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.

ALL AT SEA

I reckon that my halcyon days as an angler were probably between the ages of twelve to fifteen, I’d acquired enough know-how to perform adequately, but I still had enough naivety to make every trip an adventure. I was still very much the all-rounder, as happy fishing a single maggot on a size 20 in a little pond, or dropping a 3/0 attached to a pound of lead over the side of a boat out at sea.

These boat trips happened on quite a regular basis, and were a highlight for me. They were undertaken with my dad of course and a group of his workmates, the boats we went on were the traditional cobles and double-enders that are parked on the sea front at Redcar. The term double-ender always baffled me, as these boats were pointed at both ends, so shouldn’t they have been double-fronters?

Whatever the proper term should be they were easier to launch from the beach off a trailer than the cobles that had a flat stern. The launching was real man’s work, or at least work for anyone who was big enough to climb aboard once the thing was afloat, and didn’t mind getting a waderful of North Sea. A young pup like me was (to my relief) put in the boat long before it got to the sea. The mechanical part of this process was done by ancient tractors that looked to me to be as old as the fossils I’d find in the shingle while waiting for the crew to arrive.

These trips were always on a Sunday morning; the Saturday night preceding was always fraught, watching the weather forecast for approaching low-pressure systems. Another close eye was kept on the trees on the green outside our house; if the wind was blowing them to the left it was coming from the north. This was bad, and would inevitably lead to the dreaded phone call telling us the trip was off. Even if no phone call came my worries weren’t over; on a number of occasions we got to the promenade only to see white horses bouncing on the waves, and a glum looking skipper – who was missing out on a bunch of readies in his back pocket – say “not today”.

Never sick, always hungry

The days we did get out that were ‘a bit lumpy’ did have their fringe benefits, you see I was never sea sick, but I was always hungry. I’d scan the faces of the other anglers as we bounced up and down, looking for anyone going a bit green around the gills. My target sighted I’d move in for the kill, “you don’t look too well there mate, you wont be wanting your scran then?” You’d be surprised how many sandwiches, pies and pasties I blagged that way. I admit I was quite merciless, in my mind if they were sick they must be wimps. It wasn’t until many years later when I was taken ill on a boat that I realised the full horror of the feeling. We might have been miles off shore, but I’d have happily got out and walked home. So to all the unfortunates I fleeced of their dinner I wholeheartedly apologise.

On these trips my very first rod got a new lease of life, the old 8ft solid glass pier rod had two feet lopped off the top, and became a 6ft boat rod. It looked a bit daft with its little tip section but it did the job, catching more fish in this guise than it ever did in the one it was intended. There must have been more fish in those days too, although we did have some bad ones, we mostly seemed to catch plenty of cod, haddock, whiting, and what everyone else wanted to call sea bream, but I knew were pouting, my protestations falling on deaf ears. These fish were mainly caught on nothing more exotic than mussel, which were supplied in great sacks by the skipper. However, every now and then Nobby, one of the regular’s mates, would supply us with a bucket of ferocious rag worm. Often talked about but never seen Nobby took on almost a mythical image in my mind. He must have been a tough cookie, because these worms were mean. You didn’t have to go looking thought the damp seaweed they were kept in, just stick your hand in, and they’d find you with their big black nippers.

While they lasted these boat trips were great experiences, and it didn’t stop once we were back on land. It always amused me that as I got drowsy towards evening, after a day at sea and a fresh air overdose, the solid floor of the house would seem to start rocking like the deck of the boat in the swell.

MY SMALL SLICE OF FAME

Being an all rounder also helped with another angling fixation I had at the time, which was collecting certificates from the Angling Times Kingfisher Guild. This was a club for junior anglers run by the paper, and every week it would have its own page. On joining you got a badge and a booklet, you could also send off for T-shirts, fish identification charts and so on. I had charts for both freshwater and sea stuck to the airing cupboard door in my bedroom, now you know why I was so certain about the sea bream / pouting thing. The best thing for me however was at the back of the booklet was a list of specimen fish weights that if you could beat you qualified for a certificate. The qualifying weights differed, depending in which part of the country you lived, with my own area having the lowest weights. This took the gloss of it a bit, but it was all done in fairness, even in my early teen I realised a pound roach from the Tees was worth a three pounder from the Hampshire Avon. It definitely didn’t stop me, as I amassed quite a few, cod and whiting sharing my bedroom wall with perch and tench. These were all stuck up with sticky tape – blue tack wasn’t really known outside of school – and a warning from my mother that they better not rip the wallpaper. She needn’t have worried the damn things kept falling off when the tape dried out and went brown. I got so sick of it that in the end they were removed from public view and filed in a draw.

The Kingfisher Guild

It was through this certificate fixation that I received a small slice of fame. I had the week before landed a chub of 3lb 1oz from the Tees. It was the biggest chub I’d ever seen, and dad duly filled in the application form for the Kingfisher Guild and sent it off. The next week it wasn’t a certificate that fell through the letterbox, but a small brown envelope with an Angling Times post mark, addressed to me. On opening it I couldn’t believe my eyes, it said my chub had been judged one of the top ten catches of the week! The ‘Top Ten’ was another feature run by the paper, but not for juniors this was the big league. There was also an orange enamel badge emblazoned with Angling Times Top Ten. This was the kind of badge I’d only seen in photos of real specimen hunters. I didn’t know anyone who had one, and it was like winning an Olympic gold.

The letter went on to say there would be a report of my catch in that week’s issue. Later that day the Angling Times arrived – strange to think we paid someone to deliver it then, now I think I’d be more inclined to pay someone to take it away – there, a few pages in, was my story. All the bare facts were taken from the application form but put in a more readable fashion. It said I’d landed the chub while waggler fishing double maggot on a size 18 hook close to far bank willows, and the fish fought hard all the way to the bank. Actually the last bit was made up by then, to be honest it came in like a wet paper bag, but that doesn’t make such good copy.

The only thing that spoilt the whole effect was the title of the piece, “Young Geordies Big Chub.” Geordie, I ask you, nothing against the good people of Tyneside, but if you ever want to annoy someone from Middlesbrough call them a Geordie.

Perhaps the most amazing thing about all of this is a 3lb 1oz chub could be considered to be one of the top ten catches of the week. Mind you it was 1977, but it just goes to show how fish have grown, it would have to be twice that size to get a mention these days.

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