has come, albeit usually a trifle late.
Much the same applies to salmon-fishing. A route to madness lies in brooding all summer about what may or may not be happening to familiar rivers when one is not oneself casting on them. I reach for my ear defenders when anyone rushes up at a party intending to describe record catches – or, for that matter, no catches at all – on the very beat one is due to visit a fortnight hence. Likewise, I have abandoned an old habit of checking the weather on a given river day by day through the week before visiting it. What happens to Jack Smith on Thursday or Friday has absolutely no bearing upon what will happen to you or me the following Monday or Tuesday. As flies to wanton boys are we to the gods, and all that. Better just to turn up on the bank when the time comes, willing, eager and oblivious of recent history.
You will not be surprised to hear me confess, of course, that it has taken fifty-nine years to become this phlegmatic creature. Patience is much easier when one enjoys many other things in life as well as sport. In my twenties I was obsessed to an unhealthy degree with shooting and fishing. These things meant more to me than anything else. I did not get many chances, and consoled myself by falling asleep every night reading about other people’s sporting doings in country books and magazines. In the unlikely event that I had been given a choice between driven pheasant-shooting and a date with Diana Rigg, it would have been a tough call.
These days, like many sportsmen I find that the prospect which stirs most vivid excitement is the chance of a grouse. There is absolutely nothing which I would not cancel – weddings, funerals, christenings – to enjoy the privilege of missing those sublime birds. And even with grouse, I have trained myself not to think about them until a magical day in August, when one glances at the calendar and says, with studied carelessness: ‘Oh well, better get ready. Yorkshire tomorrow.’
It is fortunate that grouse do not become operational until the garden is way over the top, the sweet peas hang limp and yellow, it is past time to spray the roses, and in the kitchen garden only runner beans will notice that one is away. My father believed that matters were divinely arranged so that grouse and partridges could be eaten with the last of those same beans, but this represented a touch of blasphemy on his part. What is true, I think, is that there comes a moment when we have had enough of the fag-end of summer, and embrace the coming of autumn: a new season, and in many respects the most pleasing. Summers sometimes disappoint; autumns seldom do. The first ground frosts feel absolutely right as one stands waiting for partridges – or, in a perfect world, casting across Tweed in October or November. We might, however, offer a petition to the Almighty to stop autumn gales blowing leaves all over the river while one is trying to cast a fly. It is enough to turn anyone into an atheist, when the British seasons start overdoing things in the fashion they have affected lately. Two years ago we could not even fish Tweed in mid-October, because the river was at a June drought level.
The pheasants that clatter aloft unscathed at the end of an October partridge drive, taking flying lessons for November, offer promise of good things to come. Yet pheasant-shooting has suffered more than any other field sport from upheavals in the climate. At midwinter we want to shoot on cold, crisp days with a hard frost and maybe even a little snow. That is what our forefathers did. They wrote reams of doggerel extolling the beauties of Christmas cock pheasants paddling about in the drifts.
Today, instead, we find ourselves turning out again and again on mild, soggy days when nobody, including the birds, really wants to do it. The abolition of our traditional winter, especially in the south of England, is a blow to field sports. There seems little chance that God will change his mind and restore the old weather pattern – indeed, if anything, matters will become more difficult as the effects of global warming become ever more apparent. The best we can hope for, these days, is a few sharp, chilly days in January, towards the back end. I don’t know about you, but I have had enough by then. I feel ready to stop, flee from England for a while, then turn to the garden again. I never sob for anything lost on the first of February. I am merely boundlessly grateful for the fun I have had, and happy to wait for it all to start again with the trout in late spring. ‘To every thing there is a season,’ wrote the sage in Ecclesiastes, ‘and a time to every purpose under the heaven.’ The old boy never said a truer word.
THE GREAT Richard Walker once suggested dismissively that ‘The most difficult thing about dry fly-fishing is to find somewhere to practise it.’ He seems right up to a point. Now that so few of even the great south of England chalk streams offer truly wild fish, the art of the dry fly is diminished from the days Skues and Dunne knew. Yet for many of us, there remains a magic about fishing a river which is absent from still waters, save perhaps those of Scotland and Ireland. It seems worth every penny of the alarming cheques one must write, to savour the joy of casting beneath willows and among the rushes for a chalk stream trout. I would pay at least half the money each year merely for the privilege of walking the banks without a rod, watching the fish and the wildlife in summer. Even many professionals, I think, are drawn to a career in a fishery for the same reason.
The man who influences my own happiness on dry fly water more than any other lives in a modest cottage maybe half a mile from my own home, and a long cast from the river where he plies his trade – no, surely we should call it a profession. My daughter remarked the other day that she reckons only one in ten of the people she knows have jobs which they enjoy. This seems a fair guess. It does not represent mere sentiment to suggest that the career contentment quotient is higher in the country than in town. Those fortunate enough to forge a lifestyle working with nature are more likely to achieve happiness than people who merely massage money through their working days.
Our local river keeper, Stephen Jones on the Kennet at Chilton Foliat, seems one of the most fulfilled men I have ever met. Everybody who meets Stephen goes away muttering that he ought to be chairman of Microsoft or suchlike. He is forty-six, bright, decisive and fluent. But no, all his life he has wanted only to be a river keeper. This is fortunate for those of us who fish with him, because he is very good at it. And maybe it is also lucky for him. Here is a man who knows exactly what he wants, and knows that he has got it. He grew up in Southampton, where his father worked in a bank. It remains a mystery whence sprang his enthusiasm for running streams. The family used to visit the New Forest a lot, and as a teenager Stephen did some pretty unsuccessful fishing on the public water of the Itchen estuary. But somehow the idea of working on a river got into his head, and stayed there. His father always said: ‘Make sure you get a job you enjoy.’
A family farming friend mentioned that Sparsholt College was starting a fishery management course. Stephen enrolled for it. Meanwhile, at sixteen, when he left school – ‘They didn’t think I was the sharpest knife in the box’ – he spent a year’s apprenticeship on the Test at Broadlands. There, he says wryly, ‘Working among men I did a lot of growing up very quickly.’ After college he spent three years at Packington Fishery in Warwickshire, which he enjoyed but found very commercial: ‘Rods really wanted their pound of flesh.’ Then as now, he himself fished very little. Like gamekeepers who scarcely trouble to shoot, Stephen is a typical river keeper in that he gains his pleasure from living with the water, and from watching others cast. He is a good entomologist, but learned about insects from watching fly on the water, rather than from books. He knows his birds, is less confident with plants, ‘But I’m still learning.’
He came to the Kennet in 1982, at a time when the Chilton Fishery was in poor health, after years in thrall to a Thames Conservancy policy designed to speed flow and improve field drainage for the only rural activity that seemed to matter in those days – growing corn. The estate syndicate could not sell all its rods, and was losing money. Stephen worked at increasing weed growth, putting bends back into the stream. He started rearing his own trout for stocking at the end of the season, ‘Which is a big plus at the beginning of the next one, because you don’t have a river full of gullible fish.’
Today,
