Chapter 14. A Suburban Fishery

Episode Transcript

Speaker 1 (00:00):
Chapter fourteen of An Angler's Hours by Hugh Tempest Sheringham.
This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter fourteen
a suburban fishery. I would cultivate the devil himself if
he had any trout fishing within twenty miles of London,

(00:23):
said my friend, with a note of regret in his voice,
Whether for the fishing or for the impossibility of utilizing
his undoubted social talent, I am not prepared to say
the speech was perhaps a little rash. It is recorded
on good authority that men have been taken at their
word by the personality in question, to their subsequent regret.

(00:47):
But there are doubtless not a few bold anglers in
London who would not hesitate to echo it, even if
they were considerably less safe in doing so than they are.
But the supposition belongs to the realm of vain speculation.
For the devil himself would have his own task in

(01:08):
acquiring the fishing in the first place, and in the second,
supposing that he performed it, one may safely assert that
he would firmly refuse to be cultivated, even for the
sake of also acquiring a valuable soul. The sole is
a valuable thing, and my friends, for all his freedom
of speech is worth more than most. But it is

(01:32):
not so valuable as all that trout fishing within twenty
miles of London belongs to the world of dreams, where
are also the elixir of life, the philosopher's stone, the
rainbow's end, and other unrealizable delights. And the common man
whose dreams do not come true must awake out of

(01:54):
sleep and travel into a far country before he can
get his Fishing and trout fishing are not necessarily the
same thing, or I should not speak thus from the depths.
There are trouts within twenty miles of London. There are
trout in London. A noble lord captured one with a

(02:15):
fly quite recently from the lake in Buckingham Palace grounds.
Even rows others, or, as one of our less highly
priced newspapers naively put it, others, made several bites at
his fly. This was a rainbow trout, a fact which
adds its small weight of significance to the evidence of

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the Americanization of London. There are rainbow trout also in
the Serpentine. But while we view with pleasure the presence
of rainbow trout in our lakes. We do not fish
for them, and if we did, we could not call
it trout fishing. Trout fishing is too idyllic a thing

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to be able within sight or sound of the great city.
When my friend spoke his brave words, he meant it,
of course, to be understood that the trout fishing in
question was to be situated in a lovely valley. The
meandering stream was to flow through lush pastures, over a
bed of gold and gravel, with ancient willows shading its

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deeper pools from the noontide clare. White spreading oaks were
to stand sentinel over the peaceful scene, and not so
near to the water as to cause risk to flies.
The brook, it was to be little more, was to
contain nothing but trout and good trout food. And lastly,

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there was to be no sight or sound of human
industry or pleasure, save one thatched and timbered cottage, set
away in a bower of roses, by the lane, where
the keeper was to dwell and give the angler tea
at four of the clock. It is only fair to
mention these things lest the reader might think a soul

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was offered, so to speak, for a mess of Pottage.
And then again there are trout in several streams quite
close to London. There are trout in our suburban fishery,
quite a number of them. But even those of us
who are fondest of our stretch of river do not
call it trout fishing. We merely admit, on being pressed,

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that there are trout in it. We even admit that
they are sometimes to be caught, but we are reticent
as to the manner of the catching. And yet it
is hard to see why we should be, For our
trout are highly civilized, and seen in all arts and
cunning as is but natural when you reflect that they

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live within fifteen miles of the Marble Arch, know what
a London fog looks like, and have recently made the
acquaintance of the electric tramcar. Fish living dust in the
heart of things must not be placed in the same
category as the spotted rustics of Devonshire or whales. Nor

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are they to be guiled with rustic lures. Let our keeper,
who is quite without shame, put the matter boldly and
plainly for the reader's enlightenment. You take my advice, sir,
he says, and give him something big, something that will
fall in with a splash. Nor is big with him

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a mere euphemism implying moderately large. Rather, it is a
meosis concealing enormous. A two inch salmon fly is what
he alludes to. Its pattern is indifferent to him, So
it shines very brightly and falls into the water with

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aristophanic vehemence. So a few of us spend long and
patient days in floating each approved inconsiderable gnat delicately poised
on its hackles over the unappreciative nose of black Henry
or spotted Charlie. For the most part, we agree with
the keeper, and so it is our constant endeavor to

