At the spot where the disused canal met the mill pool, a high bridge was once brought low. Some time after the canal’s demise in the Victorian era, the stone arch came down. In its place a functional steel and concrete construction straddled the canal, resting on the old bridge’s foundations, giving a clear view down to the shallows.
The sunken masonry on the bottom suggested boulders in a mountain stream. Giant rhubarb-like leaves, fluting and fluttering, holding fast, told of gentler currents.
In a corridor between two stones a pike was lurking. Here was a crocodile of a fish, as long as my arm, racks of teeth muzzled in its closed snout. “I’ve caught bigger,” said the fisherman at my shoulder in a matter-of-fact voice.
The pike had thick zigzag stripes running rib-like right down its spine. Bright blotches of blue and yellow lit up its pale flanks, and dark veins highlighted its tail. The transparent pectoral fins twirled constantly, mooring the pike in place. Every once in a while the fish gave a light swish of its tail, nudging forward just a little. It edged along, steering left at the next boulder, then right at the one after, moving through its aquatic maze at a glacial speed.
A shoal of tiny fishes swam towards the boulders, darting in a syncopated crush. A few tiddlers on the fringe showed dangerous individuality. They were inclined to yo-yo out of the shoal, making little forays of discovery, before drawing back into anonymity and safety in numbers.
One of these frontier-extending fish spotted something of interest. Perhaps enticed by the jewel-like spots on the pike’s side, it weaved between the stones towards its glittering prize. Pushed by curiosity, pulled by caution and fear of the unknown, it approached the pike, inching towards the business end carrying that long, pointed, mouth.
The pike basked in the sun, maybe waiting for bigger fish to try, for it did not rise to the silvery bait. It sat on in its lair, fins working, biding its time.
Derek Niemann @DerekNiemann
