It was the summer of ’69; a year of firsts; Neil Armstrong became the first man to walk on the Moon; Jimi Hendrix had just closed the first Woodstock Rock Festival; a strange comedy show call Monty Python was screened on the BBC for the first time and Leeds United became First Division Champions at last.
In late August, the last week of the summer holidays, I was going on my first fishing holiday with some school friends. To be more precise Richard Carter, the Head Boy at our school, Barry Knott, Deputy Head Boy, and Richard’s brother Chris who was a TV repairman.
I had saved a few quid from my holiday job as a welder’s mate at Coghlan’s Bright Steel. In those days, the whole factory would shut down for two weeks whilst maintenance was undertaken. I vividly remember being sent to stores for a “Long Stand!” and returning a couple of hours later after being told by the storeman “Right! Yer’ve had yer long stand, now Eff off back to work!”
We piled into Chris’s works vehicle, a Hillman Husky which was a bit cramped, as both Richard and Barry were big lads. Our destination was the fabulous Norfolk Broads. We had it all planned; we were going to catch large Rudd with self-cocking floats, just like we’ve read in Mr. Crabtree; encounter huge shoals of bream and tackle them with classic groundbait and swing-tip tactics; fish for the legendary massive pike; and on the way fit in a couple of days targeting the many pound plus roach that abound.
Leaving Leeds at about eight o’clock in the morning we made for the A1 southbound. As I recall it was a very long drive through Lincolnshire and Norfolk to Wroxham; there were no bypasses on the A17 and we became stuck in traffic jams at every village and town. Eventually, nine hours later (today the trip would take barely four hours!) we arrived at the boatyard and picked up our Hoseasons 4 berth cruiser.
The boatyard owner gave us about ten minutes rudimentary ‘instruction’ and we were away. To say that the boat was old fashioned was an understatement, the steering wheel looked like it had come straight off a Morris Minor. The gear lever was a long pole coming straight through the floor about four feet long. Half an hour later we were in a large Broad, churning up mud having no idea which side of the marker buoys to keep. All we heard was Cockney voices swearing at us to “Get on the other side!”
We finally found somewhere to moor for the night and settled down for some supper. Richard’s summer job had been with Wildblood’s Butcher’s in Leeds Market and he had managed to secure a bit of bacon for us on the cheap – 9lbs of bacon to be precise! So we tucked into the most luxuriously stuffed bacon sandwiches imaginable which hardly made a dent in the supply.
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| Early one morning ~ |
The next morning, bright and early, still digesting two rounds of bacon sandwiches each, we were in a rowing boat, fishing for Rudd á la Crabtree, anchored fifteen or twenty yards upwind from an inviting reed-lined bay, tackled as lightly as possible, small self cocking floats, some small red worms. We even chucked some slices of bread for the Rudd to worry! Three hours of fishing and not a bite!
So we shipped anchor and motored along to another venue. After a lunch of bacon and eggs we travelled to another Broad and started spinning for pike also without success. Later that evening, following some bacon and beans, we formulated our plan to make our way to Great Yarmouth down the River Bure stopping as and when the mood took us.
The scenery was stunning. Coming from the heavy engineering side of Leeds, (the only green spot near us was Hunslet Moor, whose football pitch was a couple of bent goalposts with a bit of grass near the corner flags), the strange landscape with huge skies; water birds; reeds and windmills was both weird and wonderful. I could have been on another planet, particularly at night as the light faded and the stars emerged like diamonds, sparkling across the massive, inky black sky.
On Tuesday morning, I remember getting up early to try a bit of dobbling down the edge of the boat. The mist was just clearing and I was beginning to catch a few decent roach, six or seven ounces. The guy in the boat moored next to us was also up early.
“You from Yorkshire?” he asked in a, now familiar, Cockney accent.
“Yeah! How d’you know that?” I asked. He pointed to what was around my neck.
“Bloody maggot bag, mate! You’re the only buggers who use ‘em!” I’d never given it a thought.
In Yarmouth the scenery changed. Tidal river conditions, rows of tatty seaside houses, hundreds of Broads’ cruisers moored three abreast so you had to clamber over them to reach the bank. We fished the outgoing tide with only two small green eels to show for our efforts. That evening I recollect eating fish and chips, which was the first meal in four days that didn’t have bacon in it.
Later on, after the pub, we settled down to play poker. It was a fairly typical game with people winning with two pairs and so on, until about eleven o’clock when I was dealt the Ace, King and Jack of diamonds. I don’t know what the odds are but I drew the 10 and Queen of diamonds to complete a Royal Flush; a hand of a lifetime!
Richard had changed three cards and had drawn another pair of fours to go with his first pair of fours and we had a game on our hands. When the pot got to around £3 of threepenny bits and tanners, we called it a day with someone suggesting that we just reveal our hands. Richard thought his four 4’s was a winner; he was gutted.
We had allowed one day for some classic Norfolk Broad bream fishing. Somehow, we found ourselves a quiet backwater and spent a couple of hours lobbing in a hundredweight of white breadcrumb groundbait. After seven biteless hours, fishing worm on the swing-tip, we packed in wondering where we had gone wrong. Later on, the next day, we actually saw a bream. It had been caught by a twelve year old lad who was busy hauling it out of his four foot, three ringed keepnet for every passing holiday-maker to see.
On the last evening we went out to a very rural pub, there was an old, bald guy playing the piano with a weird habit of screwing his head round; anyway we were merry on three pints o’mild by chucking out time. Outside it was black, as if someone had stitched you up in a velvet sack and put you in a big cave. After five minutes, our eyes adjusted to the conditions and a few stars guided us home.
As Barry crossed the concrete bridge over the ditch to our mooring, we heard a cry followed by a thud, and a splash. Richard had got on board by this time and turned the light on. I shall never forget the image as long as I live. The door of the cabin swung slowly open throwing a dim beam on the scene to reveal Barry, wet through, with green weed all over his head like a pantomime wig, blood all over his face, a tooth missing and his glasses broken. He’d put one foot on the bridge and one into mid air; hit his head on the concrete on his way into the ditch.
On close inspection, there was a medium sized cut over his right eye that was rhythmically losing blood; it really needed a stitch. We assessed the situation, it was midnight, we needed a doctor, and we were probably miles from the nearest public phone. Two of us set out back into the darkness to find assistance. I’d remembered passing a large isolated house about half a mile back down the road, so we set off urgently in search of it. Eventually, we found the house but there were no lights on; we knocked firmly on the door.
After a couple of minutes a light went on in an upstairs bedroom and an old woman poked her head out of the window. We explained that we had a problem and needed to use the telephone and amazingly, she believed us. The lights came on downstairs and the old woman, now wearing a dressing gown, let us in. As we entered the living room we stopped abruptly as two large white geese came hissing noisily at us – “Bloody Hell!” I thought, “No wonder the old girl’s not too bothered.”
The doctor came out and patched Barry up with Steri-strips. The next day we had to get the boat back and make our way home to Leeds. I didn’t see much of the lads after the end of the sixth form. The last I heard was that Richard had become a head teacher in the Midlands; Barry was a Chemistry Research scientist in Manchester and I’m not sure about Chris.
It was my first fishing holiday and set the pattern for all the fishing holidays I was to make, not many fish but a wonderful time nevertheless.
By the way, we never did finish that bacon!
Andy Scholey