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find the latest and largest thing in salmon flies, in
the hope that novelty may meet with appreciation. There was
once a red letter day on which one of our
fraternity caught no less than five trout, and I came
upon him as he was landing the fifth. I begged
that I might be permitted to inspect his fly, and

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found myself face to face with the unknown in all
its magnificence. It had no wings, it had no hackle.
It was just a resplendent, glorious body of dazzling beads
and silver and gold. My Jock Scott rivaled it about
as much as a partridge rivals a golden pheasant. And

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I went on my course saddened, and caught nothing, but
that brother understood the nature of our trout. The reader
may have noticed a little while ago that I mentioned
two of them by name, but he must not be surprised.
All our more considerable fish have their names, though we

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cannot exactly say that they are answer to them. Black Henry,
for example, is a kind of landmark, or shall I
say water mark, And he lies always on a little
patch of gravel between the weeds at the tail of
the principal shallow of our water. By black Henry you
can tell whether the river is high or low. If

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it is high, he will be a mere shadow on
the bottom. If it is low, you can count his
spots or though there are other ways of ascertaining the
state of the river. Of course, black Henry also marks
the lowest point of the shallow where you may expect
to find a trout, just as long William up by

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the bridge, marks the highest the end of our water.
In fact, black Henry is somewhere between four and five
pounds in weight. Long William is much heavier, and is
indeed the largest trout we have in this part of
the stream. He may be eight pounds or even more.

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Between the two points marked by these two fish, you
shall see some energetic angling done on any Saturday afternoon
in full season. Bless me, you may exclaim with vaetor
what salmon fishing is here? Are we not in Wales?
But you will soon become used to it, and after

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a while you will even enter into the spirit of
the game. Let me exemplify. On the opposite bank there
is an old willow which leans across the stream farther
than the others, and forms an eddy. It is a
long cast, twenty two yards at least, but we use
here powerful rods and heavy lines, and it is no

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effort to pitch the silver doctor into the eddy. It
falls with as great a tumult as the keeper's soul
could desire, and then works its erratic way back towards
our own bank. If you look carefully, as if the
water is clear and the sun shining, you can see

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a long shadow lying a yard or two below the eddy,
and rather nearer our bank, that is spotted Charlie, a
favorite of mine. My object is to rouse his imagination
and to stimulate him to rapid action by the sight
of the impossible flies jerk Key attractions spotted Charlie weighs

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three or four pounds and is invariably polite, which is
why I love him. There you may observe how he
follows the silver doctor, just to show that he is
not insensible of the compliment. A yard or two in attendance,
and he conceives that duty has been accomplished. Then he

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returns to his own place with dignity. He will go
through the same formality with any other monstrous fly you
like to throw at him, But at the end of
it all his own place will not miss him. Yet,
it is just possible that on some warm evening, in
that brief interval between dusk and dark, he might attempt

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to destroy the silver bodied alien that has invaded his
feeding ground. For I take it a trout only seizes
a salmon fly out of ferocity, then his position would
be vacant. For a smaller brother. A few yards higher
up lies Didymus, another big fish. He, as his name implies,

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is of a deeply suspicious nature, and the advent of
an artificial fly, great or small, is enough to cause
his hurried departure. For this I am myself probably to blame.
Two years ago I actually hooked him with a dry
flyer Wickham, at which he rose with the readiness of

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any troutling. How he disposed of the fly, and the
yards of line of which he robbed me I know not,
but the incident is probably fresh in his memory. About
fifty yards above him, a narrow islet, running downstream from
the bridge, divides the river into two channels. There are

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usually several trout round the point of this islet, and
sometimes one may be caught here. A year or so
since there was a nice fish named Robert, who lay
always on the strip of golden sand between the two streams.
He was much sought after by the fraternity because he
was so plain to be seen, But he never rose

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at anything. On a day, a fisherman angled for him
indignantly for two hours, and in his determination to succeed,
was perhaps over energetic, for he lost several fliers in
the bush that grows at the islet's tip. Finally, as
his fifth fly took fast hold of a twig, he

