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I dream of black bream.

12 Monday Jul 2021

Posted by The tuesday swim in General

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Tags

anglers, black, bream, deep, Hove, sea

I’m not one to share my personal life online unless it is specifically threaded around fishing and related matters. But in the current issue of Fallon’s Angler which came out in June 2021, I wrote about the passing of my father. We never fished together, he hung up his rods back in the fifties after spending time in Hove fishing for black bream in his boat, The Vulcher. It’s a tender piece about a time that I often think about, a period when pleasures were simple, my father would tinker on his boat, light driftwood fires and fish.

Please support Fallon’s Angler and order issue 22 or better still take a subscription http://www.fallonsangler.net/shop.

One final thing, if anyone can help me catch a black bream I would be very interested in hearing from you.

So long dad.

Ian Fallowfield-Cooper – 1st Nov 1930 to 30th March 2021

Letters from Lough Derg

01 Friday May 2020

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angler, del, Derg, fisherman, harding, Irish, letter, lough, pike, traditional, writing

One year on and who would have thought I’d be writing these words? Week six of lockdown, the weather has finally broken and we retreat back indoors. As a family we are lucky, we have a garden and the local marshes are close to our house in East London. For our daily interpretation of exercise I  run to break the cabin fever or walk with my daughter using a pair of binoculars to seek out birds and other flora or fauna. Often I get pangs of guilt as others are not so fortunate, key workers, single parents, while we sit it out. At the start of the pandemic I decided I was going to offer my services to deliver food, medicines and other essentials but then it appeared I also have fallen victim to the covid 19 virus, although not confirmed my lungs even now are running at reduced capacity, a timely reminder that this whole ordeal is far from over.

This time last year I was in Ireland on the shores of Lough Derg with self isolated recluse – Del Harding, in truth he is not a recluse, although wary of people he  loves the company of others and during our brief three day visit Del was very keen to share his stories once we had gained Dels trust. Our daily routine began in the woods with a fire to make tea,  by late morning Del would rise and join us, drink coffee and share his life through  memories, time had no business here, he talked and I filmed. I managed to get the shots before the sun fell so low that the camera could no longer record a clear image.  As night closed in, Del would light a candle and talk some more, ghost stories, tales of pike, monsters from the deep, and re-living heart stopping moments of the lives of other anglers who once fished Lough Derg.

Photo: Romy Rae

Del lives on his own terms, he has the luxury of space, space for himself and away from others, Del’s routine before lockdown involved a daily trip to the local village to buy a sandwich, a coffee and perhaps replenish his tobacco pouch, I know these little trips were important to Del.  Three months after we left Ireland Del was involved in an accident when a friend managed to fell a tree, unbeknown to Del who was standing too close, the tree came crashing down without warning, missing him by an inch, caught his arm and broke it in two. After several days in hospital Del returned to his wood, thankfully his daughter lives a twenty minute drive away and through his hospital care, family and neighbours Del recovered throughout the rest of 2019 but he was restricted to his own land, no more independent trips to the shops were made in 2019.

During the winter of 2019/2020 Del started to write to me on a more regular basis and I began to write back. I cheated though, my reliance on the computer is habitual, letters were typed and mistakes edited. Del on the other hand would capture thoughts, and talk about the woods and the Lough, then systematically write it all down on the page, Del composed page after page, no words crossed out, just beautifully written letters.  One letter which arrived in November explained he has moved into one of the cob houses where he could have an open fire burning at all times, November, christ! 

As the pandemic established itself Del wrote on the topic in his own pragmatic, often blunt manner, dismissing the coronavirus as a ‘storm in a tea cup’ but soon retracting this thought and reestablishing the situation as a ‘hurricane in a swimming pool,’ soon after he mirrored the updated situation with a  Sci-Fi book he read in the 1960’s, this time the outcome was more sobering, but like many of us he swallowed the current bitter pill with the hope of a new season,  the force of nature is strong, Del would write about the rebirth in his woods and reemergence of wildlife out on the lough.

