Fishermen by and large are great thinkers and I hope this tale will cause just that reaction. It is dedicated to all the old characters of the river banks we all meet up and down the country and to the “Old Jack’s” of the world… read on you’ll see what I mean.

My eyes alighted on this day in the early, still, warm light of dawn. The fuzziness of sleep quickly overcome by the excitement of a full days fishing and the menial tasks of packing the car and making the flask and butties – all done at a sort of rush that all fishermen will recognise. Get there 5 minutes earlier, catch one more fish!

As ever today was a toss up – the running snags and variety of the river or the calmer, tried and tested still-waters of the pond – as usual the latter won. The drive, as ever almost on auto-pilot, nothing much on the road until the locked gate stood between me and the water. However, to my disappointment, the sign that greeted me said “due to low water this fishery is temporarily closed – no fishing”. My heart sank and being so far now away from my other haunts, decisions needed to be made and no more time lost. OK – to the river.

Driving down a lane, which would not normally be on the A route I happened to see a sign – “quality fishing, day tickets available - £2”. It’s amazing how quickly the mind balances the angles – don’t know the water, might be good, £2 cheap or good value? Do I go to my tried and trusted waters? Whilst playing safe is my usual strategy, that day I found myself traversing a long drive to who knows where - to find the outline of a very tidy network of three ponds. The owner, I presume a farmer, was busying himself with his tractor and with a cursory nod (obviously not a fishing fanatic) relieved me of my £2, wished me luck and sent me on my way.

That suits me fine I thought, no interference and seemingly not many people around. By now the sun had ascended the lower heavens and it really promised to be one of those gorgeous warm, still, early Summer days. Fantastic.

The main pond was beautifully set, full of natural inlets, shallow banks and a riot of trees, bushes and reed beds. One peg in particular caught my eye, in a quiet corner by a beautiful overhanging willow with a reed bed across the bank for contrast – this would be the place for me.

Without boring the reader with the mundane, I was very soon fishing. The water, clear and surprisingly deeper than I had first imagined resembled a millpond, not a murmur. The only ripples created by the odd duck fussing around the reed bed and a fish or two rising for air. In the conditions I was absolutely assured of a bumper haul and even if not, this was a place to think, to enjoy, in short an oasis from the day to day grind of Corporate Banking.

Two or three hours in and the catching was slow – odd small fish, a few lazy bites but no real sport despite the gorgeous day and the fantastic opportunity to enjoy the wildlife. I needed some inspiration.

As so often happens I was suddenly aware of movement over my shoulder – nothing drastic, almost a gentle shuffling. I looked round and saw the epitome of the old fishing salt, a craggy old face, the greens and browns of fishing attire and the sort of knowing, wise look that one comes to expect from the old timers. “Aye up” I said without much looking round, pretending that my fairly lifeless float was about to get dragged under. “Aye up theesen” came the reply “doing owt?”. “A bit, mainly small stuff, bit quiet, are you fishing?”

“Not today lad, I’ve come to look for me old cap and me pipe, can’t seem to find them anywhere – can I sit with you for a bit?”

“Sure grab a seat”.

And he sat down. Obviously I then started to concentrate and try to be as expert as I could – you always do when someone watches and every bite that I missed was painful, although I did wonder whether he saw because he never said.

In fact he was certainly not the talkative type, he reminded me of one of the old sea salts, the master mariners who would survey the water with that knowing, almost comfortable look. Sitting Buddha like surveying an empire. At one stage a robin, that had playfully been trying to steal the odd maggot landed on his shoulder and sat there royally unmoved – something I had never seen, and indeed have never seen since. Harmony.

After a while he leaned closer and in a voice that would have graced a spy he whispered “no-one will ever believe it, but there is a lady in this pond, the most beautiful creature and only I have seen her”.

What could I possibly make of that? “What do you mean?”

“Many years ago a heron allowed a fish to escape her grasp and it dropped in here, it was a grayling, the Lady of the Stream, the most gorgeous fish you could ever see. I caught her once and she has never been seen since, but she’s here. Not her water really but then again not her choice to be here – but she is I assure you. She’s also a lucky fish and when I caught her my net bulged from the other fish I caught, set a record I did, most people think there’s nowt much in here”.

