Old Archie

[Traditionalist]

Seemingly oblivious to the arcane machinations and often completely unexplainable antics of a veritable host of anglers, walkers, canoers, frustrated lovers, and usually inebriated potential suicides, on the bridge above, the large and reputedly ancient trout, lay just below the second brick foundation of the first bridge arch. According to local folklore he weighed in excess of ten pounds, but he was apparently oblivious of his fame as well. He rose occasionally, and slurped a particularly inviting morsel,from the calm lane at the side of the fast water, caused by the water rushing through the narrows of the arch.

If some of the local worthies were to be believed, he had been doing this every summer for at least the last ten years. Experts and tyros, men of letters, small boys with worms, although the water was fly only, and even lowly poachers, had all attempted the difficult cast at one time or another over the years, some even successfully, the jaw of the fish was laced with white scars easily visible in the clear water, testimony to the "barbs and arrows of outrageous fortune" to which he had been subjected, and which he now bore with seeming nonchalance, perhaps even truculent pride? A hard won but most excellent education.

In the "Stag?s Head ", a ridiculous name really, the pub was only twenty years old, and there had been no stags in the area for a hundred years or more, perhaps they were not quite as clever as the wily old trout ? It was rumoured that the fish knew most artificial fly patterns better than the local fly-dressers.

Many of the pub regulars were anglers, quite a few fly-fishermen, and often when the beer and whisky had been flowing freely for a while, most especially when visiting anglers had generously ordered a few rounds, the talk turned to "Old Archie" as the fish was known.

If only half of the stories were to be believed, nearly everybody in the pub had hooked him at one time or another, and after an incredible fight, lasting anything from ten minutes to an hour and a half, in which he was endowed with attributes more appropriate to charging bulls, or sounding whales, or leaping porpoises, he had eventually broken the hook, line, rod, heart, spirit, etc of the unfortunate involved, depending largely upon who was telling the story, and his gift for the blarney!

Sitting quietly and unobtrusively in the corner between the snug and the lounge, a quite young man sat drinking his beer and listening to the conversation. He had been staying at the pub for just over two weeks, and a couple of the stories were no longer new, but at every mention of the fish, his body tensed, and anybody watching would have seen the look of intense concentration and deadly purpose which furrowed his brow.

He had not joined in any of the conversations, and he had not played darts or dominoes with any of the regulars, or bought any rounds, and sitting quietly in the corner he was easily overlooked, so he was largely ignored by the press of good natured and noisy regulars standing at the bar.

There was a lull in the lively conversation, and the young man addressed the publican probably more loudly than he had intended, not reckoning with the sudden reduction in conversational volume, " What would such a fish be worth ?". The conversation died completely, to be replaced by an even more deafening and uncomfortable silence, "Worth ?, I?m terribly sorry sir, I am not sure what you mean" replied the publican, obviously perplexed. " I mean how much would you pay for it?" the young man replied.

A nervous laugh erupted from the other end of the bar, and the local wit felt moved to issue his verdict, in a too loud and almost artificially jovial voice, "You can?t sell what you haven?t got" boomed out across the bar. Laughter and giggling ensued, and the conversational hum returned slowly to it?s normal deafening and thought deadening level.

"Time" was called, and after this meaningless but important English ritual had been observed, the regulars settled in for a decent drink, only when the local constable looked in for his pint shortly after midnight, did the publican put the towels up, and the pub closed. The young man had long since disappeared to bed.

The disturbance outside the pub the next morning was so loud and intense, that the local constable repaired to the scene with an alacrity belying his years, and the not inconsiderable size of his belly, after receiving several phone calls about a riot. Rumours were flashing through the bright morning air like arrows, as more and more people arrived on the scene, enquiring as to the grounds for such an unholy row, and this on a Sunday morning! Ten deep in places, half the village stood bewildered and enquiring before the pub, milling about and asking their equally unknowing neighbours what was going on.

