It was almost exactly thirty-five years ago, on a Thursday early in June, that the events I am going to relate occurred. Yesterday, I found an old photograph of one of my sons and myself. It brought to my mind something I remember as keenly as though it had all happened last week.
Unusually for me, I had woken early, excited at the prospect of getting out of London. It was my once a fortnight chance to go fishing, and I had at that time what they call a ‘quarter-rod’ on the River Itchen, at a spot just two miles north-east of Winchester, in Kings Worthy, which has a population of 2000, a Norman church and one of the best pubs in Hampshire. A full rod can fish when he or she likes. A half-rod means one named day per week. A quarter-rod is once a fortnight. I say ‘he or she’ because ladies have always been good fisherpersonages, just as lady horn players have always been just as good as, very often better than, and on occasion worse than men. It is simply a case of bringing traditional mores up to date. After all, the Vienna Philharmonic did not admit ladies as full members until 1997. As far as fishing is concerned, the record salmon to be taken from British waters (64 pounds) was caught after a two-hour battle by Miss Georgina Ballantine 100 years ago, in 1922. It might in different circumstances have been caught by a man, but on this occasion it was not.
The river two miles from Winchester is indeed a most beautiful spot, with only the far-off evidence of traffic on the A34 to compete with that produced by nature. Birds will be twittering in the bushes, as the odd water vole doggy-paddles across the river, and being June, the trout will be seen jostling for position in the river, tails wagging with anticipation, waiting for the first mayfly hatch of the day. These beautiful Ephemeroptera are three times the size of the normal aquatic fly. After two years underwater, they swim to the surface. They then do two changes of costume over the next few hours and end up dancing in clouds in the sunlight waiting for the love of their short adult lives (two days if they are lucky) to catch their eye, before the females lay their eggs back into the water and expire – their earthly destiny fulfilled.
I was feeling highly confident on this particular Thursday as the weather was good, the wind light, and we were well into ‘Duffers Fortnight’ when it is supposed to be easy to hook fish (sadly not always true, though). With my bag full of fishing tackle and sustenance for the day, I boarded the train at Waterloo.
On the journey, I reflected on a biggish solo I had played at a British Horn Festival in the RCM a few years before. On that occasion, I had decided that the only way I would get through the torment was to have something to look forward to. I made a plan. I would leave my fishing rod at the Porter’s Lodge, ready for grabbing immediately after my performance – and the audience’s ordeal. I would then transport myself by taxi down to Waterloo and then to the Itchen as soon as I could. In that cab ride down to the station, I was reminded of another taxi ride from the RCM I had shared with the great Barry Tuckwell. While I was picking his brains about breathing techniques, Barry told me of the revelation he’d had when he discovered that if he consciously expanded his chest further while slurring up to the high C in Adagio and Allegro, the sound on the C automatically filled out in a positive and satisfying way. Forgive the name-dropping, but it does work.
However, on this particular day, my thoughts on the journey turned to my son Johnny, who had until recently been head chorister at Winchester Cathedral. I say recently, which it certainly seemed to be, but in fact, he had left the school two or three years before and was now safely ensconced in Whitgift School, South Croydon. I was thinking that sometimes he still rather hankered after the drowsy hum of the bees in the wisteria and the long evening shadows creeping across the close after Evensong. Anyone who has read Hugh Walpole’s The Cathedral will know what I mean. I soon to discover the extent to which the aforementioned hankering still featured in his life. I remembered a photo taken of us a few years earlier. Johnny must have been 12. We were both standing on the tomb of Izaak Walton, the great writer and fisherman. His close friend John Donne wrote, ” . . . send not to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee”. Walton’s tomb is in a side chapel of Winchester Cathedral, by the South Transept. In the photo we are holding our French Horns before taking part in a performance of The Canterbury Pilgrims (with one cut, I remember) by George Dyson.
Back to the train journey. The stations sped past (or was it the other way round?) and having picked up speed after, in turn, Clapham Junction and Wimbledon, Woking, Guildford and Basingstoke, the countryside became just a blur, as my thoughts turned to fish rising, a pint being downed, and sandwiches consumed.
Happily stepping off the train at Winchester, I sniffed the Hampshire air appreciatively and looked back along the carriages watching the be-tweeded worthies of Winchester climbing down onto the platform. Among those getting down from the last carriage was a callow youth whom I thought I knew. I blinked and recognised my son Johnny.
What to say to him? Thoughts flashed into my mind: it was a school day, mid-week, and mid-term when summer events at school would be hotting up before imminent exams and annual sporting events. Witty remarks seemed not to be in order, so I decided quickly (because by this time Johnny had spotted me also) that I would say nothing except a tentative “hello” and see whether he could come up with anything more interesting. I duly came out with the planned initial sally, and Johnny obviously had similar thoughts and replied in a similar vein.
Then the following exchange took place:
Me: You down here for Evensong?
Him: Yes, I thought it might be fun.
Me: Fancy a spot of fishing instead?
Him: Ok, it’s only Darke in F anyway.
We have never really discussed his motives for skiving off school that day. I don’t think we’ve talked about it at all. There seems little point.
We did catch a few fish, though.
