Lifelines: An Anthology of Angling Anecdotes and More...

By Nathan Walter, Rod Sturdy, Paul Whitehouse and 2 more

Angling. Is there anything better? Setting up for a day's fishing at a favourite haunt, the beautiful countryside an enchanting backdrop to the anticipated aquatic battle that lies ahead. The dip of a float or a twitch on the rod top indicating some unseen interest in the angler's bait, before the float plunges under or the rod top rips round... now let the battle commence!

Of course, angling offers so much more than the ultimate outcome of a fish or two. The serenity, the beauty and the solitude that our waterways offer the intrepid piscator are truly amazing. Angling is spiritual; it's therapeutic and it manifests healing properties for the mind. There is an innate desire to fish in all of us that dates back through thousands of years of mankind's development; many anglers truly believe they were born to fish.

These sentiments are shared amongst the contributors to Lifelines. In all, twenty-eight actors, entertainers, filmmakers, authors, journalists and anglers bring you a selection of short stories centred around angling. Some are true, others are works of fiction.

Comedian, actor and one half of Mortimer and Whitehouse: Gone Fishing Paul Whitehouse reminisces on his experiences on the middle Dee one burning hot August weekend, Luke Jennings (creator of Villanelle and bestselling author of the Killing Eve series) takes us into the realms of the supernatural, and international wildlife filmmaker and Passion for Angling director Hugh Miles tells of a fatal encounter with the pumas of South America. Whether you're an angler or not yourself, you are sure to enjoy these and many other fantastic contributions. There's even a winter's ghost story to keep you company on a cold and windy night!

This is the perfect book to dip in and out of (if you can put it down) and has been expertly compiled by authors Nathan Walter and Rod Sturdy, who have chosen to donate all profits from the book to good causes, including the John Wilson Fishing Enterprise (jwfe.co.uk) which helps children and adults deal with mental health issues through angling.

Tight Lines!

• Language: English
• Publisher: A H Stockwell
• Release date: Jan 31, 2023
• ISBN: 9780722352335

Book preview

Introduction

This book was conceived at the height of the Covid-19 UK lockdown in 2020. Nathan was the prime mover, in that the original idea was his. He invited Rod to join him. This Rod agreed to do with enthusiasm: he devoted time to the task in hand, approaching likely contributors and subsequently assisting with intensive editing and proofreading.

All the while, the virus took its toll on the exposed and vulnerable. The world succumbed to paralysis as a consequence. Aeroplanes stopped flying, countries closed their borders; shops closed their shutters, in many cases no doubt never to re-open. Not least, we in the UK were banned from fishing!

Experts in health issues, computer modelling and pandemic management, were hired by the UK government to say their piece for public guidance. Predictions as to the likely scenarios for the UK varied enormously, as did of course opinions as to the necessary measures to minimise the impact of Covid-19.

As far as governments around the world are concerned, some took an authoritarian approach, sealed off their countries, banned internal travel and imposed draconian penalties for infringements. In a few cases this paid off handsomely. Some heads of state took a chance on early release from lockdown, taking the hit of high casualties. No doubt, in the case of democratic regimes at least, they will pay a penalty for this. Some countries will no doubt suffer severe consequences for decades to come.

It is interesting at this point to reflect that most of us have never had to go through the experience of a world war. But perhaps Covid-19 was something like a war. ‘The first casualty of war is truth,’ goes the saying. Disinformation, cover-ups and the rest proliferated round the globe as the pandemic raged. Perhaps it was a kind of wartime, with countries ranged against each other. But there was also heartening international co-operation. Vast sums were pledged to support research towards the creation and manufacture of a vaccine.

Inevitably, lockdown did begin to take its toll on the human mind. For most, apart from the most reclusive of us, life became more or less intolerable. Routine things like food shopping became something of a time-consuming strategic exercise. Life at the time, at least for the very elderly and most virus-prone, was described as like being under house arrest. Others were more colourful in their verdicts; many others clearly showed signs of significant mental health issues. Quite a few simply flouted official advice. Others commented that their lives were hardly any different.

