‘A piece of my life disappeared’
IF THERE is one certainty in life and angling, it’s that things never stay the same. When the fishing is poor, it will always get better at some point. When the going is good, it will always get worse.
This probably explains why we tend to be such nostalgic creatures. It’s also the reason why we should make the most of every day we can fish and have no regrets.
Of all the fishing waters I’ve loved most, I can’t think of even one of them that isn’t at the mercy of change. Sometimes it’s for the better, sometimes for the worse. Fisheries are born or revived, others become a shadow of what they were or are never seen again. Unfortunately life has no rewind button.
Bizarrely, I tend to get most nostalgic, not about A-list specimen fisheries, but those silly little waters that are both a source of local legend while being nothing to write home about. Which brings me to the local millstream, overgrown and slap bang next to Exeter’s crematorium, which I’ve described before as a miniature paradise sandwiched between the golf course and the dead.
Well, not any longer. After floods last year collapsed an adjoining weir, the whole stream emptied quicker than Exeter City FC after a home defeat. The Environment Agency, to its credit, rescued a lot of the fish, but it’s doubtful the place will ever be quite the same again. It’s a sad prospect, because with the death of the local millstream, a little piece of my life disappeared.
With this past haunt only a mile or so from my flat, however, I couldn’t resist having a look last week. As if it wasn’t weird enough going there in a virus pandemic, the place I found was quite alien. Healthy flows were now still, muddy and reeking of stagnation.
Slightly more heartening was the absence of Himalayan balsam. I soon discovered why, coming across an old lady getting rid of a patch of the horrible stuff on her daily walk. Had the law not insisted we keep two metres apart, I would probably have hugged her by way of thanks! She, too, lamented the loss of the stream as it was.
I expected further desolation round the next bend, but was pleasantly surprised. Seemingly from nowhere, a spring was feeding one of the bigger pools I’d once trotted. And there they were, fish! Given how drastically reduced their home now was, there were stacks of them too, little dace and chub balled up in a garden pond-sized lie.
Could there be a way back for the millstream? With the huge effort and spending any revival would take, it seems unlikely.
I always live in hope, but the whole experience serves as a stark reminder of just how fragile our favourite waters are, and how keenly we need to cherish and protect them.