My old Dad liked to fish. He was a fly fisherman and he used to tie his own flies on a little vice screwed to the kitchen table. He had a pair of green waders, which invariably leaked, but he used them to wade into the River Severn with his cane rod and fly-hook adorned hat. He looked happy and contented although I don’t actually remember him landing anything.
In the Welsh village where my mother grew up, Llandinum, were two bridges. One was a single track wrought iron vehicular bridge painted cream to match the railway station it led to. The other was a railway bridge, about two hundred yards away, carrying steam trains before Doctor Beeching closed the line in the sixties. You could fish between the bridges without a fishing licence. My elder brother, Roger, and I were encouraged by my father to discover the joys of fishing and went with baited rods to fish between the bridges. My brother took to it like a duck to water but, after about 20 minutes watching a fluorescent float bobbing up and down in the water with no result, I lost interest.
At our current campsite on the Aveyron River we are sandwiched (happily) between two angler families. Between them they have eleven rods staked out on the riverbank, on supports similar to those used by snipers. The rods have alarms so you can hear when fish are interested and you can carry on with real life in the interim. So far, after four days and nights, to my knowledge no fish have been caught.
‘Poissonneuse’ was the term used by a boat guide to describe the Lot river – teeming with fish. Even as a non-fisherman I can see the difference between the two rivers. The Aveyron just doesn’t seem alive with the fish, kingfishers and herons we were used to seeing on the Lot.
But I guess it doesn’t matter. There are still fathers showing sons and daughters the joys of fishing. Good luck to them!