The CI adventure “Hopes may rise on the Grasmere”

"No I think he needs help, but I don’t know who to ring, he’s obviously distressed and having some sort of breakdown, it’s very sad to see."

"And you’re sure he’s still there now?"

"Yes, and we saw him when it was almost dark last night, he was there for hours talking to himself and then casting a fishing rod. He seems even more agitated today."

"Aaah, so he was fishing?!"

"No the river was 50 yards away he was fishing on the grass and talking to imaginary people."

“Look madam thank you for ringing this in. Maybe best try and keep the kids away, and we will send someone over later to have a look and talk to him!”

By the shore of Grasmere lake I noticed I was being watched while I practiced, from behind a bush,  a chap trying to be hidden from my view not too successfully.  Then on the way back to the cottage I noticed same chap, one of two young pike fishermen just rolling up a cigarette and looking sheepish.

“Was it you watching?” I asked as friendly as I could muster.

“Yep, I’ve never really seen anyone fly casting up close”

“Do you want to try?” (jumping at my chance to try out my new teaching skills!).

“Oh yeah, brilliant, yeah”

So we set off for what I expected would be a simple 15 mins to get him casting some loops.

When I asked him to try and keep the rod tip in a straight line with the top of the opposite mountains, he etched the curved domes and pointy peaks of those distant heights, studiously followed the lines, crumbling down the crags, sweeping down the valley, and I swear he even etched the bloody main road on the far shore with the rod tip, following the progress of the bright red number 555 Bus to Keswick!.

Circles, eights and straights didn’t cure his bendy wrist, his focus shifted to the clouds and the rod tip swung around while he attempted to  encompass the entire universe. It was hopeless. I was feeling hopeless. My teaching ability… was hopeless.

During the triangle method a  stray breeze caught one of his waves and created the merest hint of a discernible loop.

“Whoopee look a loop!” I shouted not so much as encouragement, but more in desperation for a tangible result, to escape this dead end. He was a fishermen who was enthusiastic, wanted to learn and I was failing on my ass and running out of ideas.

“Maybe you need a fag break”, I said trying to create a break in this cruel cycle of futility to give my grey matter chance to reload a solution.

“I don’t smoke.”

“I thought you were rolling up a fag?”

“Nah,” ( he chuckled) “that was another joint but I was struggling to get the cardboard in”.

“How many have you had?” (and I thought he was just laid back).

“ Don’t know. About four, and we found some mushrooms growing walking down to the lake so,….um” … he petered off and was watching a crow flying over head and then was distracted by an autumn leaf drifting down to the ground. “So ,…um what did you say?”

“Well that was a really nice loop you made there fella….Well-done you” , I said,

“Yeah it was great I loved it” He grinned.

I left him there. I presume they had Pike baits on those rods, I pitied any poor Pike at that moment, they would probably just watch them swimming round in wide circles and marvelling at the  bendy rods and the colours. Probably just as well for all creatures involved. I couldn’t imagine what a snapping Pike jaw full of teeth would be like when your tripping out of your box on Psilocybin mushrooms.

As I trudged up the grassy mound back to the cottage watching my foot fall for sheep turds, I started seeing the little grey/ buff pointy buttons of Liberty cap mushrooms everywhere. Tempted? Nah!!

It was up in the public park in Grasmere that I set out my tape. I also set out my plant pots; my lesson plans; my notebook;my pen; my timer; my flask of hot coffee; and was tempted to put out a box of tissues too for the inevitable breakdown and tears. Only joking, I was at this stage feeling confident, just a tad pushed for time, and wondering if another 3 or 4 days prep may have been better.

I delighted at the sound of the Jackdaws circling down to the trees from the nearby crags, for whom life seemed an endless game with no rules, the sound of their cawing ricocheting off the rocks and stone cottages, adding a rich reverb to the calls. Elsewhere in the country they can frankly get on your tits a bit. But here it was a sound of my childhood holidays and always associated with this park. Whether it was the crystal clear mountain air and the surrounding crags and the rocks, that make them sound sharper and brighter, or whether they have regional accents and dialect I have no idea. But I was glad to have them for company and a constant chatter in the background made me feel right at home. Home at last.

