Pilgrim’s Progress

He is also a very keen angler, having come back to the sport in 1995 following a break of several years. In this regular column he will tell us about his progress as an angler – his thoughts about the sport, what he learns, the fishing trips he makes, the anguish, the humour, in fact everything he experiences as his angling career develops.

Pilgrim’s Progress – read it everyThursday!

Getting All Nostalgic In My Old Age

It all began recently, when Mrs Sedge was clearing out somecupboards in the Bloor household. As she began to delve further andfurther, like an archaeologist on a dig, into the junk that we hadaccumulated, suddenly she called out, ‘What have we here then?’ ‘Ohdear, I thought to myself,’ as my mind instantly went into overtimeto:

a)wonder what she had discovered and

b) start to make my excuses.

A Box Of Fishing Trophies
However, I needn’t have worried, as all my good wife had discoveredwas a box containing fishing trophies that went back to my teens. Butlooking at the trophies started me off reminiscing about the past.Hence the title of this weeks article. Well, I am 39 now…

I can’t remember exactly why I started fishing. My father didn’tfish. I did have an uncle who dabbled, but that unfortunately came toan end once he got married. I grew up in a time when kids had hobbiesand pastimes. I did all sorts of things as a kid, collected cigarettecards, matchbox labels, saved birds eggs (remember I am talking abouta different day and age) and so on. But it was fishing that reallyattracted me. I do feel sorry for kids these days, with characterbuilding hobbies really a thing of the past. It seems that, for manyof today’s generation, life is no more than trying to master thelatest computer game (and I’m not being critical. But there is aproblem with balance in some youngsters lives these days. Being stuckin front of a computer screen doesn’t bode well for relationshipbuilding in adolescents).

On Yer Bike
My early fishing was confined to push-bike distance from home. Thenearest water was a local brickwork’s pond. My earliest fishingmemories are of getting up at the crack of dawn to cycle off to thepond. Sadly, you couldn’t do that these days, but back then myparents were happy for me to go off alone. The water I fished wasonly a small one, there were only three or four fishable pegs. But,for me as a youngster, it held a magical attraction. Containingcrucian carp, gudgeon, perch and roach, the fish weren’t big by mystandards today. I can’t remember the details of what I caught, buteven now I can recall catching a 12 1/2 oz perch two weeks on thetrot. Easily identifiable by a white ‘scar’ on its flank, this fishwas simply a monster as seen through my childhood eyes.

I Returned To The Scene
The brickwork’s pond was such an integral part of my childhood, thatwhen I returned to fishing in 1995, one of the first things I did,was to return to the scene of those early memories. Imagine the sheerhorror when I discovered that the pool in the meantime had beenfilled-in by the landowners. Nothing had been done with the land,which occupies an area where mining had once been conducted. The poolhad simply been filled in with earth and bricks. I later discoveredthat a local fishing club had been up in arms over what had happened,but by then it was too late.

First Article, First Fish And First Club
While I’m on the theme of nostalgia, albeit recent, the very firstfishing article I wrote (June 2000!) was about how I took up angling.Check out MyPassion For Angling. In the article, I write about that greatrite of passage, that monumental event in the lives of every angler -the first fish we ever caught. Mine, as you will read, was a gudgeonfrom the Staffs/Worcs canal in South Staffordshire. But even now, Ican recall that fish as if it were yesterday.

As I progressed from the local bike distance waters, I joined myfirst angling club. This is of course, how the seeds of this articlegot planted in my mind, because it was at this stage of my developingangling career that the aforementioned trophies came into mypossession. The first club I fished with was Sedgley Working MensClub. I had some good times with them, memories of travelling toplaces that previously were unreachable, due to the fact that myparents didn’t have a car. I also fished with another local club,Hurst Hill Labour, that amalgamated (if my memory serves me well)with Bilston Labour Club. It was from these two clubs that mycollection of trophies came along.

Looking at the trophies twenty years on, brought back all sorts ofmemories. Yes, nostalgia is a good thing. There is nothing wrong withlooking back and enjoying the past. Particularly when those memoriesare good ones. As a youngster, the chance to fish rivers such as theSevern, Teme, Thames, Trent and Warwickshire Avon was considered areal privilege.

Some Memories Never Die
It’s funny though, how certain images stick in one’s mind. I canrecall very clearly fishing a match on the Warwickshire Avon when itwas so cold, the river was frozen at the edges. Needless to say,everyone struggled, in fact, we all blanked. (Early evidence of thecurse of Sedge, perhaps?). But when I say we all blanked, that wasexcept for one angler. At the weigh in he produced a gudgeon that hehad obviously found dead in the river. It had probably been dead forsome time, as I remember it was actually decomposed. I remember thefurore it caused, I guess cheating is nothing new, but most cheatsactually try and make it look realistic.

Pulled Over In My Passport To Freedom
A big highlight in my fishing career was when I passed my test at 17and became the proud owner of a Morris Marina Coupe. This was mypassport to freedom as far as angling was concerned. The riversSevern and Teme became second homes. Again an image that comes tomind is one that relates to an event that took place when I had notbeen driving very long. I had been on the River Severn at Worcesterone extremely wet Saturday night. Still blanking in the early hours(nothing has changed since then), I decided enough was enough. Drivingthrough the deserted city centre, I was travelling slow. I had neverbeen there before and I was busy looking for the road signs to put meon the right track.

I had noticed the car behind me and wondered why he didn’tovertake, as I was obviously going at a below average speed. I hadn’trealised, in the torrential rain, that the car behind was a policecar. But without warning, he made his presence known with sirens andlights. Pulling me over, the first question I was asked made enquiryas to whether I had been to a certain night club. Did I look like Ihad been clubbing, I thought to myself, I was in old, wet and muddyclothes. Anyway, he didn’t believe me and I was promptlybreathalysed. Of course, I was negative, and allowed to continue onmy journey.

Don’t Fall Into The Nostalgia Trap
I’ve enjoyed writing this weeks Pilgrim’s Progress. It’s niceto look back. But its important as well that we don’t fall into thetrap that many do. The trap I’m talking about is when we live in thepast to the extent that we don’t enjoy the present. I remember mylocal fishing tackle shop in Sedgley. It was, if my memory serves mewell, called Hartland’s (or something similar). A real old fashionedplace, today it would make an excellent museum of fishing. Nicememories, but give me a modern, well laid out and equipped tackleshop any day. Intrepid Black Prince reels were okay for then, butthis is now. Fishing tackle kept in tobacco tins were okay in the1960’s, but this is a new millennium – I’ll stick to my Fox tacklebox thanks.

It’s been nice looking back, but I’m enjoying the present too muchto want to live in the past.

Next weeks Pilgrim’s Progress isentitled ‘Getting Plastered’…Have I finally succumbed to thetaunts, mockery and derision of my fellow anglers, and hit thebottle?. Check out FISHINGmagic next Thursday and findout….