The old rudd pond –
life lessons learnt
by
Ed Whitby
Like many anglers, my
piscatorial childhood was shaped and influenced by unwanted fishing tackle;
hand-me-downs, battle-worn Mitchell reels, threadbare cane fly rods, gritty
wooden centre pin reels and fibreglass rods capable of game fishing in the Atlantic.
Unwanted by their
previous owners yes, but dearly cherished by me and were now members of a newly
found movement. These adventures were
influenced by a third edition copy of 'Mr Crabtree Goes Fishing' bought for the
princely sum of 5p from the local Church Summer Fete. The yellowed pages suggested this must-have
guide book had brought about many an adventure for its previous owners, and now
it was ready to start all over again.
This, I am sure, is
typical of childhood for many an angler; all sharing that dream of secluded,
reed-lined, lily-choked ponds. But for
me, I was lucky; I had just that little bit more – my own pond, not two minutes
from my bedroom door.
In the early 1980's
my father undertook a renovation project on a local farm dwelling that had been
neglected since the end of the Second World War. In time this lovely rural cottage progressed
to a self-contained smallholding with friends’ livestock grazing on the
surrounding land. Of course such a
setting wasn’t complete without a farm pond, and before long such a feature was
dug complete with island and populated by half a dozen Khaki Campbell ducks
(much to the delight of the local fox I might add).
-The-Old-Rudd-Pond.jpg)
The deep clay-coloured
water was soon home to two milk churns full of golden rudd between 4” and 6” in
length. At the time the rudd was a fish
I’d not heard of, but soon marvelled at their golden flanks, sparkling eyes and
bright red fins. For good measure they were
joined by four goldfish.
For any angler, let
alone an 8-year old boy, this was a dream come true; a farm pond filled with
stunning fish right on the doorstep. This
was left to settle and mature through the Autumn, Winter and Spring of 1989.
Respectful of the
closed season that was so strictly adhered to back then, June 16th
arrived like a second Christmas in six months.
I made my way down to the pond with my over-zealous 12ft fibreglass
match rod. The rod was tackled up with a
paint chipped Mitchell reel (masking tape applied by my dad ensured that it
didn’t move at all, potentially leading to a tangled inconvenience), a length
of kinked nylon capable of hauling the heaviest of sharks, a float better
suited to the Atlantic and an oversized hook.
I can still remember
the sweet smell of the early summer air as I made my way down the steep
banks. The layout of the pond had a
perfect, yet unintentional, flat area which became the best spot for both
comfort and fish location. Bait, a
wriggly worm, was extracted from beneath one of the garden gnomes sitting beside
the pond. The giant float made its
presence known as it crashed into the water but rather than ruin the swim it
seemed to have the opposite effect, with a bite arriving almost
instantaneously! The fish was quickly
brought ashore – of course it was a small rudd of around 4” in length;
unremarkable to many maybe, but it was mine, my first fish from my own
pond! The lively silver-gold character
was carefully returned and I searched under the gnomes for more bait. Again an instant response was met as the worm
settled in the water, a slightly larger fish this time – and for an 8-year old
boy, the catch of a lifetime! My own
little fishing paradise at such a young age – it couldn’t get any better.
Sadly, the gnomes
chose to provide no more bait on that occasion and that first visit to my very
own slice of heaven came to an end. I
joyfully skipped along the path back to the kitchen door elated at the morning's
happenings. Not particularly exciting
for the average angler but it lit a fire within me and this continues to burn
nearly 30 years later.
At that stage of my
life, visits to see my father were, at best, limited to fortnightly weekend
trips – not as often as I’d have liked but my absence from the pond ensured
that the anticipation of the next visit began to grow the moment I left. Anglers today will know that feeling; the
night before a long-planned trip – a sense of excitement and anticipation. For me, I had this same feeling continually
for two weeks at a time, with the only relief being the two days I was beside
the pond.
The pond became a
popular destination for friends too. Sunday
afternoons with my father were often shared with a friend from school. On reflection, it was a nigh on perfect tool
to introduce youngsters to the joys of angling.
A fish almost every cast, an un-pressured and peaceful environment,
supported in the knowledge that the warm and dry house lay just yards away
should an escape be necessary.
In recent years I
have returned to a traditional approach to my own personal angling, with less
focus on the presentation of my bait (perhaps too little on many occasions!)
and more attention spent on the environment in which I’m privileged to find
myself. I attribute this rekindled
approach to my days spent alongside 'The old rudd pond'. Never again will my focus be on tactics or
the need for the latest item of tackle.
Instead it is about adventure, the unknown, the mystery that lies ahead
(which is often another rudd - but not always!)
Perhaps surprising to
many, the joy of catching one small rudd after another failed to waiver. But naturally as one learns more about the
water they are beside, a fascination with the other inhabitants becomes to
simmer – in this instance, thoughts of the handful of goldfish that resided
within the pond began to develop.
Occasional glimpses of bright orange amongst the reeds confirmed their
presence but never did they show an interest in the gnome’s worms or bread from
the kitchen cupboard. To a young boy
they seemed uncatchable.
On one particularly
damp Sunday afternoon in August I had an overwhelming urge that the opportunity
to realise my goldfish ambition was now upon me. Using a small pinch of ‘Mighty White’
(remember that?!) beneath my now more realistically sized waggler, I perched on
my folding wooden stool beneath a small umbrella borrowed from the
cottage. After a rare period of
inactivity, the float bobbed tentatively and a gentle strike revealed a brief
flash of orange. My heart skipped a
beat. The fish came in with relative
ease and was of impressive proportions - a good 2lb or so. Already running late for Sunday Lunch, in my
naivety I elected to leave the fish on the end of my line so as to savour his
beauty more closely later in the afternoon.
Lunch was of course devoured with haste and I returned to my rod in
anticipation of seeing my dreams come true.
Of course, I was met with a bare hook and a lesson was quickly learned.
Unknowingly at the
time, the old rudd pond played a key influence in developing the watercraft
that I possess today. It is something
that cannot be taught, but by being in the right location and being
encapsulated by the environment, you subconsciously take it all in. With the escaped goldfish I was taught the
importance of appreciating the moment there and then, take it in and absorb
it. Don’t ever think that you can make a
great moment even better – be grateful for that opportunity when it
arises. It may never happen again.
As time passed,
nature made its mark and continued to reclaim the pond, reed by reed, each
year. Rather than feel intimidated by
nature’s intentions, a new opportunity was embraced. The old rudd pond indirectly taught me new
skills and the importance of adaptation.
In this instance freelining and stalking; a method that actually
produced a rudd of over 2lb on one occasion!
This is one of the truly memorable angling occasions of my childhood, a
defining moment to the extent that it remains my preferred approach to this
day.
Nature finally took
full control of the pond as I approached my 18th birthday. Ironically as I moved away to commence my
University studies, my former preferred method of piscatorial education ceased
to be. I firmly believe that this was
nature’s intention; she taught me valuable lessons during the decade we spent
together beside the old rudd pond and, as I demonstrated my knowledge she
displayed her acceptance in allowing me to move on.
Sadly, the pond has
ceased to exist physically but will forever remain within my mind; indeed those
memories and lessons learnt are present every time I am bank-side.