What many people, even humble non-experts, could foresee is the simple fact that, because of the National Health Service concentrating its manpower and resources on coping with the pandemic, many other issues, just as important, or even in the long run much more important, were neglected. Accident and Emergency wards were strangely empty. Very many people stayed away from GP practices for fear of infection from others, or simply believing that they were doing the right thing by remaining at home, and as a result failing to report warning symptoms indicating possible serious illness. As a result, many cancers, heart problems and other potentially terminal conditions will beyond a shadow of a doubt not have been picked up at an early stage. What in normal times would have been trivial ailments will have been ignored, perhaps to develop into more serious ones. Routine dentistry was not carried out, no doubt a factor which will lead to more serious problems in the future.

Many think that such cases of neglect, leading to ailments not detected until at an advanced stage, and there will be many of them, should be regarded as the real horror stories of the pandemic.

Young people felt the effects of the pandemic particularly acutely. Children were deprived of real education for an extended period. Many, of an age to comprehend something of the reasons for lockdown, were overtaken by overpowering feelings of doom, despair and fear.

Disadvantaged youngsters, perhaps those having to witness abusive relationships at home, will also have been, in the true sense, victims of Covid-19. Kids in deprived areas, where crime is rife at the best of times, will, as ever, have felt pressurised to follow the trend.

Experts – and their number has proved to be as the number of the stars – warbled on with their differing views as to exactly how the Covid-19 pandemic will change the world. Our own feeling, for what it is worth, is that the political turmoil and re-alignment of international relations will carry on for a long time. But the truth is that nobody really knows, and this is possibly the most worrying thing of all.

Some things however will, we trust, carry on as before. Life would be intolerable without them. Which brings us to one vital issue: fishing!

Wednesday 13 May 2020 was a great day for our sport, at least in England. The Angling Trust had submitted to the government a clear, straightforward plan of how fishing could get back to the bank without prejudicing social distancing and other measures. It was accepted, a date for resumption was set, and that Wednesday in May saw an unprecedented angling revival. Lakes were packed with liberated anglers; many took their children fishing – and they loved it. At some venues there was not a vacant swim in sight!

Lots of kids discovered something they had not really thought much about before: the great outdoors. Smart phones and ipads were forgotten during these encounters with the natural world. Truly, to every dark cloud there is a silver lining.

Whilst arguments raged as to whether professional footballers should take a pay cut, whether such-and-such an event should be postponed until later in the year or simply cancelled outright, whether it was acceptable for a bowler to spit on a cricket ball to give it an aerodynamic edge; whilst media moguls were contemplating legal action over lost revenue from sports events which had to be cancelled, whilst horse racing resumed without the backdrop of the flamboyant social gatherings it is known for, whilst plans were being devised to stage other sporting encounters in camera with simulated applause as a backdrop, dear old fishing had emerged unscathed. Not only that, it was leading the field! And it was a real lifeline for so many of us: existing, new and returning anglers alike.

We hope these preceding paragraphs help to explain the charitable aim of this volume.

The other purpose is of course to celebrate the sport we all love, and perhaps to serve as a memento of the turbulent times we have lived through.

Certainly, there will be testing times ahead for all. May our sport prosper through all of them.

Rod Sturdy and Nathan Walter

Section 1

It’s About Time

by Fennel Hudson

Strange times, unusual times, ‘unprecedented’ times.

Time together, time apart, time alone.

Time at home, time at work. Time, ‘somewhere else’.

Time will tell; just need to wait?

Time to act. Time to save.

Lives at risk. Lives affected. Lives ended. Lives begun.

Hands, ticking; hands, working. Hands wondering, why?

New ways of being. Together.

Locking down, bucking up; rainbows chased, full spectrum.

