Sunday 27 September 2015

Love letter from a pike




Love letter from a pike
 

I am the shadow that swims beneath 

I am a ghost that never was
 
I am the chill of winter dawn

I am pike

I am a spear that roars for blood

all fin and fang and dark desire
 
You are the glitter in my eye 

the merest tremble and you are mine

I am pike





Friday 18 September 2015

Brownlining

I have made a discovery. I am, when it comes down to it a bit of a snob. I made this discovery today when I ventured forth to a nearby metropolis for a bit of 'brownlining'. 

This is not some deviant and beastly act you understand - brownlining is in fact a rather prosaic alternative for 'urban fishing' which I understand is fast becoming all the rage. Another monica for this is 'street fishing' which leads me to think about 'street food' and 'street fashion' and I wonder if it's possible to cast properly wearing a pair of drop crotch and holding a kebab. I digress. Let's keep it real.

It all starts when a friend shows me a photo of very good fish he has caught from a stream running through the centre of an urban park. It fires up my imagination and having an early finish from work today, I decide to give it a go myself.

Following his directions I park behind Tesco and tackle-up on the street. A man in a long rain coat is standing on the corner waiting for something. I can feel his eyes scrutinizing me as I  put on my polaroids, hook my fly in the keeper ring and clip my net to my belt. In fact I feel a bit of a freak as I make my way along the street to the river. This isn't helped by the fact that the park is accessed through a children's play area. 

But I find the little river and it is rather sweet and looks very 'perchy'. I flick a short cast out and start to enjoy the sun dappled ripple of the water as the distinctive aroma of dog shit reaches my nostrils. On inspection there is indeed rather a lot of dog shit along the bank. Yes siree, biblical proportions. Now I know what a stripping basket is really for.

Never mind, what did you expect? No takes so I move along to the next fishable swim. A few more flicks out, tie on a new fly to replace the one now adorning the Tesco trolley that creates such an interesting riffle, try a new spot..
Happy enough though until after ten minutes or so a voice calls from the far bank "what is you?" A rhetorical question I assume but his hoody companion replies for me never the less. "It's a fish-er-man"  then he adds helpfully - "let's snap his rod". But like the fish in this river I fail to rise to the bait and the brace of hoodies soon get bored and drift off down stream. 

Unperturbed I fish on but remain fishless. I'm a bit put off my stroke to be honest. Not by the earlier attentions of my adoring audience I don't think. It's more the Yamaha 2 stroke dirt bike pulling donuts behind me. Never mind, there are some interesting spots on that far bank and with the arrival of a second motocrosser it's getting a little crowded just here.

So I make my merry way to the small foot bridge down stream to cross over the river. My good friends the hoodies are standing like trolls on the bridge. "Look it's the fish-er-man let's snap his rod" just loudly enough that I can hear. I stride towards them, at them, trying to appear relaxed but I feel my grip tighten on the net handle. Their earlier confidence evaporates and they move aside. They are kids really but they are friends with the bike riders  and I know how these things work so I don't hang around too long. 

I try a few marks on the far bank but I'm just going through the motions. On this side of the river the park is effectively a narrow corridor of grass between high hedges. A mugger's paradise. Somewhere behind the hedge a mother is screaming at her child. I decide to call short my visit but don't think I should cross back over the bridge again. That would be pushing my luck. 

So I carry on in a long loop through the park looking for a crossing point upstream to get back to the car. The hedges crowd in ever tighter as I traverse what is evidently the town dog toilet. Then joy of joys I glimpse civilisation and high street traffic. Before I leave the park I break down my tackle and stow it all out of sight bundled in my jacket to look as civilian as possible. 


As I leave the park I see the reassuring sight of a young father sitting on a bench with his toddler. But as I approach he becomes agitated and is fumbling to release the brakes on his baby buggy. As he scoops his daughter up I see that the mature, smartly dressed and very drunk woman sitting next to him has just vomited copiously onto his shoes. It is 4pm.