Having thoroughly enjoyed last year’s Blenheim Fish-In, I was really looking forward to a return trip in 2010. But as the weeks wore on without any hint of anything happening I decided to pm the legendary Ray “Daywalker” Clarke to see if he was thinking of organising one again this year.
“I don’t mind helping out”, I foolishly ventured and the rest, as they say, is history.
Suffice to say that when we spoke Ray nearly pulled my incredibly naïve arm off and so it was that I became one of that select, but foolish, band of FM Fish-In Organisers. As soon as the Palace’s “on-line” booking system permitted I threw the FM towel over their entire 16 boat fleet for Saturday 25th September. Ray PM’d the usual suspects and the trip was on. Sorted….all I had to do now was collect the money. Some people were so excited at the prospect they could not pay me quickly enough. To this day I’m convinced Les Clarke ran all the way to my house and pushed the envelope through my door. He could not have got it here any quicker in a Tardis.
Eventually, despite some spectacularly poor maths on my part which nearly saw Wol sitting on someone’s lap there was room for everyone and the “great day” arrived. To mark “International Talk Like a Pirate Day” the week before, I thought it might be fun to descend upon the Palace dressed as Pirates as those lubbers among you that followed the Blenheim threads might have noticed. So it was that a motley band o’ FM pirates met at the Palace Main Gates early on Saturday morning…though to many it felt like it was still the middle of Friday night
The Day Began
Allow me to clarify. By “early” I mean before dawn and by “motley band o’ pirates” I mean me and Slime and a very badly behaved parrot.
There was I sporting a full “Johnny Depp” with a seriously uncooperative fake parrot freezin’ my nads off with not another Jolly Roger in sight. Despite insisting we met at 0615 am, Clarkey was fashionably late and with the wind picking up it was apparent that we were in for a “chilly” day. Derek “Spiders” Blinston had fished on the Friday and was so cold he ended up wearing a bin liner to try to keep the wind off.
Eventually I simply lost patience with the damned parrot which just would not stay on my shoulder so by way of reward ended up hurled into the faint pre-dawn glow. At this point Clarkey finally deigned to turn up with what looked like a van full of matching trainee postmen.
“These are my boys” says Ray proudly.
“’Allo” chirruped what looked like 3 parts of an East 17 Tribute Band in unison…..then off they shot to the local shop to stock up on provisions.
Wol wisely decided that now was a good time to move his Range Rover before the Cheshunt Massive returned and scratched it so off we went through the impressive estate gates and rolled up the drive like a UN aid convoy. The Palace was directly ahead and the lake off to our right. It really is the most stunning setting for a day’s fishing and the Palace is really impressive early in the morning with the yellow sandstone glowing softly as the first rays of watery sunlight crept over the Oxfordshire hills. Perfect, except for the scuddy north easterly funneling up the lake. As I took all this in I offered a silent prayer of thanks for the foresight that told me to bring 3 fleeces and an extra scarf.
Down through the woods to the car park and much frenzied scuttling as gear was unloaded, old friendships re-affirmed, names put to faces and hopefully new friendships forged…. plus the traditional exchange of banter and abuse whenever brothers of the angle meet. I felt obliged to introduce myself to those I hadn’t met before though as I was still in full pirate dress I didn’t think it was too hard to work out who I was.
“Oh..you’re Skippy” said a slightly bemused Fred Bonney and not a few others. I don’t know what they were expecting, but clearly not what they got. Its always interesting to meet people for the first time. You kind of form a mental picture of what they are like, sometimes its fairly accurate and other times not.
For example John “Gringo” Kent looks nothing like the Mexican bandit on his FM profile, Neil Maidment is even taller than I imagined which was pretty tall and who could possibly mistake Dave Giddy for anybody other than “Slime” . The Gidster did not disappoint, tottering about shaking hands and looking slightly the worse for last night’s rum. That said he did at least dress up in pirate gear though quite what the small furry rat stapled to his shoulder was meant to be I’ve no idea.
“That’s Patch” says Dave seriously “I couldn’t find a parrot”.
I immediately declared him winner of the Best Pirate prize for no better reason than he had actually bothered though he then proceeded to wander off leaving his prize in the middle of the car park. As Dave was clearly feeling a bit “tired and emotional” I tucked it back in my car for safe keeping. Spiders was in fine form… warning us all to wrap up well and bemoaning yesterday’s fishing which had produced “Nowt, but a few small perch.” Derek had brought a few of his famous home made floats along and I was delighted to be honoured with one though when told to “pick one” I was told
“Not that one you pillock…THIS one”. Thanks Derek.