Here I could give imaginary lessons to imaginary victims, talking out loud with half the fly rod in my hand, looking and sounding a complete village eejit. Pausing over lines and revisiting them desperately editing them down, changing the emphasis like learning for a drama school audition speech. Secure in the knowledge that nobody here knew me.

As it was, people seemed to get it, as the few comments I got were, “Are you practising for an exam”?

I needn't have worried on that count. No smug remarks about the river being the other direction, or “Yer daft bugger I’ll bet thee’s  caught nowt”.. Which you might expect from these northerners, But no, just minding their own business and letting others get on with their’s, is a proud Lancashire trademark. It reminded me those southern gits back home in Oundle can be such twats!”

What I should have been concerned about was the different, tough northern grass and the different length,  these sparser more robust utility mix of species, compared to the finer sports mix where I practised back at home, had never figured in my likely problems to encounter.

I had it in mind that I would work through the practical exam quickly to get on with the teaching, just pausing occasionally, to revisit and hone any loose parts. Back at home in Oundle, my last run through had been convincingly solid for me and done in less than an hour.. one mistake on the off side  accuracy cast at 45’ with the line crashing the rod tip was all that stood out.

( at least my tracking was right and the loop must have been tight).

That perfect 40 foot pickup on the metronome narrow false casts that I had drilled so regularly to get me calmly through the 1st exercise of the exam, here in Grasmere, I now found deserted me and were inconsistent. Once in the air I could make adjustments. But I had it fixed in my mind that first pick up had to be right. I couldn’t start the exam with a fail. And I was now failing over and over and over again.

I spent ages getting it sorted out and writing down short reminders to put in my mind, Little mantras to be used in the exam before I did each cast.

“Do not rush it! Slow PUaLD start; Remember to rotate; Slow and easy like butter; And… watch the bloody thing unfurl all the way… you numbnuts!! This would be my particular mantra for the first series of six false casts a 40’ with narrow loops on both forward and back casts.

For each task I had a different mantra, normally ending in Numbnuts, but occasionally in Twat, depending on how easily I should be able to manage them in my normal fishing.

For instance for the demonstrating wide loops, my simple little mantra was ;- “Like Butter, you Twat!” It gave me the key to the cast while the silly irrelevance of the put down lightened the mood and broke the tension.

Screwing up the first lift was a worry, but the first real problem came at the reach mend, when I needed to shoot line it stubbornly refused to shoot. Hitting it harder only resulted in the loose coil wrapping around the rod butt. I couldn’t get past it. 

Hours of noodling, failing, and growing panic later I came to the longer hauled casts, and the line simply refused to slip back and those once proud straight fly legs were now starting to take on a downward curve.

I mentally worked through the encyclopaedia of previous bad habits over my casting career to work out what horror had returned to haunt me. I then tried the casting from 50’ to 75’to finish this off.

Back at the field I’d practiced this by picking up 45’, slipping it on the back cast and then launching out, occasionally hitting the 90’ backing knot. Here I could barely slip any and hauling only sped up the line, but the shoot was pathetic.  This had to be the line.

That evening I filled up the sink with warm soapy water and just worked along the line with a ripped up bit of T’ shirt and watched the dirt come off. Had it been on the lake water where I had practiced roll casting or come off the field? I hedged my bets on that nitrate and phosphate rich, sludgy lake water ( thanks to the United Utilities water company). Next problem though was line slick, mine was stupidly back at home. Not packed in the last minute rush.

 The obvious solution, a local fishing shop John Norris was a 3 or 4 hour round trip over the mountains and I only had two full days of practice left, I couldn’t even think where to get Armour-All without a long schllep … I just couldn’t spare the time.

My exam was at 2pm in the afternoon, so I could buy some on the way and then have a practice in the field  and stretch out this bloody line that stubbornly refused to uncoil. In my mind I had a fix at least, a plan B to salvage this.

Plan C at present, was to leave all my clothes on the lake shore and do a lord Lucan!

Back on the field the next day, my first test was the hauled casts and the line moved through, a little stubbornly but a marked improvement at least the fly legs were straight again. I set through the exam again stumbling through each task until they were right and repeatable. The main problem was the first pick up off the grass being inconsistent.

