Chased by the Harvest Moon

 I love this time of year. The passing of such a glorious summer as we cling on to some warmer days just past the equinox, but these last few nights have been cold and are a reminder of what is to come. The season of plenty is just about hanging on as hedgerow fruits and orchard fair are sweet after a few golden months and my thoughts turn to wood stores and is there enough to see out the harsher, colder days to come.

It's always good to go with an instinct....as it usually is with the angler who treads his path all the months of the year. He just knows. As it was for me yesterday afternoon. I just knew I had to be by the water, still water as it may very well be my last chance to say farewell to the fish of summer - the crucian and tench. Also, there was the prospect of a Harvest Moon and these occurrences never fail when an angler gets a calling to go fishing. 

I love the old ponds which are hidden in a remote Wiltshire valley. It's a lost landscape in a wealthy corner of the county where the old farming ways and ramshackle out-buildings still harbour the memories of the old days. It won't last forever, nothing ever does, so I enjoy it for the time being knowing full well I am the only one here with just the church bells for company along with the cattle gently grazing the valley slopes. I know the swallows will not be joining me this evening - they are all near the coast feasting, whirling and whorling before they head for warmer days - during the summer you can set the church clock for their arrival to feed and when they arrive and what joy they bring. Not this evening, the pool is eerily silent, covered in a thick paint like blanket weed and algal bloom and no stirring to betray the presence of the creatures beneath.

The breeze drifts along my sheltered path and it brings a chill wind scented with woodsmoke and the spice of trodden ground and herbage...would there be a chance, just one to say farewell to summer?

I travel light, shoulder bag, rod, net, bait and flask of tea but today I am glad I have a warm hat to keep out the chill which is already creeping into the shadier parts of the pond. A few hens egg sized lumps of "special stuff" fizzy ground bait and maggots over the top and I wait.

A few bubbles betray the movings and ploddings of something stirring beneath the weed and it is not long before the first crucian is being admired before being quickly returned. A beautiful smaller bar of gold comes quite soon after the first and just like the swallows they are gone as quickly as they arrive. 

I go for a walk, make tea and as the dew gathers have a wonderful evening catching what will surely be the last tench of the season. These lovely fish, as green as weed, are a joy to catch and for once I am glad I have brought my steely Sowerbutts Roach Master rod which steers these glorious creatures away from weed beds and lily pads. I pack up with a rising Harvest Moon for company and a warm glow as the moon becomes a Hunters Moon seeing me home, chasing me home as I drift from the folds of Wiltshire and into Dorset and the warmth of an early home fire.  

  

Summoned by Bells

Another fishing season begins…June’s Glorious 16^th seems to come round quicker these days just as life’s turning does and the way I notice the changing of the seasons and mark each coming and going on the previous years experience – the joy of reaching a significant age maybe? I just seem to notice it more now – once I felt and looked the youngest of our merry band who meet at this time, as we have always done for over thirty years, and now we sort of look similar – musty, creaking like our cane with age but in our hearts we are young and still miss those who had the happy times with us but are no longer here. We toast them each year and laugh heartily as we recount wonderful tales of joy and friendship.

I have been to the place that calls me so often, at all ages, in all weathers, physically, in my dreams, often alone, with my friends, some of my closest friends and we did realise at the time we were living the dream as we cast our baited hooks for myths and legends. These days it’s just the being there that’s enough. Comfortable in each other’s company and comfortable just listening, sitting, watching and noticing. We almost get enveloped by the place and are growing old like its ancient trees that have witnessed so much of us. Boy and man.

I wouldn’t change the way I see in the new season for anything. I missed one year in pursuit of another quarry and my capture became my wife much to the amusement of my pals – back then as I watched the sparkling sea from our small cliff top tent I toasted them and sent good wishes on the wind. It stays with you wherever you are and with the closing of the eyes you can be walking, watching each footfall in front of the other as you creep quietly over centuries of fallen leaves along a fisherman’s path so familiar you could walk it blindfolded.

I fished last night at another place I hold dearly and have written of fondly in my anglers journal – it was so peaceful and quiet – a sense of quiet I had not experienced for a while. It felt like I was the only person alive, but perhaps not. The hum of insects and fizzing of fish were the only indication that this scene was moving and not still.

My mind wandered to friends who I have shared such days with before and are now fishing more celestial waters – are they here on the light warm breeze? Do they see the float as I do? I like to think so. As the kettle finally boiled and smoke drifted across my pond the wind brought with it the sound of church bells as soft as a hand on my shoulder. It felt reassuring.The float twitched and slid away as floats sometimes have a liking to do on a summer evening…   

      

Purbeck Quarryman

I have mentioned in the past how intrigued I am when I find some of the artists I like have such close connections to others - this sparks a new avenue of interest and such was the case with Mary Spencer Watson who I came across whilst admiring the works of her father George and the photographs of Helen Muspratt.

