TROUBLE AT T`MILL.
I can remember well fishing in my earlier years for small roach and perch in the local pits and canals around Lancashire. Magic days, long summer nights, school holidays that would last forever. New fields with ponds in which to explore, many untold adventures learning about life, the excitement and anticipation of an early morning worm dig down at “The Lost House Farm”.
Close season preparations, soaking the nets in linseed oil, an updated scan through Mr Crabtree’s river map where all the fish were marked out clearly in their swims. Another particular outing which sticks in my mind, was when, my then fishing companion, Tommy Gallagher took me fishing behind one of the mills in the Chadderton district of Oldham. It was to be a carp-fishing trip, although gratitude would to have been shown to anything that pulled the float under.
“There’s a big un up there kid”; said Tommy!
“Up where Tommy”; I replied?
“Up there on`t mill roof. Yeh, our kid put it up there last year” replied Tommy!
“Is it dead then”, I replied.
“Hell no, it’s swimming about.” said Tommy!
“What you mean there’s a lake on the mill roof?” said I?
“Sure is, you wanna see it?” asked Tommy?
“Yes I do, but how are we going to get on the roof?” I replied.
“Easy! See that fire escape, well that’s how.” replied Tommy.
Now being scared of heights and only 11 year old at the time, I put off the roof top fishing trip on that particular occasion, but Tommy being Tommy, it wasn’t long before he was round at my parents house with an invitation to fish the water in the sky. Tommy was much older and more experienced in life than I was, being a mere 4 months away from his 13th birthday. It didn’t take him long however to convince me just how easy it would be to climb onto the roof of the mill and how safe it would be once we were up there.
Although a little apprehensive at first, my spirit of adventure had got the better of me, and I agreed to make the trip. Two days later Tommy and I made our way down the canal bank and on towards the distant mill. Crust was to be the main bait backed up with worms (all four of them). On arrival at the foot of the mill gazing up, I began to have second thoughts, but Tommy reassured me that it was perfectly safe and soon put my mind at ease.
Through the hole in the gate and we arrived beneath a wrought iron fire escape. The bottom section was built on a kind of balancing weight system and Tommy had to stand on some old skips in order to reach the first rung and bring the pendulum section down by using his body weight.
Heart in mouth, and nervously gripping the handrail, up and up we went, into the clouds, leaving the little terraced houses far below, some twelve stories in all, leading eventually to a single wrought iron ladder which took us up and over on to the roof itself. The view from up there was incredible, unbelievable, I’d momentary forgotten my fear of heights and was filled with anticipation and adventure.
You could see rows of mill workers’ houses spread out far below and the surrounding fields which stretched out as far as the eyes could see, way beyond these were the Pennine Chain, rising in the East. The mill lodge was but a puddle from up here.
As I turned to the roof itself I couldn’t have possibly imagined the sight that met my eyes. High up there in the clouds was the most unusual lake with water iris, weed beds, a variety of grasses and even a tree at one end. It was a truly magical place, away from everyone, with no bailiffs to hide from, our own private water.
The mill roof had a large tower at one end while the floor of the roof was tarred and flat, but over the years the upper roof section had warped and sunken considerably and allowed for the flooding by rain water, while over the proceeding years grass seeds and fish eggs, presumably, carried by birds, had become established. The mill was in a semi-derelict state and had been so for some time.
At the edge of the pool the water was quite shallow, but due to the weight of the water and the nature of the roof surface, some inverted deep bubbles lay below the water line where the tar had been warped and stretched. Numerous fry where in evidence, sticklebacks mainly, but with a few roach and possibly perch present. Tommy told me he had seen the carp which his brother had released, only days before. He had seen the fish over towards the weed fringes near the over-hanging tree.
We walked round to the weed margin where Tommy decided to cast a crust; he was using a bubble float for extra weight. Suddenly a huge dorsal fin appeared only feet away from Tommy’s bait. The carp moved in for the kill, then all of a sudden! “Right lets be having you”, I turned around and noticed a policeman had appeared behind us? Tommy jumped six feet in the air and the carp also made a quick getaway. Apparently we had been spotted climbing the fire escape from one of the houses in the village and the local policeman had been informed, we were busted.
Led off like criminals with a policeman’s thumb on each of our ears, heads down in disgrace, he took us through a door in the tower and down an internal stairway. The policeman took us home, this resulted in a good hiding from my father, and I was kept in for a month and my Eagle comic was cancelled indefinitely. Needless to say it was a good while before I went fishing with Tommy again and I never did catch the roof top carp. Great days though!
THE CASE OF THE SPOTTED PERCH.
The sound of pebbles crashing against my bedroom window signalled another dawn start for a schoolboy duo of perchfishers. Tommy would have been up early and eager to go. I dragged myself across the thick piled bedroom carpet and gently drew back the curtains. I was surprised to find the sun high in the noon sky.
