|
Riparian adventures while fishing on the River Waveney near Beccles
|
Riparian Adventures. John MacDonald fishing the Waveney, |
The equipment required for a simple fishing expedition is on a par with that of putting a man on the moon and marginally less than it takes to get a woman through the front door for an evening out.
The hardware I was using was on loan from a friend, I am sure I saw a tear in his eye as he said goodbye to his 'best' reel and rod. He knew me of old. But on the bright side he can spend more time with his wife and children if he gives up fishing. The plan was to meet at the veranda of the sailing club hut about half a mile along the Suffolk side of the Waveney from Beccles. I was to meet George at five in the morning; it was he who was going to coach me in the finer points of angling. This was my first time, a complete novice, although wearing one of those waistcoats with all the pockets I looked quite professional, even if it was an old photographic accessory.
Beccles Quay
To my complete surprise I arrived at ten to six, completely out of breath and bound from head to foot in fishing line which had energetically wrapped itself around me in preference to the reel. The half a mile walk from the car park had induced the line to tie itself into all sorts of ingenious knots and loops, one in particular was doing a good impersonation of a tourniquet around my upper thigh. George had obviously been there since five and didn't look too happy, but brightened up when he saw the state I was in. It was only after a good deal of persuading that he reluctantly cut me free, I am not sure I really like George. Once extricated, we set off up-stream to find a likely spot, George striding out ahead with pieces of kit hanging from his person like some strange perambulating Christmas tree; I stumbled behind, constantly dropping and retrieving things, mysterious things whose function I could only guess at.
As we progressed along the bank my tutor would point at bubbles breaking the surface of water, nod wisely and come out with some incomprehensible gibberish about their likely source, he would then walk on, obviously enjoying every minute of it; I was liking George less by the minute. After another mile or so he was apparently happy with the shape and frequency of the bubbles so we stopped and started to set up our equipment, George with the ease of one experienced in the art, me in complete disarray. He spent a couple of productive minutes, unpacking his haversack, screwing things together and unfolding pieces of hinged aluminium pipe. And, as if by magic he had a comfy chair with arm rests, a little tent shelter, a gas burner on top of which a miniature kettle steamed merrily away, he also produced a transparent container with what looked like a ploughman's lunch inside, in sufficient quantity to satisfy the most voracious ploughman. All I had was tangled mess of nylon line, a couple of sorry looking pieces of fibre glass rod, a plastic tote box with rattled when I walked and a hipflask full of whisky. I peered inside his haversack in case he had the public bar from the 'Kings Head' at Kessingland in there, but I was disappointed.
Their were no craft moving on the river at that time in the morning, a thin mist hung above the water giving an almost spectral appearance, there was quiet, a fundamental stillness while the scent from wild flowers and damp grass was evocative of my youth. Suddenly the thought struck me, I hope he isn't using maggots as bait. It turned out to be luncheon meat, which was a relief as I didn't think I could have coped with maggots, it also solved another mystery as why luncheon meat was produced, it certainly wasn't for human consumption.
After wrestling with my pitiful equipment I managed to arrive at something resembling a rod, the reel was secured and I had borrowed some line from George, all seemed to be progressing well. Enter the hooks. Now I have fingers like sausages; they are not designed for tying-on tiny hooks with even smaller eyes while using invisible line, George did the honours like some sewing teacher helping an awkward schoolgirl; he was in high glee at my incompetence.
Now in order to catch these ruddy fish one has to get the hook, bait and line, preferable attached to one another to where the fish are, you have two choices, swim out with the line between your teeth or learn to cast. The former is the easier option. Not that the technique of casting is difficult to master it isn't, the problem arises with obstacles, obstructions and intrusions in the near vicinity. In my short experience I believe I hooked every conceivable thing animate and well routed, the nearby cows took it in their stride while itinerant sheep seemed to expect it, fellow anglers however, got a bit irate, it was only the fish that were untroubled by my hook and line.
The River Waveney
I was fishing for rud, or so I was told using mechanically retrieved meat, George was fishing for pike with a shiny piece of metal. I had studied pictures of pike while researching the trip, a rather formidable and ferocious fish, I secretly hoped George wouldn't catch one. But then what chance did he have with a piece of shiny metal. "I might leger in a minute" he announced. I was unsure what to do, did he want privacy while he 'legered'? Or was it fishing parlance for brewing up? "Good idea" I said wisely.
Eventually and after much upheaval my line was in the water at a respectable distance from the bank, the red and white float bobbing in the choppy Waveney. George was busy casting and recasting, adjusting his piece of shiny metal, replacing it with hooks and lumps of lead, he really was very industrious, I by contrast lay in the summer sun hoping against hope that I didn't catch anything, fish I mean. But as if by command my float shot under the water, my rod bent and I was in high panic. George coached me on the fly, telling me to let out line as the fish ran and wind it in as I countered by raising the rod. It felt as if I had Jacques-Yves Cousteau on the end, I was sure the fibre glass would shatter leaving me with a lot of explaining to do to my friend. When the beast from the deep finally emerged and was landed it turned out to be no more than a foot long. "Nice rud" I said knowingly "It's a tench" said George disgustedly. Now if you are unfamiliar with tench as I was, then imagine the slimiest smelliest piece of marine fauna possible, and you have an approximation. What horrible thing it was. Everything it touched was covered with a pungent gossamer layer of gung, George's ploughman's lunch lost it appeal and it was only with some tricky manoeuvring that I managed to keep my hipflask from being \contaminated. I was relieved when the creature was given its freedom and it disappeared beneath the surface of the water.
I purposely omitted the bait the next time I cast, this left me time to enjoy the sun and George's antics as he tried every trick in the book to land something. He had an incredible array of ironmongery hanging from his line, I am sure he could have picked up digital radio with it; I only hope the fish appreciated his efforts. As I lay dozing, under the stupefying effect of the gurgling Waveney and my hipflask, I was safe in the knowledge that only the most determined suicidal fish would end up on my bait-less hook.
Through the mists of my dozing I became aware of a red faced middle aged apparition wrestling with what appeared to be an over complex car aerial, as I surfaced from my state of semi-slumber the full reality hit me. George was actually arguing with his rod and he was referring to me as 'that bloody clumsy incompetent idiot who couldn't catch a cold' and how I had managed to land the only fish of the day, I felt hurt at this as I was quite expert at catching colds. I pretended to still be asleep and enjoyed the spectacle.
I soon realised that I had better do something or I would be dialling 999 as George became redder and more agitated. I made a great play of waking up with much yawning and stretching, George immediately calmed down, adopting a professional stance while shielding his eyes with his hand and examining the river he proclaimed, "They'll be feeding at Ellingham or Ship Meadow now".
It was a miserable walk back to the cars, George sulked and actually kicked the ground but I had been fortified by my hipflask. "The Kings Head? I'm buying" I said rashly. "And I'm drinking" said George darkly.
|
|
