by Robson Green
‘Wow, I feel so butch now.’
I pop it back in the water quickly and feel seriously depressed. This is getting ridiculous but then if the producers had wanted to make it easy they would have sent us here in the summer. That bastard Hamish Barbour has a lot to answer for.
Desperate times mean desperate measures but it turns out that Tatiana has an amazing plan. She announces she knows an old Itelman method, used for centuries to feed the tribe over difficult winter months. She makes two little fish lures out of reeds. I look at them.
‘Are they meant to be fish-shaped?’
‘Yes,’ she smiles.
I smile back. They are truly rubbish. I am utterly sceptical but willing to give anything a go. She wades into the river and, on very short lines, she bends over and drags them backwards through about six inches of water. As she ‘trawls’ the lures she says, ‘Here, fishy-fishy. Here, fishy-fishy.’
I’ve seen it all now, but she is determined this method is going to work. But it doesn’t take an Oxford don to work out – it does not. I tell her if she catches a fish I will eat my own head. Only the most academically challenged salmon would go for this method. I can’t stop laughing and she is genuinely offended.
‘Here you fish for subsistence, not just for fun,’ she explains.
‘Well, the philosophy of what we do, you know, on this journey is that we eat what we catch, which I think will be pretty difficult today. But I tell you what, I’m really glad you’re here. Do you know why? Because you brought a bit of glamour to the show. You smile, you’re a lovely person, and you’ve cheered me up,’ I say, gushing.
She blushes. ‘You’re very enthusiastic, too.’
‘Very enthusiastic and handsome, right?’
‘Of course,’ she giggles coyly.
‘Thank you, Tatiana.’
And that’s how we end the sequence – me lamely fishing for compliments. It’s the best we can do.
Having caught nothing, we return to Tatiana’s village, where her mother and family are sitting down ready to eat the Uuka soup, without the Arctic char. They are not happy about it and neither am I. I feel like a failure. Imagine all those years ago, that sinking feeling of the hunter-gather returning from days of hunting, the expectant look on his wife and children’s faces.
‘What you got, Dad?’
‘Nowt.’
I’d have gone AWOL for days rather than face that.
‘Could you apologise to the chefs that I haven’t brought any arctic char?’ I ask Tatiana.
‘Of course,’ she says.
An exchange starts in Russian. The mother says, sarcastically, ‘How did our butch friend get on?’
Tatiana says, ‘Our butch friend took the piss out of our straw lures and caught bog-all.’ (to paraphrase)
‘Stupid Geordie pillock!’ says Mum, or words to that effect. I don’t care – it’s the butch comment that cut deep. I’m not that scrawny.
The Uuka soup is delightful and really tasty. We eat in their wooden log cabin, which is basic but rather like a Swiss chalet. The family is very close and unified. In order to survive out here you all need to work together and be made of stern stuff. It strikes me as quite a matriarchal society. I have always said there would be no more war if women were in charge; just twenty-eight days of serious negotiations.
That night I am staying with the family in the Village of the Damned. The house is a kind of granny flat with a definite granny smell, depressing pictures of Tsars and religious icons all over the walls and some very worn and basic furniture. I am staying here without the rest of the team, who are all in different houses. I’ve lucked out with a vodka-juggling trio. I think the old fella’s Sergei’s grandfather but I can’t be sure. He offers me vodka but I politely decline. He takes umbrage. The younger man passes me a plate of cubed horsemeat – he obviously shops at Tesco, I think. I politely decline again. He too takes umbrage. He clunks the plate down on a side table and we sit in silence, in the dark, with only the glow and crackle of the fire to warm the atmosphere. The old lady in the corner gurgles and dribbles in her chair. I think she’s had a stroke, poor dear. The old man kindly wipes away her drool with his hand and takes another cube of horsemeat, with the same hand! He offers me the plate again. I smile, swallowing a gag reflex and, once again, politely refuse. I wasn’t keen on the horsemeat to start with but now I’m defiant. I am already sitting on my bed, a worn leather settee with a crocheted blanket and a cushion as a pillow, by the fire. The family soon melts away into the dark and I am left to a fitful night’s sleep. The young man wakes to stoke the fire throughout the night – three o’clock, four o’clock, five o’clock, he puts logs on to keep it burning. Obviously word has got round that Butch would probably freeze to death without the fire. I thank him for his kindness.
