By Andrew Wilkinson
THE float dips. An instinctive strike brings solid resistance. Too solid. A feeling of having hooked a snag.
The snag drifts slowly downstream arching the rod to near breaking point. A submerged branch?
The taut line stops then moves slowly upstream.
Sunken branches don’t swim upstream. This is a fish. A huge one.
Five minutes pass. I’m not yielding, despite using just 5lb breaking strain line. Neither is the fish.
Stalemate. This is probably a chub, perhaps a record one.
There are overhanging bushes upstream and downstream. I can’t let the fish take line or it will head for the submerged roots.
Eventually the float reappears followed by an unmistakable elongated jaw, then a mottled tail breaks surface. A pike.
Why has a fish eating predator taken two maggots dangling from a small size 16 hook? An appetiser perhaps before pouncing on a roach or grayling.
I am as frustrated as the pike. I didn’t want to hook it, any more than it wanted to be hooked.
There is probably only one chance to net it. The large head of the pike is eased round and the fish swims downstream, just within reach of the landing net held at full stretch.
The net is almost invisible in the murky water and the fish swims into it. Bent over by mesh just half its length, the pike suddenly feels trapped and bursts into life thrashing and splashing.
I feel its power surge through my arm and shoulder. Boots dig into the slimy bank to gain a tenuous grip.
Am I to be pulled towards the river, or the pike pulled out? It is the latter. Just.
I have no gloves, How will the hook be eased free while keeping fingers from being lacerated? No need to worry. The pike flips over on the bank and the line snaps.
Another twist of its body propels it into the margins of the river. With a toothy grin it slides back from whence it came. The barbless hook will drop out of the fish.
Caught and released without being handled. That suits both of us.
With a puff of cheeks I stare across the Tees towards St Peter’s Church, at Croft, partially hidden between the leafless winter trees. Inside its ancient walls is another grinning creature, the carved Cheshire Cat which inspired Alice in Wonderland author Lewis Carroll, who lived in the rectory.
I picture Alice drifting into a summer dream on a warm grassy riverbank.
Mine is a cold greasy winter bank. Time to head upstream and target those grayling and chub.
I settle into a likely spot. A sudden splash right by the bank a few yards downstream is followed by tell-tale bubbles. An otter breaks surface. Shocked as we make eye contact, it heads for mid-river. Two more follow.
A cub can stay with the mother for a year, until the next one is born. Perhaps this is two parents and offspring, grown to the same size.
Upstream again to another attractive glide.
This time a grayling takes the bait, and comes quickly to hand. No need to worry about those tiny teeth.
The otters have followed. They dive to the bottom and come up with tasty morsels. Crayfish or loach. I can’t see which, but can hear crunching above the sound of the river.
Otters chew noisily with mouths open and teeth on display. No need for table manners when you dine at the water table.
Upstream again. Again they follow, but are at the far bank now, so won’t spook the fish on my side.
A flock of long tailed tits flit through the bushes, their pale pink adding colour to the scene. Perching lightly and briefly they don’t disturb water droplets on the twigs, which sparkle in the low sun. A robin settles within a couple of yards of my bait box. How can I resist as it cocks its head pleadingly? I give it space to flit to the box and take, without a hint of gratitude, a few maggots, before returning to its twig.
Add some snow (and omit the maggots) and the scene could make a Christmas card. But these days snow is rarer and often short lived. The intense cold snap this January lasted barely a week.
Even farmers of remote upper Teesdale have to be of a certain vintage to remember the snow on snow of the carol.
Modern winters are marked more by gales than snow and ice.
Right on cue wind surges through the bare treetops. Low grey clouds scud across a sky of darkening blue with streaks of yellow.
Staring upwards as the branches threaten to crack under the arriving storm, I think of Pip in the churchyard in the 1946 adaptation of Charles Dickens’ Great Expectations.
The film’s executive producer Sir Anthony Havelock-Allan, who was also one of the scriptwriters, was born at Blackwell Manor, Darlington, just a few fields away. Perhaps the wind through the Tees trees inspired him.
My expectations were of a few more grayling, perhaps a chub. Certainly not a 10lb pike.
The short hours of daylight are nearly over. Last cast. Except it isn’t. Does any angler say last cast and mean it? There’s always a few more.
Down goes the float again. One last grayling.
The otters approach. This time that is that. With a short pull up the bank, I’m heading along the margin of a field, taking care not to stand on a single shoot of the winter crop.
Farmers are having a tough enough time without their crops being trampled.
A couple of roe deer are not so considerate. They break cover and bound across the field, their white rumps shining almost fluorescent in the fading light. A flock of fieldfares, or are they redwing, move from bush to bush seeking remaining berries.
Already the shoots of spring flowers poke through the ground among the fallen leaves. Thoughts turn to the upper Tees and the new trout season, just a few weeks away.
Our seasons come and go. The circle of life binds them.