Every few weeks a new letter arrived, I left it un-opened, got the home-schooling and other chores out of the way and then settled on the sofa in the kitchen with a coffee and loose myself in Del’s words away from the internet, the TV,  and transport myself to that fire pit next to Lough Derg, words flowing like the small stream that crosses his land.

CBTR book review – The Pull of the River by Matt Gaw

11 Wednesday Apr 2018

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book, by, caught, gaw, matt, pull, review, river, the

The Pull of the River begins with the completion of Matt Gaw’s canoe by his travelling companion, James. It is named ‘Pipe’, a nod to Roger Deakin and his recording Cigarette on the Waveney, a journey by canoe. It is the Waveney where Matt and James begin their year-long adventure. The narrative is rich as they meander through each chapter, using historical references, folklore and first-hand observations to form a bountiful account of each river.

The canoe is like no other means of transport: it is silent, unobtrusive, and it offers the passenger time and space to observe and contemplate. Matt Gaw understands this. His canoe drifts silently into a scene, it passes through, the song of the paddle is slight, and the contemplative world is easily reached.

Roger Deakin’s voice echoes throughout the book, especially during the eastern adventures; his words drift in at opportune moments, offering snippets of poetry and advice. Gaw writes on Cigarette on the Waveney:

I listened again and again, soaking up his words, as well as the moments where he lets the river talk. Some of the most evocative parts of the recording are simply the sound of water under the canoe, chuckling drip of dipped paddles as Deakin eased himself into a hidden, more contemplative world.

The Pull of the River is a journey into the soul. The power of the water is a constant flex on the spirit – be it a storm brewing off the shore of Loch Ness or a riffle on the River Lark, there is fear and there is calm. On the final leg of the Stour, marooned on a salt marsh due to a strong tide, the pair are fearful. The only escape route will take them across mudflats, their other option being to return to the turbulent water of the estuary. They regain their composure and take the later option, and not only survive, but start to flourish in this watery world.

In the chapter ‘Alone on the Water’ Matt Gaw observes the re-wilding of the river Otter. This time he paddles solo, and the experience is wholly different. He seeks  out the newly introduced beaver, and one evening is rewarded with a sighting.

Little by little, the author is synchronised with the river and the world around it. The river and the canoeist through osmosis are kindred.

Before the final chapter, where Gaw tackles the wilds of Scotland and Loch Ness, he takes a contemplative trip to his childhood river the Colne. It’s a telling tale – a river his father knew well – but The Pull of the River does not dwell on looking back. At heart, it is a book which encourages its readers to live in the present: to contemplate, to explore, to be lost, to lose control and to regain it again.

*

The Pull of the River is out now and available here, priced £14.99.

Nick Fallowfield-Cooper is a photographer, picture editor for Fallon’s Angler, and keen canoeist.

 

Green and gold – seeking winter perch

03 Saturday Mar 2018

Posted by The tuesday swim in General, Photography and video

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

aldermaston, angler, chub, cooper, fallons, fallowfield, film, fishing, kennet, mill, perch, river

The Suffolk Stour by canoe

08 Wednesday Nov 2017

Posted by The tuesday swim in General, Photography and video

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Tags

build, camping, canadian, canoe, portage, self, stour, suffolk, swim, the, Tuesday, wild

This year I have fished probably less than ever before but I have managed to achieve one thing, I built a canoe. Drifting on water would be a new found perspective that had an appeal and the urge to construct something was prevalent. The process of building the canoe and why I ended up doing it is written up in issue 11 of Fallon’s Angler along with a rather good cover but I will refrain from saying anymore while I gently blush!

After a few short trips on the Lea in the summer myself and a friend Greg decided to make one last trip of the year, to paddle along the Suffolk Stour in the autumn, (personally my favourite time of year).  I knew very little about the county or the river despite making many visits to Portman Road over the years as a life long supporter of Ipswich Town. For both of us this would be a voyage of unknowns and an opportunity to load up the canoe and try it out before I plan a longer trip next spring.