Dolinovka
‘To misquote a US president: “We don’t do this extreme fishing because it is easy – we do it because it is hard.” And one of the most insidious crimes an angler commits is when his ambition falters and he accepts his fishing limitations. I will triumph over adversity. I will catch a fish and put an end to this fishing debacle.’
‘Hoorah!’ Sergei and my band of brothers cheer, and we get in the truck and travel 300 miles north to Dolinovka. Matt said it was only four hours away – more like nine in our piece-of-shit army truck.
Oh my God, it has to be the most uncomfortable journey of my life and a bit like travelling in a freezer, only a freezer would have been warmer as it’s only –18 degrees. The condensation on the windows has turned to ice. I am shivering and I am wearing an Arctic coat and trousers, two layers of thermals and another five layers under the coat. But the views are astonishing. The vast wilderness of Siberia is like nothing I have seen before. It is the most untouched, unspoiled and unpopulated place on the planet. We stop and take pictures at every turn. And in the villages there are massive murals of Yuri Gagarin on the sides of buildings, as well as other national heroes of the space race. Time, too, is on ice here.
We jump out of our Apocalypse Now truck at a place on the Kamchatka River, near Dolinovka. It’s frozen over, and the ice is about four feet thick in places. Matt decides to have an ice-fishing competition to catch steelhead, Arctic char or grayling.
It’s me versus Sergei, who is wearing some curious-looking camo ski gear that looks like it is from World War II – and it probably is. We have four hours and the winner is the one who catches the greatest number of fish. Sergei has already beaten me at poker on the bus, and we are pretending that I need to win back my watch. But this is a serious competition, not a TV setup, and we are both VERY competitive. He is the Russian Bear, I am the British Lion and this is our very own Cold War. He stares at me with a steely gaze but I am strangely confident. I have learnt enough to ice-fish alone from Victor, the old man at the Amur River who taught me how to present the lure to the fish, how to dig a hole with a spear and what size, and from Alexei and Andrei, who taught me to shut up.
I keep my distance from Sergei, who is making a racket using his drill. I dig my hole with a spear made from a branch with a knife tied to the end of it. I have gone for thinner ice, and I feel there might be a feeding channel below. It’s just a hunch but I’m going with it. I don’t say a word, I just slowly bring up the bait, just as the dhow fisherman taught me in Kenya and Howard showed me when fishing for pike in Alaska.
After five minutes I get my first bite and I pull up a one-and-a-half-pound stone char. It’s a pure char, indigenous to the area. The signature of char compared to a trout is they have a light background and dark spots, whereas trout have a dark background with light spots. Char also have brilliant white leading edges on their pectoral, pelvic and anal fins. The char is part of the salmonid family and it is its adipose fin that distinguishes it as game fish. No one’s totally sure what this mysterious fatty fin is for but it is thought to help with swimming function. This turns out to be the first of many, and very quickly it’s 7–0 to me.
I say,
‘It’s like Man-U playing Accrington Stanley. It’s a battering, Sergei.’
Sergei has a fit.
‘Why are you doing this to me? Why are you making fun of me? I don’t understand. I have done everything you have asked.’
With ten minutes to spare, Sergei catches a grayling. I have never seen one before and am genuinely excited – it’s an extraordinary fish with a dorsal fin like an angel’s wing. Sergei is a good fisherman and has helped us a lot – I hug him and concede that he has caught the best fish of the day. I recite an anonymous quotation: ‘She is sometimes called the silver lady of the stream and in the pure water, essential for her existence, she is as graceful and as clever as any of her rivals.’