(12:37):
lost patience taking off shoes and stockings, he waded out
to recover his property. To his surprise, the fish did
not resent his approach, in fact, took no notice of him,
and a blush to record that the irate brother took
mean advantage and kicked Robert very hard. So Robert disappeared,

(13:00):
it is thought for good, and I suspect him of
living in an anonymous seclusion on a shallow lower down.
Not very long ago, a considerable sensation was caused by
the intelligence that one of the brethren had hooked Long
William with some gaudy fly, and it even played him

(13:21):
for several minutes. The fish, of course got off, as
a trout of that size generally does. But the event
has stimulated the fraternity to fresh exertions, and it is
hoped that someday, not this year perhaps, or even next,
but still someday he may be hooked again. However, we

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never really expect to catch one of these patriarchs. A
brace of trout of a pound and a half each
is the limit of our hope, and even to that
we attain. But seldom under the arches of the bridge
do we have the best chance. There the stream ripples
nicely and the trout sometimes rise as trout should. Above

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the bridge lies Eldorado, the unattainable. It is, in fact
a large mill pool, where is a splendid mill race
gushing out over bottomless depths, which gradually shelve up to
a wide, shallow upon this forbidden pool, the brethren often

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cast the discerning eye and speculate on the probable weight
of the trout that must inhabit it. Nor do they
hesitate to speak of ten and even twelve pounders. And
sometimes as they lean upon the bridge and give rain
to their fancy, you may hear darkling hints as to
what they would catch, could they only find themselves standing

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in their waders on the shelf of that great tumultuous hole,
with their trusty spinning rod in hand. And of course,
the cardif invitation in pocket. But prophecy is somewhat akin
to faith, as explained to us by the Sunday Scholar.
It consists principally in asserting what will happen in case

(15:13):
of certain contingencies that will not arise. In this instance,
the contingency is the card of invitation. For the mill
pond is very strictly and let me add properly preserved.
This is perhaps as well, for it saves the brethren
from the possible fate of the prophet convicted of falsity,

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and at the same time allows them the pleasures of
imagination without the cold restraint of hard fact. Notwithstanding all this,
I firmly believe that there are ten and even twelve
pounders in the mill pool. But we will leave the
subject and go downstream. I am but human myself. So

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far I have spoken only of the trout in our river,
but the other fish claim attention quite as deservedly. The
stream used to be noted for the size and number
of its days. Fish of three quarters of a pound
were common, and pounders were not unknown. The numbers have
not fallen off. On a fine, warm evening, you may

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see them rising all over the river, but the average
size of those court has curiously deteriorated. It is an
exceptional thing now to catch a dase of half a pound.
I hear that this phenomenon has been observed in other
parts of the river as well as ours. But what
the reason of it may be, it is difficult to surmise.

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Possibly it is due to the decreasing volume of the stream,
which like all streams near London, is gradually shrinking in
obedience to the insatiable demands of the water companies. But
this explanation is not wholly satisfactory. The river is still
quite considerable and affords abundance of fish food, and the

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quality of its water, which at one times very doubtful,
has been steadily improving of recent years. Another explanation, which
seems more likely, is that the fish are too numerous.
A laudable custom prevails amongst the Brethren. In fact, it
is more than custom. It is down in black and

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white as law are returning all fish under certain specified sizes,
and with admirable observance of the rules of what is
Sportsmen like the Brethren interpret this law generously, retaining but
very few of the fish they catch, and returning to
their element many that weigh much more than the prescribed

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number of ounces. This may have resulted in overstocking. It
is well known that an overstocked trout stream is in
worse case than an understocked one, and the signs of
it are unmistakable. But with the coarsefish it is more
difficult to tell. Certainly, the condition of our das has

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not fallen off. They are as game for their size
as trout, and when they are in the mood, give
very pretty sport to the fly rods. Immediately below the
shallow begin the roach swims, which vary from three to
five feet in depth. The brethren who fish for roach
sometimes have exciting experiences. One day I came upon a

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brother sitting on his store with an air of patient expectation,
the tip of his roach pole quivering and his line
running slowly but steadily out. He had, he explained, hook,
something ten minutes before, which had so far defined his efforts,
insomuch as he was fishing with a cast of a