Then thankfully, the fluff came off without me at first noticing. What  I immediately did notice was near perfect pickups. I was instantly back to myself of a few weeks ago when I had confidently felt “Put me out there in the exam tomorrow and I’ll lick this stage!”

This week had been about the teaching, with the perfected casting just ticking over each day to keep the feeling fresh,  but with all these struggles it was starting to dominate the quickly diminishing days and leaving me feeling further from the standard required while robbing my time.

This was silly I was getting so sensitive to what grass I was picking up off. Now I was aware of what I suspected was going on, I could feel it occasionally grabbing  the fluff as I lifted, sometimes at the first lift of the rod tip, but more often just as I accelerated into the stroke.

So I had to pray for finer shorter grass. I couldn’t improvise with yarn here or waste anymore time, I just put on half the width of egg yarn than I usually used, and when I realised I couldn’t see it too well, then tried touching up the ends with black marker pen to add contrast for the accuracy.

When it came at last to the hauled casts, that line again refused to budge without over cooking the stroke and getting some truly ugly loops. The line was fouled up already, But at least I now knew it was the line and not me, and now realised it was the grass and not entirely down to me. I was sure I was better than this.

As casting was not doing me any favours and eroding my confidence, I got back to the teaching bit.. I had a few public  interactions, mostly pleasant. One couple mid-afternoon came over from a cottage on the opposite side of the road and trundled over to chew the fat with me. Curiosity had got the better of them. They had seen me there till dusk the night before and was wondering if I was practicing for a championship of some sort.

Then I looked up to see two small kids had come running towards me from the playground, their mother stumbling after them managed to grab their hands, sweep them around, and lead them away by the wrists before they got to me.. I called over it was fine, but she was busy admonishing them as she dragged them back to the swings while nervously checking over her shoulder at me. So I went back to explain loops for the hundredth time to no one in particular.

That last evening I  again dumped the line in a washing up bowl of warm soapy water and rubbed it clean of all the silt that it had picked up, then it came out in a god awful tangle.. “Fuck”.

A text pinged up from Nick.. “Chris mate they have rescheduled your exam for 8am in the morning”…FUCK!!

Panic kicked in I had a cottage to pack up and clean, a car to load. A two and a half hour drive and I was hoping, relying, on getting the line slick,  a decent practice session and warm up before the exam…

I still had a load of editing, printing, and laminating to go this evening….” Oh fuck fuck fuck fuckity fuck fuck!”

I briefly thought about the Lord Lucan solution and gagged at the thought of a mouthful of that lake water, then about sending a text to  the organiser and saying “I’m sorry but I can’t make the early start at such short notice and would cancel the exam”.

That solution seemed to lift the stress and clear the air.,,, It wasn’t an option, but I was just exploring  the boundaries and possibilities, feeling some control and autonomy return … First thing untangle that line.. then the mess, then pack the car.

In my fly tying kit I found some dry fly silicone spray that I once bought on a whim and went about dressing the fly line with that, and I left it in big open coils in a wide cardboard tray. I figured I would transport it to the exam field like that to avoid the coils and polish it in the morning just before it was needed.

A brief call to Mr Gently Benevolent who says its fine to turn up later at the exam, “Don’t Worry!” And Yes, Of course, he will go and strangle Nick for panicking me…. And  yes of course he will grind up broken glass and put it in Nicks dinner, and laxatives, lots and lots of laxatives. “Don’t worry, You will take your exam and Nick will have the galloping shits, it will all be just fine”.

When I hit the sack I was struggling to work out what had happened and where the 8 o’clock start came from and who to believe … there was little sleep had that night.

7.30am I’m fully packed at last with a clean cottage disappearing in the rear view mirror and the heavy dark grey gloom ahead just lightening up, creating black silhouettes of the mountain peaks as the land was getting form again as the day started for us creatures of the daytime, yawning, stretching and scratching our nut sacks, heading out to an uncertain day of either minor triumphs or cruel failings. Shit happens, either way!

All the best to all out in sexyloops land,

Chris A.