Chapter 10. Three Wild Days in Wessex

Episode Transcript

Speaker 1 (00:00):
Chapter ten of An Angler's Hours by Hugh Tempest, Sherringham.
This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter ten,
Three Wild Days in Wessex. It was hard to understand
at the time why, at the natural and innocent inquiry

(00:20):
as to his favorite bait, the local authority should suddenly
shut up like some sensitive plant. He had been nobly
and generously expansive, measuring his catches of fish as if
they were coals by the sack. But now he was
reticent and cautious. Sometimes I used one thing, sometimes another,

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he said. The reason for the change of attitude became
clear later when he was one day discovered in close
proximity to a net. But for the present it mattered not.
It was enough that he had revealed where fishing was
to be had, which involved the substitution of a sack

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for the more ordinary and modest creol, and there was
no unnecessary delay in putting this important discovery to the proof.
A sack, two sacks, for there were two anglers, were
put into the wagonette with the tackle and lunch, and
the river was reached before ten am had struck by

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the church clock on the hill. It was not a
promising day summer after two months of hopeless severity appeared
to be endeavoring to surpass itself and leaden masses of
cloud swept across the sky at the bidding of a rushing,
mighty wind. But the river seen from the high stone

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bridge on which we were standing looked as attractive as
the keenest seeker after free fishing could desire. Above the
bridge was a broad gravel shallow, on which were doubtless
the days of which the local authority had spoken, and
it might be a trout or so as well. In

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the distance the mill could be seen through some trees,
and a point above the shallow where two streams met
suggested a back water as well as a mill stream,
and presumably a weir pool. Below the bridge, the river
curved away among trees in a tempting succession of stream

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and pool. The problem, inevitable on a new and unknown water,
arose what was to be fished for and where the
fly seemed hopeless In such a wind, The shallows were
no better than a storm swept sea, and indeed, so
far as could be seen, the water above the bridge

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was shelterless. Below a clump of trees, a meadows distance
away offered more hope, and thither the indomited Companion strode firmly,
without wasting words. His instinct proved to have been right.
The river turned a sharp corner under the shadow of
the trees, forming as perfect a pool for perch as

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could be met with. The rods were quickly put together,
and soon two red worms were offering wriggling attractions to
the fish in two convenient eddies, and the anglers sat
somewhat sheltered from the icy blast. Almost immediately, the Indomitable
Companion's float disappeared and a fish was hooked, which turned

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out to be a nice perch of nearly a pound.
It fought gamely, but the pool was too deep for weeds,
and the net soon claimed its own, while the wind
shrieked with renewed vigor, as though to celebrate the success. Incidentally,
it tore from its parent limb a piece of wood
that was almost big enough to be called a branch,

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and hurled it to the ground in dangerous proximity to
the head of the Indomitable Companion. He however, paid no attention,
but calmly rebated his hook and was soon fast in
another perch. Which was also safely landed. I had so
far not a bite, and I stirred uneasily as the

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wind hurled down another piece of wood that was quite
a branch, this time near to my own head. The
Indomitable One who continued to catch perch, and the landing
of each fish seemed to be a signal for a
shower of missiles from above, which were suddenly increasing in size.
At last, as a great log came down with a

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resounding thud about a yard from me, I arose, seized
my tackle, and announcing that I thought I would go
on and explore upstream, departed without unnecessary delay, leaving the
Indomitable One in the course of extracting the hook from
his sixth perch, with an extremely cheerful countenance. It was long,

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he said, since he had had such sport. Some hundreds
of yards were covered before it was deemed safe to
look back. And then, amid what Horace calls a world
tottering to destruction, a bending rod showed that the seventh
or might be even an eighth fish was being added

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to the basket. A pious wish was uttered that the
ruins might miss that heroic being, and then the hasty
flight was resumed. Such a gale, surely there was never
yet on sea or land. The poplars below the bridge
were bending like fly rods and creaking like a rusty winch.

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Other more stubborn trees were being destroyed piecemeal. But in
the bridge itself and its high embankment, there was hope.
They could hardly be blown down, and behind there was
a welcome calm in which a perturbed angler might collect
his faculties. And presently, for sheer shame, I put a

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fly rod together. It would be possible to cast within
a few yards of the embankment, and the dace might,
like the perch, be on the feed. Out of a
spirit of pure contradiction, and oddly enough this proved to
be the case. A pluck at one of the three
flies was felt. At the first cast, it was impossible

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to see a rise. At the second, a fish fastened
and was landed without much ceremony. In such weather, the
finest tackle would have been a mockery, an undrawn gut
disposed of the dace, for all he was the half
of a pound. With promptitude and dispatch. Then began such

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an hour of port as may never come again the
fish seemed literally mad for the fly and black nat Soldier,
palmer and coachmen were all taken with instant impartiality, and
it seemed that the dace were all big ones, running
between half and three quarters of a pound. Several times

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two were on the cast together, and once even three,
of which one got off. Many were lost in such
a wind. It could not be otherwise, for it was
impossible to attempt to humor a lightly hooked fish. But
the fifteen pounds of dace that had been amassed by
the time the rise was over seemed to justify the

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sack which they half filled. The indomitable one, whom a
merciful providence had spared, appeared in time to assist in
the counting. He had, he complained, been prevented from making
a phenomenal bag of perch by the trivial circumstance of
a tree being blown down into the very pool which

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he was fishing. As it was, he had only caught eleven,
with three roaches of a pound each, and the tree
having disturbed the river somewhat, he had also set out
to explore. Exploration was, however, interrupted by the coming of
the rain, which had so far held off, and the

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day's fishing ended prematurely. Nevertheless, as we went homewards, we
agreed that the local authority was a very estimable person,
and that we were singularly fortunate in having stumbled upon
a piece of free fishing which even the English climate
could not render bad. When the weather improved, we assured

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each other we should do something remarkable in the history
of angling. All that was necessary was a little patience
until the gales should have blown themselves out. Some I
cannot always disguise itself as winter, and after two months
we were entitled to hope for better things. So we
waited our chance, and studied and oppressed and unsympathetic barometer.