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single hair and could not employ force. He supposed it
to be a big bream. It was about forty yards
away now, but he was not without hopes of landing it.
Even as he spoke. A great turmoil in the water
upstream confirmed his views as to the distance the fish

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had traveled, and then he managed to turn it and
gradually recover his line. Some time later I had the
pleasure of landing the bream for him, a great fish
of nearly five pounds. It was a real triumph to
have taken it on a single hair line on another occasion,

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I found a brother lamenting a misfortune that had overtaken him.
A large bream, it appeared, had departy with a large
portion of his tackle, including the float. I condoled with
him and went on my way up to the shallow
where I intended to fly fish for dace. Just before

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I I reached it, about one hundred yards above the
spot where the brother was sitting, I perceived something which
looked like a float. In fact, it was a float.
It was proceeding rapidly upstream, and the fish was evidently
still on. Without the least expectation of accomplishing a miracle,

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I cast the fly at the lost property, and the
miracle happened. The fly took hold of the other line somewhere,
and I found myself vicariously fast in a fish, which
immediately quickened its pace as it felt the added strain.
It sped upstream, and I sped after it, fearing every

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moment that the fly would lose its hold. Presently, the
fish jumped and so declared that it was no bream. However,
it had doubtless been weakened by its previous encounter, and
before long I got it into the net. A trout
of about three pounds. The fly I found had fastened

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on the ring of the float. Then arose the question,
had the fish been caught with the fly or with
the gentle horse that the brother had been using. In
the one case, it was legitimate to keep it, In
the other forbidden. I discussed the problem with the brother
until it became obvious that the decision must be speedy

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or the trout would succumb, and then decided to spare him.
So he probably lives and thrives to this day, though
I am still doubtful whether he did not gain his
freedom on false pretenses. Below the roach swims are willows
which shelter some heavy chub. Under one of them, which

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leans across the stream, lives a great trout, and is
said to live a phenomenal perch. The trout I have seen,
but the per which fable puts at four or five pounds,
I have not seen. Nor am I very credulous with
regard to him. His suggested size makes him improbable, and

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it is scarcely likely that he would live in amity
under the same tree as the trout. Neither of them
could eat the other. It is true they would certainly
disagree on most matters, and one probably the perch, would
drive the other away. Leaving the willows, we come to
a point where the river broadens out and then divides,

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one channel running down to the mill and the other
to the weir. In this broad water, as it is styled,
are there pike. We boast ourselves second to none in
the number of our pike. They weigh six ounces apiece,
and we often make quite a large basket of them,

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for they will take anything that is presented to them,
and are particularly fond of salmon flies. In the channel
running to the mill, however, which is not much fished
as it is shallow and weedy, there are a few
larger ones. Current report weighs a solitary veteran for us
at sixteen or seventeen pounds, but that is probably an exaggeration.

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Following the other channel, we soon find a deep, narrow
reach bordered by ancient stumps. This is the abode of
the perch, and here rare baskets have occasionally been made
in September and October, which are the best months for perch.
Here there is another huge trout somewhere in the neighborhood

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of this whole, very occasionally he is seen to feed.
He plows the river like a torpedo boat, and the
small fry leap out in shoals before him. But he
is too ancient and cunning to take a fly, and
he has never yet attacked a spinning bait, though he
would probably do so if you could catch him on

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the feed. But he is provokingly irregular in his habits,
and it is likely that he feeds at night. There
is another monster about one hundred yards lower down among
the willows, who once took a roach bait and destroyed
most of the angler's tackle. He too, is very rarely
seen to feed. This clump of willows, where the river

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turns a corner, is a favorite place for chub, which
grows to a large size and are proportionally cautious. The
heaviest of them hardly ever rise to a fly, but
occasionally they bite well in the winter at cheese or lobbworms.
Some distance below the willows is the other shallow There

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are usually one or two good trout here, as well
as a plentiful supply of dace. After this, the river
turns two abrupt corners and then keeps a straight course
for the weir. The weir pool and the two hundred
yards of stream below it are really the most fascinating
peace of the fishery. Seated on the wall by the