"? Old Archie? has been caught by a visitor, and he got into a fight with the landlord", was just one of the nonsensical and hardly cogent rumours passing from mouth to mouth through the assembled multitude.

Constable Pearson forced his way through the crowd to the door of the pub, his massive shoulders and impressive paunch showing neither fear nor favour for those in his path. "Now then, what?s all this ?ere then?" he enquired ponderously and officiously of the publican, using the time honoured formula of English policemen.

George,who was standing in the doorway wringing a completely dry tea-towel in his hands, and mumbling unintelligibly to himself, something which sounded very much like "lousy bastard" or at least very similar, seemed rather pre-occupied!

"Now then George, we can?t have this you know, let?s go inside and sort the matter out", Constable Pearson intoned, and turning to the crowd and assuming his most commanding and sonorous official voice, chest out and belly in, a contortion requiring no mean endeavour, and causing his rotund and red face to darken to an almost foreboding purple, "get yourselves home you lot, you are causing a disturbance", took George by the arm, and escorted him into the pub, closing the door behind him with a resounding bang.

The crowd dispersed slowly, in small groups of twos and threes, discussing the events of the morning, a matter of no little consequence in the drowsy village, where the most exciting thing that ever happened was the yearly visit from the travelling fairground.

The village buzzed all day with all sorts of rumours, and the regulars who arrived at the pub for their regular Sunday lunchtime session were amazed and dismayed to discover the doors closed, and were obliged to return home, some for the first time in years being punctual for Sunday lunch. In the case of one unfortunate, who shall in the name of common decency rename nameless, only to discover that his wife had been "having it off" with his next door neighbour every Sunday lunchtime for the last ten years.

The pub remained closed for the next two days, and George appeared in the local magistrates court accused of "Assault, occasioning grievous bodily harm". The public was not admitted to the hearing. The local magistrate was also the riparian owner of the stretch in question, and  an enthusiastic fly-fisherman.

George was acquitted of all charges.

On Saturday night the pub opened punctually at half past five, and the regulars were almost swamped by the rush of people all wanting to hear the details of George?s fight. George however, was conspicuous by his absence, and his two barmaids were hardly able to cope with the combined thirst and inquiries of the assembled multitude.

At last George appeared, on the stroke of eight, and silence fell, not even the clink of glasses was to be heard.

Finally, one of the regulars, a certain Mr. Michael Corcoran a well known local angler, broke the silence, "Come on George, tell us about it, has "Old Archie" really been caught ?, and how did you get into a fight ?"

George stood for a moment seeming to gather himself, and then he said, " Yes "Old Archie" has been caught", a sigh, almost a moan, went through the whole pub, even from the non-anglers present. "Yes well", said Michael Corcoran, "the fellow must be a great angler, how the hell did you get into a fight with him, you being an angler yourself and all ?".

George shuddered, and then the words rushed out of him, tumbling uncontrolled and almost tearful into the room full of expectant faces, "Angler ? the bastard told me how he did it, he used a big lump of salmon roe he bought at the fish shop in the town, and a bubble float with a treble hook, and forty pound line, he just hauled "Old Archie" out without any ceremony at all, and knocked him on the head, he was lying in the hall when I came down to do breakfast, and the bloody swine was sitting there in the breakfast room grinning. I was speechless, then, to cap it all,  the bastard said I could have the fish for five pounds. That was when I grabbed him and knocked his teeth out and threw him out the back door".

The shocked and deathly uncomfortable silence following these revelations was broken yet again by Michael Corcoran, " George," he said, " I would consider it a most singular honour if you would allow me to buy you a drink". The clamour of congratulations and applause which followed on the heels of this response echoes round the village to this day. Strangers are still treated courteously,in the village, and in the pub,  but are often subjected to a fine scrutiny which many find upsetting, especially if they are carrying a fishing rod.

Oddly enough, no other fish ever took up residence under the arches.

Tight lines !

Mike Connor