The Wandle Piscators

On this splendid late summer morning I took myself, via Martin Way and Cannon Hill Lane, to Cannon Hill Common. In Maycross Avenue an elderly couple were struggling to get a large canvas bag into the back of their car. I crossed the road and volunteered to help them. The bag contained pruned branches. As I easily lifted my end into the vehicle, the man exclaimed: ‘Blimey. You are worth ten of us’. Given that they were probably no older than me I counted my blessings and told them how I had spent my weekend. A frog had taken refuge in one of the recycle bins awaiting collection. There was a lot of fishing going on in the lake, and Alan William Marshall’s memorial bench (see 31st. May) bore a fresh vase of crisp roses. There are now official notices informing piscators that they must be members of the eponymous club in order to fish. I didn’t ask anyone whether they belonged to The Wandle Piscators. Numerous ducks were swimming on the water, and a group were having a camouflaged rest on the bank. There were clearly a number of grandparents fishing or feeding the ducks with small children. This took me back to one day when Emily and Oliver were both under three. I cared for them for the day. Wondering what on earth I was going to do with them all day, I readily agreed. As it was a pleasant afternoon I took them to a playground and spent the time pushing swings and trying to keep my eyes on both of them at once. I have to admit I looked at my watch every half hour or so until the time I could give them back. Only, joking, kids. Gramps having a laugh. On another occasion, when Oliver was about three, I had a laugh with him. I entertained him for a good hour without having to move from my chair. He had one of those small bows with rubber tipped arrows, and fired it at a white spot on the wall. Soon the spot began to move around the room, giving him a moving target. He occasionally hit it, when it momentarily became stationary. What I had noticed was that the white spot was the reflection of my watch face. The smallest movement of my wrist was enough to provide hours of jolly fun with the least effort from me. For as long as the sun was at the appropriate angle, anyway.

Ten month old Barney was also being babysat. His carer was calling him the stupidest dog in the world because he was trying to lift half a tree. This reminded me of the time when I, too, had bitten off more than I could chew. At a zoo in Australia in 2008, a jam-packed crowd was peering at a gorilla. What I thought was a small boy in front of me couldn’t see a thing. I asked his mother if I could lift him up. They both readily agreed. Unfortunately the lad turned out to be very fat, and I wasn’t as strong as I had once been. I grasped him under the arms intending to hoist him onto my shoulders. I couldn’t lift him further than my chest. I settled for a bear hug at that level. I had to grip him so tightly I think he was probably very relieved when I put him down. I was certainly rather embarrassed. At least he saw the gorilla. Maybe I was lucky that the bag destined for the municipal dump earlier only contained sticks. Mind you, a thorn sticking through the canvas did leave its mark on my hand.

Some of the trees, including a mature oak, had been damaged by the strong winds we’ve experienced this year. The tree bore a large scar and had lost a huge branch, giving the scene an autumnal appearance. This reminded my of the centuries old Major Oak in Sherwood Forest which we sometimes visited when Sam and Louisa were young. The long low limbs of that tree are now propped up by struts, and the area is fenced off.

This afternoon I began reading ‘Count Belisarius’ by Robert Graves.

This morning I extracted from the freezer the ingredients for a sausage and pork casserole. Jackie popped in at lunchtime with salad items for our evening meal. Double result. I got the satisfaction of being prepared to cook, and then the pleasure of not having to. Jackie drank Hoegaarden and I enjoyed Vina Araya, 2010 reserve Chilean red wine. Here is a picture for Danni

This morning we awoke to birdsong. Yes, song. No more raucous chattering of magpies. Could the plague have passed? A different, territorial, conflict took place. From our window we joined the audience of a wren and a wood pigeon watching a stand-off between two robins. The victorious combatant joined them on the fence and they were all lined up, respectful distances apart, surveying the terrain. Maybe congratulating themselves on having survived the various avian threats. It was a bit like a surviving gladiator joining the spectators in the Colosseum. During the afternoon a couple of the predators returned to the trees on the embankment. A wandering cat caused them great consternation and silenced the rest of the birds. They didn’t silence my rest, though. They simply disturbed it.

In fact another kind of invasion seems in the offing. I mentioned in a previous post a man having commandeered the patch of unused land alongside our garden fence. He is now nailing supports to our fence – not just the posts, but the more flimsy panels in between. We are simply tenants and don’t have access to the garden which is really the home of the foxes, otherwise I might go and have a word. However, when he started belting these nails in and shaking the fence I thought I’d better ring the landlord and let her know (I know, I know, the word land lord is not appropriate for a woman, but the two of them seem happy with it). I got an answerphone on which I left a message. Later in the evening, not having received a reply, I went to investigate. His runner bean canes are not actually touching our fence, but what he was nailing in place was a rambling blackberry.

En route to Cannon Hill Common I stopped and chatted to the younger proprietor of the Martin Cafe. This, of course, meant that I was bound to go in for a fry-up on the way back. So I duly did. It seemed only right.

On the common there were masses of dog roses in full bloom festooning other shrubs, and brambles were beginning to bear blossom.

Walking along the lakeside I noticed, attached to a couple of trees, laminated flyers stating that, from tomorrow, fishery in the lake would be managed by The Wandle Piscators, a private club. Whilst, admittedly, the club invited new members, it would no longer be legal for the general public to fish these waters. Was this another nail in the privatisation coffin which has been built to contain public service and real freedom to be an individual? I pondered on this, and whether the ban would extend to free spirited small boys gathering newts, as I continued my walk.

This took me past a group of mothers and toddlers happily feeding the ducks on bread. I think it was in Regents Park that I once spotted a notice advising people not to give the birds bread and advising of the dangers to them inherent in this. I thought it best not to mention that. It is, after all, one of the greatest pleasures of young children and an excellent way of occupying them and providing a social outlet for their mothers. I don’t think that, however polite and genteel an informant such as I may be, I would have been seen as anything other than a killjoy, if not an interfering old git.

Further along, strapped to a bench inscribed IN LOVING MEMORY OF ALLAN WILLIAM MARSHALL, who died in 2008, there was a vase filled with fresh flowers in clean water. Someone mourns him still.

Beyond the lake I took a footpath parallel to the common which brought me out onto Grand Drive. Was this the route taken by those two small boys all those years ago? Unless Chris remembers I guess I will never know. Up Grand Drive, left into Southway and I was soon back on the common having a last stroll back along the lake and on to Martin Cafe. This time I chose to stop and chat to the one solitary angler I had noticed first time round. I wondered what was his view on the Wandle Piscators? Well, he was going to join. He saw no harm in it although he would rather it wasn’t happening. If it improved the quality of cleanliness and management it could be a positive thing. He didn’t think £25 per year was too much to pay for any potential improvement. He confirmed what I had surmised, that this was the club that fished the Wandle in Morden Hall Park. They were therefore an established organisation. What I didn’t tell him was that the National Trust litter picker had told me that the fishermen left lots of rubbish. My companion here was therefore likely to be disappointed in his hope that under new management the litter bins might actually be emptied before they had begin to spill their contents. He, himself, had been fishing here about ten years. There were others, however, in their fifties and sixties who had regularly fished there since they were seven years old. They had formed considerable opposition, but to no avail. I guess progress means regulation.

Tonight’s repast was my sausage casserole, using Sainsbury’s pork and herb sausages and bearing less and less resemblance to Delia’s original. I finished off the Minervois whilst Jackie had a Peroni.

And so to bed and a few pages of ‘The Remorseful Day’.

Tag: The Wandle Piscators

Grandparent Duties