More to fishing than meets the eye

Well, it's strange how things turn out, but only the other day, I came across what was once known as a gamekeeper's gibbet.

Except in this case, it was more like a scaffold, with a single crow dangling by a lifeless leg, hauled up on a post, and pinioned with baling twine.

There he was, in the middle of a field, an undignified fate indeed, but one that no doubt was intended to serve as a warning to his compatriots.

Be warned. You crows steal the farmer's corn at your peril...

Strangely enough, when I was a boy, I took great delight in collecting shot rooks from the spinney floor, as the 12 bores and .410s blazed away over my head and those of the other village lads.

What would the European Union lawmakers have to say about that nowadays? (!)

Paradoxically, I also lovingly cared for many an orphaned bird that had fallen from its nest high up in the ash trees. Such refugees would be fed on chicken meal, chopped worms and leatherjackets until their quill feathers had made way for the real thing.

Then the birds would be released - possibly destined to die in a hail of lead the following year. Yes, I know. It doesn't make sense.

But I suppose this was a case of a not completely unfamiliar conflicting morality, merely one example of contradictions that persist to this day.

Take fishing for example. The new coarse season starts in a few weeks' time. And this year, it will probably command more media attention than usual because of the recent report that fish may be capable of feeling pain.

Personally, I believe the Roslin Institute research was seriously flawed. Apparently, scientists discovered that if poison is injected into a fish, the creature reacts by exhibiting a shuddering motion.

Whoever would have guessed?

However, it was also found that there was no reaction when the fish were injected with a harmless saline solution. If this proved anything, it is that fish suffer distress from a poison - say, pollution - but do not react to the syringe itself.

So for syringe, substitute hook. Perhaps. But I'd say it was a pretty stupid experiment.

The issue of fishing poses an ethical question that has been turned over and over in my mind down the years.

But generally, I feel that if the Worcestershire factory or foundry worker can find solace on the riverbank and refuge from the noisome machines of industry, then he should be granted his bit of peace on earth. And left alone.

For if the animal rights lunatics are about this summer - and picking on innocent anglers as is likely - then there will be real trouble.

I realise the use of the word "lunatics" seems a but harsh, but remember it was these people who are responsible for almost wiping out the water vole.

Thanks to the liberation of hundreds of mink, an ecological disaster was triggered. Ignorance wearing the clothes of compassion.

But I digress. So turning to those long, hot summers and snowbound winters of my younger days, let me tell you about another pastime that helped me while away boyhood's salad days. And that was fishing for pike.

Pike. How I was in awe of this fish. He of the torpedo physique and crocodile jaw. It's something to do with the eerie, menacing nobility of this great freshwater predator.

There he is, old Esox Lucius, lurking in the milfoil or lying in ambush under the lily pads, the sun illuminating his dappled flanks and immaculate outline.

What a hunter is he, who with limitless patience can wait all day for a meal. Roach, frog, vole or moorhen chick... it's all the same to him as a hapless victim hoves into sight and is given a ticket to eternity courtesy of that razor-lined mouth.

I used to spend hours observing pike, trying to out-stare the merciless eyes that gazed without a shred of pity, all-knowing and all-seeing. From fingerlings to small jacks and on to big fat, egg-bloated females, this was a fish with attitude.

Feeling lucky punk? Go ahead, make my day...

The great pike was a river god to me. They looked good and tasted good, too. Like the tribesman who eats the meat of a lion in order to acquire some the beast's attributes, I would often wonder whether the flesh of such a magnificent fish might work wonders for me as well.

So from time to time, one found its way to the larder, lying in state in the last resting place of a dolly tub filled with salt water, all ready for the final preparations for the oven.

As you can see, here we have a state of affairs that is a perfect mirror image of the rooks scenario. Enthralled, captivated, obsessed... and also rather appealing in the culinary department.

Except I don't want to eat such creatures anymore, and haven't done for years. Nevertheless, dilemmas such as this still intrude on my thoughts when it comes to forming conclusions about angling.

But I have arrived at the conclusion that however open to question is the habit of removing fish, albeit temporarily from their natural element, on balance, I believe that angling does more good than harm.

I remain convinced that our waterways would have for long been open sewers and several species of fish might now be in terminal decline had it not been for the constant vigilance of fishermen.

On several occasions down the years, I have alerted the relevant authorities to water pollution. I'm not alone in this respect - most anglers keep an eye peeled for any change in the health of the aquatic environment.

Not only that, but there is a growing tendency - especially on some reaches of the Severn - for an irresponsible boating faction to regard the river as the fast lane of the M5. Such mindless, motorised morons do far more damage to fish and their fry than any angler.

So if you see the speed merchants, report them.

Indeed, it is angling bodies that fight for the long-term preservation of fishes' habitat, not only against the pernicious effects of pollution, but also the over-abstraction that has reduced some lowland streams to mere trickles in recent years.

To those who counter such logic with the argument that we should not maltreat fish purely for our own amusement, I would point out that fishing also allows us to reach down to our roots.

It puts us in contact with a far more naturally-lived past, one that was far more free than this stress-ridden, hectic age.

I accept that there is a minority of selfish anglers who leave litter and line on the banks, but fishing organisations must grasp the nettle and start to clamp down on them.

We may never learn conclusively whether fishing is cruel or not. But in the greater scheme of things, I think we should leave the angler to his simple pleasures.

As Britain becomes increasingly urbanised, the riverbank may have become the last frontier.

And that is why we should allow the fishermen of England to keep the faith with a natural world that is fast slipping away.