Early Days

Early days

See-through lines and floats that stood up

A year later my uncle Roy, who had won huge silver cups for fishing, took me to a gravel pit at Bedfont. This was another world altogether. For a start I was entrusted with a proper rod with a handle to put the reel on, strange thin see-through stuff called nylon, and a magic float that not only stood upright, but also stayed where you put it in the water (Roy had obviously arranged for the lake not to be rushing past while we were fishing, or so I thought!). The other strange thing was that on that morning was that more than twenty perch pulled the float under, which meant that I had caught more than my cup-winning uncle. No matter that the few fish he did manage to catch were huge slimy things called bream – I caught more fish!

Shortly after this my family moved to Buckinghamshire, and after a lapse of a couple of years the fishing bug slowly took hold again, beginning with an assault on the sticklebacks in the town pond. Standard tackle was now a one-piece fibreglass rod with wooden handle, and a small metal reel with a spindle diameter of around half an inch, and permanent, noisy ratchet. These delightful little reels had several interesting features 1) The retrieve ratio was such that the only time you wound in was to pack up. 2) You only needed around twelve feet of line on the reel, as there is no fish swimming that was ever going to take line off against that ratchet. 3) When you did take the line off the spool, the diameter of the spindle had turned it into something which could do service as a throttle return spring for an Escort!

Taming wild sticklebacks, perch and gudgeon

Despite all this we managed to tame those wild sticklebacks and started to search around for a bigger challenge. This emerged in the form of the Grand Union Canal at Berkhampstead, which was some seven miles distant and had to be reached by bike. Here my friends and I spent several seasons doing exactly the same things in the same swims and with the same fairly predictable results. Techniques were usually double maggot under a self-cocking float, fished mid-water and half way across. This would sometimes be varied by trying a cast to the far bank, but with our centrepin reels this meant pulling off and holding loops of line and prayer assisted casting. We did manage to catch a variety of small fish including roach, perch and, of course, gudgeon. Various other exotic baits were tried such as worms (quite good), bread (very slow), paste (even slower), cheese (hopeless), and even stewed wheat (tried once – gave up!) It may be seen from this that our patience was not limitless, but at the time we were happy enough with what we were doing, namely a nice ride out, and a days’ free fishing (the local bailiff patrolled the towpath on a moped, and the noise it made gave us plenty of warning that it was time to retreat to a safe distance until he had passed).

Combination rods and Bakelite reels

Our tackle slowly became more sophisticated over the seasons and such developments as two- and even three-piece rods were acquired, in lengths reaching upwards of ten feet. Mostly they were Japanese split cane ‘combination’ rods, five or seven piece, which could be assembled into a rod to tackle anything that swam. Reels went to 3” then 4” centrepins, some Bakelite, some wooden, some were even metal and then the first fixed spools started to appear. These reels were Intrepid ‘Elites’, and when you saw your former best friend cast three times further than you with his new toy, you learnt the true meaning of envy. Funds were found by whatever means to enable us to all purchase one of these wondrous machines and then it was off to new waters to empty them of fish – couldn’t fail, could we?

Very trying at Tring

The first new venue chosen was the Tring Reservoirs group, famed at that time for their huge bream and roach and we were bound to get arm ache pulling out fish all day long. (Yes, yes – I know now, thank you!).

For the first visit we chose Marsworth, in those days there were still the remains of the old landing stage and boathouse, and numerous secluded tree-fringed swims – perfect! We arrived at 11.00am and chose the one remaining swim, and opened the batting with double maggot float-fished three feet deep, and one rod length out. Early anticipation was waning a little after an hour, but a visit from Bernard the bailiff stirred us up again. The reason – we read the day tickets we had so kindly been offered, and were duly amazed. Rule 1, No more than four fish to be retained together at any one time – damn, we had only bought one keepnet! Rule 2, You were allowed to take away as many bream as you liked – we would have to acquire a cat! Rule 3 was a list of the sizes of ‘takable’ fish – did they really grow that big!

We didn’t find out on the first trip as we had to leave at 3.30 pm in order to cycle home in time for tea. We didn’t find out on the second trip either, or the third…… Now it was time for a cunning plan, a new method – legering, was going to do the business for us, and an earlier start – 8.30am would give us the pick of the swims. We even took two keepnets now because we couldn’t fail – could we!

Six trips resulted in one very small perch caught on double maggot fished three foot deep etc, etc. Arriving at 8.30 didn’t confer any advantages on the swim choice front either, what time did those blokes get up! A new plan of attack was hatched, simplicity itself – fish somewhere else! (I returned to Tring later in life – hell-bent on revenge, but that is another story).

