“You know, I used to love this.” Dangerous words spoken by a forty, soon to be fifty something male, to his ever exasperated wife whilst walking along the canal in Hungerford, watching various figures hunched over their rods transfixed by the small fluorescent blob twitching and curling on the water. But a seed of an idea had been planted: could I go back to the sport I had so enjoyed as a youngster on the canals and flashes around Wigan in the late sixties and early seventies, before a career as a drama teacher took me away from such delights?


Figures hunched over rods along the canal
The first step was a visit to a tackle shop to find out just how much all this would cost me. Michael Berntsen, who was in my tutor group at school, runs Challis’ tackle shop in Andover and I now teach his son (yes I have been at the same school for so long and yes I am that old). But how can I explain that I want to go back to something that I left twenty eight years ago. I confess that I feel somewhat foolish as a I skulk around the back of the shop like a teenager plucking up the courage to reach up to the top shelf and grasp that copy of ‘Big & Bouncy’.

Eventually Michael approaches me with the ubiquitous, “Can I help you?” enquiry. I freeze and chicken out hoping that he doesn’t recognise me. I claim that I am looking for some kit for my nephew (did my nose get bigger at that point) for Christmas, who wants to take up coarse fishing. Michael is charm itself and explains to me all the new gadgets that are available in this modern age. Suddenly he remembers me as his old teacher and there is much, “Well how are you,” etc. I then explain that I used to go fishing but it all seems to have changed quite a bit since the last time I dipped my rod, if you’ll pardon the expression. My old kit would have to be ditched; barbed hooks, nets that resemble old string vests and enough lead in my shot box to re-roof a village church. My rods haven’t stood the test of time either. They were split cane, emphasis on the split now, however. My reels have more rust on them than a two year old Trabbi and the wicker basket I once sat on is probably to blame for my poor posture, orange peel skin and another medical condition that natural modesty prevents me from detailing outside my immediate family.

My wife thinks that this is yet further evidence of my terminal ‘sadness’, along with my love of cricket, Shakespeare, model railways and Pink Floyd, but she does agree to purchase some kit for my Christmas present. Where once I might have been given some trendy item of clothing which would have made me the object of her desire and give her the motivation to wear those delicate little undergarments I had so thoughtfully bought, now I was to be given a thirteen foot match rod, reel and various other accessories. In return she would get left alone for hours on end to do the cleaning, the washing, the polishing, changing the beds, cook the dinner, etc, etc.

On Christmas morning I felt like I was ten again. All the presents were stacked up and it seemed an age before we got to mine. Finally, there it was, the gateway to an old man’s dream, or the gateway to divorce more like it. There was also a book about coarse fishing for me to pour over before my first trip. So much to re-learn.


Silver scales and red fins denote it as a small roach
The weather over Christmas was hardly conducive to fishing. Freezing cold, bright blue skies, but I wasn’t to be put off. I had done a bit of homework about local still-waters and paid a surreptitious visit to Vale Farm in Longparish. This was going to be the place which would see my resurrection among the ranks of the fishermen of England. The water, as with so many in this day and age, holds mainly carp. CARP!! This was exotic. There weren’t many of those to be found in the Lancaster Canal in 1969. All I had ever caught before were roach, perch, rudd and bream. All the techniques were completely alien to me; boilies, poles and I thought a hair rig was something Graham Gooch had had done. I would resort to doing what I knew best, waggler float a single maggot on a size twenty hook.

I arrived at the bank and was met by Nick, the owner, who gave me some useful advice about the depths of the water, whilst relieving me of my day ticket fee. I set up and began. GOOD GRIEF!! I had forgotten how much I enjoyed this. One thing above all seemed to have changed more than anything; everything was so small and fine, much more so than I remember – of course it couldn’t be that my eyes had declined could it? The sun shone, it was almost warm. Two swans landed on the water like a pair of Sunderland flying boats, a deer ran across the field opposite and somewhere someone was doing their best to reduce the local pheasant population. Armed with a mobile phone I called my brother, in Norway. “Hey, kid, you’ll never guess what I’m doing – fishing.”

“You jammy so and so,” he replied. “We’ve got about six feet of snow here.”

We tried to remember when had been the last time we had been fishing together. It was probably on a farm pond belonging to a friend of Dad’s just off Gathurst Rd, Orrell around 1970. We just used to pitch up, knock on the Mr Rigby’s door to make sure it was alright for us to go down there (it always was) and then that was it for the day. As we were the only ones who fished it we caught loads. No such luck today. Even all the other guys around the water are finding it difficult. I sit staring at my float, willing it to go under.

The time passes quickly. It is now one o’clock. The slushy ice, which was floating around in the early part of the day, has now virtually all gone and the wise words of Colin Dean (Crawford Fishing Club circa 1965) come back to me concerning the best time to fish in winter is always after lunch. Then it happens. My float bobs and is gone. The reaction is the same. My heart jumps, my hands start to tremble and I grab the rod, sweeping it back in the classic sideways strike. The resulting fish is probably about a day old and enjoying its first meal before I rudely yanked it from the water. But it is a fish, silver scales and red fins denote it as a small roach, and I carefully returned it to the water to live longer and grow larger.

The sun begins to dip and the temperature falls. Time to go home and reflect. I caught something, not everyone can say that today. The time passed quickly and I didn’t knock over my flask. My Christmas rod has its shortcomings, mainly reel grips, which don’t, and will need upgrading. The main point is I had loved every minute of the day.

Fishing – welcome back!

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