Chapter 4. A Brace of Tench

Episode Transcript

Speaker 1 (00:00):
Chapter four of an Angler's Hours by Hugh Tempest Sherringham.
This Liverox recording is in the public domain. Chapter four
a brace of tench. The cooing of doves, the hum
of bees, and all the pageantry of high summer seems
somehow to be recalled by the word tench. Perhaps it

(00:24):
is that this fish invites meditation during the hours, or
may be dazed that he has to wait for a bite.
Even the most unobservant angler can hardly fail to take
note of his surroundings, and so the doves and the
bees gradually compel a drowsy recognition. The wonderful lights and

(00:45):
shades of a July noon first catch and then arrest
the eye. A discovery is made that the sky glows
with the blue of the south, and that the water
is a marvelous and transparent brown. Moreover, the insect world
moves to and fro, a constant procession of unending activity,

(01:08):
and yonder emerald dragonfly is hovering above the crimson cork
that marks the whereabouts of the angler's neglected worm. A
cork float with crimson tip is very necessary to proper
angling for tench. It supplies the one touch of color

(01:28):
that is wanting in the landscape, and it is a
satisfying thing to look upon. A severely practical mind might
argue that it is as visible to the fish as
to the fisherman, and might suggest a fragment of porcupine
quill as being less ostentatious. But however one regards it,

(01:50):
tench fishing is a lengthy operation and must be approached
with leisurely mind. The sordid yearning for bites should not
be put in the balance against artistic effect. Besides, it
may be said of tench more emphatically than of most
other fish. If they are going to feed, they are,

(02:10):
and if they are not, they most certainly are not.
As a rule they are not, and their feelings are
therefore not so important as the anglers in this canal.
At any rate, are their feelings received but the scantest consideration.
Evening by evening, the villagers come forth, each armed with

(02:31):
a bean pole, to which are attached a stout window cord,
the bung of a beer cask, and a huge hook
on the stoutest gimp. A lobworm is affixed to the
hook and flung with much force and splashing into some
little opening among the weeds, where it remains until night

(02:52):
draws down her veil. The villagers sit in a contemplative
row under this ancient gray wall, which once enclosed the
grange fortress against unquiet times. But now all is peace,
and the cooing of doves in the garden trees has
replaced the clash of arms. About once a week the

(03:14):
villagers have a bite, a bean pole is lifted by
stalwart arms, and a two pound tench is summarily brought
to bank. But for the most part Evening's solemn stillness
is undisturbed by rude conflict. This is not surprising. Apart
from the uncompromising nature of the tackle, there are other

(03:37):
reasons against success. The canal is here one solid mass
of weed. No barge has passed this way for years,
and so there is no object in keeping the channel
clear in the summer. If the angler wishes to fish,
he must make a clear space for himself with the
end of his bean pole. Hence it comes that the

(04:00):
villager's angle in two feet of water, not more than
six feet away from the bank, while the tench live
secure out of reach the angler from foreign parts. All
parts beyond the market town are foreign here has realized
these things, and has endeavored to strike out a new

(04:20):
line for himself. A punt and a long handled rake
were borrowed a day or two ago, and a round
pool was cleared among the weed, some twelve yards from
the bank, where the water was a good five feet
in depth. Further, a narrow channel was cleared between this
pool and the bank. Then ground bait in the shape

(04:42):
of innumerable fragments of lobworm was thrown in, and the
tents were left to recover from their surprise and to
find out what a blessing it is to have plenty
of good food with plenty of room to eat it
in The clock on the old tower is just striking
four the gray dawn. When he comes to prove the

(05:02):
value of his theories. There is no row of villages
here now. Indeed, the world is only just awake, and
the earliest of them is hardly rubbing the sleep from
his eyes. This is no cause for regret. Solitude and
tench fishing should be synonymous. Though summer is at its hottest,

(05:23):
it is now none too warm, and the dew hangs
heavy on the long grass that fringes the canal. But
it is just in this cool morning hour, this period
of refreshment that the tents are apt to be on
the feed. The angler is equipped with a rod of
twenty feet made of East India cane. It is heavier

(05:47):
than a roach pole, but it is also much stronger
and was primarily designed for bream fishing in a very
deep river. A light but strong silk running line and
a cast of undrawn gut with one small bullet to
cock the float and a number seven hook complete the outfit.

