STRAY LINES FROM AN ANGLER’S POCKET-BOOK. (Written about 1875)
” Non fit nisi improvisum ;”
or as the French render it,
” Rien n’arrive fors l’imprevu.”
He who first formulated this aphorism was surely a disciple of the rod. The longer our devotion to the “gentle art” the stronger our faith in the infallible uncertainty of sport. Yet who would dare to admit the possibility of catching fish with an artificial fly in a stagnant pond entirely covered with duckweed (Lemna minor)?
In August, 1865, on my way home from a stream in Kent that I had been whipping for trout with not much success, I passed through a farmyard. A group of children were watching a game of battledore and shuttlecock played by two lads.
It was a close, sultry evening, and not a breath of air was stirring; as, however, is not unfrequently the case in thundery weather, a solitary puff of cold wind suddenly sprang up, swaying the scolding rooks to and fro in the elm- trees and filling the air with bits of straw and dust. It lasted but a few seconds, and died away as mysteriously as it had arisen. The angry remonstrance of the rooks was mingled with the cries of the children, for the wind had carried the shuttlecock over their heads and dropped it in the middle of a round pond.
There it lay like a single white water-lily in a bed of green. Taking pity on the children, who were distressed at their loss, I put my rod together again, though with little hope of being able to fish out the shuttlecock, as the duckweed was too thick to admit of its being towed ashore, unless, indeed, I could succeed in hooking the cork; the feathers, I feared, would yield but an uncertain hold to my hooks. I mounted the last cast I had used on the river as this was still round my hat, and therefore most accessible. It consisted of a small Gray Badger with a tiny Black Smudge as drop-fly.
The next thing was to extend my line. Fearing the weeds would clog the flies and mask the points of the hooks if they fell upon the surface of the pond, I paid out line in the air (by a method familiar to those who fish with a dry fly), releasing my line little by little from the reel with one hand as I swished the rod backwards and forwards with the other, taking care not to allow the flies to touch the water in front or the ground behind during the process. When I judged I had enough line out I made my cast.
The flies fell beyond but a little beside the shuttlecock.
I thought, however, that by shifting my ground laterally I could bring my casting-line over the feathers. If I were successful in this, a slight depression of the rod-point would let the line fall between the feathers, and then a low drag followed by a sharp stroke would probably fix one of the hooks in the cork of the shuttlecock. With this object I took a step or two along the margin of the pond, and was in the act of raising the point of my rod when I felt a pluck and saw a splash that disturbed the duckweed and set the shuttlecock dancing on the undulations.
I of course thought I had caught on the end of some bent stick or other inanimate object concealed by the weed, and was tenderly feeling up my line when a second tug, followed by a succession of twitches, unmistakably announced the presence of something alive at the end of my line. My first impression was that I had foul-hooked an eft or frog ; but the resistance was much too strong. Surely it could not be an eel? I had never heard of an eel taking a fly, or lying near enough to the surface to get foul-hooked. I worked my prize carefully to the bank, and although it was speckled all over with green weed, I at once recognised it as a perch of about half a pound in weight. I gave it to the owner of the shuttlecock as compensation for his loss, little thinking I should catch another. I threw again, however — who would not ? — and soon had another on the grass. Continuing my unexpected sport, I caught eight or ten brace. Most of the fish were of about the same size, though one or two were much larger, weighing nearly a pound apiece. I selected two brace of the best, gave the rest to the children, and went my way wondering, but resolved to try the pond again next time I was in the neighbourhood. I did so some weeks later, but with no success. A wet night followed by a strong wind had driven all the weed — which was not then so strong as it had been — to the side, and I did not get a single rise in the open water.
I fancy the perch — which, by the way, were very poor in condition and muddy in flavour — had been half starved, and that, therefore, they rushed eagerly at anything they saw moving through the weeds, thinking it might be something alive, which to a hungry perch means something to eat. I am strengthened in this belief by an incident that occurred some years later in Tasmania. With a consignment of salmon and trout ova, sent to the colony by the late Frank Buckland, were a few perch ova. These latter were hatched by the late Morton Allport, at that time curator of the museum at Hobart Town, and when removed from the hatching-boxes were placed in a small tank full of white water-lilies and other aquatic plants. He used to feed them on worms and tadpoles, and at the time I visited Hobart they
had grown to the length of about five or six inches. When feeding them he was in the habit of lifting up the edge of one of the lily leaves, and they had grown so bold and fearless that they would take food from his hand. When I visited the tank we had no food with us, but by his direction I put the tip of my fourth finger between the leaves and moved it slowly to and fro. Immediately I felt a sharp nip, followed by others, as perch after perch tried to swallow the end joint of my finger.