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rush of water, you could easily imagine yourself buried in
the country, miles from even a market town. The mill
house is the only building within sight, and its somewhat
bold squareness of outline is veiled by fine old apple
trees that surround it. Everywhere else is the scenery of

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rural England, as this generation knows it, mile on mile
of grassland dotted with oaks and elm rising to faint
blue hills in the distance. Sometimes I have longed for
a field of golden corn on the other side of
the stream. But golden corn is rapidly losing its honored

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place in the Englishman's scheme of things, And in many
a district where the harvest song once resounded, it is
heard no more, and the nation's cheap bread is made
of bone, dust or some such nourishing material. The progress
of civilization, which has modified so many of our great thoughts,

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has had its effect on the proverb too. We knew
of old the dubious character of much that glittered. Now
we are learning that not all that is golden is
gold or even to be bartered, for there are compensations.
Though long grass is sufficient of a nuisance when one

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is fly fishing, corn which is taller would vex the
brotherhood still more. But to return to the weir pool.
It is not very large or very deep, but it
contains a few ancient trout, as well as the perch
and coarse fish. And these trout have until quite recently

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been a source of displeasure to the fraternity. They flatterly
refused to be caught, whether by fly, live bait, or spinning,
saving two only, and one of these being captured in
the winter by a pike fisher, had to be returned. Therefore,
the matter was taken into earnest consideration, with the result

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of the general feeling found voice in what practically amounted
to a vote of censure on the inhabitants of the pool,
without definitely calling for their destruction. If so approximately round
the expression of opinion, a trout shall be taken by
a brother who is bait fishing, it may be retained.

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There was a proviso as to the size of the fish,
but it was not so strict as to hold out
any hope for the veterans of the pool, should they
be unwise enough to take the bait intended for barb
or bream, for which fish, the fraternity in general, and
two brothers in particular, at once began to display an
unsuspected yearning. Before long it became a recognized thing for

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these two brethren to sit one on each side of
the weir, each holding his ledger rod and regarding the
troubled waters with a hopeful expression, and waiting for the
barble and bream to begin to bite. For Barbel and bream,
the common earthworm, in its largest size, is as good

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a bait as you shall find, and doubtless their patients
would have been rewarded had Barbel and bream existed in
the pool in any quantity. But of Barbel and bream
there is no considerable store there. Indeed, only one of
each kind has been taken, I believe, during several years. Nevertheless,

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the patience of the two anglers was not exist, and
one day one brother was aroused by a shout from
the other. Raising his eyes, he plainly perceived that his
friend was fast into something heavy and vigorous, which was
hurrying round the pool like a true sportsman, He hastened
across the bridge with the landing net, and after some

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exciting minutes, had the pleasure of lifting out not Barble
or Bream, but one of the veterans themselves. The fish
was a noble specimen, weighing some ounces more than that
five pounds which every honest angler hopes someday to achieve.
And you may imagine the joy of the successful brother,

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who shook hands with himself, his friend, and the keeper,
and generally failed to conceal the pride that was in him.
Then the first glow of triumph over, he remembered that
his luncheon awaited him at an adjacent hostelry, and went
on off in a condition of great benevolence to consume it.

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The other brother returned to his rod and ate meditative
sandwiches with renewed hope. If one veteran had taken the
earthworm intended for Barbe and bream, why not another. For
some time he angled on confidently, it seemed certain that
he would have a bite in a minute. But somehow

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the bite came not, and an insidious doubt began to
creep into his mind. Were there any veterans in his
corner of the pool. If there were no veterans, he
could not expect bites. He looked across at his friend's corner.
The eddy there certainly had a better appearance than his own.

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What if all the veterans lived in it? To cut
a long story of mental strife short, he decided that
he would make a trial of the other corner while
the absent brother feast did and he accordingly removed himself,
his rod and his sandwiches, and became confident once more.

