Now this is going to come as something of a shock to readers under the age of, say, 40, but there was a time — not so very long ago – when the months of October through to April were blinking cold. I hear you mumble that they still are ‘blinking cold’ but, no, you don’t understand, sorry… winters used to be freezing… abso-bloody-lutely freezing… six months of bone-chill centred around a three month core of intense Arctic conditions that solidified the whole country; milk-bottles grew silver-foil mushrooms; water-pipes seized-up; fieldfare and redwing deigned to forage council-estates and Bing Crosby was always in with a shout come late December. Everyone had a bobble-hat, unfurled to cover the ears. Fifty-plussers of average pedigree will remember emerging from a heap of heavy blankets and coats – every morning for weeks on end – to find the bedroom windows double-thick with hard. fingernail-proof ice on the inside! Your nose would be red and cold as the six-foot icicles hanging from the gutter; your feet hurt as they trod the freezing tiles in the hallway, en route to the refrigerated toilet; you could see your breath – indoors! A two-bar convection heater in the kitchen gave a little relief to fingers and faces, but not until mum had brought in a bucket of coal and got the fire going did the house become reasonably habitable. Goretex hadn’t been invented, Mr Damart was probably just a lad and central heating was only found in schools, hospitals and the homes of the rich and famous; for anglers, winter was a sort of enchanted hell and, on reflection, it’s a wonder that so many of us persevered – survived in the case of me and my fishing-pals.
It is here that I allude to the above title, for it was during a still and bitingly-cold ordeal on a local gravel-pit that I resolved to conserve the last measure of steaming, milky cocoa that called to me from the Thermos. Its siren-calls began at about mid-day, but I knew only too well that by dusk on that day of freezing fog and frost-bite I’d be yearning for something sweet and very hot; my determination to resist the ambrosia was absolute – Nope! I ain’t gonna drink ya! I had to repeat this mantra every fifteen minutes or so, time that reduced my fingers to useless numb bananas and my feet to a pair of hollow, unfeeling rubber boots. A distinct atmosphere hung over this particular pit at such times, a feeling of utter loneliness; sure, I was invariably alone but the mist-muted shouts and applause from a distant football match served only to compound my isolation, to separate me from the world of the living, but I loved that pit with a passion and I think, maybe, that I revelled in being a bit special… or a bit different at least.
The recollections here are now bordering on the downright ancient you understand, but my memory-cells serve me well for most events post-Profumo; I couldn’t tell you what happened in this flat five minutes ago, but I’ll quote you from the Defence Minister’s trial at the drop of an early sixties bobble-hat… well, I would, wouldn’t l? Accurate then is my story… By one o’ clock or so, the cat-ice was redoubling its efforts to reach the far bank and I’d had not so much as a sniff at my sad little float-fished sprat, but I kept at it – casting here, wobbling there and keeping thoughts of cocoa at bay. The oil-drum swim was always a fair bet, so I roller-coastered over the string of sandy mounds to where the familiar off-white disc beckoned the eye; there I discarded the disintegrated bait and hooked-on a fresh sprat, its belly whole and intact. Out it went beyond the drum. It was colder here, I felt sure, and very much quieter, the comforting sounds of the far-off football match shielded by the high embankment. God, I used to get lonely, but I really did love it, doing my own thing, breathing fresh air, spotting winter-visitors… and there was always those pleasurable moments when the vacuum-flask came out. This should have been one of those moments, but my belief that absence makes the heart grow fonder commanded me to bide my time, to suffer for the greater good; come four, Cliff, you’ll savour that steaming, milky, frothy cocoa like nothing you ever tasted. Resist! The image was dispatched without ceremony and I got on with the serious business of freezing to death. At around three. now in a state of advanced hyperthermia, I perceived the most tentative nod on the float and creaked into position by my rod. Hardly daring to alarm the culprit on so fishless a day, I crouched uncomfortably on the angled bank and willed the plastic post-box to slide away. Did it hell… I had seen a twitch, it had put out a couple of rings so something had been interested, but nothing had changed after all… I was still shivering like a fridge at the end of its cycle and the big grey blanket was lower than ever: cocoa-time! Disbelievingly – for I knew I wasn’t going to do it – I slipped my hand into the ex-army ruc-sac and felt for the smooth tartan barrel. It was cold. But I knew that within that flimsy tin-shell, just the other side of a double-skinned no-man’s land was a third-pint draught of steaming-hot, milky, frothy, sweet, brown – nay – maroon cocoa! I could smell it; I could feel its warmth in my gullet, slipping down, down to stoke the dwindling fire within. Jesus, I wanted that cocoa, but it wasn’t yet three-thirty and the thought of landing a good ‘un in the failing light without a celebratory hot drink to warm the soul troubled me; I liked to do things right. No! Leave it! Show a bit of restraint and positively deserve your reward for such admirable self-discipline!
I did. With another forty minutes of real daylight still to go, I upped-sticks and staggered zombie-like to where I’d seen a couple of monster Esox back in the summer. No reason to suspect they might still be hanging around, but the mental image was sufficient to make me move my arse in search of last-minute glory. Bale-arm open and wide-eyed bait bracing itself for the big push, it came to me that something different might just do the trick: I’d try a lure – a plug; the one Tony Corless had given me for Christmas… ‘That’ll do it’ he’d said as the wrapping came off ‘That’s your first twenty’. I remembered it well and as I pulled the tether tight with my teeth, I could see the deep-shouldered fish laying there… in front of me on my plastic keep-net bag – its weight? Twenty-two pounds and ten ounces. Photo’s taken, all that was left was to slip it back and to luxuriate in a final cup of delicious, smooth, hot cocoa.
I stood, back in the real world now, and sent the lure flying up the channel. Icy rod-rings stalled its flight, but it splashed down nicely alongside a string of Nessie-humps – one of the gaps had to harbour a pike! The retrieve was slow but meaningful… rod-top jigging and dropping, snatching and jigging… something must have seen it I thought… there must be a pike there somewhere! But nothing happened. Another cast… nothing. A dozen more attempts from different stand-points but still nothing. Silence. I looked around me, then at my Timex. The footballers had long gone. Not even the muffled drone of a distant motor-car broke the deafening stillness. Over there on the housing-estate, thousands of right-minded people would be digging-in for a night around the tele: Kenneth Wolstenholme would have a million punters holding their breath as he read the results: ‘PartickThistle – l, Arbroath – 2’… and my lovely mum would be looking down the road for her precious son. I’d had enough. I packed-away my gear, made myself comfortable on the keep-net bag and grasped the one-pint flask – now was the time. In the tried and trusted way, I gripped the cup between my genuine army drills and lovingly poured that steaming-hot, delicious, milky cocoa, raising the flask with a froth-imparting flourish. It had all been worth the wait. Nothing was going to detract from the big moment so I quickly tidied a few unsightly odds and ends then twisted e v e r – s o – f * * * * * g s l i g h t l y to re-bag the empty flask… the knees parted imperceptibly and down went my BASTARD cocoa to warm the cold and grateful earth.
Cliff Hatton
| Read Cliff Hatton’s books from Medlar Press |
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Not only is Cliff Hatton a great writer for FishingMagic and other journals, he is also a highly talented cartoonist and has a number of books published by Medlar Press. They include: All Beer and Boilies, All Wind and Water, and soon to be published – All Fluff and Waders. Visit the Medlar Press site by clicking here and order your copies now! |