A world online, indoors, connected?

Distanced, socially. Together, virtually.

Two metres. One metre. Smiles masked. Frowns visible.

Bubbles, protecting, shielding. Some on ice, waiting to be popped.

Celebrations pending.

Times a-changing.

New normal.

New ways of seeing

New styles of being.

Time with one’s thoughts, one’s friends, one’s memories.

Time to remember, time to praise, time to think.

Time to dream… of good times.

An hour carved, an hour earned; a second stolen, a minute made.

A busy moment, a quiet half hour.

Time invested, time wasted. Not a second to lose.

Deadlines, lifelines. Time sold. Time discovered.

Time to read, time to ponder. Time to be.

Time to worry. Time to freeze. Time to forget?

Time to stand still. Stand tall. Stand proud.

Time to laugh, time to cry, time to miss… and yearn… and seek.

Times we wish we could have again.

Time to look, time to cast, time to catch? Maybe.

Time to tie, in times that fly. Beauty in the detail, of every tiny action.

Time to rest. Time to recover

Time to see, more clearly.

Time to dream.

Dream big.

Dream bold.

Dream of those we love. Things we love.

Passions. Hobbies. Recreations.

Time to turn the page, back in time, forward in hope.

Turnings, movements, currents of life.

Upward curves, circles on the surface.

Ever onwards. Back to the beginning.

Local. Close. Huddled. Protected.

How it once was. Is. May be again.

Communities. Brotherhoods. Sisterhoods.

Young. Old. Bound together.

Making a difference.

Helping.

Reminding.

Getting busy. Doing what’s needed.

In the time we have.

Do you hear?

Voices without breath. Words on the breeze.

The river on the doorstep, calling.

Coming fishing?

I don’t have time.

Sure you do.

Coming fishing?

Yeah, okay.

Good. It’s about time.

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Section 2

THE FIRST CAST

The Beginning

1: Magic on the Dee

by Paul Whitehouse

A burning hot August week might be the stuff of dreams for ordinary mortals but it isn’t generally for anglers, unless you’re lucky enough to be chasing bonefish or tarpon across the flats in some exotic Caribbean destination. But the week I have in mind was thirty years or so ago, and I’m not sure bonefish had even been invented then. I certainly hadn’t heard of them, and I wasn’t in the Bahamas. I was on the glorious middle Dee though, exotic enough for me at the time, and still so today.

I was a relative newcomer to salmon fishing, and my oldest mate and fishing companion and I couldn’t believe we were lucky enough to get access to such a river. We’d had a few Spey casting lessons with the late, great unpredictable Hugh Falkus, and thankfully he’d taken a shine to us; I like to think it’s because we were a bit cocky and very different to some of the clients he had at his casting school up in Eskdale. Whatever the reason, we learned the rudiments of Spey casting – not to mention morning whisky drinking – and it was the start of our salmon fishing adventure.

We weren’t particularly in the know or privileged, so didn’t think we had any chance of getting onto a prestigious salmon river, but we had seen availability on the Commonty beat of the Aberdeenshire Dee in August and took a punt. Normally experienced salmon anglers avoid August like the plague (that’s why we were able to get on!) unless there is good water but there hadn’t been any rain to speak of for a few weeks with the river showing its bones. And the preceding days had been, to coin one of my own catchphrases, Scorchio! Although we weren’t very experienced in the pursuit of Salmo Salar, we were canny enough, having spent many hours on the hard-fished waters of the London Anglers Association as kids near where we lived. A lot of salmon fishers roll up at the beat at 9am whatever the conditions, especially the visiting angler who puts more faith in his or her breakfast than the vagaries of the salmon. Probably quite rightly and I might do the same myself these days. But our coarse fishing past and the long dash to the river at the crack of dawn to secure the best swims meant we had no fear of the early start. We were also acutely aware that the early bird is often the most successful, especially when conditions are tough.

