John Bailey: Golden brown, texture of autumn

Now, this time of the year, dawn is not much before 6.30am and the light takes an age to reveal the water as it awakens from the night. But you can tell at once what lies in store.

A mere glance predicts your piscatorial future, whether the surface is flat calm or ruffled. Whether the water is grey, brooding, laced with the necklaces of bubbles left by recently-feeding fish. Whether stains of silt indicate bottom activity, whether the lilies are twitching to the passing of scaly bodies, whether the carp crash out here and there and whether the moorhens cry out in alarm as fish move secretly beneath them.

Trout fishers might scoff at the long-stay still water angler. They might think that casting a line is all about elegance, artistry and the magic of imitating nature, making the fly of fur and feather match the real insect upon which the trout feeds. They would be right, but the angler who lives on a pool for a while grows roots there, little by little becomes one with the whole watery world. This angler, seemingly indolent or even half asleep, is actually listening to every whisper the winds bring to his ear, feeling the deepest pulse of the water and the fish that live in it.

The key is the Window, that magical time when fish feed before they put down their cutlery and spend their hours dreaming. On this lake, fish feed perhaps four hours a day, sometimes not at all. If the wind is from the south or the west, if the temperature is constant, if the air pressure is stable and if the autumn day feels close, mild, muggy even, you are looking at a good day.

If the wind swings from the north, or heaven help you, from the east, you are in for a tough time. If the day feels raw, if you sense just a foretaste of winter, chances are you’ll be spending your time in contemplation. The swallows will put you straight. See them wheeling for hatching insects and your hopes can be high, but if the skies are empty and you fear the birds are gone back south, well, you might as well go with them.

Yesterday, the wind was friendly and mirror carp were drifting under comforting blue skies. Better still, crucian carp were busy way into the morning and again later in the afternoon, gambolling on the surface, shifting the silt and sending up showers of pinhead bubbles. I fished hard, not brilliantly, but well enough to catch a fish or two and feel good about myself, but today that Window has been closed by low pressure drifting in like a fox in the night. Today, there is not much to do but watch the catspaw scuffs of wind on the water and cling onto the precious days of autumn.

September has always been 'my' month and I made it so in college days when I’d hand in my notice to Ernest the farmer, leave the potato machine for another year and get out the gear for a glorious four-week fishing fest.

By now, late in the month, the fear of losing freedom grew intense and in the Norfolk silence back then, I fancied I could hear the clock ticking on every cast I made. I wanted to drink out every last second, eke out every lingering memory. A scuffling hedgehog, a feast of blackberries picked from the hedgerow, a glowing six o’clock sunset and even the image of a perch lying on golden leaves, were treasures to take back to college and pick over as the winter set in.

There’s this problem with a lake when that Window has closed, when the fish will not feed and all you can do is hunker down whilst the acorns fall softly from the oak. Now I’m older, it’s like waking at 3am, a head full of night terrors. Are the aches and pains I feel simply age or a harbinger of something sinister? Politics, economics, geopolitics even, all the nasties of life that should be parked away from the water snipe at your fishing thoughts.

The colours of autumn (Image: John Bailey)

But even more sobering, you recall autumn sessions from decades past that were so special they have lived half a century as memories bright as a pin. Sessions especially with dearest friends who have gone before. Today I am remembering Larry who used to accompany me in those Norfolk autumns 50 and more years ago. We’d sit amidst the golden glory of Bayfield and catch conker-coloured tench until the setting sun reminded us it was time to up sticks and get down to Blakeney and the White Horse. I think how his lovely wife Mary must miss him. And as another acorn sinks to earth, so do I.