With that he stepped down to the edge and gently placed his hand in the water. “She’s here you know”. With that he got up and walked away down the bank.

Bit of an eccentric I thought but I liked the company and I have always been a sucker for a story. After a few minutes he came back.

“Here, put this on thy hook and cast it out over there”. It was a red caterpillar.

“Is this a proper bait” I asked – “I’ve never heard of caterpillar and certainly never seen a red one”.

“You won’t find many youth, you need to know where to look”.

Well in for a penny, the caterpillar went on the hook and then into the water.

“Now be patient son”.

What an understatement, despite my natural desire to be re-casting and checking, the bait stayed out there for nigh on 30 minutes and I reasoned the poor thing must have drowned. Then a gentle knock on the float, was that a bite? Then another, yes must have been.

“Hang on lad and just wait your time, she’s here”.

So I waited and then the float dived.

“Hit it son”. There was never any doubt in my mind that it was on – and for those of you who have caught Grayling, you will know the fight, the nerves of thinking it might get off, the sheer joy of getting the first sighting on the surface and the over-riding feeling when the fish is on the bank.

“Well done lad, well done”.

The old man then did a very strange thing. Apart from holding the catch as lovingly as one would a child, he placed a small kiss on its back and said: “I never thought I’d ever see thee again lass”, and then he placed it in the second keep net, on its own, as one would handle the tiniest of little birds.

“Lad it’s time I went, good luck to you. If I could tell you one thing, whilst this is sport, treat all the fish you catch with loving care, they sense that you know, and you will always have a place of great fulfilment in your heart”

I turned to wish him goodbye and in that instant his eyes conveyed that mixture of contentment, experience, sadness, loneliness and in some ways sheer desolation that one only senses in the old. The best way I can describe it is like a light that has been flicked on and off in the briefest of seconds – and then he was gone.

True to his word, the luck was with me. Bites came in abundance, and there was a continuous stream of fish hitting the net throughout the rest of the day, indeed the best haul I have ever had. As evening came and inevitably early thoughts turned to home, one of the bivvy boys from the adjoining lake came into view. Obviously out for a stretch and a smoke and probably in search of come company.

“Hi mate, any good?”.

“Absolutely fantastic. First time I’ve been here, caught loads and am definitely coming back”.

“Really? No-one ever seems to catch a great deal here, I thought it was cursed, can I have a look?”

So I showed him net 1. That beautiful moment where the catch is revealed and you savour each fish, trying to recall in what order they were caught, each meaning the absolute world when on the hook, then onto the next one.

He was highly impressed. “Don’t see much of that mate”.

“It gets better” I said and I showed him Net 2 which contained one solitary fish, the Lady of the Stream. “Beauty isn’t it?”.

“Well I’ll be damned, it really does exist he shouted. Old Jack always said it was here but no-one ever believed him, no-one has ever seen it and no-one has ever caught it. How the hell did you do that? What a fantastic fish”.

I then related to him the way the day had panned out, the local knowledge I had received and obviously the luck of catching the fish and the bulging net thereafter.

“By God, Old Jack would have absolutely loved that, after all these years of humouring him, of accusing him of the biggest fish story ever, he bloody knew he was right”.

“What happened to Old Jack?” I asked.

“Sad thing that, died about a month ago. Down here fishing, as he did almost every day of his life, happen trying to catch that there Grayling again. No-one really knows what happened but they found him in the water and by then it was too late. Nearly everyone in the village and everyone who ever knew him went to pay their respects, church couldn’t cope. He was from a different time mate and he was one of the good ones.” With that he stretched, got up and started to make his way back to his mark.

After a moment I called after him – “did he ever wear an old cap and smoke a pipe?”

“As a matter of fact he did, always, they were the only things that were never found”... and his words trailed off into the distance.

At that moment the only breeze of the day chilled the back of my neck and a small ripple danced across the pond. The warm glow of the sun had ebbed away replaced by a beautiful grey/silver hue and I knew it was time to go.

As I drove away I wondered just what had happened that day. Most of all I wondered when Jack would come again and who would meet him. In some ways it brings me peace and yet I ache for his loss. And whenever I see the Lady of the Stream, I think of that day and I feel the magic.

Do you feel it too?

Steve Shipp