A lift of the spirits

I'll not mention the 'C' word, or the 'P' word, or talk about 'R' numbers. Such things have no place in an angling journal. But then, on the other hand, it's an ill wind that blows no good at all. Or so they say. Although today the breeze does have a bit of a chilly edge to it. Not quite a 'lazy' wind, but almost. (A lazy wind is one that can't be bothered to go around you, instead it just goes straight through.) Well, you did ask, but I digress. The point I was getting towards is this: the prevailing restrictions on personal freedoms have compelled all of us to refocus our attentions and inhabit a decidedly smaller day to day sphere. And this has left all of us with varying qualities of opportunity, dependent on our locale - or dare I say... mindset.

To throw in another time worn nugget of hearthside wisdom - familiarity breeds contempt. A little overly harsh maybe, but you get my drift. The thing is this - in being forced to inhabit a smaller world perhaps we are encouraged to view our environs through a new and different lens. A lens that can discern finer and more intimate detail that hitherto we missed on our rush towards those far horizons. In this finer detail, great riches I believe,  may await those with an open heart and eyes to see.

So, this afternoon, with these thoughts in mind, where better to be than my own parish. I'm back at the Whistle Brook, a stream which during those innumerable years BC,  I was completely unaware of, and the stream of course, completely unaware of me. And what a little gem it is.  Today I'm fishing just where it flows into a medieval mill pond. Chub, carp, bream, roach and perch all swim here and seem to be doing rather well, though I'm not set for any particular species, I'm just happy to be out. A fish - any fish, will be a welcome blessing and I'm equally excited with the prospect of glimpsing the professional anglers making a living here, who all the while are beclothed spectacularly in neon-blue.

I'm also excited with the prospect of christening some 'new' items that have long awaited the moment when they will cease to be inanimate curious and will instead be transformed (or perhaps re-awoken) to become real live fishing tackle again. Firstly my CAP54 reel, for my money one of the most desirable of the little spinning reels, it simply oozes French design style. I rescued it from a junk shop, where it was  jammed within a bird's nest of old nylon. Oh Liberte! Now I've refettled and serviced it and fitted a new bail spring and it positively purrs in appreciation. Clipped to the rod I am also hoping to christen today it seems almost lost - perhaps a little out of scale with the Marco Arun. My Lucky Strike would be a better pairing but never mind, next time. Unlike the CAP54, the Marco wasn't restored by me, but whoever did the work made a lovely job. My luck held on fleabay that day for certain. You never know what to expect from auction sites, but the seller was honest and helpful in answering my questions, so I felt a confidence in purchasing the rod that happily was justified. 

The Arun is quite a beast, a little more steely than I had thought it would be, but that said it does its job beautifully. A little overpowered today perhaps, unless I happen to become acquainted  with one of the resident carp or bigger chub that cruise about here like bronze torpedoes. I'm keeping things simple with a goose quill float, fished lift style with a single swan four inches from the size 16 hook, on which wiggles a single white maggot.

Trickling in a few loose offerings every now and then I begin to settle in to my swim, the birds resume their busy preparations for spring all around me and I'm feeling a peace and calmness that has been absent for a while. I'm trying to separate out the different birdsong I can hear, and I'm concentrating on an unfamiliar call when my float calls back my attention. I love fishing the lift, it tells so much and sometimes it never stops talking. Now, having remained silent for half an hour, it chatters to me about fish's tails flicking as they work around my bait. The bite when it comes is as memorable as the fish that follows - a complete lifting of the quill so that it lays flat on the surface then slides away. Setting the hook is a mere formality with such bites, and now a dogged jag-jagging that is all stripes and spiky fins.