As we enjoy the tender, delicate meat of the grayling and Arctic char by a makeshift fire, Matt turns to me and says, ‘There is something in this competition lark.’
I agree. It’s like the missing element of the show – the Higgs boson. Men behave in an entertaining way when they compete – the rivalry, history, preparation, winning and failing, and the struggle. As it turns out, when Hamish sees the cut he agrees, and picks up the phone to Channel 5 to pitch the new idea. They commission a fifth series almost immediately.
In spite of all the trials and tribulations of this final journey, the Extreme Fishing show is really beginning to work, and what a privilege it has been to work alongside and meet some of the most talented and amazing people on the planet. My dad always said, ‘There are lots of wonderful folk in the world and you have to meet as many of them as you can.’ I’ve done that against the backdrop of truly astonishing locations and connected with people of all nations through the universal passion for fishing. Except with Andrei and Alexei here in Russia – they were difficult nuts to crack – but everywhere else I’ve experienced nothing but kindness and enthusiasm, like from my old friend Sergei here. Long may the show continue.
And now it’s time to drink vodka! Sergei and I clink glasses and the firewater blows my head off again.
Fade to black.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Thank you to Team Extreme (you know who you are) for allowing me to not look like a jerk at one end of the line waiting for a jerk at the other. Special thanks to Directors Jamie Goold and Alistair Smith who ‘got it’, along with the irrepressible Sound Supremo Peter Prada . . . thank you for staying with me guys . . . millions wouldn’t! I can’t leave out Hamish Barbour, Helen Nightingale and Gerry Costello, not only for giving me the dream gig but for throwing me a life line every time I was drowning in front of the lens, which was quite often. Sandra Jobling and her Husband Ken for being there when it mattered most, especially the phone call which went along the lines of ‘Get me off this F****** Island!’ The unending support of my mother Anne, two sisters Dawn and Joanna, along with my kid brother David. My Uncle Matheson for teaching me everything I know about fishing (yes it was his fault everyone). Briony Gowlett and the gang at Simon & Schuster, and my co-author Charlotte Reather for turning my notes, diaries and this extraordinary, extreme and sometimes absurd adventure into a beautiful and entertaining story. I miss our daily six-hour Skype calls. Thank you to Vanya for being a wonderful mother to our beautiful son Taylor. If I have forgotten anyone it’s because I’m heading towards fifty and even though the wheel is still turning in my memory the hamster is well and truly dead.
Charlotte would like to thank High Tower for his unwavering support, love and belief, Mom and Pops for being there throughout my rakish journey for backing, supporting me and loving me without limits (even when the rozzers were involved). Maurice Gran for being the best confidante and chief cheerleader a girl could have, and Robson for his belief, integrity and friendship. You are amazing people and so are all my wonderful friends who have always known I am a star in waiting. Is this Kate Winslet enough?
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
Born in Northumberland on 18 December 1964, Robson Green is one of the best known faces on British Television. He has been associated with a number of the most celebrated television dramas of recent times including Soldier Soldier, Reckless, Touching Evil and Wire in the Blood. Robson still lives in Northumberland and spends whatever spare time he has seeing his son Taylor, reading, walking, going to the gym and fishing.
Charlotte Reather first spied Robson Green across a sea of meat-heads and spray-tanned strippers at a cage-fight at the Radisson Edwardian, Heathrow, and asked if she could interview the actor for a magazine.
Robson says, ‘It was fate and when I read the article I instantly knew Charlotte was the only person who could write this book. She is a serious talent, hilarious, gifted and inspired.’
Charlotte writes comedy scripts for TV and film. She is a columnist and contributor to several magazines and newspapers including NFU Countryside, The Field, Country Life and the Telegraph. Originally from the Cotswolds, she lives with her husband in Washington DC. This is her first book.
www.charlottereather.com
‘Charlotte is incredibly funny, fearless and terrifyingly ambitious. Look out world!’ Maurice Gran, co-creator of Birds of a Feather.
ENDNOTES
1. After the first series we always remembered to ask contributors if they had ever actually caught a fish and how long ago that was. It was a steep learning curve.
