Chap­ter XV – The Com­pleat Angler opens with a focus on sim­pler quar­ry, per­fect for novice anglers who seek enjoy­ment with­out elab­o­rate skills. Pis­ca­tor begins by describ­ing the gud­geon, a mod­est fish praised not just for its fla­vor but also its health­ful qual­i­ties. Its sil­ver skin and spot­ted sides make it easy to rec­og­nize, and it favors swift, shal­low streams where the cur­rent keeps the grav­el clean. These fish do not chase flies like trout but feed from the bot­tom, nib­bling on red worms that drift with the cur­rent. Fish­ing for them is straightforward—drop your line low, let the bait rest close to the riverbed, and wait. Their mouths, being tough-skinned and durable, ensure that once hooked, a gud­geon is rarely lost.

Gud­geons pre­fer the warmth of sum­mer shal­lows but retreat to deep­er pools as tem­per­a­tures drop and weeds begin to rot. In cold­er months, patience becomes key, as they gath­er in qui­et cor­ners, more slug­gish but still catch­able. Using a float can help, but those who enjoy trout fish­ing may appre­ci­ate the thrill of strik­ing direct­ly with­out one. Pis­ca­tor describes how some anglers use a light rod with a fine line, let­ting it drift nat­u­ral­ly across the streambed to mim­ic nat­ur­al feed­ing pat­terns. These sim­ple meth­ods teach atten­tive­ness, some­thing even sea­soned anglers for­get. The gudgeon’s behav­ior mir­rors sea­son­al rhythms, offer­ing a liv­ing cal­en­dar of stream life for those who study its pat­terns close­ly.

Mov­ing to the ruffe, or pope as it’s some­times called, Pis­ca­tor describes a small­er cousin to the perch, sharp-spined and tena­cious. Despite its prick­ly form, it’s val­ued for fla­vor, often pre­ferred over fish of greater size. Its meat, white and firm, cooks well and car­ries no earthy taste, a ben­e­fit of its diet and pre­ferred habi­tats. Ruffes thrive in slow, deep water, where weeds are dense and move­ment is min­i­mal. Once locat­ed, these fish strike fast and bite greed­i­ly, mak­ing them ide­al for learn­ers want­i­ng quick feed­back. Their num­bers can be large, so a well-cho­sen spot may keep a bas­ket full for hours, reward­ing the patient hand.

Catch­ing ruffe requires bait small enough to fit its mouth, often a fine worm or tiny grub pre­sent­ed just above the mud. The use of a float can be help­ful in detect­ing their sharp, sud­den bites. These fish rarely fight for long, but their eager­ness makes up for the lack of strug­gle. Pis­ca­tor advis­es anglers to check the line often, for even a short absence may let a small fish nib­ble the bait clean. Such inter­ac­tions teach tim­ing and con­trol, skills eas­i­ly trans­ferred to more demand­ing species lat­er on. For many anglers, the joy isn’t in the fight but in the obser­va­tion, the qui­et track­ing of life below water’s sur­face.

The bleak enters the con­ver­sa­tion as a final addi­tion, a fish known for its shin­ing scales and light-catch­ing motion. It swims near the sur­face, often in schools, chas­ing insects and fine debris. Bleak fish­ing is best done with min­i­mal equipment—just a fine rod, a light line, and small hooks. The bait, often a speck of worm or a crushed fly, needs to flick­er and float nat­u­ral­ly. Patience is less required here; action can be quick and reward­ing. These fish, though small, give learn­ers con­stant prac­tice in pre­ci­sion cast­ing and del­i­cate reel­ing.

Bleak are often over­looked by those seek­ing tro­phy fish, but Pis­ca­tor finds charm in their live­li­ness and ease. They teach rhythm, rep­e­ti­tion, and awareness—key traits for any angler. Their sil­very bod­ies, flash­ing like coins in the sun, make each catch feel like a tiny prize. For young or new anglers, bleak offer both fun and foun­da­tion­al skill, encour­ag­ing con­tin­ued prac­tice and deep­er under­stand­ing of the water’s sur­face world.

Through all these fish—the gud­geon, the ruffe, the bleak—Piscator crafts a les­son deep­er than bait and hook. He shows that even mod­est catch­es can delight the sens­es and reward the spir­it. Fish­ing, in this form, becomes less about con­quest and more about com­mu­nion. It is not the size of the fish but the rich­ness of the expe­ri­ence that mat­ters. The chap­ter ends with a qui­et reas­sur­ance: joy in angling does not come only from mas­tery, but from atten­tion, pres­ence, and respect for even the small­est life that stirs beneath the cur­rent.