the front row of recently inducted ‘first years’ where I was sitting were screaming for their mummies; all of the girls even the fifth year ones shrieked in deafening tones as they ran for cover, as the mass of blue-black buzzing flies circuited the assembly hall. A frenzy of swatting ensued as the boys found great amusement in swatting a fly on his neighbors head with a rolled up copy of last weeks Marshall Cavendish's 'Football Handbook'. After about 15 minutes the panic died down and we were all commanded by the head teacher to return to our seats.

For the remainder of the assembly intermittent ‘thwacks’ could be heard, and a blinding blue light shocked across the assembly hall, as another blue bottle was exterminated by the electric fly killer which was hung above our head teacher - Mr. Pearce’s head. By the time the assembly was over, Mr. Pearce who was standing at the lectern on the assembly stage, was knee deep in fried blue bottle carcasses. As he left the stage, the crisp crunching sound of dead flies underfoot was deafening. I, was rewarded with a week of lunchtime detentions, during which I was to write a five hundred-word essay (with pictures) on the life cycle of the blue bottle.

Cult of Fishing Chapter 5

The Fabulous Baking Boys

The broad church of Angling has many different faiths within it, and one particular section has a secret that they would prefer to keep out of the public domain. The ‘sect’ in question are the Carp fishing fraternity; their dark secret is midnight baking, an activity rarely, if ever witnessed by non believers, and only just recently released into the public domain. So what’s this secret baking all about? Well, with the exception of professional male chefs – Gordon Ramsey, Garry Rhodes etc, some 95% of the male population profess to have no culinary skills at all, and use this as an excuse to avoid kitchen duties at home.

The remaining 5% of the male population that can cook, not only claim to like cooking, but think that they are rather good at it. Out of that 5% NONE are Carp anglers. Some however will be men that fish for Salmon and Trout. These men are able to hold their own in the kitchen – as most spouses refuse to behead, gut and then cook brace after brace of slimly wet fish, here necessity is the mother of invention. Carp anglers however a different kettle of fish, - if I may use an angling / cooking pun. This band of men, whom typically have very masculine jobs e.g. Welders, Dustmen, Builders, Shot Putters, and Road diggers, see the kitchen purely as their wife’s domain and refuse to get involved. Should it ever be suggested by their partners that they cook dinner, even simple fare such as beans on toast, they would protest in the strongest terms that they are unable to master such a Herculean task.

This has been the secret preserve of thousands of men since the dawn if time. Neanderthal many was happy to go out and wrestle a brontosaurus with his bear hands to provide meat for the family, but ask him to cook it as well, and here you would see a man, albeit a very hairy man, on the edge. In the 21st century things have not changed significantly, men still avoid culinary duties, claiming that anything they attempt to cook would be a disaster. Loving partners take sympathy on them and so a compromise is made, he cuts the grass and washes the car, while she cooks, and irons the shirts. Thus equilibrium is maintained. Dear ladies, let me let you into a secret; your Carp fishing husbands have been hiding their light under a bushel. This motley crew of Carp anglers are known to other angling faiths as the ‘Fabulous Baking Boys’. These men that would have you believe that they can not cook toast, or boil an egg, can in fact knock out a Victoria sponge cake quicker and lighter than anything Delia or Nigella could offer. These master bakers have spent years honing their skills in making ‘special’ baits to tempt their beloved Carp. They never however bake when there are potential witnesses about; master baking activities are carried out in secret, typically in the depths of the night. – After all, - alone in the middle of the night, is when most master baking is performed by men. This is not however a euphemism for kneading the dough?

If you are unfamiliar with Carp baits let me broaden your knowledge. The principal baits that our champion bakers make, are of two distinct types; those that float (Floaters) and those that sink (Boilies). Floaters require great dexterity and lightness of touch, and are baked in the oven until golden brown. When ready for use, they float on the waters surface due to their lightness. These require skill, a sound technique and careful measuring of quantities, any error will result in a batch that sinks, if too heavy, or disintegrates in seconds if too soft. Any man capable of making perfect floaters should be hailed as a king. Boilies on the other hand are designed to sink, and are typically hard as bullets when finished. As the name suggests, they are cooked by boiling in hot water. Although Boilies are easier to make than floaters, they still require skill and dexterity on a difficulty level equal to that of preparing a three course meal for six people. Each angler will have his own secret recipes, and many have their own hand written cook books, which they keep hidden with their copies of Playboy in the tool shed. Funnily enough, these men’s-men hey would be less embarrassed if their wives discovered the ‘Lads Mags’ than if they found their Carp recipe book. Occasionally these men can be overheard swapping recipes at the local, over a few pints of real ale.