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At last, one morning, the wind dropped, and the indomitable
one greeted me at breakfast with the words it's going up.
I hastened to verify this glared intelligence. Sure enough, the
needle had moved. It no longer presaged seismic convulsions and
disheartening phenomena of that kind, as it had been doing

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for some weeks, but was content to indicate rain. This,
my companion pointed, out, clearly meant a fine day, since
no barometer could be expected to recover itself all in
a moment from such upheavals as we have been having,
and any upward movement at all was a sign of

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complete change. Law was our expected opportunity. The grayness of
the sky, he explained, was a sure sign of midday heat.
We started accordingly. During the drive, I surveyed the heavens
with suspicion, and when we reached the bridge, I called

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his attention to a certain rumbling noise that was going
on in the distance. And what was diffident about rumbling
noises when I'm out fishing one I's read horrible stories
about fire falling from heaven upon the angler by way
of his rod and consuming him. But the indomitable one

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knows no panics of this kind. He said. It was
guns on Saulsbury plane. Those weapons, also, in some obscure way,
seemed to account for the oppressiveness of the air and
the indubitable masses of heavy cloud that hung low on
all points of the compass. Having explained these things, he

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led the way upstream to the weir pool, which we
had decided to fish that day. It was a deep,
still hole, with a very little current coming over the sill,
and to me had a dark and dismal appearance. I
can never take a cheerful view of any water when
there is a rumbling noise in the distance. However, the

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rods were fitted together, some ground bait was thrown into
the pool, and we began to fish for roach. There
were no bites, and apparently no fish in the pool
to cause them. Presently, too, I felt called upon to
observe that the guns on Salisbury Plane must be getting nearer,

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since the sound was steadily increasing in volume. The indomitable
one suggested that a breeze was getting up and was
assisting the noise to travel. But there was no breeze,
and so far as I could see, no excuse for
his equanimity. Before long I was compelled to ask, ironically

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if he thought there were guns all round us, because
the rumbling was now plainly coming from several directions at once,
and to the meanest intelligence was obvious and alarming thunder.
He admitted, rather regretfully that there did seem to be
thunder or about, and after an awe inspiring clap, remarked

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that there must be a good storm somewhere. When it broke,
the fish would wake up. He had long been curious
to find out whether fish really did feed well in
a thunderstorm. With this, he threw in another handful of
ground bait. I, however, had risen when the last peal began.
My interest in the scientific effect of electricity was languid.

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I said, there are three good storms. In about three minutes,
they will be here. I don't believe the most perverted
fish would bite in three thunderstorms, and I shan't wait
to see. The indomitable one laughed, and I fled, taking
refuge in the sitting room of a little farm hired

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by the mill. We neither of us know to this
day whether fish will bite in three thunderstorms better than
in one or none, Because even the indomitable one was
compelled to retreat before the torrential downpour that began in
a few minutes and lasted until after five. The mill

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formed a convenient center for three separate storms, each one
more violent than the other, and we spent an unprofitable
day looking out of the window and watching the lightning
as it played about and destroyed the surrounding country. When
the rain did stop eventually, the river was the color

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of pea soup. And wrote, fishing being out of the question,
we went home disconsulate. After this, the barometer needle went
back to its prognostication of earthquakes, and the indomitable One
refused to fish anymore. It was not that his heart
quailed before our English summer, but that it was filled

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with righteous indignation. A refusal to fish seemed to him
the only way in which he could mark his disapproval
of the weather. I acknowledged that he was right, but
still I badly wanted to try the stream again, for
I was certain that its possibilities were untold. So one

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morning I bethought me of the old adage which promises
sunshine before eleven if it has been raining before seven.
It was raining nicely at half past six, and a
brisk wind got up about nine. There was just a chance,
when I started, that this would dissipate the clouds and

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give the sun its opportunity. I took a fly rod
and set out in my waders and a short macintosh coat,
determined to give the daste on the shallow another trial.
The water was reached at about hop ost ten, just
when the clearing up or two hare begun. If there
was any truth in adages, which there is not. As

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a matter of fact, the rain chose that time to
begin in real earnest, and continued vigorously for the rest
of the day. I endured many things, including sudden sandwiches
for lunch, and persevered in spite of them all. But
the fish did not seem to appreciate my efforts. It

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may be that Wessex date demand more violent weather than
was vouchsafed to them that day. The wind, it is true,
was creditable, and the rain did its best, but there
was no mad rise such as there had been before.
The fish came short, and it was not until I
retired to the shelter of the bridge and added to

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each fly on the cast a tiny tail of white
kid that I could manage to catch any at all
without extraneous aid. Three dozen nice little fish, averaging perhaps
three ounces, were creeled. The big ones seemed to have vanished,
and there was not a half pounder in the whole catch.

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I proved, however, to my complete dissatisfaction, that Macintosh does
not make a man all weather proof. Between a short
wading coat and the back of one's waders, there is
a small, unprotected gap the rain finds it out immediately,
and one is more miserable than if one were wessel

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all over. There was only one bright spot among those
gray damp hours. About six in the evening, a march
brown that had been put on as a tail flyfe
for change rose a fish, which at once leapt into
the air and unmistakably proclaimed his quality and species. He

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ran out line in a grand fashion, and it was
some minutes before he could be coaxed down to the net,
a trout of well over a pound and a half, which,
in shaping condition was perfection itself. His capture formed a
curious conclusion to a curious experience of weather and fishing.

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End of Chapter ten.