We set off a day after southern England was hit by the aftermath of hurricane Ophelia which whipped up the Sahara sands, a Ray Bradbury’esk atmosphere  cloaked the land in an orange haze as we set off from Bures on the Essex/Suffolk border. Our journey was to be around thirteen miles with a stop off overnight on a small campsite that nestled next to the river. We packed light but made sure we had good provisions; wine, whiskey and food, our campsite had a farm shop and 28 days old steak was offered up to our open fire in the evening cooked on my old steel pan, we were alone, we were the last campers of the season. The night was mild but by sunrise light rain started to fall which slowly became heavier throughout the morning. Over the two days we had the Stour to ourselves aside from the occasional dog walker and one lone angler who sat motionless in the early morning drizzle of our second day. He sat still, an elderly man who’s posture resembled that of a  heron transfixed on the water, mutual respect was exchanged in a silent nod as he waited for us to drift past so he could once again be alone with his thoughts as we headed on towards Stratford-St- Mary.

A London mullet.

17 Monday Jul 2017

Posted by The tuesday swim in General, General fishing, The Lea Valley

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Tags

angling, fishing, lea, mullet, photography, river

Don’t worry fashionistas of Hackney Wick and Dalston, the eighties mullet has yet to return, (for now) you may stick to your acid tones and cool electro beats but only the brave will dress the mullet once more.

My mullet were lurking in the tidal stretch of the Lea by the sanctuary of two discarded water tanks not found on a whim  but more likely a regular journey, summer after summer, sifting through the silt for a easy feed? Notably hard to catch, these stubborn thick lipped variety were positively zip lipped when it came to my free offerings. Do I have the patience to try and fool one of these or shall I stick to the carp? I’m unsure but to witness these mullet as I have done now for the last few days has been a privilege.

On this day 18th November 2016 – The men of Clapton.

18 Friday Nov 2016

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clapton, football, forget, lest, millfields, orient, somme, stadium, we, ww1

During the 1914-1915 season the entire team of Clapton Orient signed up to the front line, forty one in total, the highest en-masse conscription in the country from a football team.  The final game saw a 20,000 strong crowd to see off ‘their boys’, George Scott, William Jonas and Richard McFadden  made the ultimate sacrifice, while many of the Clapton Orient men were unable to play football again. The original Clapton stadium was located just 200 yards from where I now live and yards from the River Lea. Later Clapton Orient moved to the Speedway site off Lea Bridge Road and then soon after moved to Leyton where the club changed its name to Leyton Orient. Lest we forget.

screen-shot-2016-11-18-at-08-14-11
screen-shot-2016-11-18-at-07-12-04

The last angling auction house in London

07 Thursday Apr 2016

Posted by The tuesday swim in General, Tackle

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Tags

angling, auctions, chiswick, fishing, london, tackle, vintage

On Saturday 2nd April 2016 the Angling Auctions in Chiswick finally drew to a close when the hammer fell and lot 630 – “An unusual American Bamboo trout fishers creel” was sold. Slow applause permeated throughout the hall in appreciation for Neil Freeman who has put the hammer down on 32,000 lots over the last twenty five years offering vintage fishing tackle, taxidermy, books and angling art to a worldwide audience of collectors and angling enthusiasts.

My involvement began in 2011 (I’m considered a relative new boy) when John Andrews of Arcadia asked if I could help out on the rods. Arriving in Chiswick I was soon put to task in the construction of the rod rack, an antique in its own right, but a protector of fine fishing rods. Neil told me that he built the rack in 1991 with a drunk Irishman, a story I must confess I believe looking at the quality of its construction, but in  defence of the Anglo-Irish workmanship it still survives with it’s biannual kicks and trips that it has to endure from eager anglers grasping at the wonders it beholds.  Five years on I am still putting up the same rod rack, stuffed with even more matches and bound with ever more gaffer tape.

Over the years staff have come and gone but generally there is a core that stay loyal,  Neil’s brother has been involved from the start and more recently Neil’s son Sam has worked as a porter. Fresh sandwiches and cakes are made and the all important tea urn is switched on as soon as we arrive on the Friday morning, the tea urn is first off and last on the van, a tradition that has lasted since the beginning. Last Saturday the tea urn was loaded onto the van for the last time in Chiswick and a new beginning for the Angling Auctions has begun down in Romsey, Hampshire. Hopefully I will see you there?

