I guess it's ironic really; purepiscator.com comes to an end and my employment in the UK comes to an end also. My Christmas present from my employer was a redundancy cheque. Two things to mind; can we survive without the regular salary and can I make the redundancy money work for us. The thought of losing my fishery and our dream house I have just finished building, with my own hands, which has taken three years, is absolutely inconsolable. 'Over my dead body' as the phrase goes, but I mean it. However, I have no intention of pegging it early, which means La Morinais will survive. The next chapter commences on this new website, so we will see how our full-time French venture goes.
December 28th was my last day in the UK. I spent Christmas with my family there, before we headed for Dover, for the 13.00hr sailing to Boulogne. Famille Walker were assembled in the café on board the Norman Spirit, feeling like it was about to be just another tedious ferry crossing. But as the ropes were dropped and we started to chug out into the Channel, suddenly there was quite a moment – I was going home with the lovely Sally and my two children Matthew and Ellie, for good. No more weekly commutes back, no more drives to the airport, no more goodbyes. I was burning my bridges and was also burning with euphoria inside.
'Guardez votre fesse sur la chaise Paco!' What is it with young kids when they first start learning to fish – every time a wriggling fish is hoisted out of the water they simultaneously have to stand up? The result is that the line gets tangled in the bush, leaving the fish suspended aloft looking completely lost and helpless, or the fold-up seat gets knocked over, which then clatters onto the maggot box, bouncing them all over the grass. While trying to teach Matthews' friend Paco to fish, I had to start holding him down physically by his waist, to stop the 'I have to stand up and sharpish' reflex. The second thing I always find difficulty with, is trying to instil into over keen and excitable young fisherpersons to remember about the other end of the fishing rod (or a garden cane robbed out of Sally's veggie patch). Immediately when a fish is swung inwards and is flapping around excitable hands, the far end is completely forgotten. If you survive having your eye poked out, your ear skewered, the rod pushed into the bushes, the other 'usual' is for the rod (immediately forgotten) to be dropped onto the grass, only to be trodden on en route to the bucket (hence garden cane, can't go wrong there).
We have a stock pool, which as the name suggests, is where I grow on fish ready for the main lake when they reach suitable weights. At the moment there are thousands of small carp, from not much bigger than the maggot itself to 4ozs or so. These are a mixture of mirrors, commons with a large number of fully scaled mirrors, to which I am paying particular attention. These are a future longer term investment plan for the main lake. There are also roach, perch, a few rudd and a few tench, which only arrive on special occasions, don't they? But there are about twenty to twenty five carp from 4lbs to low doubles; and, of course Paco, on his first ever go at fishing, hooked one, on a garden cane. At first I was waiting for a large twig or bunch of weed to break the surface, but up came a mirror around 6lbs, seemingly completely unaware it was hooked. Paco squealed, I thought "oh no, this will be over in a second". It surprised me how long the excitement explosion lasted. With a rigid garden cane with a metre of garden string and just two metres of 2.6lb line, the carp thrashed about, charging one way then another, before the only obvious conclusion happened……ping. The line hadn't snapped though, the hook had pinged out, which was surprising but good news at least. As the float flew over Paco's shoulder, he became instantly ecstatic, dropped the cane and ran a full lap of the stock pool shouting all kinds of things which were far too quick for me to understand.
I was glad I was present to witness a ten second event, which young Paco will likely remember for the rest of his life. We fisher-folk always seem to hold clearer memories of the monsters we have lost than the ones we have landed. Long may this continue, isn't it this which drives us back to the waterside again and again?
The next afternoon I was doing some preparation work on the large mower, the beast. It's a 34hp machine, on which I incompetently reversed & knocked a small tree over with two years ago. The unusual shape of the rear radiator guard bears the proof. Paco and his brother came into view, marching at full pace with full purpose. Matthew was keeping up behind and shouted 'Paco has brought his brother dad, to go fishing'. This is when you feel like a bad and mean parent, the looks of disappointment on their faces when I told them I needed to service the mower. They soon bounced back though and I promised them I would take them soon. They would just need to let me know the next time they were coming to visit their grandmother.
In my new life, I could and would make time for things like this. When I was doing the weekly commute to the UK, time was always so precious and doing things spontaneously was difficult. I also needed to teach Matthew to cast, my plan involving a rod, reel, small leger and a tin bucket. Maybe I could get a few doing it at the same time and we could have a competition, thus pumping up something with a practical purpose into a bit of fun. Maybe, if Paco hoisted the leger out of the bucket with the same rapid response as when his float popped under, he might poke his own eye out. That would certainly help the learning process.
Myself included - each of us learning to make a fresh cast.