Opening the window and rubbing my eyes, I gazed down upon my companion’s ever smiling face. “What do you want?” I asked, “Couldn’t wake you this morning,” shouted Tommy “so I went over to the Prison camp pond.”. “Catch owt?” said I, “Yeah!” he exclaimed, “A whacking great net full of big perch and three of them had spots on.”
“Perch don’t have spots.” I said with a puzzled expression. “Well these did, no word of a lie.” said Tommy with his most convincing look ever. By the time I had gotten dressed and carried myself down stairs, my mother who had just returned from the shop had let Tommy in the house and we all sat down to a belated breakfast.
The main topic of conversation circled round Tommy’s early morning adventure and especially the tale of the spotted perch in the magical prison camp pool, which Tommy had stumbled across only weeks before. “I’ll take you there next Tuesday” said Tommy “and we can have a look around.” “Its not on private land?” said my mother with a stern face. She had experienced Tommy’s wonderful newfound waters before and still remembered the mill roof episode.
After my mother had left the room, Tommy explained that the pool was in the grounds of an old Second World War prison camp, which had been left in a derelict state, some three miles away, in an area called Snake Hill. The actual pool was accessible through an orchard, we would have to climb the fence and be careful not to attract the attention of the owner’s huge Bull Mastiff (not a prospect I relished!). Once through the orchard we would have to pass the old courtyard and the pool lay neatly in a field below the line of the former prison cells.
It was, in fact, not until the following Wednesday that we arrived for a reconnaissance, the place was pretty much as Tommy had described it. The area was one of largely agricultural dwellings and the pool lay in a hollow at the foot of the old camp. It would have been about one and a half acres in size, a lovely green serene-looking pool, surrounded mainly by hawthorns and bracken, an enchanting little water in pleasant surroundings. Access however, was a little trickier than Tommy had suggested, but once we had dodged the extremely large and ferocious looking guard dog, the going did become a little bit easier. Phew!!!
The shadows of the old prison camp reflected deep within the pool, whilst adjacent, the pool was met by thickets and brambles, interwoven amidst birch, larch and ash and a copse of bracken and hawthorn. Indeed some very pleasant swims could be negotiated with a bit of careful footwork and the shallow margins were ideal for float fishing. The great day finally arrived, and with full expectations, our brave heroes made their way, down the winding farm tracks and on to pastures new. Cane rods, tin plate reels, a shared creel, worm tin and lots of curly line.
It was a rather humid morning and indeed quite ideal for a spot of fishing. We had collected the worms from the Lost House farm’s manure heap, while we had also been out on the Firwood Bowling Green the evening before; these trips had produced a good bag of worms. The mid-summer term holidays stretched out before us and it was indeed with great expectations that we climbed the orchard fence and hurriedly made our way across the courtyard and into the meadow beyond.
Peacock Quills were the order of the day with worms resting on the bottom in the margins, just out of sight. In went a few chopped up brandlings and it was in no time at all before the floats begun to slide across the surface of the pool. Tommy, only fittingly, took the first perch of the morning whilst I soon brought up the rear with the second one. Both perch were in the 4oz bracket as indeed this appeared to be the average weight of the fish. They did however provide ample sport for two young perch fishers; just rewards for the three-mile trek.
The sport was so good and it continued into the afternoon and on into evening. In fact we lost all track of time. As the sun gently sank over the tree-lined distant bank, my little float slowly dipped twice towards the edge of the margin; a light strike and another fish was swung in towards the bank.
“That’s one!” shouted Tommy. “One what?” I said in surprise.
“A thingy, a thingy, one of those spotted perch!”
I looked down into my hands and noticed I had indeed caught one of Tommy’s spotted perch. I stepped back from the waters edge dropping my captive specimen into the margins. The fish was a horrible grey colour and obviously had some kind of measles or even worse. I didn’t fancy the idea of catching sick fish and besides it was now getting dark and time we made our way home.
The shadows of the old prison camp were beginning to look menacingly across the pool at us. Who knows what hideous creatures lurk in such places after dark! Well, we didn’t fancy finding out; we were soon running across the courtyard and into the orchard behind. By the time we had arrived in the middle of the orchard, we heard the snapping of branches behind us, followed by loud panting noises from a large animal.
Turning quickly around we were confronted by the Hound of the Baskervilles, which was charging at full pelt toward us! We made the fence just in time, the tackle went flying through the air and it was fortunate for us that the hound couldn’t climb. Thanks God!!
We made our way back down the farm tracks and over the canal bridge just before the last light of day had left the skies. Even so, trouble was awaiting us as we arrived home late again. Tales of the spotted perch continued to steal the limelight amongst our little band of followers for some weeks. It wasn’t however, until a few months later that I actually learned the true identity of the spotted perch, it was of course a ruffe!
Note: FM’s grateful thanks to Monk and the late Leigh Moffatt for allowing us to reproduce the cartoons.
