Angling for a Bit of Peace

The word ‘essay’ reminds me of school, homework and exams, and induces a mild shudder of dislike. Dr Johnson defined the essay as an irregular, undigested piece, which is probably what my early compositions were, and Ben Jonson thought essayists produced ‘a few loose sentences, and that’s all’. Yet, as Hazlitt and Lamb proved, essays have been popular when skilfully written, and they still exist in the form of magazine and newspaper articles.

Arthur Ransome was a great admirer of Hazlitt and hankered after producing a series of essays himself. He would probably have considered that his journalism got in the way of that ambition, but in Rod & Line he realized it. The book comprises fifty essays distilled from articles he wrote for the Manchester Guardian after having complained to the editor that the newspaper ‘was not doing what it might for fishermen’. That might put off those readers who are not among the four million anglers in Britain. It shouldn’t. Ransome was not a narrow-minded devotee of fly, float and lure but a man of wide interests and experience. The book was published in 1929 when he was in his early forties. By that time he had had a varied career in publishing and journalism. He had reported from Russia and Egypt, mingled with the Bolsheviks, been divorced and remarried, to Trotsky’s secretary. Consequently these pieces are the musings of a mature writer who views angling and other matters with a self-deprecating irony, a detachment infused with humour, and a good dose of wisdom. The pressure of writing a weekly article probably led Ransome to range more widely than others might have done. Inevitably there is some reference to technicalities, but if an essay on ‘Wet Flies for Down-stream Fishing’ has no appeal, turn to ‘Bulls and Kindred Phenomena’, the effect of an eclipse, or a piece on fishing inns. Virginia Woolf believed that a good essay drew a curtain round the reader, keeping one in, not out. That cosy, comforting feeling is always present in Ransome’s essays. He has that knack of addressing you as a friend, a confidant. Nonetheless, authoritative statements do appear, often at the beginning of the essay. ‘On Tackle-shops’ opens with ‘The pleasures of fishing are chiefly to be found in rivers, lakes and tackle-shops and, of the three, the last are the least affected by the weather.’ Actually, he was not very interested in lakes, regarding still-water fishing as ‘derogatory to human dignity – like betting on horses you have never seen, or marriage in those countries where women are invisible until they are wed’. Angling is a peaceful pursuit, reflected in Isaak Walton’s motto ‘Study to be quiet’, and in this book the easy, clear prose produces a curtained calm. Humour slides in without ruffling the surface. Writing about beginners, Ransome says, ‘I fished a little while ago with a man, not in his first youth, who had wasted the flower of his life on business and golf and gardening and motoring and marriage, and had in this way postponed his initiation far too long.’ There’s a touching photograph of Arthur and his second wife Evgenia fishing near Riga, the two of them standing side by side, their rods poking hopefully over the water. It’s typical that he did not consider himself to be an exceptional angler or a skilled writer. His accomplishments were hard won and made him modest rather than proud. In the essay on ‘Fishing in Books and Fishing in Fact’ he mocks those writers who angle in Arcadia rather than in real life. His experiences as a hack writer, disappointed husband, struggling author and respected journalist made him acknowledge his failings and so endear himself to the reader. Unlike the belated beginner, Ransome was introduced to fishing when he was young. His father Cyril was a keen angler as well as a professor of history, but he died when Arthur was 13. Returning from the river in the dark, Cyril tripped and damaged his ankle. There were complications and eventually his leg was amputated, contributing to an early death. Arthur stopped angling then, only taking it up again when in his twenties. We should be grateful that he did. Rod & Line is not a full meal, more a delightful hors d’oeuvre, but it is still a dish worth sampling.

Extract from Slightly Foxed Issue 53 © David Beanland