NJFC3124
NJFC3101
NJFC3123
NJFC3133
NJFC3240
NJFC3143
NJFC3265
NJFC3152
NJFC3163
NJFC3171
NJFC3180
NJFC3186
NJFC3195
NJFC3286
NJFC3198
NJFC3215
NJFC3228
NJFC3244
NJFC3247
NJFC3079
NJFC3246
NJFC3295

Ghost pond.

13 Saturday Feb 2016

Posted by The tuesday swim in Carp, General

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

anthropologist, carp, fishing, geoffrey, gore, house, lindfield, suite, sussex

Sunte House

Growing up in the seventies and eighties, the local woods was my playground, a place of freedom and discovery, a real living breathing Xbox,  where armies were formed and disbanded, explorers lost and found, a place of endless possibilities. To get my band of brothers to the woods we had to negotiate ‘no mans lands’ – a hundred yard track that led up to the gates of Sunte House, a seventeenth century manor house and its custodian, Mr Gorer or ‘Old Man Gorer’ as us brothers of the woods called him. Unlike many manor houses, Sunte House was not austere, its large windows gave it an airy appearance, the slate roof tiles enhanced this, in bright sunlight they sparkled a silver-grey, echo’s of  past garden parties resonated in the grounds , there seemed to be an air of happiness about this place in the not so distant past.  At the start of the track was a cattle grid with a hand painted sign in black and white now flaking away, it read ‘Sunte House – Private – No through road.’ The cattle grid was ‘ours’ a place of safety, a look-out for Old Man Gorer, it was a game of cat and mouse that we played out for years. Old Man Gorer was an elderly man, always dressed in a three-quarter length beige mac, normally undone, he looked  dishevelled and always aided by his scruffy collie dog. For years I feared he would collar me, in hindsight he was frail, he was quite elderly and never posed a threat .

As we grew so did our courage, one evening we decided to break into the gardens of Sunte House and explore, dressed like commando’s we entered on the west side through a gap in a barbed wire fence and found ourselves on a meandering path, a canopy of exotic shrubs grew up high and blocked out the sky,  many of the plants were labelled, lead tags etched with their botanical names. The west side was dark and quite eerie, somewhat neglected, but still maintained a certain order, someone had curated this garden in the past, there was a sense of Victorian plant collector about this place. We were relatively well hidden on the west side but to gain access to the east side and the main garden we had to dash across the front drive across a manicured lawn in full view of the house and potentially Old Man Gorer. It was still daylight, there were no lights on in the house,  we waited until dusk, then made our move. As the light dropped we edged out from the shrubs on our hands and knees and onto the  lawn, quickly we sprinted across the open fifteen yards. Once into the cover of the main garden we found more labelled shrubs and another perimeter  stone path. We followed the path around tentatively in case we encountered Old Man Gorer coming around the opposite way. As we crept along the light through the shrubs was changing, it was getting lighter and it was moving, it was unclear what I was seeing and then I could sense  water, the garden was hiding a secret, a large pond. Pushing through the undergrowth I could see a rectangular pond with an island in the middle, lily pads everywhere, and moss covered stones and rhoddendrons lined the edge. It was still and quiet, the distinctive smell of water was present, huge Scotts Pines towered  above creating a high canopy, it was reminiscent of a Japanese garden but with an English accent. Suddenly the wind started to pick up and sway the trees, a barking dog in the distance un-nerved us, could it be Old Man Gorer’s dog? We decided to retreated and return another day. For weeks the pond played on my mind, I sometimes questioned if the pond actually existed, it was so enchanting and I was so fanatical about catching carp from lost ponds, I thought I may have imagined it.

