Fishing: Dark tales of witchery, water and madness
FISHING LINES
Your support helps us to tell the story
From reproductive rights to climate change to Big Tech, The Independent is on the ground when the story is developing. Whether it's investigating the financials of Elon Musk's pro-Trump PAC or producing our latest documentary, 'The A Word', which shines a light on the American women fighting for reproductive rights, we know how important it is to parse out the facts from the messaging.
At such a critical moment in US history, we need reporters on the ground. Your donation allows us to keep sending journalists to speak to both sides of the story.
The Independent is trusted by Americans across the entire political spectrum. And unlike many other quality news outlets, we choose not to lock Americans out of our reporting and analysis with paywalls. We believe quality journalism should be available to everyone, paid for by those who can afford it.
Your support makes all the difference.FEW BOOK titles convey the essence of fishing quite as well as Hugh Claypoole's The Witchery of Water. Those four words capture the sorcery that the smallest pond or brook weaves on anglers. Like most fishers, I can't pass even the most turbid canal without peering into its depths, hoping to spot something with fins. On a family Disneyland tour last year, I had to be dragged screaming from the Epcot aquarium, complaining that we'd only been there three hours.
Claypoole, sadly, doesn't try to answer why water possesses this almost mystical charisma for those who seek to capture its inhabitants, though many others have sought to do so, with varying degrees of success. One who has done a pretty good job was Chris McCully, whose The Other Side of the Stream won Book of the Year at the Angling Writers' Association conference and prizegiving last weekend.
This evening was especially noteworthy for one incident that illustrated perfectly Claypoole's premise that water casts a spell. It certainly did on some of my fellow scribes, who managed to exceed even the bounds of daffiness traditionally associated with those who fish and write. You're probably expecting a yarn that participants would blame on excessive toping. That might be excusable. This is far, far worse.
All in all, it was a pretty good conference. For many renowned writers, the highlight was meeting our president, Bernard Venables. Everyone seems to be spouting on about the cricket umpire Dickie Bird's autobiography being the best-selling sports book in history. It's not. It hasn't even reached a quarter of the total achieved by Bernard's seminal work, Mr Crabtree Goes Fishing, which altogether sold more than two million copies.
He also set up Angling Times. Small surprise he is called "the father of modern angling", though a better description would be "the father of true angling", given some of the unsavoury happenings that have crept into the sport.
He is looking a little frail, as well he might at 92, but it was a pretty good evening for a nonagenarian. He opened the conference and picked up the Tight Lines award for services to angling. As chairman, it fell to me to perform Bernard's presentation. It was a bit like awarding the Queen a crystal rosebowl for services to the nation, and I fluffed my lines.
Unfortunately, Bernard had to get home (he's working on another book), so he missed the evening's highlight, an event so lunatic that it even upstaged the raffle, where prizes included such sought-after items as a sack of feathers (for keen fly-tiers). It all came about because the author and journalist Neil Patterson fishes a rather exclusive stretch of the Kennet called The Wilderness. It was not far from the Millwaters Hotel, the conference venue. "You ought to see it. Beautiful water," Neil said. "Yes, we ought to," agreed those who were chatting to him. "Why don't we do it now?" And so they did.
Bear in mind that this conversation took place around midnight. It meant a taxi to somewhere near the river, then a two-mile walk in their dinner clothes. The bank was muddy. It was bitingly cold. Brambles tugged at their clothing. Worst of all, it was dark. Nobody had a torch. So they walked along the river, stumbling over branches, while Neil pointed out a good spot and the others admired it - without being able to see a thing. Neil tried to add atmosphere, I am told, by describing the reeds, the flow of the water, a willow where large chub lie. But it was like belly dancing to a Venusian.
When they reached the end of the stretch, they had to walk all the way back to the hotel. I asked one of the party what they had seen. "Well, er, nothing," he said. "It was like looking into a very dark room."
I have to tell you that among those involved in this madness were John Hotchkiss, managing director of The Auction Channel, and our association secretary, David Profumo, who writes for Country Life. I intend to raise the matter at our next committee meeting - largely because I wasn't invited.
Join our commenting forum
Join thought-provoking conversations, follow other Independent readers and see their replies
Comments