Last Day

by Graham Elliott

The wind had picked up and was now blowing from the East. The angler had arrived with the dawn, just after 8am, and had settled in the cow drink swim a few hundred yards downstream of me.

The path was lightly dusted with an overnight sprinkle of snow, but more importantly, the temperature had risen from the minus temperatures of the past week and was now just bloody cold. I had woke and decided to wrap up and grab some of the bread, designated for breakfast toast, and see if the chub were ready for play. I had expected to be alone, the only fool, but the old (older!) boy had ambled along the path whistling a tuneful note as he came.

He did not see me, tucked as I was behind the willow, and I decided to wait till later then pop along to have a chat. First the chub.

An hour passed, and I was rewarded by a portly chevin, around 4lb and just above average for the Thames, but I still marvelled at its plumpness given the weather.

Moving downstream to the next swim, following the bread line, I caught a small roach, good to see in the Thames, it’s mouth easily swallowing the long shanked size 6 hook. The other angler had set-up now, quiver rod and no doubt a lump of bread flake and cage feeder was the plan. His rod was angled downstream and his hand rested on the rod.

Another chub followed, "hungry today" I thought as a decent fish, weighed at 4lb 11oz was released upstream. The other angler remained static over his rod, waiting for the first bite.

An hour passed, a few more nudges and a missed good pull. The wind got even stronger, markedly colder, and I pulled the coat tighter around me, and lifted the hood, shutting out the World around. A robin begged some bread, not its favourite food, but needed during this bitter weather.

No more bites now, fingers painful and nose dripping, the tackle was packed away as the storm clouds darkened and rode the wind westward. The swans came in on cue, alert to the sound of the bread wrapper being opened, and I fed them sparingly, making sure that the young brown birds got equal fill. Hard to believe that the cob would be chasing them off, even killing them if they did not leave his territory later in the Spring.

Bits packed up, and a walk downstream to say hello and goodbye to the other angler before my hasty retreat. He was still crouched over his rod, but it was now bucking in the rod rest, the clutch singing. His arm was now down by his side,

" Fish on " I shouted, "watch out for your rod". He didn’t move.

Alongside I came, he was fast asleep, but deeper, and I grabbed the rod, just preventing it from being pulled in the water by a strong powerful fish, flicked the bale arm open and dropped it onto the frozen ground.

I called the Ambulance, knowing that it was just a formality. No longer cold just frightened and deeply saddened. The fish? It really doesn’t matter does it?