Parting Ways

However, it’s most noticeably heralded in the occasional whisper of breeze through the trees. In summer a warm gentlesigh or breath, close by your nape, or brushing your cheek; harmoniously playing a gentle rustling in the leaves, while delivering the fragrance of freshness, new life, sometimes intoxicated with the aromas from the wild Briar Roses and the Meadowsweet; now though, at summer’s end, this breeze has a bite of the frozen east, it jars and rattles, and creates crackles and creaks. With brief chilled shivers running down your spine, slicing cruelly through the late summer warmth, and exhales the rich earthy, and musky aromas from the undergrowth, foretelling of the coming regeneration and change.

It’s funny, being the kind of sentimentalist that I am,  that I never knowingly have the last cast for that season, or wistfully  put the rod away for the final time that year, it just seems to peter out as thoughts turn away from catching Trout and towards their future welfare. A day comes, long before the close season in the rules of ‘Man and his meddling bylaws, when I am no longer comfortable taking energy away from these creatures who are desperately building it up towards the breeding season and recovery. When their year of feeding and growing and surviving, soon culminates,  my pleasures I feel, are too taxing for their needs. So the urge to catch is tipped towards the urge to nurture, and a nagging urgency is felt to plan out and complete the gravel cleaning and fluffing up the redds, those nursery beds; all in plenty of time.

For the club, materials needed, planned for the winter tasks ahead, are bought in and squirreled away. With little discussion the direction is set and settled upon. Based loosely upon the ‘next chores’ to be ticked off on that ‘things-to-do-list’ for Trout stream restoration, those recommendations of the Wild Trout Trust. This along with remedial work of repairing banks, reacting to areas of the stream that could now function better with the addition of some squeezing of the current, diverting, or silt trapping, And then if there’s anything still yet to be completed from the previous year. If there’s discussion at all, it’s usually prioritising, and it is easily cededor dictated by the weather.

Then, all this good intention can get thrown in to disarray, reacting to the surprise gifts that nature has delivered; branches and entire trees tumbling in the winter storms, left crossing the Brook or blocking its flows. Dealing with these can divert a lot of resources,  but they crash down  delivering a bounty of priceless large woody debris to be nudged into place and adapted into the flow, sculpting the brook and creating cover, habitat and hidey holes, while additionally being a complete pain in the butt to fish around for us pesky anglers, and thus would at one time not long past, have been hoicked out as a matter of course.

But for a big fat old Trout or  a number of vulnerable young juveniles, these features soon become  very desirable new residences in this neighbourhood.

Now though, most in the club and the farmers realise these are essential elements of a healthy stream. For the Angler, the number of fish caught around these features are a testament to their value, even if a few flies are lost to them, long drifts ruined and they make a  leisurely wade up the river bed slightly more chaotic and comical; the cost benefit analysis is plain for all to see.

Numerous times I’ve stood looking at the aftermath of a good howling rage of a storm, and heard the words of another onlooker, something like; “ Oh no ,that’s devastating, what a nightmare!” While I am thinking; “Wow that’s pure Golddust! A big pile of habitat, straight  into our Brook. What a blessing from above!” Divine intervention from the river Gods.

Throughout fall and winter, while working with it,  the swollen stream flows often dark, tinged with colour and seemingly lifeless, its function appears, when viewed from the bankside, to carry away the spoils and dirt and debris in a steady, unceasing  flow out of the valley, to then settle it down-stream in some slack eddy, or to discharge into the main river, enroute to the sea.

The Brook is at this time a mere drain, when viewed in the eyes of many, and unrecognisable, from its babbling brook, gin clear fecundity of summer.

In the club no lone voice now preached and went out on a limb, rebelled against the party line and ploughed his own furrow. I had no need, that battle was won.  

The club as a collective had its direction set out and all pulled towards it, a regular team of faces, a core of interested and enthusiastic helpers appeared to the winter works parties. The old secretary, the old chairman; the old Doc and his sons; the old freshwater boffin; the old farm labourer and mole catcher; and half a dozen more characters, mostly ‘Old’ too. Men mostly foreign to these tasks and unfamiliar to the  tools, would always turn up and do what they could, seemingly enjoy getting dirty and being in a team of labour, which I guessed was novel for them too.

The script was now written and these actors played the parts.

In the inevitable politics that shadowed over the club, the old chairman stood down and the old Doc who’d been my ally through the transition from stocking, took his place. The secretary stood down and his roles and responsibilities were split up. The new secretary had much less to manage and influence. My unofficial function was occasionally to oil the cogs of the machine or give it a nudge, to maintain momentum, rather than my previous mode, which was more akin to putting a spanner in the works at times . My official role however in the new set up, was to do the monitoring of insect life, and the water quality, to attend conferences on habitat and trout welfare, and report back to the AGM. And finally Bill, another ally in the push to make the stream wild, became the treasurer.