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Though confidence certainly aids success, it does not ensure it.
And even in the new corner, bytes came not. It seemed, indeed,
as if distance had lent enchantment to the view, and
the doubt returned in even more insidious fashion. But if
there were no more veterans left anywhere in the pool,

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this possibility was very discouraging, and he began idly to
look about him. By his side was the bag containing
the absent brother's earthworms. He took it up and inspected
the contents. They were notable earthworms, finer and more considerable
than his own. Still, idly, he abstracted one and considered it,

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and after a while it seemed to him that it
would be as easy to place it on his hook
as to return it to the bag. This he accordingly did,
and then, having committed the earthworm to the deep, he
began to meditate on other matters. He was aroused by
two occurrencies, one the return of the successful angler, the

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other and undoubted poll at his top. Joint to this,
he gave his attention first, and answering the pull, he
found that he too had hooked a large fish, which
behaved in much the same manner as the first veteran.
The positions were now reversed, and the newly returned brother

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hurried to his assistance. Between them, they eventually landed what
was obviously another, an even more important veteran. It weighed,
in fact, over six pounds. Now it was the second
brother who failed to conceal the pride that was in him,
and there was more shaking of hands, and by the

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time I reached the spot, the very atmosphere seemed to rejoice.
The sun beamed more brightly, and the waters plashed more merrily.
Yet I suspect, though I will no more than whisper it,
that the first brother may have reflected somewhat ruefully on
the insistence of human appetites. Had he not gone away

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for his luncheon, it is probable that both the veterans
had fallen to his steel. Indeed, he said so, not
grudgingly as one who states a fact, and commented on
the turn of fortune that had inspired his brother to
fish in his corner and employ his earthworm. This fact

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disposed of, however, all was joy Now, I, as has
been said, came up when the rejoicing was at its height,
and rejoiced also for a space. But presently it seemed
to my unsuccessful mind that these brothers were somewhat too fortunate.

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Nor did they seem disposed, like Polycrates, to make sacrifice
against the evil chance, but rather spoke of glass cases,
methods of preservation, and other pinnacles of achievement. Therefore, I
was reluctantly compelled to remind them that these veterans had
been taken with the earthworm intended for barble and bream,

(34:31):
a circumstance which I, for one, should blush to record
on a glass case. But they were full of argument
in the matter of Polycrates. They pointed out that the
cases were not parallel. Polycrates caught his fish after he
had made his sacrifice. There was no precedent for making

(34:53):
a sacrifice after catching the fish. Further, they explained that
they would be no necessity for anything about earthworms to
appear on the glass cases. In fact, such an idea
had not entered their heads. Lastly, and most forcibly, they

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said that I was jealous, and that if I had
not captured a veteran, it had not been for lack
of effort. Had they not seen me angling for barble
and bream in the self same manner but a day
or two before. In short, they reduced me to silence
and shame. Below the weir pool is the hut, which,

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by the way, should have the honored legend Episcatoribus sacrum
above its portal. It stands on piles right in the
middle of the river, has a balcony running round it,
and is connected with land by a wooden bridge. In
the heart A layman might soon learn all the intimacies
of the craft. Such talk would he hear concerning the

(36:00):
habits of all fish that swim, and the ways of
catching them, such variety of tackling of rods, of flies,
spinning traces, floats, hooks, reels, and landing necks would he see,
and he might note if of philosophic habit, these subtle
difference betwixt morning and evening. In the morning, the Brotherhood

(36:24):
is brisk and full of hope. It has a long
day all its own. It snuffs the pure air. It
fits together its rod with speed. Care and worry are
things unknown. But in the evening the Brotherhood lingers and
daies with regret. It has spent its long day, perhaps

(36:46):
with inadequate result. It no longer snuffs the pure air.
It breathes it in with slow sighs. It takes down
its rods slowly, most sadly. The shadow of London seems
to be upon it once more, and so still slowly,

(37:08):
unless it absolutely has to catch a train. It crosses
the bridge, passes along the river bank until it reaches
the keeper's garden, bids him and his wife good night
at the cottage door, and proceeds thoughtfully on its way
to the station in the gathering dusk. In the case
of a fortunate brother who is accompanied by a veteran

(37:31):
on his return journey, the melancholy subsequent on irrevocable delights
is no doubt sensibly lessened, if not altogether removed, and
even for the less successful, there is always the consolation
of knowing that next Saturday is but a week. Hence

(37:53):
the end end of Chapter fourteen and end of an
Angle of Hours by Hugh Tempest Sheringham, read by Adrian
Pratzalis in Santa Rosa, California, May twenty twenty two,