28/5/19 “Dry mat, wet dog.”
When I think of Holborn, which is seldom, three things come to mind: Gamage’s department store, Fred Wedlock’s line about “Smoking black Old Holborn resin, mainlining on draught stout and ‘aving ‘ang-ups”, and Adrian Mitchell’s immortal hymn to the irrepressible human spirit, “Celia, Celia”:
“When I am sad and weary
When I think all hope has gone
When I walk along High Holborn
I think of you with nothing on.”
Gamages of Holborn comes first because, for my first forty years, their warehouse was my next-door neighbour, but their products were far to posh for the likes of us, and nothing took me to Holborn, so I don’t recall seeing the store at all. So, my curiosity got the better of me when a Gamage’s rod, a 10’6” Light Match, came up, and I bought it, regardless of the warning of splits. The following weekend, I bought an old glass rod for £3, the rings alone being worth that. The blank is one of those super-thin, translucent jobs that were all the rage in (I think) the late ‘seventies. Spigot joint; whippings, hairy and moulting like a yak in a heatwave.
So, having bought these “new” toys, and becoming less scared of my similarly “new” car, I trundled out to my local lake this morning, far later than planned, starting at about seven.
I cast a mussel to my left on the glass rod, then set up the Gamages one to fish wet bread to my right. The first cast produced a little roach, which was soon followed by a steady stream of other roach and small bream, so that works, and feels pleasant in the hand, too. Gamage’s would have bought their rods in from specialist makers, and had too good a reputation to risk buying duds. Duly christened, and I’m happy.
At some point in the proceedings, the Rapidex on the glass rod shrieked, and I found myself attached to a carp which was unimpressed by the rod’s power, or rather, its flexibility. Despite the tip diameter making me worry that it might be more suitable for tope than coarse fish, it has a soft, through action, and the carp almost made the lilies pst the next pitch. Locking up and pumping slowly brought the fish to the tree on my side of the next pitch, but then everything went very slow, and a large lump of tree emerged. By the time I’d extracted it, the carp had shed the hook, warned its mates, and done a vanish. Have some chub been put into the lake and shown the carp some new tricks?
No further carp action, so the mat stayed dry.
A bit after the branch/line catastrophe, voices approached and a large canine head appeared at my elbow and made off with my liquidised bread! I never realised that labradors had a stealth mode…
The owners had the good grace to look a bit sheepish and apologise, especially as one of the dogs had turned the stealth up to eleven, gone for a silent dip, swum round the tree and was slipping back out in my pitch! When two of them came back, their hounds were safely clipped up, but the third, a bloke, turned up, and seemed to think it was my fault for being there, where “lots of dogs go through”. They do indeed, but they’re supposed to be under control. And many of them are.
“Mine are under control!” “Yes?” (two of the three were nowhere to be seen)
“Ben! Charlie! Come ‘ere!”
Very long pause.
“Control as in, one word from you and they do just as they please?”
Off goes this intellectual titan, muttering under his breath, then I hear “Ben! Charlie! Come ‘ere!” a few times. By the time he caps it all with “Ben! Where’s Charlie?” as though Ben would suddenly morph into a pointer (or learn to speak) and grass up poor old Charlie, I was laughing too hard to call “Don’t tell him, Ben!” in anything like a Captain Mainwaring voice...
After the dog shriekers came the wind, making the floats hard to see, then the parakeets arrived and started picking fights with the natives. Peace and quiet were dead and buried for the day, and so home for breakfast.