The occasional diary of a talentless fisherman (pt.1)
LONDON - This morning, a naked old man watched me while I fished. It was distracting. So much dangling. Such are the perils of fishing the channels next to a Brighton nudist beach. I was, however, extra-careful with my cast.
In my experience, fishing is fraught with unexpected risks. So far, I’ve been propositioned by a balding fat bloke (“come to my van and discover yourself”), stopped by police for cycling with a fishing rod, serenaded with bad poetry by a feral bohemian, and been laughed at by the tackle shop owner for being scared to fish in a lightning storm.
But it all pales into insignificance when reeling in a shiny fish at sunrise. I love it. And in these over-trawled times, providing fish for our table with nothing more than a rod and limitless patience has become an obsession.
Brighton is a hop away from London and is mainly free of the nappies, corpses and cholera you can suck up from the Thames.
As for the fish…well, mackerel are almost comically stupid. For a few chaotic summer months, they flood the English channel in a striped mass of hungry dumbness. These fish are caught on feathers, for god’s sakes. For the novice fisherman, mackerel are a fantastic way to get started. They’re easy to catch and taste sublime.
But, I didn’t spend the whole summer “mackie bashing” (as barnacle-encrusted sea dogs say). No, there are far more challenging fish out there – namely sea bass, the mobile Stephen Hawkings of the ocean. Clever as hell, I wouldn’t be surprised to hear that they’re writing blog posts about a cloth-headed fisherman in some subaquatic internet cafe. Suffice to say I’ve spent hours…no days…trying to bring one in. I’ve tried worms, lures, mackerel heads, sand eels, prawns, prayer, dynamite and Uri Geller – all to no avail.
Despite my failure on the bass front, summer was a seafood bonanza. As well as the endless streams of mackerel, we had black bream, pollock and plenty of spider crabs (a continental delicacy).
Sadly, even as I type this, mackerel are fleeing British shores for less depressing climes. That leaves me with a winter challenge: improve my skills or suffer the fishless consequences. Supposedly, the bass are still around and I’m determined to catch one. Thrilling tales of frostbite, windburn and pneumonia await the loyal reader!
On the upside, surely the cold will put off the ageing naturists? Time will tell…