I have since heard from an angler, on whose word I can place reliance, that he has caught perch in the manner I have described with a naked hook instead of a fly, but from his account I imagine he must have moved his hook through the weed more quickly than I did.
I have said that I never heard of an eel taking a fly. I should have been more accurate had I said that I had never heard of an eel taking an artificial fly, for I have seen eels feed most voraciously on the larvae of water-flies. Many of these insects adhere in clusters to the stems and leaves of sub-aquaceous plants.
One evening in the summer of 1883 in the Test near Romsey I saw a number of eels feeding on these insects, and so busily were they engaged in picking their food from the leaves of the “pond-weed” (potamogeton) that a gentleman who was with me succeeded in capturing two of the largest with my salmon gaff. He watched till an eel’s head was under a leaf, and then putting his gaff very quietly into the water he brought it under the thickest part of the eel’s body, and struck with a precision that surprised me, although I knew him to be an experienced gaffer. It is true he missed one or two, but an eel can only be transfixed if the point of the gaff strikes diametrically in the centre of its body, otherwise the point slips without penetrating. I had at first thought that the eels were feeding on snails, but on examining the under-sides and stalks of the weed I found numerous larvae of water-flies having fan-shaped gills — probably the larvae of the later duns or of some other members of the family of Ephemeridae. I knew that these insects were eaten by trout, having frequently found them when examining the contents of a trout’s belly, and I doubted not that whatever was meat for a trout was meat for an eel; but I had always understood that eels rarely came near the surface of the water in search of food, and never did so in daylight. Yarrell, however, says the Hampshire eel differs from the two other known species of fresh-water eels not only anatomically but also ” in its habit of roving and feeding in the day.” (See Yarrell’s History of British Fishes, vol. ii., and Jesse’s Gleanings in Natural History, second series.) It may be that this eel is exceptional also in its fly- eating propensities, but I merely record the fact and leave deduction to naturalists. The eels in the Test occasionally grow to a very large size. My keeper caught one of four and a half pounds in weight on a pike trimmer baited with a good-sized dace. Indeed all kinds of fish in the Test attain dimensions quite out of proportion to the size of the river. This is probably due to the quantity of food yielded by streams running through a chalky bed. (On this subject see Kingsley’s charming essay, Chalk-stream Studies.)
In 1883 a salmon weighing forty-three pounds was captured with a fly (the “Blue Jay”) about two miles below Middle Bridge at Romsey. This huge monster was of course under no control. He simply led his captor captive up and down the river at his own sweet will, until, weary of the sport of playing an angler, he finally took up a strong position under a projecting shelf of the opposite bank and sulkily refused to move further. How long he would have remained “at anchor” if left to himself no one knows. My keeper, who was attending an angler some half a mile above the spot, on the side of the river under which the fish lay, had watched the fight through his binocular glasses, and seeing that fish and fisherman had remained in statu quo for upwards of an hour, went down the bank to see whether he could be of any assistance in stirring up the fish.
He splashed the water in vain. He even tapped the gravelly bed of the river with his long gaff handle. Still the salmon refused to budge an inch.
He then lay down, and, stretching himself as far as he dared over the stream, shaded the light from his eyes with his hand, and peered into the water. Half hidden by the projecting ledge, there lay the salmon, deliberately rubbing the gut at the head of the fly against the pebbles at the bottom. The case seemed urgent. There was no time for consultation. A hurried demand for leave to gaff the fish was made, as a matter of form, but, without awaiting an answer, the keeper proceeded to business. Sinking his gaff quietly outside and below the fish, he brought the hook upstream till it was under its belly, and then struck boldly. For a few seconds it was doubtful whether the salmon would come out or the keeper go in. I am told that at one time his heels were considerably above his head, and
his face was uncomfortably close to the surface of the water.
The struggle was sharp but short.
Wriggling his body backwards by aid of feet and knees until he could get his elbows on the bank, while he drew on the fish, he soon came to close quarters, and the next moment salmon and keeper were rolling inland together, coiled in the line of the helpless but lucky angler to whom the capture was accredited, who stood meanwhile motionless, though not unmoved, watching the conflict from the oppsoite bank of the river.