2. Except I’ve since learnt that sparkling water or white wine are much better for carpet stains, as well as being very refreshing drinks.
3. Alexander Pope, An Essay on Man.
4. Meaning they spend most of their life in the sea but return to freshwater to breed.
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
1. A giant wels catfish that, I have to say, bears no resemblance whatsoever to a cat
2. ‘OK Robson, be interesting, insightful and entertaining.’ And . . . action!
3. Let’s just say this carp is no stranger to the dessert trolley (or isn’t on the Weight Watchers diet!)
4. A super-pod of dolphins. A rare and extraordinary sight that just makes your heart sing
5. Show-off! If I could leap like that I could be my own stunt double
6. The sailfish. The marine equivalent of a Ferrari!
7. ‘Sometimes I hear, and sometimes I don’t!’
8. Dinner is served, Costa Rican style
9. A survivor of the terrible massacre in Room 25
10. The setting for the iconic 1970s movie Jaws. I don’t think my tackle is big enough . . .
11. A bluefin tuna that really put the Extreme into Extreme Fishing
12. Two crayfish and a prawn
13. Has anyone seen my drum kit?
14. Even in the Amazon jungle there’s always a pap lurking in the undergrowth. Thankfully I’m not topless
15. How on earth are we going to top this? I came in search of the ultimate angling experience, and I think I’ve found it!
16. Check out the mahi-mahi (and the Mangina!)
17. It’s the only way to travel, especially if I’m at the controls
18. The last picture ever taken of the bloody cockerel that kept me awake in Costa Rica
19. An actor with a harpoon, what could possibly go wrong
20. Mine’s bigger than yours, Tarzan
21. If I run the caiman gets me, if I swim the piranha get me, it’s a Catch-23 (which is like a Catch-22 but worse!)
22. Cuba. A 1950s paradise, and one of my favourite places on the planet
23. A rose between two thorns. Or should I say barracudas?
24. What more does an angler need? Well, a bathroom would be nice!
25. And then a storm removed our humble abode from the earth
26. On its day, Ascension Island is the greatest fishing destination on the planet
27. The one that didn’t get away
28. Honestly, it was THIS BIG!
29. On this adventure I have caught the weird, the wonderful . . . and the downright dangerous
30. During this extreme journey it was only a matter of time before I caught king crabs
31. Wouldn�
��t a worm be better?
32. WE.ARE.IN!
33. A bigger version of something you might see in a bowl at home
34. Some of the scenery on this trip can only be described as simply breathtaking
35. ‘Team Extreme’ living the Dream in Patagonia
36. Not for the first (or indeed the last) time, we play the waiting game
37. Rarely a case of ‘one man and his boat’ and barely enough room to swing a minnow, you could cut the atmosphere with a cricket stump
38. There are so many lovely folk in the world, and my philosophy is you should try to meet as many of them as you can
39. Table for two, please
40. Travelling the globe and catching fish most anglers only dream of, where do I sign up?
41. Err. . . Erm. . . I think this is its head
42. One lean, mean, killing machine
43. The crew in Costa Rica
44. Pound for pound the Papuan black bass has to be the greatest fighting fish on the planet. Think of it as Muhammad Ali in fish form
45. Spot the guy who thinks the plan for today isn’t a good one
46. My Uncle Matheson, the Obi-Wan Kenobi of fly-fishing and the man who taught me everything I needed to know about angling. Can you tell he’s genuinely gutted I got the gig and he didn’t?
47. My dad, Robson Senior, or Big Rob as he is known to his mates. My Rock, well, more a mountain
1. A giant wels catfish that, I have to say, bears no resemblance whatsoever to a cat
2. ‘OK Robson, be interesting, insightful and entertaining.’ And . . . action!
3. Let’s just say this carp is no stranger to the dessert trolley (or isn’t on the Weight Watchers diet!)
4. A super-pod of dolphins. A rare and extraordinary sight that just makes your heart sing