Escapology is the practice of escaping from restraints or other traps. Escapologists (also classified as escape artists) escape from handcuffs, straitjackets, cages, coffins, steel boxes, barrels, bags, burning buildings, fish-tanks, and other perils, often in combination.

So ‘escape’ can mean a lot of different things and each person’s need for that, equally so. During the pandemic, the Government strongly advocated fishing for its mental health and wellbeing benefits. “Pursuits such as fishing, have been shown to help in people’s post-pandemic recovery by offering an ‘escape’ from lockdown stresses and busy urban environments.

So, an escape. I guess that is what fishing is for the majority of those who go, unless of course that’s what you do for a living, in which case there may be an element of necessity to it. But for me it has always been the former. Not necessarily escape in any majorly dramatic sense of the word, just sometimes an escape from a challenging environment, driven by a simple and fundamental need to be outdoors, to reconnect with the natural world and reset my own circadian rhythm. A therapy of sorts. There have however, been times in my life when the need for an escape have exceeded a simple desire. Two thousand four, and the four or five years after that, were years when that need to escape, was far greater than the years running up to then, or the years that followed.

It seems that, for what ever reason, life can often come at you wholesale. Two thousand four was one of those years; the proverbial waiting for a bus then two or even three arrive at once. Birth and death, big things. Perhaps these things often happen to balance the other, light and dark, yin and yang, a core belief found in Taoist teachings, if that’s your thing. My son was born that year, the single most amazing day of my life. A few weeks later, my dad passed away. I was very close to my dad and it was a life event that completely knocked me for six. These two events on their own are fairly life changing, but when both happen simultaneously and in such a short space of time, it’s hard to know whether you should be celebrating, or mourning. Consequently, you end up doing neither particularly well. Looking back now, I can see just how much I struggled. I found myself quite stuck, treading water, auto pilot, all those clichés. I was in some sort of emotional limbo, unable to really deal with very much at all. These of course are not uncommon life experiences and by no means is my story unique, but anyone who has been through the similar challenges will know what I mean.

So, to escape, somewhere without distraction, somewhere to sit and figure things out.

It seems quite obvious to state it, but there is, hopefully anyway, something very meditative about fishing. For me sitting by a river for a day or two without any contact with another human being is quite sublime; both physically and mentally restorative. The constant movement of water is purgative and watching it flow past, with ranunculus beds gently swaying under its direction, can be profoundly beneficial. For it has always had a very palpable effect helping to manage and alleviate stress, often imagining the water physically drawing out whatever emotional toxins might be coursing through me.

Since two thousand, I had been, both metaphorically and literally, dipping my toe in the Hampshire Avon, arguably the finest river of its kind in the UK. I had sampled its treasure from various stretches, from the fabulous and well known Ibsley and all the variety of fishy habitat on offer there, to other lesser known stretches, far above and below. I had been fortunate and had caught barbel and chub from most of them, with even the odd carp and pike thrown in for good measure. One location in particular though, had stuck with me. It was a little bit of a hike from any civilised parking, but it was somewhere you could fairly well guarantee, you’d not see another soul, and in the years I fished there, other than the odd mate who came to fish or visit, I’m not sure that I ever did.

Such was the richness of the experience for me then, that profound connection to the environment, the fishing actually seemed at times almost academic. The pure and simple act of being there was enough. And when the rod tip did sporadically spring in to life, it was like snapping back out from some kind of self-induced hypnosis. Oh, yes, I’m supposed to be fishing.

That Summer, I tried to get to the river as often as I my conscience would allow, given my son was still only a few months old. In truth it was probably no more than once a month, each trip fitting in around new dad duties and patchy work obligations. But I felt that each trip was a fairly essential for my mental well-being, my silent watery therapist, and somewhere to clear my head.