…a journey

It was a little after dawn, and I could see the watery red autumn sun rising behind the village churchyard as I pushed my feet playfully through the dew-soaked fallen leaves, just as I had done as a carefree kid. Although nobody else was about I didn't feel lonely; the deafening dawn chorus and the raucous call of the estate pheasants were company enough, and I had found contentment…

Reaching the top of the hill I paused, as always to look down the valley to the river, running like a curved steel ribbon through the swirling morning mist. The river was the life blood of this classic, timeless landscape, unspoilt by the trappings of modern living. I had surveyed the scene as a boy and now a man, a hundred or more times before, , but I still felt the same stir of excitement deep within as I leaned upon an old fence and inhaled the sweet perfumed scents lifting from the water meadows below. Oh my, I felt so alive!

Fondly I ran my finger down the polished surface of my trusty old split cane rod, the dappled sunlight sending tiny shards of light off into the morning. Memories of fine catches, of hours spent in the company of kingfishers and water voles, good friends, conversation and laughter came flooding back and overwhelmed my senses with nostalgia. Vivid images of days lived to the full where compromise was never contemplated. Days spent by the river were always to be savoured and were lived over time and time again in my mind. My soul belonged here, this was my home, surely?

A whispered "hello" broke the spell that had, had me in it's hold. We sat and talked and drank tea whilst the kettle gently pushed out wisps of steam into the cool morning air. Kev, my friend for more years than I care to remember, had awoken that morning with that "certain feeling", a desire that could no longer be suppressed. It had drawn him without conscious thought to the Avon, the Hampshire Avon one of England's finest rivers.

When the river runs so deep through your heart and soul, it takes no prisoners, there is no mercy, when the calling comes, you go.

The mist cleared slowly, the day had a promising feeling, and the air was full of anticipation …where would it end, if at all? This would be a day where angling memories would be made, old friendships reaffirmed, the past revisited and the future…well neither of us gave a damn…we would live for the moment, as we'd always done and bask in the afterglow of a day well spent.

The embers of a dying day glowed gently against the blackened façade of the old inglenook fireplace. The Inn was full of character and characters. I imagined the thousands of conversations that must of occurred over the centuries, of country tales, poachers lies, sweet nothings between lovers and laughter amongst friends.

"So what brought you here today?"

"Oh, that bloody feeling again!" said Kev

"Ha, I know that one, only too well, bloody impossible to resist…fancy another…?"

"Well it'd be rude not to!"

We were back where it had all started, all of those years ago and it felt perfect, a feeling to be savoured like a fine wine, or as we were sippin' an "interesting ale" to say the least…I think it was called "Old Tom".

Nothing had been caught that day, but it didn't really matter, the atmosphere more than made up for a fishless day. Even though the fish had been surprisingly uncooperative toward our refined (hardly) angling prowess the evening was filled with stories of what "nearly" happened and "what ifs", fascinating trees, badgers and the delights of sleep deprivation! The evening became more lucid as the night drew her velvet blanket over the Hampshire countryside. "Time gentlemen please!" We then realised that we were staying in the same Inn…in adjacent rooms…a recipe for disaster! The fish would have another quiet day tomorrow, unmolested by hooks and line. Nature at it's best!

"We really must get it together tomorrow, Robbo" said Kev, as we hung over the parapet of the stone bridge and watched the Grayling dancing across the shallows.

"Yeah, crikey, what the hell happened last night? Still it needed to be done, didn't it?" We were on a high, on a roll, the fishing could wait…until tomorrow.

Breakfast was superb, eaten in near silence as we both contemplated the day ahead. It was six o'clock and we had booked an early one to ensure that we were on the banks of the river as the fish came on the feed. Only "tuned in" and remarkably crafty country boys would think of bribing the chef the night before, so that we were up and at it before the other anglers staying at the Inn had awoken. What a plan! We'd covered all the angles!

The sweet scent of water mint and flowering ranunculus was abundant. Barbel ghosted gracefully in and out of the gently wafting streamer weed. The Perch harried and harassed the minnows and fry in the deeper pools, the river had never looked so inviting. Today we'd shout "mushrooms!" one of us was going to catch a leviathan. There would be a "moment in time". My first cast plopped into the clear waters and from seemingly out of nowhere a Brown Trout darted to greet my offering. There was no skill on my part, but tea had been secured for that evening. Fresh from the river, cooked with wild garlic gathered in the adjacent copse and eaten with "real" bread the riverside feast would be complete. Our bellies would be full!

Late morning with the sun beating down upon our bare backs, the decision was taken to retreat at full speed to the shelter of an ancient willow. Tea and biscuits were taken at a more leisurely pace and in the hours that followed we talked…and talked some more. We watched a Mink hunt and feed her young in the osier beds upon the opposite bank. Although alien to our shores and ultimately the nemesis of our native water vole, that had so enchanted my childhood, they are creatures of great beauty. The kettle had boiled dry and we realised that the time had come to cast again. The cool of the evening, the purple painted sky with dashes of orange and red was to be the backdrop for realised dreams…or broken hearts.

Rob! Rob! Bloody hell…ROB!!. The spell was broken again, this time more abruptly. With an urgency, I responded without a second thought. I ploughed through the cow parsley, stinging nettles (ow!) and the giant hogweed (ow again!) with no clear plan. Kev had hooked a "big 'un!" "Bloody hell, what kept you?"

"Sorry mate I was in a world of my own down there."

"I can't stop it, it's gonna make the weed bed in a mo, and then it'll be goodnight Vienna!"

"Keep the pressure on, keep your cool and remember that you're the one with the flippin' rod!"

The split cane creaked and groaned under the pressure and the centerpin reel gave out little whimpers as the fish took line. Slowly, slowly, slowly the battle turned in Kev's favour. First an inch, then a foot, then a yard of line was gained time momentarily stood still…suddenly the fish, like a bar of polished bronze was in the net and as I lifted it from the water, little droplets of pure Avon dripped down my arms and chest, the battle was won, the dream had been realised.

What did it weigh? Did it really matter? How could we measure the pleasure by numbers? We hugged like only old cherished friends can do…The moment will live in our hearts for ever. The ale tasted better that night in front of the fire. Where would we go from here….?