Accidental angling

I had a good chat with Charles Rangeley-Wilson this morning. If you saw any of his excellent TV series, The Accidental Angler, on BBC 2 earlier this year you will understand that his mission is to tell stories - or let the stories tell themselves - through fishing in different parts of the world.

He tells me he didn't feel comfortable with the BBC format for this kind of thing where everything has to be thoroughly researched and scripted with producers going out on "reccie" trips beforehand.

"I like the idea of turning up and seeing what happens, letting things unfold for themselves," he says.

A case in point was a record Mahseer, seen in the programme mounted on a museum wall in India. "Only the fish hadn't been on the wall until the researcher arrived. It was stuck down the back of a filing cabinet and only brought out when they knew we were making a programme. Wouldn't it have been so much better if the cameras had found it where it had been stored originally?"

Charles did well to get backing from the BBC for the original series. But plans for a second series have been dropped due to lack of funds. This seems ironic given his argument that a series could be made more cheaply with less time spent on the preparation work.

Anyway, now he has taught himself to use a film camera, learned the editing software and has set about making a one-off film about bone fishing in the Bahamas. It's deliberately raw. But then, that's real life. Real life is not about contrived meetings and well-worn anecdotes. It's certainly not about Victoria Wood - fine actor, writer and comedian that she is - wandering the globe on some pretty flimsy premise to make a series about the British Empire.

This is format TV of the worst kind. You can just imagine someone at the BBC saying: "It worked well with Michael Palin so let's get another comic to front up a travel series." They tried the same with Alan Titchmarsh believing, erroneously that they could transfer him from his gardening slot on to a much bigger landscape to present a nature series. It didn't work.

People are getting fed up with format TV, just as they are tiring with format journalism. Congratulations to Rangeley-Wilson for going his own way. I hope he succeeds.

NB. Have just finished my latest column for the FT and will be publishing it in the fishing section of my website on Saturday. It's about mayfly and museums.(Note added later: If you wondered where this column had gone so did I. Apparently coverage of the Chelsea bloody flower show pushed it out so it is the following Saturday. In the meantime will all mayfly please take note and delay their hatch).

Fish out of water

I would be knocking on the door of Eric Clapton's rehab clinic if I had the energy to get there. The discos go on quite late here in Antigua, except they don't call them discos anymore and people don't dance to records. Whatever happened to Status Quo?

There's a party at Andrew Pindar's place and someone gets chucked in the pool. That should have been the end of a pleasant evening but I'm persuaded to call at a club on the way back to the hotel. Bad move.

The day had started well. The local distillery boss, Anthony Bento, is kind enough to drive me around the island and we have a tasting of his English Harbour Rum. He says it is a "sipping rum". Too late. I gulped. We spend an absorbing couple of hours chatting with a local historian, Paddy Simon, who runs a lawn-mower repair shop. Paddy has some fascinating insights in to the slave trade that once held the island in its grip. I think they're worth a blog or a column to themselves.

But that meeting seems a long time in the past as I crawl in to bed at about 5am. The phone goes at 6am. I don't answer it. Then, at about seven, what sounds like a very loud vacuum cleaner starts up. I totter out of bed, grab my fishing gear and find a cab. Someone has told me about a promising flats-wading spot that might hold bonefish.

We find what looks like the spot. It has flats grass that bonefish like to roam. I spend about two fruitless hours wading about a mile and see some baby barracuda and catch a couple of small yellow-finned fish. But I don't see any bones. They will be here but the spot looks quite tidal and I think it needs more water to bring them in.

The taxi driver is puzzled about this fishing. "What do you do with these bonefish when you catch them?" he asks.

"I put them back."

"Oh."

It's pretty clear he thinks I'm a nutter and, yes, I know he's not alone.

Unfortunately I can't spend the day here because I have promised to join a big game fishing trip in the afternoon. I didn't expect much and it didn't deliver much - a smallish barracuda and a dorado (called mahi mahi here) from four hours of fishing. The sea is pretty rough and I feel sick.

There's another party tonight. I bet old Eric's place is busy.