Freud would almost certainly have traced my abhorrence of the land-owning
classes back to my teenage years when my beloved Ripples was murdered by
the Thurrock Council Refuse Department. Forty years on and the
memories of that rich and crystal clear paradise are as fresh as yesterday, but then so are those of the Doxodec lorries, the Sludge-Gulpers, the Edwin Clark 'Industrial Division' trucks and the endless convoy of council refuse lorries. Still I see and hear the tankers reversing to the margins, there to defecate their foul, toxic loads where moorhen once nested. The pictures remain obscenely clear, and they exude the sweet, sickly, chemical perfume of industrial Dagenham. I am not alone. Barely a morning passes 8 o'clock without a text from Tony Corless: PERFECT DAY FOR A LONG ISLAND PIKE - IF COOKIE AIN'T ALREADY IN OUR SWIM! Or maybe: FANCY A SPOT OF CURLIE BASHING ON THE POINT TODAY?
I smile of course, but me and Tony share the tragedy more keenly than most I think; we lived there, at The Ripples, summer and winter, night and day. We tended it, planted it, loved it, and tolerated not the slightest scrap of thoughtlessly discarded litter; it was rare then - as it is now - to return home without a bagful of stranger's rubbish for the dustbin.
Then came our own War of the Worlds and within a year our lake had gone forever.
For ever.
It is then, I admit, with something larger than a chip on my shoulder that I pursue my angling-life, keen to find those rare places of excellence where Tudor Rose and Green Giant are strangers to the undergrowth. I have had more than my fair share of rubbish and now I seek nothing less than perfection in which to pass my days with rod and reel; I live in Essex, but 'my' river is the Wye. When time or money is short I turn my attention closer to home and it is here that my 'chip' becomes a 'wedge' for the south is largely the reserve of the high and mighty: the trusted 'Guardians of the Land'; the lords and ladies who have cleverly contrived over centuries to repel the commoner without anything so vulgar as a fence. The inquisitive angler will drive in circles for an hour or more investigating this little 'yellow' road and that little track; doubling-back up the 'B' road to approach the blue ribbon from a different angle but without success. After an entire morning wearing grooves into the tarmac he will reluctantly conclude that the car must be hidden away and the approach to the river made on foot, through that tiny gap in the hawthorn he saw back up the road.
Whenever I have found myself in a similar quandary any guilt I may or should feel is assuaged by the certain knowledge that my presence on the fringes of a field will affect nothing and nobody; rightly or wrongly - though I care very little which - I see my decades of voluntary rubbish-reassignment as my day-ticket, my natural pass to the forbidden land. In other parts of the country it is sometimes possible to gain permission to fish but in the citadels of the home counties a polite knock on the door and an equally courteous request will fall on deaf and arrogant ears. So I make my way in. I've earned it. I'm tired of politely grovelling on marble doorsteps flanked by Doric columns and wisteria; tired of the long, crestfallen walks back to the main road; p*ss*d-off with the thought that Lord and Lady Muck have never done a 12 hour night in a tangle of hissing pipework yet see me as their enemy.
Naturally, I pick a spot far from view in the wildest part of the estate. I am not on the lawn or anywhere near the tennis court: I am a mile away in rough country and confident of my concealment. And I start to fish.
Now, what I once regarded as a joke I see as a very real possibility: I think, perhaps, the land-owning classes (hereonin known as The b*st**ds) complete their education at a Swiss Finishing School for Downright Nastiness or they subscribe to a glossy and very exclusive half-yearly journal offering tips and ideas on how to confront 'ruffians'. I imagine and smell a magazine far heavier than its size suggests; a tome - no less - with a circulation of around 5000 and costing at least £25. In it are mean-spirited accounts of altercations with ramblers, twitchers, 'workmen' (i.e: skilled pipe-layers, surveyors, crane operators etc) and fishermen, and each one concludes with two or three suggestions from a tweedy Katherine Whitehorn lookalike with a voice honed on Chivas.
I consider this to be more than just fantasy because regardless of location the inevitable riverside interrogation will comprise phrases and certain key-words used exclusively by The b*st**ds. Your pleasant and genuine offer to make a donation to the b*st**d's favourite charity WILL be parried by the one about the 'beast' (that's a cow to you and me) that choked on an angler's discarded bread-bag. Your friendly, tentative assertion that your presence will have no impact on the environment WILL be blocked by the b*st**d asking if YOU would welcome a stranger creeping around YOUR garden. Your tempered observation at this point that YOUR garden is the size of a second-class stamp and that the b*st**d's garden is visible from space will make less than an iota of difference: you are perceived as a stain on an otherwise pristine sheet; a speck of dirt to be removed without further ado - and I ask you, when did you EVER see a freaking upturned cow with a plastic bag in its gob?
Going through the motions now (for you may as well have a bit of fun and you've nothing to lose) you allude to the job you have held down for 40 years and the amount of tax you've paid! Does this not confer something of a moral right to fish far from the madding crowd you ask. The usual response to this is merely another gee-up to get off the b*st**d's land but last Friday, as it happens, I was quite seriously asked "...and HWHY aren't yaw at wukk today?" I could hardly believe my ears and most disrespectfully tugged at my forelock with a humble apology; Her B*tchness probably thought I meant it...
Very soon will come the wholly predictable accusation that you are a COMMUNIST but do try to enjoy the moment by chiming-in won't you? It's good for a laugh and the black labrador won't know you're taking the p*ss.
Now then. Should you, dear reader, be feeling a twinge of sympathy or understanding for the b*st**d, remember this: the Liberty's scarf, the green quilted body-warmer, the brown brogues from Lobb of Bentinck Street, the green tartan skirt AND the giant safety-pin cost more than your house. The b*st**d has had to make a special point of leaving her binoculars on the bay-window sill, fire-up the Range Rover and drive over best part of a country mile to confront you. Like every other b*st**d you ever had the misfortune to meet a compromise or a little understanding was never on the cards. There was never any question of pleasantness; no chance of a considered judgement; no possibility of the b*st**d squeezing a little bon homie onto your brush...
So. Some of those private stretches hold some fantastic fish...get yourself a decent map and have a bash for yourself. It's great fun!
---------- Post added at 03:01 ---------- Previous post was at 02:44 ----------
I reckon that warrants another book-plug don't you, Woody?