I’d avoided official executive roles, so I could still work independently of the clubs constraints when necessary, and was only answerable as an individual. It suited me better.

I wasn’t present at the AGM, when the dastardly Max became the club secretary, this was a serious step backwards, in any case, I could have done little to change the outcome without putting myself forward to becoming secretary myself, that really would have constrained me too much.

I hated this decision made, and immediately hated what he was doing to the club and the murmurs of re-stocking the upper reaches with farmed fish, meant my previous hatred now became a complete and utter loathing of the creature.

Therefore, in his time I kept myself on the margins and my head down and focused on what was good for the Brook and our wild Trout and ignored his smarmy, obsequious, sycophantic attempts to ingratiate himself in to the club and his toadying attempts for acceptance from its members. I really wasn’t a happy chap!

I was back being a lone operator and patiently waited it out, when that issue was raised though by Max himself , to restock the upper beats. My response didn’t invite discussion or give space to be drawn into debate, aware that there were probably prepared answers and I couldn’t be bothered to revisit this ground. I just said matter of factly ….”That ain’t going to fuckin happen!” and just stared him out. No one else in the room spoke and after a period of silence, thankfully the agenda moved on. 

That ended the discussion. I didn’t feel particularly proud or relieved, but on the basis of my last encounter with the odious Max, and how he’d peppered the stream with ‘Private No Fishing’ signs, I was happy to lower myself to his level on this occasion, and again found dropping a rare expletive in an meeting, worked perfectly as a Full Stop. Discussion’s End!

So I can tell you, I was rarely so happy in life, as when I read the words in the minutes of the upcoming AGM. ”Max was moving away and would no longer be able to be the secretary or to be a member of the club”.  Such a weight lifted. It was joyous news, champagne cork popping news, made all the sweeter when the old freshwater boffin moved into the role of club secretary.

Now I had my 3 main allies holding the main executive posts, the future for the Wild trout seemed more optimistic and assured; with these three in the posts, there would never be a return to stocking farmed fish in the Willow brook .. 

As winter passed and the fishing approached, working parties of as many club members as could be mustered would do the hasty bank clearances, to make the fishing a little easier and navigating the banksides less onerous. This ancient club ritual was about one thing only; planning for fishing. Though it jarred a little with my puritanical habitat principles, I could see the value for the club, and it was good opportunity to sound out other members. Then bird nesting began and cutting of the still bare, branches of the shrubs and trees legally and morally ceased and all that was left to do, was fish.

The clocks changed, the days were suddenly longer, flowers appeared on bare branches, you turned your head a moment and looked back and the whole land was green again and full of bird song and a whispering breeze, where just weeks back the winds howled and moaned. The waters of the Brook crinkled and cleared, the gravel on the bed came back into view, and the steady flowing gentle roar of winter, broke into a melody as the waters dropped to summer levels and the flow again cascaded over drops and then rattled over the riffles, gurgled through a small squeeze before sliding melodiously  through a pool. The Brook was on song again.

 In sunny patches above the waters, insects appeared and then finally a ring of ripple on the surface appeared as the Trout looked up again, on the feed. Every dry fly fisherman’s dream and call to arms.

So sudden comes upon you this change of spring; after little clues of swelling buds and then carpets of snowdrops and winter Aconites covering bare earth and then, in the occasional stillness, warm patches of sunlight return to be savoured and cherished within a chilly week.

The march forward from the dark cold, is at an easy pace at first with natures gently dropped hints; those clues and the whispers of transformation in the flower borders and hedgerows and up in the trees gradually quickening,  yet the main event still seems quite remote for the hopelessly  naïve.  Then your caught unawares and distracted, too rushed with life for a moment, suddenly those daffodils are fading before you really looked,  a sudden breeze on an unwelcome grey day shakes down the best of the cherry blossom, mostly wasted on the deck, a brief pink carpet soon to be blown away or saturated in an icy shower, never to glow as brilliantly again against the azure blue skies and fluffy white clouds. You’ve allowed it to pass you by.

A mild panic and remorse as you realise that you should have stopped and taken it in; to savour it.. this glorious event is passed for yet another year, and sadly a dawning comprehension gnaws at your soul, that its one less in the total count your gifted to experience. Once there were endless more springs to waste away, but now how many to go, a few dozen at most, maybe many less? You should have stopped and looked around, relished and considered that beauty. Beauty must never be wastefully ignored. You forgot to live in the moment, again.

