An art worth learning
Michael Vestey
preoccupied with other things I've not I been able to fish on the Tay for the past two years, but a five-part series on Radio Four, The Philosopher, The Fish And The Dove, running for another three Sundays, has revived my enthusiasm so much that I feel I must return there next May. The BBC's Natural History Unit in Bristol had the bright idea of marking the 350th anniversary of the publication of the world's most notable fishing manual, Izaak Walton's The Compteat Angler, sub-titled, The Contemplative Man's Recreation.
It was even cleverer to have chosen that fine actor Geoffrey Palmer to present the programmes as he's also a passionate fly fisherman, confessing in the first episode that the rest of his activities have to be arranged around fishing. He's come to it only later in life, which was one of his few real regrets. Actually, in our week on the Tay, there isn't much time for contemplation except afterwards as, with glass in hand, one surveys from the top of the bank the glistening, rushing water and the dark, still pools, wondering where the bloody salmon are. Then you notice, with frustration, a glint of speckled silver and a fish leaping provocatively where you've just spent three hours maniacally casting. Walton knew all about that feeling, too, writing that the angler 'must bring a large measure of hope and patience and a love of propensity to the art itself.
Palmer read various extracts from the book and talked to fishermen in the Peak District where Walton spent much of his time fishing on the River Dove. We also heard from historians and naturalists. One fisherman believed angling was beautiful, 'a glorious physical art'. Walton certainly thought so:
Oh sir, doubt not that angling is an art. Is it not an art to deceive a trout with an artificial fly? A trout? That is more sharp sighted than any hawk .. . Doubt not therefore but that angling is an art and an art worth your learning. The question is, rather, whether you are capable of learning it.
An angler told Palmer that the rod becomes an extension of your arm and there was a marvellous harmony between you and your tackle which was quite spellbinding. I wouldn't go quite that far but I know what he means. Walton would have agreed with him:
For angling is like poetry. Men are born to be so. I mean, with inclinations to it though both may be heightened by discourse and practice but he that hopes to be a good angler. must bring an inquiring, searching, observing wit ...
Walton was born in Stafford, the son of tippler, the picturesque name for a trade somewhere between an innkeeper and an alehouse keeper. He was later apprenticed to his wealthy brother-in-law in London, possibly as an ironmonger, before returning to buy a farm in the north. His rod would have been made of cane or whalebone and the fishing line consisted of horse hair tied either to the end of the rod or passing through a ring and held by hand. Reels were only just coming in. John Bailey, a professional angler and writer, thought he'd be fascinated by the engineering of today's reels and the strong nylon lines.
Walton had learnt how to catch barbels, the shoal fish with barbs near their mouths, probably in the Thames or the River Lee. It seems they weren't highly regarded as food at the time, as he wrote:
The chub and he have, I think, both lost part of their credit by ill-cookery, they being reported the worst or coarsest of fresh water fish.
He thought they were cunning,
so lusty and cunning as to endanger the breaking of the angler's line by running his head forcibly towards any covert, hole or bank, striking at the line to break it off with his tail and also so cunning to nibble and suck off your worm close to the hook and yet avoid letting the hook come into his mouth.
Bailey thought their strength made them almost frightening to hook.
Walton regarded the salmon as the king of fish and they were once plentiful in the Dove, so much so, according to David Hunt of the Salmon and Trout Trust, that apprentices had clauses in their indentures that prevented their bosses feeding them salmon more than twice a week. Their decline began with the Industrial Revolution and the pollution caused by the textile mills using cheap water power. Later, coal-fired power stations heated the waters of the Dove and Trent and killed off any remaining salmon. When the salmon went, so did the otters, The closure of these has meant that the salmon can return and three quarters of a million have been introduced to the river since. The first to come back from the sea was spotted five years ago, the first recorded salmon for 70 years.
This is a delightful series, lulling with the sounds of water sliding gently over smooth stones or cascading more urgently in steeper drops. Now, where did I put my fishing rod?
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