The Adventures Of Donald Effingham-Mudde & Damien

SPIKING THE SWIM

Damien and his two friends had planned to get completely bladdered in the pub that evening, but Donald’s unexpected appearance changed all that. They went into a huddle in the opposite corner of the snug in order to hatch a cunning plan to put one over on the old git.

At Damien’s insistence they were up long before dawn and set off, commando raid style, for Donald’s swim. Damien knew the old fart well enough by now to be sure that he wouldn’t wander too far from the keeper’s cottage, and he was right. Donald’s trusty, rusty rod rest was in position at a swim not twenty yards from the cottage door.

Their plan was simple, stuff the fish to the gills with baits that Donald wouldn’t be using. So, keeping back just enough for today’s short session, in went all the remaining hemp, sweet corn and boilies they had brought with them. Damien kept a watchful eye on the cottage for any signs of Donald stirring, but there were none. Having chucked in enough bait to raise the river level two inches, they ran away, chortling like schoolboys.

Late afternoon, and with their bait having run out, the boys packed up and got ready to go home. They had managed just a couple of small chub between them, but by and large they weren’t too disappointed with the two days fishing they had. All three of them trooped back to the car park and loaded up for the trip home.

Damien looked up from the car and he could see the old keeper’s cottage a little further upstream. He couldn’t resist a wander up the bank to see how Donald was getting on, and tell him how well they had done before he left.

As he got near to the cottage, he could see Donald fishing in the swim they had ‘spiked’. Damien walked up to the old boy, who was hunched up on his chair, his brow deeply furrowed and noisily chewing on the stem of his empty pipe, a dribble of spittle running down his chin following the course of a particularly deep wrinkle.

“How’s it going?” asked Damien, cheerily. “We’ve managed a couple of fish, so wasn’t a bad weekend for us boys, all things considered.”

“Well, I just can’t understand it, laddie. I think I’m finally losing my touch.” said Donald. “Do you know I’ve trotted all the way down this swim, and haven’t had so much as a sniff. It’s almost as if the fish just aren’t interested, I really thought I knew this stretch, felt sure there was a least a dace or two to be had along here. When I used to come down with the Taylor brothers we never, ever, failed to catch on this swim. Nothing big, mind, but always had a fish or two out.”

Bloody result, at long last! Thought Damien. That should take the old git down a peg or two. Can’t have him thinking he can catch fish everywhere he goes with that mingin’ old tackle of his.

He could hardly contain his delight.

Damien then thought how pathetic the old boy looked, just sitting there, staring at the river, waterlicked. He felt a small pang of guilt. Perhaps he should say something to try and cheer him up, before he went home, the old tw*t was family, after all. He put a hand on Donald’s shoulder, as if to console him.

“Never mind uncle, we all have days like this and you’ve still got the rest of the week here. It’s bound to get better as the days go by. Even Walker blanked now and again you know,” he said, smothering a small ‘tee-hee’.

“No I haven’t got much longer. I spoke to your dad earlier on, and he is going to have to come and pick me up tomorrow morning, something to do with his having to go away with his work.”

“That’s a shame” said Damien “Still, you said you can always come back any time you want, didn’t you?”

“Well yes laddie, but I am not as young as I was, and I like to think that I know how to fish the Avon properly after all these years. Fish don’t change much. If it worked all them years ago, I don’t see any good reason why it shouldn’t work now. When I fished here with Walker, Christmas week it was, about 20 years ago now, a while before he passed on to that great Redmire in the sky, we caught loads of chub on gentles, shed loads as you youngsters would call it. Why, we even had a………”

“Perhaps maggots just weren’t the right bait this time,” Damien rudely interrupted before the soft old sod could get into second gear. “Sometimes fish do go off some baits you know. Blanking on your first day back on the Avon isn’t the end of the world.” Damien was still in sympathetic mode.

“It can’t be the maggots laddie, they worked fine.” said Donald.

“How can that be when you said you haven’t caught anything?” asked a confused Damien.

“Not in that swim, no. But all the pre-baiting was done further up by the weir pool. Had a wonderful morning up there. Me and Arthur caught a brace of doubles apiece.”

“Doubles!! doubles!! Do you mean barbel? Over ten p… p…. pounds?” Damien was beginning to splutter.

“Oh yes laddie, one went nearly twelve. Think the last bugger put a set in the old Wallis, might have to turn the rings round when I get back. Get a few more years out of ’em that way. Pity about this here swim though. Thought we could have picked up a dace or two, perhaps the odd roach. Would have topped the day off nicely. Still, never mind, eh?”

Donald took the empty pipe out of his mouth and started cramming the bowl with Dark Shag. He fired it up with his smelly old petrol lighter and started puffing away, contentedly. Damien could only mumble a goodbye, and turned to walk back to the car in the gathering gloom.

He had that foul pipe smoke up his nose, and the beginning of yet another of Donald’s reminiscences about the day he and Walker had a dace fishing competition in that very swim while those young Taylor boys were in the cottage getting dinner ready and…….

Watch out for the Donald and Damien Christmas special!