The rest of the summer was spent  seeking out carp ponds within cycling reach of my house, scanning Ordnance Survey maps for little blue dots often nestled in patches of wood in the middle of open fields, these were forgotten hammer ponds. Once located I would jump on my bike and see if I could gain access, permission was rarely asked for, just some discreet commando style fishing. Hammer ponds are abundant in Sussex and often go back to a pre-Roman era. Sussex geology was rich in ironstone, the main material for iron production and  water was essential to the cooling of the iron. During the Stewart and Tudor times iron production boomed and more hammer ponds were created by the damming of small streams and rivers. Often these ponds had a small population of carp, tench and roach not giant carp but  a five-pounder  was a real prize and I  always hoped to discover a pond with wild, un touched Roman wildies.

My quest for hammer ponds took my mind away from the Sunte House pond for a while but soon I had to return, I would have to try to fish the pond, this was going to take all of my nerve. I decided to return to the garden alone, not with a rod but with some bread and see if there were any carp. Once again I arrived at dusk, I was about to step over the fence when a figure silently walked past literally only a few feet from my face, I froze and he continued on, it was Old Man Gorer inspecting his garden, probably enjoying the late evening air. I was convinced he saw me, the woods were dark but he decided to walk on, I was after all just by the public foot path, and he probably encountered the public there on many occasions, I imagined he had no interest in me, the public and  knew nothing of my intentions. I returned home thankful that I had not gone into his garden a few minutes earlier and  become trapped on the west side by the pond. After that rather uncomfortable close call I decided to have a break from the pond and concentrate on trying to catch a double figure carp elsewhere, I still had a few weeks left of the summer holidays, this was a target I  set myself and had yet to achieve.

It was a couple of years later when one evening after messing about in the woods that I decided to return to the garden with a friend and see if we could locate any carp, it had been a hot summers day and if the pond contained carp then tonight would surely be the night to find them feeding? Our  access to the garden was easier than ever as much of the perimeter fence had fallen down, the house looked neglected and the garden more overgrown than usual, we darted across the lawn as we had done before and into the west side.  Making our way round the dark perimeter path I felt something was not right, the light was different and the smell? As we approached the pond I peered through the shrubs only to discover a flat lawn, no pond, no island, just  green grass, it was as I feared, my imagination had run wild, it was a ghost pond. We left the garden dejected and I was somewhat embarrassed after dragging my friend into danger to see the pond that never was.

In 1985 Geoffrey Gorer died and the house was sold, every now and then the new owner could be seen driving past in his beige Mercedes, he looked fairly en-friendly, new fences and  ‘Private – No through way’ signs were put up, it was clear the new owners didn’t want any funny business, once again  I forgot about Old Man Gorer, Sunte House and the ghost pond.

Thirty years on it is 2016, I still think about that pond, did I imagine it, did I see Old Man Gorer that night, the more I contemplated it the more I doubt it’s presence. I decided that I was to make one final pilgrimage to the garden, my plan was to walk up on the Sunday morning after a family gathering on the Saturday night. Today access can only be made via the public footpath, the cattle grid entrance is now blocked. I set off on a cold wet morning, the mud underfoot was eight inches deep in places but for the sake of an hours nostalgia I was up for it, I soon came to the two open fields in front of the house, now fallow and quite overgrown with brambles, to my right was the ten foot high hedge that hid the garden. The hedges had been thinned to encourage new growth from the base and I could see a way through and into the inner fence. Pushing through the hedge I got to the old iron fence and could see the familiar stone perimeter path, beyond that I could clearly see the ghost pond, a Monet style wooden footbridge spanning over to the island, this time in the plain grey light of a bleak January morning I could confirm that the pond was a ghost no more.

Footnote:

While writing this piece I decided to do a online search for ‘Sunte House’ and ‘Gorer’ and was pleased to discover that Old Man Gorer or Geoffrey Gorer as he was known, was one of three brothers from a well to do jewish family from Hampstead, all  educated at Westminster college, with Geoffrey and his younger brother Richard both going on to Kings College, Cambridge.  Richard studied music and horticulture and moved in to horticulture professionallly soon after Geoffrey bought Sunte House in the 1950’s, the house must have been the spark to change his career.  One day while walking in the grounds Richard noticed a spontaneous hybrid of the shrub Abutilon which is now a popular species that still exists today called ‘Suntensis.’ It is probably Richards influence that made the gardens more a botanical collection of some repute. Throughout his career Geoffrey  had been a prolific author on the subject of anthropology, he  had a passion for the arts and mixed in some rather interesting social circle including George Orwell and the poet Edith Sitwell. His body of work including 10,00 letters and manuscripts are now preserved in the Kings College archive.

