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Fishing, Is it in the Blood?

Some say that being an angler is in the blood, genetic, some say it is the competitive or the primeval will to feed the family, I say it's a bit of all. But if my family had to depend on my killing power they would be dead! (From starvation)

My grandfather, my great uncle, my uncle, me mum all loved to fish. For myself I remember, from a very early age, wanting to fish while in the bath, preferring to have my ducks and ships submerged where fish would be rather than floating listlessly on the surface of the water among the fragrant bubbles.

I guess that fishing was in my blood and I have never gotten over the infection. It seemed so natural to fish, catch fish and put them on the table. It seemed so warming to be able to be a provider, especially as a young boy. A brace of fish became a determinant outcome from an angling outing because one fish in my early days of wild trouting when fish were natural and generally small, was little more than a one portion catch which denied the essence of sharing the product of my endeavours.

Even more, the drive for numbers became an issue. I wanted to take fish as proof of my skill, evidence was essential to avoid derisory comments about the fish that got away or was returned unharmed. The desire for bigger fish became an issue as rainbow trout became more and more common. With wild brownies I aspired to catch a fish of over one pound in my local rivers and lochs. When rainbows became ubiquitous in the 1970's I, with my fellow angers, started to think bigger.

I remember reading the stories about Avington fishery in Hampshire where Sam Holland pioneered the production of monster rainbows. Fish of 10 and 20lb became legendary. Raised on the concept of fish growing naturally to great size the old brain failed to assimilate the difference between a wild fish fed on nature's larder, fish of great age and maturity and hand reared fish of few years in age genetically engineered and fattened like pigs for the slaughter.

The provider in me desired to latch on to one of these monsters, to be pictured holding a fat double figure rainbow, proud of my prowess, happy to be able to feed the many with one fish.

I have fished Avington and Dever Springs and must say that Dever, especially, is a beautiful fishery well worth the visit. The thrill of sight fishing for big trout with a nymph or dry fly is burned on my memory more often as not intruded upon by the visions of a leviathan turning to my fly only to be beaten to the take by a much smaller fish! I enjoyed those days fishing for big fish and managed to take my double figure rainbow but never a brownie.

In the end though, I craved the mystery of wild fishing, hunting for fish you cannot see the fish in places where the trout are of all sizes and fishing blind in more natural surroundings becomes a mystery, obliging you to take what lady luck provides.

A couple of days ago I crossed the bridge over the Tweed at Norham. An unpromising day, bright, intermittent clouds but an up stream wind. I had just bought a season trout ticket for the beat and had the rod in the car. I stopped to have a look at the river from the bridge thinking it more a day for dog walking, then I saw a trout rise once then twice. The pulse rate went up a tad and I went to the car and tackled up, strolling down to the river some 15 minutes later.

After all my years of angling the heart thumping excitement has faded to a more steely determination to spot and catch a particular fish. I parked my butt on a handy tuft of grass and waited with a well oiled Klinkhammer now attached to the leader after viewing the hatch of flies; olives with the occasional March Brown. The fish showing were few and unselective, but in time there was a surface boil just where I had spotted the fish from the bridge earlier. One cast and the fish was on, lively and fighting fit. I netted the fish in due course keeping it in the water throughout the unhooking process and shortly returned a fine fish of about a pound, thin after a hard winter but unharmed.

In the next hour I cast less than a dozen time, nicked one fish of similar proportions to my previous catch and had the inevitable salmon parr. The light changed, the air felt heavy, the wind blew and both the fish and I decided that was that for now. In my case I had a dog to walk.

Memorable.

A beautiful wild fish with the potential a month from now to be fit for the bag but this day returned to feed and fatten. My hunter instinct was satisfied by success, much thought and little effort.

As Izzac Walton would have it, angling is for the contemplative angler and for me that day will be remembered not just for the fish but for the reminder that fishing is a natural habit in keeping with our instincts. While the desire to catch big fat fish in a stocked fishery is a Siren call there is nothing better than following your genetic instincts as a fisher, taking something from the wild unknown.

I believe that like most anglers I was born to fish, it is in the blood, in the genes. Fishing is as natural as breathing,  fundamental to our well being. For many today that primeval instinct, to hunt, seek and achieve success is satisfied in many ways but for me there is nothing that surpasses walking with my dog, rod in the crook of my arm, eyes wild open just looking at the world for a glimpse of a kingfisher or for that special fish.