Barrie Rickards is a reader in Palaeobiology at the University of Cambridge, a Fellow of Emmanuel College and a curator of the Sedgwick Museum of Geology.
He is President of the Lure Angling Society, Chairman of the Pike Anglers’ Club of Great Britain and President of the National Association of Specialist Anglers.
Anglers are an inventive bunch, as I have said before. Years ago I made a couple of items useful for summer tench fishing, to wit, one weed drag and one weed cutter. The second cuts a 30cm swathe through most weeds and reeds.
But then I inherited an old, rusty scythe blade. What more could one ask for? Well, for starters, another old, rusty scythe blade wouldn’t go amiss. My master plan was to weld the two scythe blades thick end to thick end, points outwards, and weld the centre to a pulling bar. Brilliant. It would cut a 5ft swathe of weed in one go. (Notice that, in this superior tool, I have jettisoned the metric measurement. Five feet – nearly man size – sounds a lot better than 150cm. What kind of a measure is that, for heaven’s sake?)
The second, rusty, old scythe blade became a problem. Apparently, no one uses them any more. Finally, I found one by accident in a Lake District junk shop. A week later, I arrived back home from the friendly welder’s yard with the most lethal weapon since the light sabre in Star Wars. Then I foolishly decided to sharpen it ….
The next weekend saw the boys and myself head off to the fens, accompanied by an old angling buddy, Tim Cole. Our objective was to denude partially a fenland drain. Amanda stayed home and put her head under a blanket.
Of course, we weren’t stupid. We had a ring and rope attached front and back so that, should the blades – an inadequate term – snag up on the bottom, then the cutter could be pulled back from the other side of the drain. So Tim and Alex went on one bank and Nick and I operated from the other. It worked wonderfully well. The thick, choking weed didn’t stand an earthly.
Tim was repeatedly warning us all about the dangers of actually handling the blades. Then he promptly cut his finger quite deeply. This, we thought, was hilarious – until I nearly took my thumb off. Nick had the sense to wear tough work gloves. It didn’t help at all and after half an hour there were four bleeding hands, one each. But what we also had was an excellently trimmed water, and four good swims in which to indulge in a little tench fishing.
If you decide to do as we did, please do be careful. Wear a knight’s armour or something. Amanda was so pleased that we returned home with two legs and arms each that the blood and cuts seemed minor matters. Mine is still healing two weeks later. Another week and I may be able to give the thumbs up to a successful idea. And now I understand why the Grim Reaper is so called. I mean, you couldn’t call him the Grim Strimmer Operator, could you?
Last point: as we left we called in at the farmer’s house to tell him that we’d been cutting weed on his drain. He got really enthusiastic then said: ‘Would you like to borrow my own weedcutter? I made one up out of two rusty old scythe blades.’
By kind permission of the Cambridgeshire Pride Magazine
