Duncan Raynor reflects on a fishing life heavily influenced by his mother
I can remember it as if it were yesterday, the smell of the wattle trees on the wind and the gentle whisper of the ripple on the fiberglass hull.
Mum had stopped rowing and had let the little boat slow down, our sinking lines slowly following the boats curved course towards the deeper water just in front of the concrete dam wall.
The take was an aggressive one and the rod bucked in my ten year old hands, mayhem ensued. Mum reeled the other rod in while I was furiously winding away on the now screeching rimfly reel as the fish ran off for the safety of deeper water. Somehow, we landed the fish, even with the landing net that had a hole in the bottom.
I can remember the shared happiness and we kept the fish and had it for breakfast, fried in butter.
Fast forwarding 20 odd years, Mum had emailed me to let me know she was home safe after two long flights with her two grandchildren that had worn her out.
She had flown over for my wedding, a few weeks' holiday and some fishing too. We share a passion for fly fishing. Mum had mentioned in passing that if we had time it would be nice to go and cast a line and so with little persuading we picked a day, got the picnic lunch sorted and decided on an early start from Cornwall to beat the holiday traffic on the A30 to fish Colliford Lake a 900 acre brown trout fishery close to Bodmin Moor.
It was a beautiful sunny, cloudless day not the best fishing but it didn't matter. As I set up the rods, the barrage of questions was impressive. Over the years my Mum has become a student of the game. She wanted to know" Why are you tapering the leader? Why do you tie that knot? What is the knot called? Please do it slowly so I can see? What is that fly called? Did you tie it? How should I retrieve it? Where are we going to fish? Why are we fishing here?
I answered all of the questions and showed everything as I got each rod set up.
I picked a bank that was an easy walk from the car, Mum is not as nimble as she was, she shattered and dislocated her ankle, climbing down a muddy bank of the Zambezi river trying to get to a "Good spot" to catch a tigerfish ,without being eaten by a crocodile, as she put it. (Reading that back, me being concerned mum might struggle with the walk sounds ludicrous).
The wind was behind us so it helped her get a little extra distance on her forward cast and she followed my instructions to the letter, covered all of the water in front of her and then moved a few steps to cover more.
She was casting beautifully. I waited, sat on a rock, watching mum fish. It slowly dawned on me that Mum was getting old, watching her walk , watching her cast, watching her put on her glasses to tie on a different fly. When had that happened?
She caught me up, reeled in and came up, sat down and placed a hand on my knee. “Where are the fish my boy, maybe you should change my flies?” she chuckled. I could not help but laugh, she was still as keen to catch a fish as she had ever been. We decided to find a good spot for lunch where I spotted a grassy bank nearby that was perfect.
Mum wanted a cup of tea, so I made it, she asked why I boiled the water in an old frying pan, I told her the tale of its purchase in Kirkwall on the Orkney Isles and about the fishing adventures it had been on. We sat and ate our sandwiches, some nice fruit and enjoyed our tea. We chatted, laughed and shared our latest fishing stories.
The sun was out, not great for fishing but great picnicing-with-your-mum weather. It did not seem to matter anyway, it was so nice to have Mum to myself.
After a few more casts we decided that we would call it a day, it had been an early start and as conditions were not great, Mum suggested ice cream instead.
On the way home Mum slept, it gave me a chance to reflect, how lucky I was to have had someone willing to take a small boy fishing and during that time hours and hours of rowing, thousands of tangles, patiently waiting whist I spent my pocket money in the tackle shop. Organising countless afternoons of fly tying instruction. Buying me my first vice , which I still have. Taking me to the doctor's surgery to have my fingers cut apart after a superglue incident whilst fly tying. Driving me up to the eastern highlands of Zimbabwe to go trout fishing. Waking me up early with a cup of coffee and a rusk so I could go fishing before my siblings got up. Her sacrifices and patience have given me a passion I can pursue for the rest of my life. How many of us get to take our 65 year old Mum fishing?I do and am very lucky to do so.
Thank you Mum.