My first introduction into the seedy and secret world of baking was via Kevin Maddocks' book ‘Carp Fever’, but every time I went into the shop there was always a female shop assistant, so I came away with yet another a copy of Angling Times. This would have been ok if it only happened once or twice, but I must have been the only teenager to by 6 copies of the same issue in one week – my parents at one time were going to refer me to a psycho analyst, at one stage as they thought I must have OCD (Obsessive Compulsive Disorder). Finally I managed to get a copy of Kevin’s book from a male assistant, whom I suspected was also hiding his light under a bushel, as he kindly wrapped the book in a brown paper bag, winked at me, and told me in a hushed tone to try the aniseed recipe from page 5 with some Amino acids listed on page 9. So there you have it ladies, the secret is out. Up and down the country in the small hours of the night, men can be found creeping around the kitchen in their wife’s apron baking magical and wonderful delights.

I understand that this may be hard to accept, and some of you will spend sometime in denial over this, but you have to look for the tell-tale signs. Do you wake up in the morning occasionally to find that the oven has been left on, or that there is a pleasant smell of aniseed or baked banana in the kitchen. Does your husband come to bed with flour on his hands and a twinkle in his eye? If you find that your hubby has been Baking in the night, be supportive of him if you can, he is a simple soul, try not to dwell on the fact that on your 25th wedding anniversary he refused to make you tea and toast in bed, claiming he was incapable of such high culinary prowess. The truth of the matter is the poor old boy was simply tuckered out from his midnight baking activities. If you want, however to catch him out, and get him to show you his Mr Kipling skills, the next time he is passing through the kitchen, tip your head to one side, (yes the way you ladies do when you want something) sigh, and say, I wish I knew how to make a light sponge cake… Wait a few moments, for he will try to resist the urge at first, but as sure as 'eggs is eggs', he won’t be able to contain himself, and before you know it he will have whipped your pinny off, rolled up his sleeves and be giving you all the moves (no, that’s not the direction I was going in ladies, this is not a Gilly Cooper novel – minds back on the cooking please) where was I… Oh yes, rolled up his sleeves, and showing you how to make the lightest sponge cake ever. With a little more practice and encouragement, your 26th wedding anniversary breakfast will be a triumph.

Seven Seven Five - Today and Tomorrow

Today I am a husband, today I am a son,
Today I am a father, today I’ll over come.
Today I am a commuter, To London I must go,
From Ely, ‘Inter-city’, back and forth I go.

Today there are some bombers, With evil on their minds,
To kill and maim the innocent, Irrespective of our crimes.
Today we stand together, with strength and dignity,
Today we stand forever, a stronger unity.
Tomorrow can only whisper, of what today might be,
But today we have tomorrow, an opportunity.
Today we have a choice, of who we want to be,
But tomorrows rather fickle, in choice and certainty.
Today’s the day for changing, whatever’s wrong to right.
Don’t leave it for tomorrow… Is always out of sight.

Copyright Chris Hughes 2006

Elms and English Sons - A Poem

*Note The tree in the pic is and Oak not an Elm
Mature Elms are a little harder to find!
If you look hard enough in the pic above you can see my
black Labrador 'Tempest' from whom I borrowed the name for my Blog

Fractured rays of morning sun,
a Fen landscape, gilded
Resting, under-spun,
With cotton mists of colder air,
Spiral dancing, drifting there…

The seal of a new day, unbroken yet
By man or car, or noisy jet;
The day untainted, pure and true,
Stand Ash and Oak among the dew.

But Brookes’ Elm clumps, no longer stand,
‘Still guardians over this holy land…’
The great Elms have tumbled, to their knees,
Majestic, fallen, heroic trees

Yet they stand forever in English dreams,
Through paint and worded, pastoral scenes
As Constables’ brushed on canvas dream
of mighty Elms and gentle stream
Recorded then, what beauty knew
Time would steal, from me and you.

Like sons of fathers, prepared for war,
Who grow to youth, but then no more
Are taken from this blessed land,
And falling, shattered, no longer stand…
Our children tumbled to their knees,
Majestic, fallen, sons are these.

Protect the landscape of your life,
Mother, daughter, Father, Wife
For every landscape should contain,
An English Elm or son by name.
Copyright Chris Hughes 2006

That Feeling - A Poem

I’ve tried to describe that feeling,
I’ve tried to write it down,
Yet I can’t describe this feeling,
whenever your around.
You’re only present sometimes,
And yet you are always there,
In meadow field and pasture,
In every morning prayer.
You call to me without a voice,
And touch me without a hand,
You’re all I seem to know and want,
You’re all I understand.
You’re born of Gods creation,
Magnificent in sight,
Our days are surely better,
For keeping you in sight.
Your design is pure and clever,
Greater minds could never make,
Gods gift to man, forever,
Never to forsake.

