I would like to say that as a youngster my fishing was inspired by the great writers like Richard Walker and Bernard Venables, however it would be a lie. This wasn’t a conscious snub, it was simply due to having no angling heritage, I simply didn’t know they existed. Books were bought on the subject of course, but in a very random fashion so much so I can’t really remember any of them, save one. Ironically this was a Crabtree-esque cartoon strip book, and it was by far my favourite, even if it didn’t have the enduring charm of its illustrious predecessor. Unfortunately it wasn’t built to last, being long and thin with pulp pages and a soft cover it was doomed to disintegration. I suppose cartoons are appealing to the young, they were to me at any rate, normally in the ‘Wizzer & Chips’ or ‘Beano’ but a fishing cartoon was even better. While it lasted that book was my escape to another idealised world, a world where success was guaranteed, and usually in less than three frames.

TIGHT LINES

My next great source of information was the 1972 ABU ‘Tight lines’ catalogue, and a rather large and lavish catalogue from Milbro. I often wonder what happened to Milbro – perhaps they went out of business through publishing such grand catalogues. To give both of these publications their due they were much more than simple brochures full of tackle I couldn’t afford, they also carried some decent articles and tips.

there were only three possible predictions, fair, good, and best, represented by a green, blue, and red fish respectively
Also on the inside of the back cover of ‘Tight Lines’ there was a calendar showing the predicted quality of fishing on every day in the year. I can’t say that it was accurate; after all there were only three possible predictions, fair, good, and best, represented by a green, blue, and red fish respectively. Even if I wasn’t convinced by it the calendar was always checked before a trip; not that it would make any difference, none of the predictions seemed to mirror dad’s and my own efforts, as crap wasn’t an option!

It might seem sad that while others were being inspired by Peter Stone and Fred J Taylor, I was transfixed by a ratty book, and a couple of catalogues, but surely the point is I was inspired, by what is largely irrelevant.

LESSONS LEARNED THE HARD WAY

Books or no books most of our lessons back then were learned the hard way, and we had a lot to learn. Our first port of call after Staithes was the South Gare breakwater, or simply ‘The Gare’ as it’s known, which is the southern breakwater of the Tees mouth. This is not a place of authentic beauty I’ll grant you, but it does have a certain charm, after you’ve gone past Redcar steel works sulphur smelling coke ovens. Here the ground steams, and there’s a constant smell of rotten eggs in the air. The industrial wasteland gives way to large rolling sand dunes, and nestling in them are groups of fisherman’s huts, looking like shantytowns from another time. After that the main concrete structure leaves the land and high tide will extends for the best part of a mile out to sea.

Tees mouth is something of a contradiction, along with heavy industry it’s also an important stop-over for many kinds of wading birds, which in turn attract flocks of bird watchers. You’ll pass quite an array of optical equipment if a rare bird has turned up thousands of miles off course. In my more cynical moments I wonder if these birds are worth the fuss, after all they must be very naff examples of their species, or they’d be where they suppose to be. Still, everyone to their own, and I’m sure the odd twitcher has doubted the sanity of the strange folk who chuck worms off the end.

THE BIGNESS OF THE SEA

Starting something new will bring you new experiences, sights and sounds. I remember my first descent of the steps that led to the lower deck of the breakwater where most of the fishing is done. There I was met by something that filled all my senses. The rows of fishermen, and the bigness of the sea, the sound it made as it lapped gently against the protective boulders that line the structure. It’s difficult to understand why these are necessary when the sea’s in its benign summer state; hard to envisage the fury it’s capable of, although the patched up scars on the breakwater told of many a winter battle.

Above all perhaps the most noticeable sensation was the smell, the whole place had the whiff of fish
There was also the sight of the ships, huge tankers and container vessels going in and out of Tees Port. I’d watch amazed as the pilot cutter skimmed out to chaperone one of these giants of the sea into the river mouth, where a gang of tugs would be loitering with intent to retrain their victim for the delicate manoeuvres of docking.

Above all perhaps the most noticeable sensation was the smell, the whole place had the whiff of fish. This wasn’t from the fish that had been caught, but rather the vast numbers of mackerel that were being used for bait, and the discarded off-cuts that were being baked translucent onto the walkway by the warm summer sun. It seemed almost a little perverse when we’d stopped off at the wet fish shop to buy a mackerel to catch a mackerel, but I thought it was best to keep my misgivings to myself.

This first visit to The Gare wasn’t exactly a baptism of fire, but it was an eye opener. I had expected it to be a kind of happy hunting ground after my first disappointments, and it did look rather easy. Anglers were casting out, and mackerel were coming in on a regular basis, so why weren’t we catching? At the time I just cursed our bad luck, but of course it was due to lack of experience.

We did eventually manage to catch a small dab, and I was so overjoyed I decided to take it home for my mother. This might have been a nice gesture if she’d been at home waiting for her two intrepid fishermen to return and laden the table. However both my mother and sister had decided to accompany us on this ‘adventure’ and had long since become very bored and returned to the car, where they were now both sicker than the average footballers parrot, with bladders fit to burst.

A MATTER OF BIOLOGY

Answering the call of nature is something that puts many women off fishing; it is unfortunately a matter of biology. If a bloke wants to take a leak a quick visit to the nearest tree, bush or high bank is all that’s necessary. On the other hand, for a lady the whole procedure is obviously much more involved, and much more embarrassing if discovered. There are no public toilets on the Gare, and although it may stretch a mile out to sea it’s popular with day-trippers so privacy is by no means guaranteed. So both my mother and sister saved their blushes and hung on. By the time we returned waving this unfortunate flattie about neither of them were in the mood for congratulations. I can’t blame them, dad and I had become far too self-absorbed, this was not a good start. The ride home was a fairly subdued one after an emergency stop at the nearest loo in Redcar. After that there were no more requests to join us on our fishing expeditions.

We persevered with the South Gare for a few months, the mainstay of our catches being postage stamp size flatties, small coalies and whiting, not to mention the odd spiny looking critter that the other anglers would always warn us were weavers, and although on every occasion except one they weren’t, they were all dispatched by some ‘helpers’ boot. At those times when returns may have been better, like during darkness, rough seas were not really the place for a complete novice and a nine year old. Some may say they’re not the place for anyone at all.

Coming soon in Part 4: It was during the next Easter holidays, on a visit to Aysgarth Falls on the river Ure up in the Yorkshire Dales, that our fishing life was to take another turn, a freshwater turn.

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