So we were on the river by 5.30 a.m. already tackled up: 15’ double handed rod in hand, intermediate line, a fairly long leader and a tiny size 16 double hook silver stoat at the business end. The previous night’s whisky a memory now, as the joy of being on the river took hold. There was mist rising from the pool and the dawn light was magical. A big fish stirred not far out – easy to cover if my approach was cautious. Heart pumping, with a voice in my head saying don’t mess this up except it didn’t exactly say mess, I crouch-walked carefully up to the head of the pool across a wide shingle bed that had been exposed by the lack of rain. I started to pull line off my reel, the silence of a perfect morning shattered by the seemingly deafening roar of the ratchet. Gradually I worked my way down. The fish might have moved again… I really can’t remember anymore. As I say, I wasn’t the most practised Spey caster, and certainly not off my left shoulder, but the current at this point meant that a delicate roll cast was enough to put the tiny lure perfectly across the fish. I reached the spot, the line rolled out, swung round enticingly… a few slow retrieves and the line went solid as I hooked a tree trunk that someone had carelessly left in the river – except it wasn’t a tree trunk. It was the salmon, nearer twenty than fifteen pounds, and all hell broke loose.

I don’t remember much about the fight, but what happened after will stay with me forever. In those days we often took a fish for the pot. A fresh wild salmon was a real prize and meant a sumptuous dinner back at the hotel. I would never do it now, as we have even fewer of these magnificent creatures in our rivers, but the priest was called for and the last rites were administered.

I laid the beautiful prize down next to me and, because I was daft enough to smoke in those days, lit a cigarette and watched the world catch fire as the sun hauled itself over the treeline. A magical, if politically incorrect, moment which was just about to get more magical. I sensed a movement on the bank out of the corner of my eye and turned to see that most delightful creature of myth (certainly there were none where I lived), a red squirrel, come bounding across the sun-bleached pebbles towards me. If I had been more fanciful I’d have sworn it was coming with real intent, bordering on the psychotic. The beautiful creature bounded on fearlessly until it got within two feet of the salmon and the nicotine addict that had subdued it.

The squirrel, almost impossibly cute up close, looked at the salmon, until recently one of his fellow, living, wild creatures, then stared up at me and right into my eyes as if to say, Why did you do that? before bounding back to the woods. I like to think I’ve practised catch and release since then.

This wasn’t my first encounter with salmon on the Dee, though it was probably my most romantic. I was bowled over by the squirrel’s beauty and slightly scared of its intent: that’s pretty close to love I reckon. But I’d had a more extraordinary episode the previous spring.

The same friend and I were staying at the hotel that got us access to Commonty, but prior to that we had a couple of days in April on Sluie directly opposite. Sluie is not the most extensive or productive beat but it certainly has its moments and the section we fished was an easy wade over gently shelving shingle. The same pool on the opposite bank was called ‘Suicide’ because of the treacherous nature of the wade. No such problems for us. We could cover the water reasonably well with our one in three level of proficiency at Spey casting. Not that the wind was in our favour, howling across at us and depositing dust and topsoil from the fields across the water.

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Then came a sudden change as the wind dropped, the sun peered out from the clouds and the temperature lifted a couple of degrees. The daffodils took the opportunity to open a little bit and flash their message of better times to come and the newborn lambs gambolled friskily in the fields behind me. Well they might have done. I didn’t look round to check because on the far bank a fish had just moved. I fished with greater intensity, expecting that magical pull at any moment but I passed the point where the fish had shown without getting an offer.

I continued down the pool and the salmon showed again behind me. Typical and frustrating but I carried on down. As I did so I became aware of a slightly restrictive sensation while wading. I might have become entangled in a small branch on the river bed. I took another couple of steps but the feeling continued. This needed a bit of investigating so I reluctantly hauled myself towards the bank and found that I had become festooned with bright yellow ‘Stren’, which is, or was, a very popular type of monofilament that anglers