Eden - A Poem

Click For larger image

‘Keep Out!’ -
‘Trespassers will be prosecuted’ Read the sign on the gate,
adult commands, daubed in flaking black paint;
five Bars of defiance, each one a screen,
from the flowery meadow,
and chub filled young stream.
Yet over it, under it, around it and through…
into Eden we stole, into childhood we grew
And gentle… down to the pool,
walked the tender young stream,
deeper, darker, shadowy green…
Chestnuts and Alders, pollards and weep
willow whisps trailing, in shadowy deep
into seclusion, tiptoed the Bream, (*NB - A Bream is a type of fish, not a typo of Stream!)
Past willow-herb and Hogweed,
Giant umbels of cream.
And demoiselles, natures loveliest things,
danced in the air, on invisible strings;
black dots of magic, on filigree wings,
each one a thumb print of Nubian Kings,
and squadrons of butterfly’s, defended our sky’s;
each one a secret of innocent eyes;
and dandelion clocks, promised each one a wish,
a new fishing rod, or that tender first kiss,
as we searched in the clover for four and not three,
we planned in our hearts what our futures might be…
And now as an adult, I straddle that gate,
remembering then, the wishes I’d make;
I’ve had that new fishing rod, and that tender first kiss,
But now, most of all
its Eden I miss.



Copyright Chris Hughes 2006
A Demoiselle - One of 'Natures loveliest things'

Fishermans Lament - A Poem

My Son with his first Chub - Start them young and Keep them away from the playstation once in a while!











It’s a wonderfully misguided thought,
that fishermen, the rain do court,
and for precipitations, from the sky,
we’d sell our mothers, or tell a lie,
and for the patience, of that saintly Job,
we’d sell our ‘Soles’, for less than gold.

But fishermen are quiet, kind,
a separate species, from mankind,
so let them go to loch or lake,
for quiet time… to contemplate,
and witness there ‘Jehovah’s’ dream,
a crystal running, gentle stream,
and cast across its gentle lips,
a mayfly, dancing on its trip,
round eddies, jostling – keeping pace,
seeking out that special place,
where in the calm, our trout will rise,
big and brown, with butter sides,
and up it leaps, the water clear,
the line goes tight, and then the gear –
on rod and reel, the ratchet screams,
as trout and man assess the scene
with heart in mouth and rod in hand,
’Yes! I’ll sell my soul, just let me land,
this beauty, from this one night stand

Then shaken roughly, she wakens me,
it ‘tis the wife, with cup of tea –
‘Get up for work, or late you’ll be,
now eat your toast and drink your tea’
it was a dream alas; it’s plain to see,
there’s no bending rod, or trout for tea!

Reprise

So, broken, shattered, off I go,
where only men who fish will know,
back to the place, where all is right,
back to sleep, to join the fight!

Natures Child - A Poem

Click for larger image













Why’s there no wind, in the willows today,
Why aren’t there birds in the sky?
Why can’t we see the destruction,
the log, not a straw in our eye.

Where are the flowers, of hedgerow and field,
Where is our history of time.
Bugloss and Venus’ looking glass gone,
Corn cockle, Yarrow and Thyme.

Where are the ponds, of our childhood dreams,
Where are the frogs and the newts?
Where are the stocking nets, laughter, and smiles,
sticklebacks, Minnows and Coots?

Why, when we look at green fields and trees,
do we not recognise what is missing from view?
Why aren’t we deafened by the silence,
of pesticide chemical dews?

Why when the wind blows, does our soil take flight,
Why does the earth become dust?
Where are the worms, and beetles and things…?
The nature we know we can trust.

Where are the miles, of hedgerow of old,
Why did we tear them all down?
Profit and ignorance, planted instead,
of Blackthorn and Guilder rose crown.

Where is the Brown Trout’s gravelly bed,
for spawning and mating a new?
Why has the silt taken over,
and abstraction ruined the view.

Squandered like cash, in a card game,
Always raising the stakes,
Never willing, to listen or learn,
from past, or present mistakes.

Why am I sitting in silence,
Why do our children despair?
Where are the treasures and riches,
we promised, would always be there.

What will we do when the Nature’s all gone,
What will we gamble with next?
‘Dad… Why’s there no wind in the willows today?
Why aren’t there birds in the sky?
Why when you said that you loved me,
did your actions continue to lie?’
Copyright Chris Hughes 2006

An Evening Walk - A Poem

It sounds like rain on a summer’s morning
as the hares course through the desiccated rape,
brittle black rain, that rattles and fades,
but never falls; a soft percussion of seeds,
dampened by the breeze, yet dry as tinder.

It sounds like thunder on a solstice noon,
as the pigeons, applaud our parched steps,
with the clapping of wings from earth and tree
they encore our clumsy approach,
mocking our attempts at silence.

And after the panic, Palumbus rises and falls,
gliding in romantic arcs, turning fear into love,
and on the dappled path, a doe pauses and stares
but when you check your vision, she is gone
was she ever there.

It sounds like murder on a Juno evening
as the crows return home -
black squawking and squeaking, irreverent tones
black-blacker than jet, on a cloudless blue sky
winging onwards, never over,
yet eyeing you by.

And as the Gold settles down, in the treetops to sleep
the nocturnal’s arrive - in secret covens they meet
and blacker and blacker, deadens the sky,
while a silent white owl
wings gracefully by.