Sadly the fishing did not live up to our expectations though the wind-chill certainly did. Me and Big Phil sculled serenely down to the dam end to fish one of Ray’s favourite swims “The Cedar Tree”. We reasoned that it would be a bit more sheltered which I suppose it was albeit not by much. Most other boats seemed to sprint with an unseemly haste for anywhere offering a bit of respite from the freshening wind.
Phil and I had planned to target Blenheim’s big perch and as a consequence had arrived with the best part of 5000 worms between us. What we hadn’t reckoned on was picking a swim containing 8 foot of water and 4 foot of crayfish. On reflection, ladling in chopped worm probably wasn’t the best crayfish avoidance tactic either. Poor old Phil had the worst of it and must have had 40 odd “Reggies” during the day. As he said at one point “There’s more Krays in my swim than at an East End funeral”
I had a dozen washed out looking perch, a bream of around 5lb and lost two tench. Apart from Ronnie & Reggie and their numerous mates, Phil had 1 tiny perch.
Despite the poor return it is such a lovely place to fish that I thoroughly enjoyed the day even though the chill did get to me eventually and the “Death Shiver” started. This is that awful shudder that starts deep inside and works its way out. Fortunately the sun cleared the cedar tree just in time to save me from shaking myself overboard.
Elsewhere on the lake the story was much the same. Some were pestered by the Kray Twins, some not. There were a few small roach & perch dotted around but in terms of “proper” fish it was the odd tench here and the odd bream there .Graham Whatmore had 4 tench to pellet fished on a method feeder which was a terrific return on a very dour day. Whether that was deliberate or simply “sod this wind I’m sticking a feeder out” only Graham can say.
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| Nigel Connor with his nice bream |
Slime claims that Spiders’ poor work with the landing net converted what would have been a decent perch into a size 16 hook. Neil Maidment snaffled a decent tench as did boat partner Nigel Connor who then rubbed it in with a fair slab too. JK managed a tench as did Ray and one or two others I believe.
Around mid-morning Phil and I were treated to the sight of HMS Spiller sailing majestically down the centre of the lake flying the Jolly Roger. Twenty minutes later Steve sculled serenely back having run out of lake. Only later did we discover that he had been forced to beach his vessel because the lovely Wendi “needed a wee”. Should have gone before you left, Wendi!
Returning to the dock as the sun sank slowly into the west we were greeted by Harbour Master Clarke waiting on the quayside as Graham and Eddy struggled back to home port. Earlier in the day a Coastguard chopper was very nearly scrambled after they were rammed and the electric outboard on their boat caught fire. At one point reminiscent of a scene from “Sink the Bismark” the Good Ship Marsden was drifting helplessly with her rudder smashed, engine on fire and with only one oar. I could not say who was behind this blatant act of nautical sabotage other than that the culprits name rhymes with Red and ends in Bonney.
Fortunately all hands made it back to shore safely and all that was left was for us to negotiate the North face of the Eiger to get back to the cars. Aided by a passing team of Sherpas, Phil and I summited at the car park without the use of supplementary oxygen and then waited for what seemed like ages before Ray appeared carrying the knackered outboard followed shortly by Graham with his electric trolley.
“Bloody hard work this” said Graham as he ambled past with no hands on the trolley and a purple faced gnome gasping in his wake. All hands safely ashore it was now time for some beer!
“ Do you know where the campsite is? “ asks Ray
“Yep…. I’ve got the postcode logged in me SatNav.”
“I’ll follow you then “ says Ray and off we go.
Twenty minutes later as we hurtled up the A34 towards Swindon I thought something might have gone wrong. The SatNav said we had 29 miles still to go and we’d be there in 45 minutes ! Wrong postcode…the campsite was in precisely the opposite direction.
And Now The Night Begins …
We rolled into the Diamond Farm campsite to find Slime already in full glorious flow and most of the intrepid crew with their overnight shelters already set up. Ray pitched a bivvy for me then decided than he could not be bothered to set his own one up so would double up in Slime’s tent. This would be no mean feat as it was clearly purchased from the “Early Learning Centre”, designed for midgets, held together with duck tape and even worse, was known to be inhabited by a Giddy. He claims it is a two-man tent… two Smurfs more like. Ray claims that it gets smaller every year… though I’m not sure if he means the tent or something else of Giddy’s as that’s two years in a row those two have shared a tent!
