A Memorable Meal

A Cliff Hatton cartoon drawn especially for FishingMagic

Cliff Hatton, well known for his fabulous fishing cartoons, recalls a time in his life when fishing was so different than it is today.

At this most disturbing time in angling history – you know what I mean – it’s nice to recall the events that made you a life-long angler. Here’s one of mine…..

A Memorable Meal

It was the only time I saw my father hit someone in anger; completely out of character you understand; my recollection of father is one of a pleasant, considerate man you could push and push before his hackles rose.

We’d given up on the fishing; the river was almost bursting its banks and all manner of unpleasant debris was coming down with the flow – bottles, plastic sacks, and I’m sure I remember a dead something or other, a sheep I think it was.

There was a cafe just upstream of the massive stone bridge I was fishing under, and every time a disillusioned, welly-booted angler entered, all the die-hard members still on the bank were treated to a Wurlitzer-blast of ‘Please, Please Me’ so this must have been 1963 – late ’63 in fact, because the winter of ’62 had been one of the longest and coldest on record: you could still find pockets of hard-packed, icy snow in April as I remember, possibly May.

Anyway, Dad’s legendary enthusiasm for fishing finally ran out when something big snagged his line and very near pulled his rod in, the twelve foot job he reserved for roach-fishing. I remember exactly what he grumbled to himself because he glanced furtively in my direction and said “Don’t tell your mother what I just called that tree-trunk.” Ah, yes! It was a tree-trunk. We packed away our tackle then sloshed through the muddy puddles to where the only action was that day. I remember well the excitement I felt on taking the three or four slippery steps up to the door because the cafe’s glass frontage was totally steamed-up and I had no idea what I might find inside; I just knew that it would be very grown-up and that I’d be able to stuff my face. I think the red and green neon signs in the misty window flashed ‘HAMBURGERS’, HOT DOGS’ and ‘ESPRESSO COFFEE’…Yes… Definitely, because I remember the ‘unusual’ spelling – surely it should have been ‘EXPRESSO’?

Even then, as a youngster, I smiled devilishly at the thought of the cafe owner spending loads of money on an electric sign only to have it spelt wrongly! Of course, it wasn’t.

Inside was a classic 60s Greasy Spoon gathering of Teddy Boys, or Rockers maybe; I was too young to distinguish between the two or to be bothered even, but whatever they were, the sight of so much studded leather and the sickly whiff of Brylcreem will never be lost to memory.

‘Seems corny now, but those young guys were having a great afternoon knocking back the 7-ups and coffees, filling the room with Capstan smoke and jiving to the juke-box with their girlfriends…their young, toothy smiles are clear to me now…as I write; they are real, forever seventeen.

But they’re not, are they? They’re beyond HRT.

What isn’t clear to me now is the reason for Dad’s right hook to Ronnie’s jaw – I know I’ve got the name right…Ronnie. Dad’s almighty punch sent him staggering backwards and his head slammed into a framed photo of Ronnie Carroll, the singer, and some wag made a joke about it, probably something about ‘Ronnie’s smash-hit’.

We’d only been in the cafe two minutes and were queuing to be served; Harry Smith, our club’s secretary, called out to Dad and Dad laughed long and loudly. As his mirth subsided, he giggled something about ducks….now this is annoying because I had the facts stuck fast in my mind for donkey’s years and to discover that time…age…has taken its toll on my memory is a little worrying. He said something about ducks and a scuffle ensued, I remember that much, but who swung the first – or only – punch I simply can’t be sure; I am certain though that Dad was unscathed so there’s every possibility he got in first. Thinking about it, I’m bloomin’ sure he did; his advice to brother, Barry, and I had always been ‘Never start trouble…always avoid it if you can…But if there’s no way out, make sure you hit ’em first – BANG! Like that!’ And he’d make us recoil with a feigned punch that stopped within a fag-paper of the nose. Mmm…Dad was there first alright. Fortunately, the cafe-owner allowed us all to stay and a good hour was devoted to drinking frothy coffee and gorging ourselves on bacon rolls.

There must have been a dozen or more of us occupying the Formica-topped tables by the window and every so often someone would cuff away the condensation to create a view-finder; the scene – I recall vividly – was one of abject anglers-misery, a torrent of molten chocolate straining to climb the piers of the bridge, a moving junk-yard bucking and turning like a herd of drowning rodeo steers. I imagined Mr Crabtree’s arrows in the flow: long and straight down the centre lane, U-turning where they hit the bridge and back up toward the cafe. No ‘Bream here’; no ‘Dace here’; no nothing anywhere today; the chances of a fish were zero – especially if you were scoffing bacon rolls in the cafe.

But miracles do manifest themselves from time to time. The door burst open to reveal a red and panting Joe Smith, Harry’s elder son, who breathlessly announced that he’d just lost a good ‘un – “Right up there where the boats are!”

“I knew that’s where they’d be!” exclaimed some know-all.

“Let’s get up there! That little back-water we passed on the coach!”

As one, we abandoned our grub and threw our remaining tea and coffee down our throats, chairs screeching above the galumphing of wellies and the slamming of heavy cups on saucers. Then I remembered. I’d consigned my maggots and worms to the murky depths of the Medway an hour before, as had Dad, and the crowd was fast-disappearing out the door. I called out, “Any spare bait, anyone?”

“Try a bit of bacon!” Was all I got in reply, that and an ‘Up yours’ sort of laugh.

Dad and I were left standing open-mouthed to the tune of ‘Walking Back To Happiness’ and the muted ridicule of the greasers, or whatever they were.

“Bacon?” I enquired of Dad.

“Yes…Why not! Come on, bring those rolls!”

His apparent confidence made up for any lack of belief and within twenty minutes we were back in the mud and slosh of the towpath watching our floats slowly eddy between the boats of the backwater. I’m not sure if the excitement of hooking a fish or of scooping the pool was the main incentive; whatever, the fabled 60s zeitgeist saw twenty grown men and half a dozen boys squatting on collapsible, wire-framed stools, all fired-up and willing their floats to disappear. Aye, we were ‘appy in those days. Who needed breathable, light-weight, Goretex outdoor apparel and a weigh-nothing ‘rover-chair’ when you could squirm-away the afternoon on a one-buttock strip of canvas, dressed in genuine Red Army battle fatigues?

What a day. Evening arrived prematurely with the fog, about 3.15, and the motions of packing-up could be seen all down the tow-path; they’d all bagged-up on disappointment. Some shouldered their gear and quick-footed back through the mist to the waiting coach while others hung on in hope or to feed the sorry-looking swans. Dad and I fished on, and in the final minutes, my yellow-topped bob-float struggled under and up came a palm-sized silver bream. It had taken a small square of bacon-fat – yes, I remember it well! The swan-feeders came rushing up, eager to see a real, live fish – however small – brightening their spirits and the gloom of evening.

“We’ll witness it for you!” There was twelve quid at stake. “What you get it on?”

“Little square of bacon-fat,” I replied with all the nonchalance I could muster. The guy was speechless for a second or two, then he betrayed himself.

“But I was only joking…”