Yesterday we rose early at 6:30 am because we had to drive to Memmingen to see and photograph the Fischertag. The Fischer tag is one of those fantastic festivals that has been preserved from the medieval times and like so many other German towns and cities, the festival is special for the people of Memmingen.
“We can go to the Fischer tag and it can be a photojournalism feature for you. It must be worthwhile – only happens once a year,” Susi had said the previous day.
“So it’s only the men born in Memmingen who can take part?” I asked Susi, probably for the fifth time.
“Only if they are born in the Memmingen Hospital,” she said.
I was tempted to ask what the situation was for home births, but before I could she added
“and they have to be a member of the fischer club as well.”
The basic principle is quite simple. On a specific day in July the men of Memmingen who fulfil the above criteria, having spent the entire previous evening drinking until dawn, line the banks of the river Stadtbach which you may not be surprised to hear, runs right through the heart of the city of Memmingen. At the sound of a cannon fired at exactly eight am in the morning, they leap into the river and attempt to catch as many fish as they can.
Considering the river is really a bach or a burn in Scots, and is no more than three feet deep at any point, I had difficulty believing it had a vast population of fish. “I can’t see any fish.” I told Susi. “There are fish there, you’ll see,” she said sounding very authoritative. The truth slowly dawned on me. “They put fish in the river just for this event, don’t they?” She smiled and nodded.
I had found a spot near a bridge lined with spectators and families of the fischers and had already checked the light and the position. Susi asked If I wanted to try further down. I shook my head, knowing that it was best to hang on the spot I had.
We waited. A few seconds before the cannon sounded three fischers leapt in and started sweeping there nets along the river bed. The other fischers and the crowd watched this with a certain amount of puzzled amusement. “What are doing?” shouted one of the still dry fischers. “The cannon sounded!” one of the guys in the water insisted. At this point the cannon sounded in its own unmistakeable fashion. As the crowd laughed, the rest of the fischers leapt into the water and started to thrash madly with their nets. Pretty soon a couple emerged from under the bridge with a catch. In fact all the fish caught seemed to be under the bridge. I guess all the fish felt safer in the dark! I took a lot of pictures, all of which have that sort of National Geographic feel to them, almost anthropological. I guess if I was doing the gig for the local paper, I would have turned up in a set of waders! We bumped into one of Susi’s school friends and while she stopped to chat, I notice we were standing in front of a guy in costume with a French Horn and a glass of Memminger Bier. He was back lit and needed some fill-in flash so I asked for her Olympus and took a few pictures. “He hasn’t taken a single photo of me,” she told her friend. “So much for a romantic day at the Fischertag.” Common sense clicked in and I decided not to mention her original working idea for a feature.
“So what is the purpose of all this messing about in the river,” I asked Susi later as we wandered into the heart of the city where the fish were being weighed. “The person who catches the the most fish is the Fischer Konig and he gets crowned later on today,” she told me, helpfully.
“The Fisher King! Cool!” I said enthusiastically. Susi frowned.
“Well, not really,” she said. “It’s very expensive. The Fisher Konig has to have a party for all the other Fischers.”
“And he pays for all the drinks?”
“He pays for everything.”
“Couldn’t they just rotate the award every year then?” I said hoping to sound impractical and amusing.
“There are thousands of fischers. It wouldn’t work,” she said not amused at all.
I decided not to suggest that it would take a long time for it to be your turn if you were lucky and you could go to loads of free parties for years.
“We can go to the Fischer tag and it can be a photojournalism feature for you. It must be worthwhile – only happens once a year,” Susi had said the previous day.
“So it’s only the men born in Memmingen who can take part?” I asked Susi, probably for the fifth time.
“Only if they are born in the Memmingen Hospital,” she said.
I was tempted to ask what the situation was for home births, but before I could she added
“and they have to be a member of the fischer club as well.”
The basic principle is quite simple. On a specific day in July the men of Memmingen who fulfil the above criteria, having spent the entire previous evening drinking until dawn, line the banks of the river Stadtbach which you may not be surprised to hear, runs right through the heart of the city of Memmingen. At the sound of a cannon fired at exactly eight am in the morning, they leap into the river and attempt to catch as many fish as they can.
Considering the river is really a bach or a burn in Scots, and is no more than three feet deep at any point, I had difficulty believing it had a vast population of fish. “I can’t see any fish.” I told Susi. “There are fish there, you’ll see,” she said sounding very authoritative. The truth slowly dawned on me. “They put fish in the river just for this event, don’t they?” She smiled and nodded.
I had found a spot near a bridge lined with spectators and families of the fischers and had already checked the light and the position. Susi asked If I wanted to try further down. I shook my head, knowing that it was best to hang on the spot I had.
We waited. A few seconds before the cannon sounded three fischers leapt in and started sweeping there nets along the river bed. The other fischers and the crowd watched this with a certain amount of puzzled amusement. “What are doing?” shouted one of the still dry fischers. “The cannon sounded!” one of the guys in the water insisted. At this point the cannon sounded in its own unmistakeable fashion. As the crowd laughed, the rest of the fischers leapt into the water and started to thrash madly with their nets. Pretty soon a couple emerged from under the bridge with a catch. In fact all the fish caught seemed to be under the bridge. I guess all the fish felt safer in the dark! I took a lot of pictures, all of which have that sort of National Geographic feel to them, almost anthropological. I guess if I was doing the gig for the local paper, I would have turned up in a set of waders! We bumped into one of Susi’s school friends and while she stopped to chat, I notice we were standing in front of a guy in costume with a French Horn and a glass of Memminger Bier. He was back lit and needed some fill-in flash so I asked for her Olympus and took a few pictures. “He hasn’t taken a single photo of me,” she told her friend. “So much for a romantic day at the Fischertag.” Common sense clicked in and I decided not to mention her original working idea for a feature.
“So what is the purpose of all this messing about in the river,” I asked Susi later as we wandered into the heart of the city where the fish were being weighed. “The person who catches the the most fish is the Fischer Konig and he gets crowned later on today,” she told me, helpfully.
“The Fisher King! Cool!” I said enthusiastically. Susi frowned.
“Well, not really,” she said. “It’s very expensive. The Fisher Konig has to have a party for all the other Fischers.”
“And he pays for all the drinks?”
“He pays for everything.”
“Couldn’t they just rotate the award every year then?” I said hoping to sound impractical and amusing.
“There are thousands of fischers. It wouldn’t work,” she said not amused at all.
I decided not to suggest that it would take a long time for it to be your turn if you were lucky and you could go to loads of free parties for years.
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