To the bar for beer and nosebag, both of reasonable if unspectacular quality, but very welcome none the less and to swap tales of the day. Stevie Spiller was heartbroken to have lost his Jolly Roger (well you would be wouldn’t you?) and Slime even more heartbroken to think he had lost his prize for best pirate. He cheered up considerably when he learned that I had stashed it for safe keeping. The beer flowed, the stories kept coming and everybody seemed to be having a thoroughly good time.
I particularly enjoyed Dave’s story about the “potato and potato pie” and learned several new ways of despatching would be road-kill.
After finally leaving the bar at around 11:30 the usual suspects gathered in Steve & Wendi’s palatial bivvy for “afters” which I am told went on until around 2 am and involved copious amounts of “grog” and an impromptu “Inside out fag rolling” contest. I didn’t go because I was simply too tired and also because as Spiders had warned me, if you get into a sleeping bag with clothes on it is very difficult to get out again…or even to move. He is right on both counts!
“This is why I always sleep naked.” says Spiders… which is far too unpleasant an image to explore further.
By now I was so knackered all I wanted was my bed. Unfortunately that was about an hour’s drive away so I had no option but to make do with Shackleton’s Hut and if I was very lucky some seal blubber for breakfast. I slept quite well considering that outside it was freezing and blowing a hooligan. I woke twice for a pee, but got off to sleep again reasonably well despite Ray’s protests emanating from the tent next door.
“For f***’s sake Dave, will you stop farting!”
I woke Sunday morning to what I thought was the sound of somebody felling trees with a chainsaw, but proved to be Gary snoring about 6 pitches away. He was full of apologies, but frankly I was awake anyway and desperately in need of tea. This eventually arrived courtesy of Ray who had the foresight to bring a stove and kettle, but not the foresight to check if there was any gas left in either of the canisters. There was, but barely enough to generate more heat than a candle.
Tales of derring-do from last nights revelries were swapped, Slime (as usual) was in denial and Clarkey was eyeing up Soph & Paula the blondes in the tent opposite. Slowly tent flaps were opened and some seriously bleary eyed anglers emerged blinking into the daylight. Spiders, true to his word had indeed “gone commando” and was sat cross legged in his tent wearing only his pants and looking like a Tibetan Monk you struggle 15,000 feet up a Himalayan peak to seek enlightenment from.
Sadly all the enlightenment on offer from the Dalai Spiders on Sunday was “Get t’bloody kettle on will you, Giddy?
Without warning “Uncle Dave” suddenly hatched from his tent like a butterfly emerging from a chrysalis and resplendent in tan loafers, purple socks, grey leggings, hideously patterned boxers worn outside the leggings and a Kryston Snakebite t-shirt. How anybody can be so irritatingly cheerful that early is beyond me, especially after his unpleasant experience in the toilet block the night before. Dashing into the nearest vacant trap Unc had laid a mine only to discover that there was no paper in the cubicle. An inconvenience rather than a problem except that there were “others” present outside that seemed intent on staying there all night. Eventually Unc had enough and shuffled out with his kegs round his knees and into the next cubicle “Dont mind me” he says cheerfully “I just need to wipe me a***e.”
Back at the tent field Slime was cooking breakfast… or rather drowning something in fat. Unc had fired up the stereo on his Lexus and woken up the entire site by playing Radio “Uncle Dave” at 120 Decibels. When challenged he indignantly pointed out that the signs said “No late night noise”, but didn’t mention anything about “early morning noise” so he wasn’t actually breaking any rules. What is he like?
Breakfast over, Slime then started to collapse his tent though this would probably have worked better if he’d emptied it first. Spiders got dressed and decided that as he’d booked a boat for the Sunday too he might as well go and have a look even though the wind if anything was even stronger. Rather him than me.
Of the Spillers there was no sign though they did surface later, Steve looking decidedly the worse for Port and Wendi no doubt wondering how on earth she ever got involved in all this.
Gear packed it was time for farewells with promises to meet again at Clattercote in October and here again next year.
“Will you be organising it again next year, Skip?” asks Derek to general hilarity.
Of course I will, but whether I will be allowed to is quite a different matter!
I’d like to think that despite the fishing not being great it was nevertheless a great Fish-In. Blenheim is such a special place and it lends itself brilliantly to this sort of event. The fact that boats are involved and everything that entails, like rowing against the wind with the mudweights still out – Simon, just adds to the enjoyment. Its a long way for many people to come yet for so many to stay over to share a beer and a laugh afterwards to me speaks volumes for what FM is all about.
Why not try it next year…..you might just like it.
Skippy
Note: If anyone has any other pictures from the event can they please PM Skippy to organise the sending of them for inclusion into the article. Thanks.
