Sturgeon Hunter – a film


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Last May I flew over to British Columbia to meet Garrett from Fallon’s Angler. After a conversation with his father over twenty years ago he made a promise to himself to fish the Fraser river for sturgeon. Sadly his father never made it but now the challenge was on and the chance to catch a fish the size of a man was a potential reality. My film captures that journey through the Canadian wilderness and eventually  connecting to something quite extraordinary.


A sense of time and place – Solent Hounds – a film


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The more places I visit and the more I fish, I find myself transfixed in a state, a place imagined from the past, people passing through as their lives ebb and flow, then fade as they dissolve into the soil. When I stand with my video camera this sense is enduring as I piece together a narrative. I relish the past, with it I see the present and look into the future,  it is apparent my films have taken on this tone over the last year. These films are not sentimental nor nostalgic, The Glass Aisle was an engagement into a poets world.  Paul Henry unlocked the souls from the past through the landscape of the Brecon and Monmouthshire canal, the experience was a total immersion, five months on and  the Glass Aisle haunts me every day.

I have shot two more films this summer, one was shot in Canada with Garrett from Fallon’s Angler, this is not finished but once again I was surprised on what we discovered in British Columbia,  kindred spirits? I still not sure but we witnessed a connection with the flora and fauna  at the end of our trip when I caught a sturgeon and landed it on a first nation reservation. There we met a lady who connected us with her spirit world, a world apart from the macho hunting and fishing scene that seems prevalent in modern Canada. The passion of angling had once again blessed us with another soulful experience.

Back in the UK we shot a short film – Solent Hounds – fishing for smoothounds in the Solent. Escaping from London one afternoon just at the start of the hot summer, we fished for several hours with anglers Adam and Ollie. We stayed until dark, what came from the shoreline through our marriage of words and images was once again echoed from the past through the landscape. I thought we were simply shark fishing, instead Garrett and myself found more. There are many angling films out there showing how and where, but I hope these Fallon’s Angler film offer something else? As anglers we have the privilege to stay put, to step away from time, to focus on a spot, transfixed in a meditative state, personally  I dream,  I honour and remember those lost souls that once walked and now lay as dust beneath my feet, while remembering that I  too will one day join them.

Watch Solent Hounds here


Caught in a spell.


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An email arrived from Dexter Petley last Monday, the email began ‘hope the new moon is still working for you. It’s the only time I bother now, especially on these big lakes.  I blank for 28 days every month, then get three runs at once on new moons.’

I have not kept an eye on the moon phases for a while, normally they are in my psyche, a glance to the heavens re-align my monthly cycle but recently I’ve been distracted, the hot weather doesn’t help although I love the current heatwave, early mornings are fine, still and cool, but as the temperature rises I loose focus, days are drawn out, they slow and I meander:

A few days after Dexter’s email there was a new moon, an opportune moment to cast a line on my local River Lea for an hour or two before the sun takes too high, I wanted to see if the carp were once again under a spell? On two occasions (once with Dexter) the carp responded freely under such conditions, almost instantly, somehow the moon made carp fishing easy, as if that was possible? It was 9.15am when I arrived by the river, I watched a favourite spot for a while, although I sat in the shade I could feel the heat, this was a summer to remember and I wanted a new moon carp to grace my net just like the previous year and the year before that. Normally I can see cruising carp as they move from deeper, cooler water into the shallows, I was hoping they had their tails high in the water levitated by moonbeams as they sifted through the silt. After thirty minutes, nothing, no carp stirred,  the spell had  not been cast on these river monsters, I didn’t wet a line. As the heat intensified I decided to take a wander, perhaps they were holding out further down river. The path by the Lea was dabbled in shade and light, the heat was still building, only the river flow and the high branches showed any signs of movement, everything else was still, caught in the spell of high summer, alas the carp were nowhere to be seen.

The Glass Aisle by Paul Henry – a film.


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At the beginning of May this year I spent two days in the company of poet Paul Henry to film the Monmouthshire and Brecon canal above Crickhowell in Powy where he wrote The Glass Aisle. The Glass Aisle is a long form poem and collection of songs written with Brian Briggs of Stornoway. The canal is rich with a industrial and social past, the workhouse, the kilns, and the canal is the stage for the Glass Aisle, haunted by voices that echo throughout this diverse landscape including the character John Moonlight, angler, Crickhowell. This film is a mesmerising journey, seeking ghosts from those who once lived and worked along the tow path. The Glass Aisle is available here


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


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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.


Chub bag – end of season.


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nick the messenger bag millican

On Wednesday my bag referred to  as my ‘chub’ bag was finally laid to rest for a few months. It offers everything that I like about my angling, it’s lightweight, compact,  keeps me mobile and it can only fit the bare essentials, my angling  is lean, my approach is simple. On my last trip  of the season I took to the River Wandle (for the very first time) with friends Garrett and Tony. The technique was thus;- rolling a worm down some fast runs with aid of two swan shot and a no 1 next to the hook to keep the bait down. The result? Well Garrett sums up the trip perfectly in his own words here.


A brutal reality – Little Shit film.


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On four of the hottest days in 2016, director and writer Richard Gorodecky took a film crew into some of the hardest estates in our capital and shot his story; Little Shit. A short film, about the harsh reality of living in the margins, Paul (Badger Skelton) plays a role that is both sensitive and fuelled with anger, Paul finds solace in nature, a natural sanctuary, hidden along the canal paths and brown sites of London.

If I learnt one thing over those four days, directing is a balance, in one hand you have a vision, and in the other you have the guiding arm to take your actors there, as tender as the film is, the relationship between actor and director was a touching side that I didn’t expect. Yesterday Little Shit won best short film at the London Short Film Festival 2018. Watch the trailer here…


Detectorists – series three


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I have never placed a TV program up on the Tuesday Swim but with Mackenzie Crook’s masterful comedy in it’s final series I feel the task of messenger urging you all to watch is duty bound. Series three has been inspired by the song  ‘Magpie’ performed by the Unthanks adding a new depth and spirit  to the narrative.  The dectectorists of Danebury; a conglomerate  of archaeologists, treasure hunters, romantics and anoraks strive on, challenged by modern life but driven by the mysticism of the past, tragic, funny, and spiritual, will Andy and Lance uncover the magpie’s tale or shall they leave it lost and buried. Watch here.

The Suffolk Stour by canoe


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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.