If you are still reading this, this is not a wonderful fish story, I did not have one touch the whole session. I apologise now for this being a long post. I want to try capture the memory for my own benefit, but would also like to share it as best I can. It may not seem so great to some, I know we all see interesting things that hub bub suburbia man miss while warm in there homely cocoon. Only aware of natural wonder through the screen, which can be amazingly real and emotional. But it can not compare.

The scene. I sat in my chair behind my gently nodding rod, ever poised with anticipation which never did reach fruition. A bush some fifteen feet round at my back peaceful for winter and leafless. The whole landscape lit by cold amber light from a spot lamp, like a burning mini sun a top a sixty foot post seventy yards behind me. It's the type used to light big city roundabouts giving a strange brilliant, drab orange light. Especially out here in the dark, on a natural green corridor which inter lace some of our busiest crude town and city abominations. I was aware of the ever present hum of traffic, planes competing with the shiny dots of stars. The river thirty feet wide in front, flowing right to left, dark and surreal so full of promise. Both banks are lush with big reedy grasses, browning now and lying down for winter. The far bank, with no footpath has a stand of trees fifteen feet from the waters edge. Lit white in the strange light, leafless, stony with intricate patterns of silver branches and twigs intermingling from ten feet above the woodland floor.

I'd sat there now for a few hours, through the evening feeding a rat hemp seed on a brightly lit patch a couple of feet from my feet. He would rustle up the bank through the reeds, sit on his haunches studying me studying him, whilst he picked grains with his mouth then sat turning them with his paws for the right angle to chew. Unloved creatures but quite fascinating, and a great view on a cold and bite less night. Upon one of many of his scurries to cover, my toes beginning to hurt in the cold, I lit a cigarette glanced at the time. Seven thirty, getting cold now I looked at the thermometer, 2 degrees C. I did not check the water temperature, it could only be an unwanted negative vibe. The rod nodded gently in the flow with ever anticipation. Six near grown signets having pondered the margins opposite had now settled on a shallow mud bank, some hundred yards upstream where a wide shallow ditch enters the river. Making their way with rude undignified squawks and grunts, hardly befitting there splendour to come next year when lost is the dappled streaks of brown. Not unlike they had been in a rugby scrum with many muddy hands. The amber light pronouncing the whiteness of developing adult plumage.

Despondency was spreading from my aching toes, but I was still absorbed with the surroundings. My rod nodding gently still with anticipation. A movement caught my eye on the far bank, I could see fifty yards downstream, into the picture wondered a fox, wow, always a pleasure. He worked his way along the bank, in full view, walking on the flattened reedy route, as he probably does unseen as a matter of routine. I fetched out my camera, knowing the picture will never be good. The rustling brought interest to the fox, now level with me opposite. I'm sure he could not see me in the shadow of the bush, strongly back lit by the strange, to him, cold night human sun. As I fumblingly untangled the camera from its sheath, I watched. From the right, upstream I saw the white of a bird, slowly gliding the path. A gull the first thought, the double take saw my eyes re-look. A Barn Owl, silently and magically cutting the cold night air. He flew along the same path, surveying the Fox. I guess he follows the Fox to see what creatures he may disturb. He swung to his right to alight gently a branch some ten feet above the fox's head. I pointed the camera, an Owl and fox in frame. Still I was unseen, but presence known. the camera buzzed as it set itself. The flash fired and film wound on, my friends totally unconcerned, viewed with no fluster. As I lifted the camera again, having now selected zoom, another fox, his mate, strolled equally boldly into the scene. I could not believe it two foxes and an Owl in one frame. The foxes in view for what seemed ages, and three leisurely photos, and much eyeful wonder, eventually dissolved into the thicker shrubbery, leaving me overjoyed and sad to see them go. The Owl continued Fox observation from his better vantage point.

The rod nodded gently, still with anticipation. I watched the Owl, a dark shape joined him on a branch behind, a Crow. They seemed well at ease with each other, I still cant explain it, strange in my mind. The Crow though was soon forgotten as a second Barn Owl joined the treat. He, she? swept in and circled the tree trunks, below the tangled stark branch canopy rising some fifty feet above it. Coming finally and delicately to rest in the next tree.

The Owls stayed with me until I left two hours later. They were running forays, never much out of view all around me, scanning the ground, looking, listening. Unaware or unconcerned at this interloper in the shadow, rod nodding gently still in anticipation. On one such foray, flying in rounded long zig-zags, one wheeled around behind me, ten feet from my head, up the bank next to my shadowing bush. The Owl's flight faltered to a hover, as some unseen, unheard, by me, captured it's eagle eyed attention. It fluttered, hovering silently there for a few seconds in wonderful glory. Strongly backlit by the orange night sun. Every feather in detail just begged to be counted, it's body at 45 degrees, giant wings absurdly slowly beating, head rolled down to dissect the suspicious patch of ground . The would-be prey must have deluded the Owl's attentions, it effortlessly slipped back to flight to alight again the tree opposite.

Rod nodding, still in anticipation. I heard the prehistoric rasp of a Heron upstream, stood to view over the bank side reeds. Up where the Signets rest, they too had an interloper. The Heron stood motionless in the shallows, like made of stone. Its demeanour as well as voice like a pterodactyl, or ancient bird. The Signets viewed with suspicion, never threatening but continuing the ungainly grunting banter young Swans do.

I was pained to leave, one last cigarette before I pack up, rod nodding gently in the current, full of anticipation. My attention, away from the patient Owls, telling me now, cold pain had spread from the toes encompassing my whole feet. I lit the cigarette, tucked my hand up my sleeves for warmth, satisfied with myself, and smirked as I viewed my rod, gently nodding but anticipation had quite suddenly, bleakly gone astray. Would it elbow round in savage tug. Still smirking not a chance.

The Barn Owls left there branch, flew straight towards me across the not so promising river. They flew about two feet above my sitting head height. I untangled my sleeved hands to take the cigarette from my mouth for unsullied view. The Owls approached. My movement disturbed my friendly the rat, all evening never far from my feet. The Owls in unison, now nearly on top of me heard the rat's scurry, again but together this time faltered flight to hover and search. These Owls were six feet from my face, fully lit in amber spot lamp. I could not absorb every detail or though it was there plain to see. I could see there eyes, like shiny black olives, fire of the light dancing. Again every feather in textured detail. I felt the goose bumps rise down my neck and arms, almost in fear but totally in awe, what a privilege. Ratty was too quick, and gone. The Owl's attentions diverted to me for a split second then rekindled momentum and flew off wheeling to my left and continuing to search downstream. I'm sure they saw something of me, but dealt with it quite matter of factly.

I heard the seemingly loud, rude crash of an RSJ on a building site, probably a mile away. This uncouth invasion snapped me back to mundane world, the hum of traffic filtered back into my perspective. Real world, nine thirty, I packed away my bits, bank side by the water was still two degrees C. I stepped into the light, walked the slope to the path behind, it was colder there, the grass glistened like candy coated with hard frost. The Heron still a statue, I left, my bag not so heavy as on a normal fishless session, when despair can make it seem oh so heavy. But only until the sap then rises upon excitement of another adventure. I had a night I will take to the grave with wonder.
People don't understand fishing?

by Dick Dowing

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