Fishing starts in earnest and all other concerns of the Brook are put on the back burner. Until those Blue Winged Olives finally fall back to the waters,  then I will fish at every opportunity that I am gifted. I often drive with a rod still made up in the car, the tip lolling about over the passenger seat just in my peripheral vision, it’s comforting being ready to go,  ready so that I can grab a few precious moments at the end of a drive back from London, the rush and dreadful traffic; to make the transition to calm, before finally returning home.

If I am caught up in the house on drawings and plans, I have a wonderful partner who recognises my growing tension and says, “Go down the river for an hour or two.” And as I leave, she adds mischievously, “You’re always a much nicer person when you come back!”.  A familiarisation of 13 years gives licence for such words, she has her own pursuits and passions to heal her soul and find her peace. We understand each other that way.

Hot summer days we take picnics down to the Brook and walk down paths of long grasses and wild flowers, seeking a patch by a deep pool where we can plunge into the cool waters and then dry off in the heat of the day, as the kingfisher still whizzes back and forth on its summer long delivery roundto a demanding nest hole, and those late remaining Mayfly clouds still dance overhead forlornly waiting, long past the main event.  

On cold winter nights when sleep escapes her, she asks me to imagine we are by the Brook, stranded, the wind is howling and a storm raging, and says; “Tell me how you will build a shelter to protect me, what will it look like?”. Either my monotonous drone, or the mundane practicality of my plan soon bores her back to sleep, safe in her dreams. She joins me to help nurture and water the trees on my gorilla gardening exploits along the Groynes. In Fall she plunges and plays in the drifts of autumn leaves and dreams of snuggling down together to sleep until the spring. On winter days we find ourselves wandering along its banks, rugged up against the elements, squelching in muddy boots, or playing in the snow, constructing shared memories. Our lives have become smoother, more united and harmonious alongside its waters and over time its smoothed out our pact and we know that as long as be both shall live, it will be this way now. Nothing is going to change our world.

My fishing doesn’t feel like an indulgence, we’ve bought a Cottage on the South Island of New Zealand, I’m planning on guiding on the local rivers, so each trip to the stream, each book and magazine, each piece of tackle, is investing in my future. Which is our future together.

As the time comes closer when we need to make that change, she finds another cottage nearer Queenstown on line, this is more practical for her work and close to some fabulous fishing. We can use one cottage as a holiday let and live in the other, it’s a big stretch financially,  but we go for it. She’s working nights and studying a law degree in the day, the workload is enormous on her, the push is on to get this through and life becomes a battle for a while, but with the future dreams so bright and optimistic, it’s worth the turmoil, and we always get through stronger for any struggle.

Then a lump comes back, there is an operation, I find I’m ineffective in a bright polished corridor with vending machine coffees metering the waiting time, I can’t construct her a shelter from this. Suddenly it’s all tubes and wires and monitor screens bleeping. Then she’s safely through but there will never now be children, and with that news comes the guilt and strange hormones, many years too early, and still the pressure to get this new life over the line. The team that dreamed together are now two strangers sat across a dinner table, they no longer recognise each other or connect,  as they start to look from differing viewpoints and experiences and narratives.

There’s a moment after a blast where the air is sucked out and everything races past, while your stunned unable to react or comprehend, and then, what’s left settles like dust, and you look around and take stock of the aftermath, your still stood up,  you’re in one piece and breathing, but find there’s just one of you left in this shambles, and she’s gone.

I couldn’t fish, I tried, I couldn’t do the solitude and  I couldn’t be alone with my thoughts. The last place to be was on the paths we had walked linking fingers, in pools we had swum, wading under the boughs of young trees she’d helped me nurture. And I longed to show her them grown with families of chirping birds being raised in nests constructed in the boughs we had created.

I needed distraction from this place and these waters. For now the sunshine that lit my life and guided my future was gone, it was about to gradually become a whole heap darker.

Willow brook was no longer the place for me to be.

Wouldn’t it be great to say that fly fishing got me through this. It didn’t though, it could offer me nothing to help. Only time was going to heal.

The new rod blanks I had ordered before it blew up, cruelly arrived from America with a crushing slap within days of her leaving; the carefully selected fittings of my ‘dream’ rod arrived also from the states days later, to rub salt in the open wounds. Both of these packages sat unopened for many years gathering dust with boxes of fly tying materials.

Once a year Bill the treasurer of the club rung when the subscription was due and convinced me to stay for another year. I couldn’t face those banks nor look at the water, I kept saying that I didn’t think I would ever get to fish it again, but he seemed to know what was going on and kept me connected to the club. The membership cards arrived in the post with the letter head on the envelope each spring and with the junk mail went straight into the recycling bin. If I drove over any of the bridges my eyes stayed on the road ahead. The Brook was behind me and I couldn’t imagine a way back to it ever again.

Wherever in the world you are, from old Blighty, have a great rest of the week.

Chris Avery..