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’t belong to the modern world。 the very idea of sitting all day under a willow tree beside a quiet pool—and being able to find a quiet pool to sit beside—belongs to the time before the war； before the radio； before aeroplanes； before hitler。 there’s a kind of peacefulness even in the names of english coarse fish。 roach； rudd； dace； bleak； barbel； bream； gudgeon； pike； chub； carp； tench。 they’re solid kind of names。 the people who made them up hadn’t heard of machine…guns； they didn’t live in terror of the sack or spend their time eating aspirins； going to the pictures； and wondering how to keep out of the concentration camp。
does anyone go fishing nowadays； i wonder？ anywhere within a hundred miles of london there are no fish left to catch。 a few dismal fishing…clubs plant themselves in rows along the banks of canals； and millionaires go trout…fishing in private waters round scotch hotels； a sort of snobbish game of catching hand…reared fish with artificial flies。 but who fishes in mill…streams or moats or cow…ponds any longer？ where are the english coarse fish now？ when i was a kid every pond and stream had fish in it。 now all the ponds are drained； and when the streams aren’t poisoned with chemicals from factories they’re full of rusty tins and motor…bike tyres。
my best fishing…memory is about some fish that i never caught。 that’s usual enough； i suppose。
when i was about fourteen father did a good turn of some kind to old hodges； the caretaker at binfield house。 i forget what it was— gave him some medicine that cured his fowls of the worms； or something。 hodges was a crabby old devil； but he didn’t forget a good turn。 one day a little while afterwards when he’d been down to the shop to buy chicken…corn he met me outside the door and stopped me in his surly way。 he had a face like something carved out of a bit of root； and only two teeth； which were dark brown and very long。
‘hey； young ‘un！ fisherman； ain’t you？’
‘yes。’
‘thought you was。 you listen； then。 if so be you wanted to； you could bring your line and have a try in that they pool up ahind the hall。 there’s plenty bream and jack in there。 but don’t you tell no one as i told you。 and don’t you go for to bring any of them other young whelps； or i’ll beat the skin off their backs。’
having said this he hobbled off with his sack of corn over his shoulder； as though feeling that he’d said too much already。 the next saturday afternoon i biked up to binfield house with my pockets full of worms and gentles； and looked for old hodges at the lodge。 at that time binfield house had already been empty for ten or twenty years。 mr farrel； the owner； couldn’t afford to live in it and either couldn’t or wouldn’t let it。 he lived in london on the rent of his farms and let the house and grounds go to the devil。 all the fences were green and rotting； the park was a mass of nettles； the plantations were like a jungle； and even the gardens had gone back to meadow； with only a few old gnarled rose… bushes to show you where the beds had been。 but it was a very beautiful house； especially from a distance。 it was a great white place with colonnades and long…shaped windows； which had been built； i suppose； about queen anne’s time by someone who’d travelled in italy。 if i went there now i’d probably get a certain kick out of wandering round the general desolation and thinking about the life that used to go on there； and the people who built such places because they imagined that the good days would last for ever。 as a boy i didn’t give either the house or the grounds a second look。 i dug out old hodges； who’d just finished his dinner and was a bit surly； and got him to show me the way down to the pool。 it was several hundred yards behind the house and pletely hidden in the beech woods； but it was a good…sized pool； almost a lake； about a hundred and fifty yards across。 it was astonishing； and even at that age it astonished me； that there； a dozen miles from reading and not fifty from london； you could have such solitude。 you felt as much alone as if you’d been on the banks of the amazon。 the pool was ringed pletely round by the enormous beech trees； which in one place came down to the edge and were reflected in the water。 on the other side there was a patch of grass where there was a hollow with beds of wild peppermint； and up at one end of the pool an old wooden boathouse was rotting among the bulrushes。
the pool was swarming with bream； small ones； about four to six inches long。 every now and again you’d see one of them turn half over and gleam reddy brown under the water。 there were pike there too； and they must have been big ones。 you never saw them； but sometimes one that was basking among the weeds would turn over and plunge with a splash that was like a brick being bunged into the water。 it was no use trying to catch them； though of course i always tried every time i went there。 i tried them with dace and minnows i’d caught in the thames and kept alive in a jam…jar； and even with a spinner made out of a bit of tin。 but they were gorged with fish and wouldn’t bite； and in any case they’d have broken any tackle i possessed。 i never came back from the pool without at least a dozen small bream。 sometimes in the summer holidays i went there for a whole day； with my fishing…rod and a copy of chums or the union jack or something； and a hunk of bread and cheese which mother had wrapped up for me。 and i’ve fished for hours and then lain in the grass hollow and read the union jack； and then the smell of my bread paste and the plop of a fish jumping somewhere would send me wild again； and i’d go back to the water and have another go； and so on all through a summer’s day。 and the best of all was to be alone； utterly alone； though the road wasn’t a quarter of a mile away。 i was just old enough to know that it’s good to be alone occasionally。 with the trees all round you it was as though the pool belonged to you； and nothing ever stirred except the fish ringing the water and the pigeons passing overhead。 and yet； in the two years or so that i went fishing there； how many times did i really go； i wonder？ not more than a dozen。 it was a t