No Fish

The son and heir reads little other than Facebook and various twitters (and this, I fear, will be clearly demonstrated when he gets his "A" level results this summer). But he does find it expedient at times (such as when the Golf has been scratched yet again, or when he might need a lift back from a party at 2am) to pretend to take an interest in the old man's mad electronic scribbling. Last Saturday he was making some witty remarks concerning his dad's ability to shoot and scribble, but then made a very perceptive remark: "Dad; you never write anything about fishing. When you are staring out of the window don't you ever daydream of salmon and trout?" 

That is very true, (writing about fishing I mean,  naturally not the guff about staring out of the window) and as I explained, the reason for that is because I never go fishing. And the reasons for that are the usual ones of time and money.  "But, my boy, when you are earning zillions on an arbitrage desk in Canary Wharf then I shall at last and at least have the money to pop off to Hardy's and commission a rod, and the time to find some new friends with nice riverside walks", I thought.  But did not say - not least because the zillions thing may be a long time off  in the future at present rates of progress.

Occasionally though I have found myself by the river bank with a couple of mates in very long wellies, in my case flask in hand rather than rod.  I will admit that on a warm summer afternoon there is nothing wrong with allowing one's mind to wander around the wilder shores of derivative products in a sylvan setting, inspiration being kindled by the sparkle of sunlight on water, and new complex structures driven by the tantalising pattern of willows on quiet pools. And then waking up to enjoy a decent Romeo y Julietta, and the thought of trout for supper.

Indeed I have a hospitable northern mate, Bill, who has managed to devote his life to doing almost nothing but still somehow made a reasonable pot of money, which enables him to rent a couple of bits of well stocked river in north Lancashire. 

A few years ago he asked me up for a weekend in June, and having not much to do and the thought of a jolly country inn with feather bed and proper cooked breakfast appealing a lot, I headed north. On my arrival at the designated spot I was brutally reminded that Bill is a proper northern lad and did not get where he is today by thoughtless extravagance. Oh no. My dream of the agreeable village pub turned out to be the reality of an ageing very modest caravan parked close enough to the river that he could sit on the steps and fish. The feather bed was a plywood shelf with some waterproof type of bed "sheets" probably recycled from supermarket carrier bags. And somehow, I knew that breakfast would be Kellogg's by way of Morrison.

But your scribe can rough it if required; on being told that the pub in the village did a selection of decent beers things seemed a little brighter, and I was happy enough to go along with the suggestion that on the way there we strolled along the river to see if the fish were jumping or biting or dancing or whatever it is they do.

Rounding a bend in the  river we came across another northern type standing up to his hocks in the middle of the current and with that sort of dreamy gormless look that anglers seem to take on when near water. The two great sportsmen regarded each other in silence until finally Bill launched into what in the north of England is regarded as sparkling repartee:

Bill: "Aye"

Man in Middle of River (brightly): "Aye"

Long pause whilst these two philosophers absorbed their exchange.

Bill: "Owt?"

MiMoR (after extended thought): "Nowt!"

Further long pause for due consideration.

Bill: "Aye"

MiMoR: "Aye"

And, conversation over for the day, Bill and I walked on.

MiMoR may well have been right. Probably there was nowt. But what there was, was first class beer in the village pub, and do you know, after a couple of pints (or maybe six) of it I have no memory whatsoever of sleeping in that caravan. It must have been the soporific effect of sleeping next to the sound of the river. Or maybe fishing really is good for you.