Childhood dreams is an episode from the legendary series Passion for Angling. Many anglers were captivated by it and I am sure, many became anglers on exposure to its evocative, enchanted atmosphere. The film echoes a deep sense of my own experience of what life was like through the pure eyes of childhood. I fortunately was given free rein to enjoy and fully explore my early years, something my soul is eternally grateful for.

Those early years of discovery were so precious. At age 3 my parents astutely moved from London to edge of Dartmoor to raise my brother and I. Being surrounded by green valleys and crystal rivers I was soon infused with a deep love for nature. That fish and fishing came into my life was surely destiny. It was my father that gifted it to me, which was a great gift for him to have given. It changed me forever. For him fishing was a life line, where for a time, obligations and stresses ceased, allowing the love within him to pour out in childlike purity.

It was during my first year of secondary school, that my father told me I wouldn’t be going to school for the day. Just to hear those words coming from his mouth was like an oasis in a desert. I was no fan of school. It seemed a patronising place, where one paid one’s bad karma. My school books were testimonials of my longing for the lake. All of them inked with carp at the bottom of weedy pools, rigs, bait recipes and so on. According to my teachers “my head was in the clouds.” Had they been more attentive they would have known it was in the lake, swimming amongst the weeds - a deep reverence for all things fishy.

My father saw my love for the water. It was also his own love. He was encouraging. Sometimes overlooking when various items would disappear from his tackle box or when my bait box was suddenly full and his empty. Through angling we shared a space and time together that far transcended father and son. Fishing was level ground, we were equals, friends, and I could ask him any question about life and its mysteries.

It was June the 16th, 1997. In my dad’s rusty Montego estate, we navigated the high country lanes. The day was grey and overcast. Grand oaks twisted the final descent as we approached the lake. Arriving at the car park my father stopped. The diesel engine rumbled to a halt. A sweet silence rang in my ears, followed by hissing wind,

bird song and the laughter of ducks. These appeasing sounds brought me to the soul of my being.

We filled in our day tickets at the entrance, a ritual that went with the territory. No doubt a symbolic paying of the ferryman. We walked and walked, clutching bags, rods, bait and food. The straps of my bags dug in to my shoulder and my fingers became numb, and yet there was an almost endless wind in my sails. With each breath, with each step, the beauty shone radiant all around.

I was so excited to cast. Almost immediately I removed a rod from its sleeve and began attaching a reel. Upon opening my carryall, almost hovering above my tackle, were two new bite alarms that had been screwed into my old buzz bars. For a moment, I was perplexed. I looked up at my father? He smiled deeply. Eyes shining. I looked back into the bag, assimilating what lay before me. I reflected how my father and mother worked all the hours they could just to keep a house over our heads. And even though they could have hardly been able to afford it, my father had gone out of his way to demonstrate his love. It was deeply touching to receive such a gift. My heart shone through my eyes and my father saw it.

By this time, I was doubly eager cast. I installed myself and cast a bag of maggots out 40 yards towards an island. I sat there watching, listening and admiring the new little boxes on which my rods rested. Time passed, who can say how much. Robins came and went, pecking squashed maggots out of the mud. Fine droplets of rain began showering down and gradually a wind picked up sounding one of my alarms. I glanced at it. A dazzling green light shone into my eyes. Was it a bite? I ran out into the rain like a Labrador after a stick and grabbed the rod. The line angled out towards resistance. As things unfolded an intense anticipation to see it called from within. Closer and closer it came until the fish did finally slide over the net. I sank back into my body with a deep breath. The feeling was never so intense as in those early years. Something electrifying to behold that had me thinking for little else. I remember holding her in my arms in awe. I studied her closely. Meticulous weaving configurations clothed her dark shimmering back. A creature so astonishing she possessed the power to fly… back through her watery world.

As my eyes left the water I stared at the green world before me, my eyes blurring, witness to a kaleidoscope of harmonious colours, smells and sounds. I felt more alive than ever before. Life really was a beautiful thing, as I was not yet cynical enough to overlook such things. That evening the car journey home was scented with carp. I was dreaming. My heart flowing like a tributary into the lake I had come to love. It remained that way for the majority of my collage years, until I could drive to places anew. The four walls and florescent lights of miseducation could only hold my body. By the lake, wether in person or in spirit, my soul was free to fly like a carp in its watery world.