Back to my birthplace, the River Thames

Now we really broadened our horizons and somewhat spookily returned to my fishing birthplace, the River Thames. There we had two lines of attack, by bicycle to Cookham, or by bus to Windsor, both of which were free fishing at the time (a major consideration to small boys). The swims at Cookham were actually backwaters, and were very kind to us in that we never blanked, and we caught some different species including dace up to half a pound. These we had to stalk, then tempt on freelined single maggot (very advanced!) We also fished the main weirpool, but legering meant one cast, one lost leger weight, and the currents around a small island right in front of the prime swim would simply sweep your float round to join the rest of the collection festooning the overhanging branches. As our float sets usually numbered about three, we couldn’t do that too often.

There was the very tempting option of climbing over the gates to the weir bridge were you could trot down a distance or some forty yards, and have perfect control of your float. What you wouldn’t have was perfect control of was your bladder because the island reached by the weir bridge was guarded by three Pyrenean Mountain dogs whose hearing was attuned to the slightest suggestion of someone attempting to scale the bridge gates. It was always fun to watch a newcomer try, however, because the sight and sound of those huge, howling dogs bearing down on the gates was awe inspiring.

Windsor was another venue which was always guaranteed to produce something and did indeed throw up some surprises. The actual swims we fished were on Romney Island, and we would usually try to fish right at the end of the island into the huge slack where the weir and lock streams met. Here we could leger at thirty to forty yards distance with a chance of barbel (we always managed gudgeon) sometimes roach, perch, dace, occasional bream and there were always bleak if we just needed bites.

Pike, Jardine, bungs and trout

Looking back it seems almost perfect, and in truth it was pretty close. A number of new techniques were also tried, including spinning, livebaiting and deadbaiting, because we were now after Pike. Fishing for pike in those days meant going very ill equipped and looking back it still causes a shudder. Rods were usually the Pike/Pier combination from the ubiquitous ‘set’. Reels stayed the same and line was upgraded to around 12lb b.s. Pike floats were Fishing Gazette type and snap tackle was Mr Jardine’s finest shop bought variety, hook size – huge! Two seasons of half-hearted pike fishing yielded just two fish. The reason being that the amount of time we actually spent fishing for pike usually amounted to no more than thirty minutes per session if we were spinning, an hour or two if livebaiting, and sometimes up to half a day deadbaiting.

Of those two fish, the first was a pike of seven pounds which, I am ashamed to say, was tapped on the head with a bankstick, and then taken home on the bus! This fish was paraded round our bemused neighbours and ended up on the compost heap. The second fish was a four pound trout which took a gudgeon livebait. When I finally managed to land it I became a mini celebrity as anglers and others crowded round to see, shaking their heads and muttering something about preserves and my parentage! Photographs were taken by one of the anglers and names and addresses were noted but I am afraid the pictures never materialised. Eventually I was persuaded to let the fish go, which, with some reluctance, and not a little pride, I did.

Recounting this tale to my other fishing colleagues and schoolmates without any proof proved difficult, and at twelve years of age their cynicism hurt. However, fate then dealt some strange cards and I was allowed a period of self-satisfaction.

Two weeks after the capture of the four pound trout I was back at Windsor with three of my doubting schoolmates, whilst they appeared not to believe in Thames trout, they couldn’t pass up the remote possibility of catching one! As we approached the swim, it was obvious that word had got round and every possible inch of fishable bank on Romney Island was occupied by anglers. Somewhat despondent we trudged back to the lock and crossed over to the downstream riverbank to fish. Here we were fishing in the main current but were opposite Romney Island, which seemed to resemble an ant colony, such was the activity. My swim had a vestigial weedbed at my feet, to give some cover, and on the third trot down using double maggot, I hooked a barbel, or so I thought.

The fish shot up and down the river and made several runs almost to the island with me hanging on for dear life. If this was a barbel it would be my first, so it was coming out! After five minutes, my friends gathered round the landing net in astonishment as I pulled in a two pound trout. I, of course, acted quite nonchalantly, with the ”It’s just another trout, why all the fuss” attitude of a seasoned professional, while my legs rapidly turned to jelly. The ant colony on Romney Island evaporated and re-assembled behind my friends in time to see the fish being returned. There was a torrent of questions, a scramble for bank space and once again those comments about preserves/parentage! My friends and I packed up and went home early, but glowing with the strange sense of a job well done. The following week the story of the four pound trout appeared in the ‘Angling Times’, still without pictures but enough to guarantee fame amongst family and friends for a short while.

Hormones took over

The rest of my youthful fishing experiences were of little note other than the constant search for the perfect venue, and in that I travelled as far and wide as bicycle and public transport allowed. My then home base of Chesham in Buckinghamshire did not offer a lot of scope to coarse fisherman. The local River Chess was a ferociously guarded trout stream and anyone caught poaching was likely to have their hands (or something else!) cut off. Being resourceful I learned that the warden in charge of Latimer Lakes on the Chess had a teenage daughter. I did the honourable thing and invited the girl out for a Chinese meal as an opening ploy to a long lasting relationship. The meal cost me six weeks’ paper round money and I didn’t get anywhere on either front! After that, fishing took a back sea for a while as hormones became involved, and the nature of the quarry changed from cold-blooded to warm-blooded….