Dandruff Hits The Turtleneck Read online

  Chapter Thirty One

  Preparing to Catch a King

  There is one part of the Reverend Colin Wheatsheaf’s dedicated but slightly skew-whiff existence that cannot, in any shape or form, be scorned upon or ridiculed. He may well be noted for his somewhat shambolic dress-sense, as well as a man who is not averse to making toast with bread that is two weeks past its sell-by-date, but when it comes to his hobby, nay obsession, the reverend is second to none when dealing with all things piscatorial. Mention angling to this holy man and you will be rewarded with a fishy encyclopaedic sermon to savour and marvel at. His love of the sport dates back to when he was five-years-old and it is fair to say that some fifty-eight years later, his enthusiasm and fondness of the riverbank are still powered by the same dynamo as they were when he donned short trousers.

  Angling, fishing, splodging, call it what you will, is the most popular participation sport in good old Blighty, with an estimated three million souls out there doing their darnedest with rod and line in fair weather and foul. To the uninterested, no doubt, the pastime has all the excitement of a game of tiddlywinks while slightly tipsy on bad sherry, but it is there that myself, and the good reverend, would have to take issue with you.

  To say that angling is just about catching fish is rather like saying breathing in and out will keep you alive. Now, I’m not going to sit here and contest that breathing is not a vital component when it comes to remaining upright and animate, of course I’m not; all I’m saying is that it is only one of the key elements necessary in making life complete. If you have the good fortune to catch a fish or two on your day by a river or pond, fine. But let us not underestimate the other simple treats that your adventure has up its sleeve…

  The fish may well be in sparse supply as you sit there contemplating; the heavens could just open, drenching both you and your cheese and pickle sandwich in the process; the field you have to cross in order to gain access to your chosen spot may well contain a disagreeable bull, who stirs from his slumbers and takes issue with the fishing-flies attached to your hat or, perhaps worse still, a warm, steaming present, unceremoniously off-loaded by a passing heifer, goes unnoticed by your good self as you whistle along your merry way before stepping in it, and in so doing postponing your saunter for several minutes while you scrape the delightful stuff off your wellington boot with clumps of grass and a dried stick. No, the treat to which I am referring, which comes free with every fishing trip, is Mother Nature herself. Birdlife abounds, the occasional handsome horse pops up in a field opposite; a water vole shimmies past in the water’s edge and, the cherry on top of the cake, the majesty of a family of swans gliding down the middle of the river to stir you back to life and wonderment as you sit there not having had a fishy nibble to disturb your float for an hour or two. The earth’s bountiful treasures and all for gratis. These are the delights currently circulating around the contented imagination of the Reverend Colin Wheatsheaf this crisp and life-affirming morning, as he busies himself in the small workshop at the bottom of his spacious garden.

  Preparing for a fishing trip is all part of the escapism and enjoyment for Wheatsheaf each time he is afforded the luxury, but at this time of year there is an extra spring in the reverend’s parochial step as he meticulously examines his trusty old lures, hooks and spinners. The rest of the season belongs to coarse fishing, where small ponds and meandering, narrow rivers are the order of the day. Shoal fish, such as the beautiful roach, are caught and returned to the waters as the sun beats down and the Mayfly enchants; but come November and December, the Reverend Colin turns his attention to a predator that has graced this planet for half-a-million years; a creature whose bones have been found in association with harpoon heads dated around 9,500 BC.

  This fish is the undisputed king of all river fish and goes by the name of Exos Lucius. It is more commonly referred to as the Pike.

  There was a time, in his much younger days, when Wheatsheaf would have caught these magnificent beasts and killed them for the table. Not anymore. Through age and wisdom, the barbarous side of the reverend’s approach to angling has been banished, and should he be fortunate enough to share a battle and land a creature on the upcoming trip, the only memento he would afford himself is a photograph of his catch once he has unhooked it. After that, it will be lowered lovingly and gently back where it rightfully belongs and left to fight another day.

  The particular river of choice flows some one hundred and thirty miles west of Wheatsheaf’s parish and he is planning to make the journey in mid-week and stay overnight in his faithful old camper van. This will enable him a good night’s rest and an early start on the riverbank the following morning.

  Preparing a simple supper cooked on a gas stove, with only the night sky and a glass of red wine for company, is the reverend’s idea of earthly nirvana, and he hums and softly sings snippets of songs to himself as he continues his preparations for next week’s venture with child-like anticipation. ‘I must remember to give Arnold a call,’ he tells himself while inspecting the spokes on his huge fishing umbrella; ‘a trip like this would do him the world of good.’

  Arnold Matson received the reverend’s invitation later that same evening and accepted graciously. As they were due to travel on Tuesday afternoon, he would close early, and as Matson didn’t open his pub on Wednesdays during the winter, the overnight stay wouldn’t present a problem. Arnold feels a complete change of scenery is just what the doctor ordered and on his return, he knows a local spinster he can tell all about it.