This is salmon that has been caught in the Test for some years. Last spring Sir Philip E—— caught one of thirty-one pounds near the same spot. I caught one of twenty-nine pounds a little lower down the river on a nondescript silver-bodied fly of my own making, and Lord Mount-Temple’s agent caught one of twenty-six pounds on a “dusty miller” within a mile of the same place.
Of pike I can happily speak in the past tense. We have but few now, thanks to the relentless war waged against them by this same keeper. Nets, snares, and engines for their destruction are set at every season. Fence months protect them not, nor can the constancy and devotion of a loving pair on the spawning bed awaken pity. Nay, I have known him keep the female fish struggling on the hook of his night line in order to tempt the distressed husband within range of his fatal gaff. Gun, spear, gaff, or the still more deadly wire noose—anything is good enough for “them brutes,” as he usually terms the noble race of Esox lucius.
Our present immunity from these pests shows what may be done by persistent and unremitting efforts to exterminate them. Ten years ago it was no uncommon thing for an angler to take a dozen or fifteen in a day’s fishing, and heavy fish to boot.
Lord Mount-Temple’s agent has one stuffed that would have weighed upwards of thirty pounds had it been in condition when it was taken; and this was scarcely an exceptional fish, though of course above the average in size.
In Lord Palmerston’s time many such were taken. One, though somewhat inferior in weight to that just mentioned, was captured under circumstances worthy of record. It was characteristic of Lord Palmerston that, however absorbed he might be in matters of state, nothing within range of his vision escaped his observation. This is more particularly true in all that relates to sport. If a pheasant were heard on a tree a little earlier than the usual roosting time, he would ride or walk to leeward, and try to scent a fox. If blackbirds chattered on the hedgerows, the keeper was asked whose cat had taken to poaching. If the fowls cackled and ran to cover when he was in his agent’s office at the home farm, he would run out and look up for a hawk. No horse ever strayed or strange dog barked without his observing it. No foot-print or trail ever escaped his notice. One day, when walking on the lawn that slopes from Broadlands mansion to the river, he noticed a shoal, or “school,” as it is called, of small fry making for the shallows by leaps and bounds. There was no snapping and chopping at the surface of the water, as is the case when trout or perch are feeding on bait. The ” school ” was followed by a strong wave, occasionally breaking into a swirl or eddy, as the heavy pike that caused it paused or turned aside to snap up a victim too weary longer to escape his cruel jaws. The keeper was summoned, and a trimmer set. Early next morning the trimmer was taken up. On it was found a Chinese puzzle — a pike weighing twenty-five pounds, quite dead. Protruding from its mouth was the tail of a perch weighing three and a half pounds, and inside the perch the dace with which the trimmer had been baited. The pike was served that day in the dining-room, and the perch in the servants’ hall. What came of the dace history recordeth not. Some years later a trout of eleven pounds one ounce was caught by Lord Mount-Temple’s agent near the same spot. This fish, that had long resisted the temptation of fly and minnow, that had even been proof against the seductive succulence, of a well-scoured lob-worm, at last succumbed to the homely attraction of a piece of household bread. It had long been well known to the boys of Romsey, who were in the habit of feeding it from the bridge; and, although it showed the greatest caution with respect to other food, it would take bread with quite rustic confidence. One clay when piece after piece had been thrown in, and had been carried down by the current, certain to disappear at the same spot, leaving air- bubbles in its place, a guileless-looking piece of crumb laboured slowly down the stream. It seemed more solid, more substantial, more stoggy (to risk a slangy but expressive word) than its precursors. It was heavier than any of them — by the weight of a number eight Limerick hook ! The sequel has already been foreshadowed. The flesh of this trout was whiter and had less flavour than is usual with Test trout. Trout of five or six pounds weight are common. Grayling abound, occasionally attaining the great weight of five pounds. Six were taken in succession not long ago by the head gardener at Broadlands averaging two and a half pounds apiece.
Roach, dace, gudgeon, and minnows also grow to an unusually large size here.
I have mentioned these facts as tending to prove, firstly, that the size of fish depends more on the quantity and quality of their food than on the volume of water in the river they inhabit; and, secondly, that where food is plentiful, salmon, trout, and grayling, to say nothing of coarse fish, may live and thrive together, without diminishing in number or size.
The case may be exceptional, but the facts recorded must be of interest to those studying the economy of our inland fisheries.
Basil Field.