 

 

Fallon’s Angler – Through the lens

18 Friday Dec 2015

Posted by The tuesday swim in Fallon's Angler quarterly, General, Reading

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angler, angling, blackwater, cooper, fallon's, fallowfield, fishing, hut, ireland, nick, photography

Through the Lens has been a regular feature of words and images for Fallon’s Angler since issue 3 that I have had the privilege of producing. Below we have part of the piece I shot last summer for issue 4 in Ireland on the Blackwater. I have just returned from shooting Through the Lens for issue 5 which has been a real pleasure and what I feel to be of significant importance to the heritage of angling and one for the traditionalists. Issue 5 will be out in the middle of Jan but in the meantime here is my last entry from issue 4.

‘An offer from Garrett Fallon found myself flying over to Cork for a few days salmon fishing plus the opportunity to meet and photograph some locals that have deep connections with the Fallon family.  There are many stories here in Ireland about Garrett’s family and the fishing on the Blackwater that lend me to understand why Fallon’s Angler  was created and  now sits in your hand. It is an interesting story and a story that I will leave Garrett to tell in his own time.The stretch of Blackwater has some varied features, the upper end of the beat has high cliffs with some deep runs, while the bottom end is wide and shallow, but the middle section is dominated by an island which can only be accessed by wading or a footbridge which requires a key. Once on the island a short walk leads you to the fishing hut built high on stilts, it clearly shows significant signs of a battering from the Irish weather and the river when in spate, but today it is mild, dry and the wind is light. Entering through the door the atmosphere is still, quiet, the echo’s of the past lie heavy…’

Table_top
Chairs
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Tilleylamps
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Off to the marshes #hackneymarshes
I’ve been here before but this is reassuringly familiar, an antidote to the boutique homogenous lifestyle that is rife in our city. Once it’s gone, it’s gone.
Watersmeet- Our current winter film set on the Hampshire Avon with @adamchetwood @kgparr link in my bio. Where to next? #anglingfilms #chubfishing
Watersmeet - Chub fishing on the Hampshire Avon, our new film for winter #hampshireavon #hampshireavonfishing #chub #fallonsangler #fishingfilms #winterfishing link in bio
A reunion on the Hampshire Avon. Our new film for Fallons Angler ready to view in time for Christmas. Friends, pints, and fishing #chubfishing #chub #fishingfilms #fallonsangler #hampshireavon
Surely it’s time for a perch?
Epping forest #eppingforest
The fading light plays a strong roll on us at this time of year. The Witching Hour film available to view, link in bio. #embracethedarkness
Next week I travel to France and begin filming a life in Normandy over one year. A man whos footprint on the planet has the lightest touch, where his life and the natural world sit side by side. #dustthefilm …
The Witching Hour our new film launching at midday today 15th October link in bio #fishingfilms #fallonsangler
Last week we spread my parents ashes on the South Downs. In life they were inseparable, so we did the honourable thing and mixed their ashes with our own hands, returned them to the chalk on the Sussex Downs at a geographical point between birth, life and death.
The Prince of Peace is dead, thank you for the musical and spiritual journey of my life. 1940-2022 #pharoahsanders
A quick over nighter by the river and under the stars with @fallonsangler_magazine for a new film. Packing light - bedroll, camera, drone and a Katsu Curry Pot Noodle or two. Film out in a fortnight. In the meantime please order our new issue of Fallons Angler capturing the bewitching hour. #autumnequinox #fallonsangler #fishingfilms #canonuk
Norway, reassuringly boring with some hidden surprises #norway #oslo #snorway

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