First Fish

The year was 1981. When mum and dad told us about this year’s holiday location neither my sister, Helen, nor I were particularly impressed. A caravan park in Shropshire was much less than we hoped for. Our friends were going to places like Spain and France on package holidays and their tales of aeroplanes, amusement arcades, warm seas and giant slides seemed impossibly exotic. We, on the other hand, were continually ferried down to Devon, Cornwall or Wales to cottages and caravans shared with uncles and aunties. The journey would take a week in dad’s battered green Ford Granada and the only entertainment was our sweet rations and a puzzle book. Mum’s pleas to play ‘I spy’ fell on deaf ears by Stafford. Poking Helen began to bore by Birmingham.

Despite the interminable journeys, English seaside holidays were golden, happy times for me as a young boy – a blur of sandy sandwiches, wooden surf boards, ice-creams and beach cricket. Hiding behind windbreaks and dodging squalls were small prices to pay for the delights of rock pool exploration and belly surfing. But all these pleasures orbited a sun which Shropshire couldn’t provide….. the sea.

“You’ll like this place”, said dad, “it’s got a lake you can fish in.” Now this took the edge off the gloom. For the last two years, since the age of nine, I had been attempting to fish in the mill ponds of Lancashire – sometimes with friends, sometimes alone. Bait was invariably bread – easy to obtain and to hook. The booklet that came with my fibreglass boy’s fishing rod said it was ‘a good all-round bait’. However, two long years had passed without so much as a bite and I was starting to lose faith. This year’s holiday looked like a real chance to exorcise my demons.

Summer came. The journey passed and the family fell from the hot car like refugees when we arrived at the caravan site. It was beautiful. Our caravan was right on the edge of the most stunning lake I had ever set eyes on. East Lancashire contains a good amount of fishable lakes, but these are invariably square millponds with stone banks or featureless, windswept reservoirs. This was a real lake straight from my dreams. It shone before me in the August sunshine like an unblinking, benevolent, all-seeing eye. I suppose it was about 10 acres, in a figure-of-eight shape. It was reed-lined and surrounded by trees. Willows overhung the surface and lily beds on the far bank flowered purple. Grebes and Coots swam in formation, dragonflies the size of sparrows swooped like fighter planes and, wonderfully, the surface was occasionally fractured by the unmistakable swirl of a fish. I was spellbound.

All afternoon mum breezed around the caravan, nesting, organising and cleaning in the way that only Mums can. Dad immediately slumped in front of the tiny black and white television. The picture was terrible but the sound was enough to tell us that Ian Botham was making history, destroying the Australians. Dad alternated between cheering and cursing as he twisted the coat hanger aerial and moved the television around the caravan. I was interested in the cricket but a damn sight more interested in the aquatic playground which winked at me through the window. Then, from outside, Helen cried, “A boat!”

Under the caravan lay an old metal punt with two oars. Interesting.

The only tackle I possessed was a five-foot glass spinning rod, a reel, a bubble float and a couple of giant hooks. I moulded the ubiquitous lump of bread onto the hook and ran down to the lake to fish. I cast and the float settled as the sun began to dip in the sky. The atmosphere seemed charged with tension but the float remained motionless. As evening fell, fry scattered on the surface as predators attacked from below. Purposeful swirls made my heart quicken. Swifts dived gracefully over the lake’s glassy surface. Something big leapt and landed with a splash. The ripples spread slowly and made my float dance. Just as the sun slipped over the horizon a man came for a chat.

“You won’t catch anything like that.” He told me, confirming what I already knew in my heart of hearts.

“Your tackle is too heavy. You need to go to the fishing shop in Shrewsbury. Get some floats, some size 18 hooks and some maggots.”

That night my mind was not really on the game of scrabble the family played. I managed to persuade my parents to take me to Shrewsbury the following day so I woke up excited, pestering and persistent. Luckily, they wanted to be back home by lunchtime to watch that day’s wedding between Prince Charles and Lady Diana. Every time I closed my eyes I could see those delicious, mysterious swirls.

It was hot and still again and, in Shrewsbury, the local kids were jumping off the bridge into the river, yelping like excited puppies. The old man in the fishing shop was very helpful and he sold us a half-pint of maggots along with some sundry tackle. When we arrived back at the caravan site pandemonium broke out. Mytwo-year-old brother had left the taps on and the caravan was spewing water from every orifice. I tool advantage of the confusion and went to the lake. The surface was like polished glass in the afternoon sun and there, in the middle of the lake, around 100 yards from me, was obviously a shoal of fish. They dappled the surface and splashed as I watched. Obviously they were way beyond casting distance, but then I suddenly remembered the punt.

The caravan was still in chaos as mum and dad tried to sweep the water out. While nobody was looking I quietly dragged the rusty punt down to the lake. I set up my new tackle and tested it in the margins, eventually getting the shotting right to cock the little Avon float. My new hooks were tiny and my confidence soared. I put the boat on the water and set sail, an eleven-year-old Captain Cook on a voyage of discovery.

As I neared the fish I could see their black shapes below the surface, basking. I drifted to the edge of the shoal and threw a handful of maggots in. They could clearly be seen vanishing as the fish ate them greedily. Then I cast amongst the shoal, heart pounding. I still remember the excitement I felt at what happened next. The float dipped, I yanked the rod in the air and felt a brief moment of contact before the tackle flew over my shoulder as the hook pulled out. Suddenly my world came into focus. I believed. There had unmistakeably been something alive on the end of my line. The maggot was burst and broken. I looked at my hands and they were shaking. I could hear my blood surging through my body and my breathing was as loud as a diver’s. I knew this was my big chance.

More maggots in the water then another cast. This time I saw my bait vanish and I struck again. The rod bent and I felt the incredible sensation of a live fish struggling. As I wound it kicked and pulled and I was filled with fear that I would lose it. The shoal could be seen scattering across the surface in a panic, adding to my terror. I lifted the fish, glimmering like silver, into the boat. It fell off immediately into the punt and I picked it up in total awe. It was a roach – I recognised it from my books. I held it and caressed it like precious, living metal. I felt like I was about to spontaneously combust. My young angling life seemed to flash before me in an instant. All those hours, all those wasted chunks of bread, all that effort meant nothing in that euphoric afterglow. My First Fish.

“MUM! DAD!” I screamed at the top of my voice from the middle of the lake. Dad burst out of the caravan door like a cork from a bottle. Even today he swears he thought I was drowning. The Royal Wedding was forgotten.”I’VE GOT ONE!!”

I rowed back victoriously with my prize, a roach, nestling between my legs, still alive. The most incredible fish in the history of the world, bar none. I had done it. Words could not describe the delight I felt at that moment. It was like I found the secret, the meaning of life. A door opened to a new world, a better world, one I still inhabit now when I can. A world of dappled beauty, secrets, mystery, disaster and occasional triumph: The wonderful world of fishing.