This delightful carving of a Purbeck Quarryman is in the churchyard at Langton Matravers near Swanage in the Purbecks, Dorset. Carved for the millennium and weathering nicely. I was pleased, on a recent visit to the treasure trove that is Dorset County Museum in Dorchester, to find a working scaled down model of the same Quarryman. Treasures hidden in the Dorset landscape.   

The nine o'clock chimes

As you have probably guessed, the crucian bug has got a hold of me. Who can blame me when fishing such a delightful ancient pool as this. Time just seems to disappear there. Always so much to take in from the abundant wildlife to cloud formations, church chimes and oh no! The float has gone under once more and another bite has been missed.

It was such an evening recently. I was joined by Merv who started to fish and had no idea I was actually there. I had not heard him arrive. A quiet raspberry made him look round in astonishment. We were then joined by Chris who came down for natterings only and no fishing. He departed just as the light was thinning - his parting words were "remember it will all happen at 9 o'clock, I guarantee it".  

I brewed some tea, we ate some biscuits and I heard the splashings of Merv landing a crucian - then my float dipped and I lost one...........just as the church clock chimed nine. We haven't told him he was right. We wouldn't hear the end of it. As Merv left, my float dipped and I too landed a small lump of gold - just enough to keep me going until the next time I am here again.

Friday Faces

A few Faces for Friday, for your edification.......these from the most wonderful wooden panelling which once stood in the lost village of Tyneham near the Purbeck coast in Dorset.

Friday Face

Green Woman - organ pipe shade detail, Lyme Regis, Dorset

The Cellandine shuffle

I adore this time of year. It gathers pace. Blink and you miss things. The trout season started the other week and I am now getting twitchy. I usually take a little break before I cast a fly line, but I cannot wait any longer. My time will come this week. It is likely to be my local West Dorset streams and I will come to the Stour Valley a week or so later.

The swallows are here in growing numbers, the dace are thinking of spawning - large gathers of the silver lovelies are on the sparkling shallows doing the early spawning shuffle. Just thinking about it. They leave the group to sip at a fly and then get back to it. 

The church you see here is one of my favourite Stour Valley spots - nestled in a fold of nowhere its flint walls reflect in the pure chalk waters of the trout stream you can hear as you while away some time in the churchyard. This I do regularly whilst eating my lunch. The dace do a spawning shuffle as I do a cellandine shuffle. It is a special place. Much has happened here in days gone by and more is to come, but at this moment in time I could be the only person alive as I hear nothing other than the babble of the stream.  

Stour man, man of the Stour?

After fishing the Hampshire Avon off and on for well over 30 years I realised that actually my affections were swinging towards another river - the Dorset Stour. I have always had a liking for it, especially the middle and upper reaches. 

As the year turned I also realised that I no longer have any permits to fish the Avon - all of mine are for the Stour. I can't really call myself a man of the Stour as I guess that honour comes after many more years treading its banks but I do know my love is strong for this jewel of a river, so long in its near neighbours shadow.

You will have noticed from my recent posts that pike have got a hold of me lately - I really enjoy the simplicity of pike fishing, especially when it involves a lightweight spinning rod, net and shoulder bag. What with last knockings edging ever so closely to 6pm I can even sneak in quick after work trips on my way home and again start to feel like all is getting along nicely with the world again.

There has been something of a shift this last week or so. The noise generated by the birds is just superb. Not just at home, but riverside as well. My latest foray was made even more enjoyable by the birdsong - what is it at this time of year when a blackbird is in full voice? They stopped me in my tracks as I cast my Ondex spinner in search of a Stour Esox. 

My last few trips here have rewarded me with sightings and sounds of the shy water rail - on each occasion I see and hear him going about his delicate business hoping to not be spotted.  

I can walk miles travelling light, only guided by the distant church bell chimes as to how far I have actually walked. This last trip had seen me have my fill as I got back to the car as the Norman church bell rang out at six - four small fish to about 7lbs was enough to keep me going and give me my fix until my next trip. The verges around the church awash with snowdrop, crocus and daffodil.

How old are yew?

This mighty fine specimen of a Yew is reputed to be over 1,500 years old. I was first acquainted with it back in the late 1980's. I was fishing a lovely little pool a short walk away and decided to take a late summer stroll over to the delightful church of Much Marcle. I returned recently and not much has changed. I have not returned to the pool however. There was something always not quite right about the place - I am sure we all fish places where you occasionally keep looking over your shoulder, well, this was such a place. Two Terriers put it perfectly, you whistle loudly on your way back to the car! The atmosphere was not one of welcome, it became dark and brooding very quickly. I wasn't the only one who thought the same. The church and its environs are quite the opposite and I do hope that this Yew is still standing and observing all who come and go for another 1,500 years. Look at the last picture below - How many faces can you see on the bark inside the Yew?

The lost village of Tyneham Pt 2

Friday Face

A Painter's Camera - John Piper