(06:08):
The little pool that was cleared yesterday stands out in
marked contrast to the weedy surface round it, and it
is plainly beyond the reach of any bean pole. With
this long rot, however, the bait can be swung out
easily enough, and a small lobworm is soon lying on
the bottom of the canal ready for the first fish.

(06:30):
It is well in tench fishing to have eighteen inches
of gut below the bullet, and to plumb the depth
so that the bullet itself just touches the bottom. When
the float is nicely cocked in the middle of the pool,
the angler rests his rod on its pegs throws a
few fragments of worm in round the float. And then
takes his seat on the camp stool that he is

(06:52):
brought and composes himself to weight. Tens are not quite
so difficult to entice as carp but where they run big,
they are not to be hurried. In this canal, they
run very big. Three pounders are occasionally caught by the villagers,
and much heavier ones are often seen, and it is

(07:13):
those bigger ones that the angler desires, so he is
content to wait until breakfast time if need be, It
will not be the first occasion. Presently, the sun begins
to rise away behind the old wall and the grove
of chestnut trees, and the morning gray gradually softens into
a kind of luminous opal. Then the angler sees the

(07:37):
first sign of fish. A greenish shadow passes close under
the bank, almost at his feet. That is a tench
of about two pounds, and it seems to have gone
out by the artificial channel into the pool. Perhaps it
will find and attack the worm waiting there. Anyhow, it

(07:58):
is a good sign. It shows that the fish are moving.
From time to time, a kind of PLoP may be
heard in the middle of the weeds, which also indicates
that the tench are breakfasting. But for a long time
the bait remains untouched. At last, just when the angler
is deliberating whether it would not be wise to put

(08:20):
on a fresh worm, the float moves a little uneasily.
Then there is a pause, and it looks as if
the fish has left the bait, but no. The float
stirs again once twice, and then begins to sail slowly off.
The angler picks up his rod without hurry, for it

(08:42):
is wise to give a tench plenty of time, and
strikes gently. There is no mistake about the fish now,
and the rod bends handsomely to the encounter. The tench
fights very gamely and does all it knows to bury
itself in the world. Weeds round the little pool, but

(09:02):
the tackle is strong, and a little extra strain stops
it short of them. At each rush. The fish plays
deep and with great power, but there is no mad
plunge such as a trout would give, and at length
it is drawn through the channel, within the reach of
the net, and safely landed. It looks very handsome in

(09:26):
the morning light, with its armor of tiny scales gleaming
in dusky gold, and it weighs a full two and
a half pounds a nice fish, but not one of
the big ones, and so the hook is rebated and
swung out again without loss of time. Then follows another
period of inaction, during which the sun gathers power and

(09:48):
height and gives promise of another piping hot day. About
half past six, the float stirs again and presently glides
off as it did before. The angler strikes and is
fast into a second tench, but this time there is
no holding the fish, which moves irresistibly across the pool

(10:11):
into the weeds opposite. The line is kept tight in
the hope of bringing it out again, but it soon
becomes apparent either that the tench is curiously inactive, or that,
in some way understood by the fish but never intelligible
to men, it has transferred the hook from its mouth
to the toughest piece of weed it confined. And so

(10:36):
it proves much pulling in different directions has no result,
and at last the hook link breaks that fish. The
angler reflects ruefully as he puts on a new hook
was undoubtedly a four pounder at the least The strain
he applied must have turned anything smaller, and it is

(10:58):
doubtful whether another big one will bite for the sun
is now on the water. However, there is still an
hour and a half before breakfast, so the float and
a new hook are swung out once more. Oddly enough,
there is a bite at once, and a tension about
the same size as the first, is soon in the
net and ultimately in the basket. But this is the

(11:22):
end of the morning's sport. And for fully an hour
the bait lies absolutely unheeded, and at last the angler
winds in his line and departs. His bag of fish
is not remarkable, and three bites in four hours and
a half do not sound exciting, but he has acquired

(11:43):
a noble appetite, and is by no means dissatisfied. Other
mornings there are, and plenty of them, when he will
not get a fish at all, And again, for such
as the glorious uncertainty of tench, there may come a
day when he must get assistance to carry home his catch.

(12:05):
End of Chapter four