The Alternative Angler – Wondering about Wandering

Never mind smelling the flowers, don’t forget to take time out to see the satirical side of fishing life and grab a laugh along the way as well. So here’s a regular column from Kevin Perkins to remind us that life is for laughing at, or taking the p*** out of, whenever we can.

Wondering About Wandering

I suppose the Thames was chosen due to its familiarity, as we had not long moved out of London, and the fact that my dad was a bus driver meant that we got free travel, which is always a bonus. I never did find out why we went fishing, and by that I mean who’s suggestion it was. I can’t see it being my father, as at no time in his life did he ever see the point of fishing as a sport (in fact, he showed no interest in any form of sports or any other leisure pastimes), so it must have been pester power by yours truly, but I certainly can’t recall what might have triggered it off.

Anyway, from somewhere, a boy’s fishing set appeared, consisting of a 5ft bamboo cane, with what seemed to be a cotton reel screwed to one end, which was loaded with about 20ft of white twine, the end tackle consisting of a cork lighthouse under which was a lump of folded lead, notable for either having a coating which was a very early attempt at camou pattern, or caused by a patina that had come about by it having previously spent years weathering on a church roof.

Below that, none of your loop to loop fixing, but a double granny knot was employed, complete with loose tag which frayed like a tassel on a church bell rope. All of which was very necessary to secure a gut cast and a man-sized hook, probably bordering on a modern size 4, onto which was impaled a trusty garden worm, one of two or three that we took along for the ride and more than enough for a day’s fishing.

Despite such finely balanced tackle you may be surprised to hear that the Thames fish did not give themselves up easily. In fact, not at all, and after three or four fruitless trips we gave up and never went back.*

A couple of years passed, and a session of ‘sticklebacking’ with nets on the town pond was rudely interrupted when a bigger lad, all of about 10 years old, turned up with proper tackle and proceeded to catch goldfish, right in front of us. That was it! One piece fibreglass rods with ribbed plastic handles were acquired, matched to those cheap tin reels with a spool diameter approaching half an inch, giving a retrieve rate of, well, let’s face it, not very much.

As soon as we had recaptured all the goldfish that had been liberated as prizes from the local fairground, we were off to pastures new. A seven-mile bike or bus ride to the canal at Berkhampstead orTring Reservoirs, over to Black Park Lake at Fulmer, an even further bike ride, or off to the Thames at Cookham, which meant a whole day excursion on the bikes.

I also became a junior member of the local angling club, whose comprehensive portfolio of two waters included the very same Town Pond of earlier adventures, and a fifty-yard stretch of trout fishing on the River Chess. Well actually a four-foot wide, six inch deep tributary of the Chess, which ran alongside the sewage treatment plant. Not really one for the dry-fly purists, I fear. Other than that, the club went on regular matches by coach to far-flung locations such as Oxford, to fish the Windrush and Cherwell, sometimes down to Sonning and Saltash on the Thames. Best thing about these matches was that junior participation was just about tolerated.

We would be dumped in a lay-by, a vaguely waved arm would tell us to go and fish ‘over there’ (always roving matches, always fished to size limits). Given that every venue was completely alien, it may come as no surprise that DNW’s were the order of the day, especially as we were trying to tempt ‘goer’ fish’ with tackle that was, in my case at least, limited by pocket money and rudimentary in the extreme.

It seemed that the regulars were adept at catching what were known as ‘hungry’ fish’. This description had nothing to do with poor diet, or some form of piscine anorexia. The long, lean, appearance was all down to the poor fish being stretched and pulled almost to breaking point to ensure they were over the size limits. Some six hours after these fun and games had started we would be collected, with an obligatory pub stop on the way home where the winner (never me) would, after having his arm shoved right up his back, treat everyone to drinks.

This idea of travelling to go fishing has never really left me. This despite the fact that I now live just 800 yards from Furzton Lake, a perfectly reasonable fishing venue, I prefer to drive some thirty miles to fish on the Thames. In fact, in a five-mile radius from home I have a large number of lakes containing specimen fish of all kinds, the Rivers Ouse and Ouzel, and the GU Canal, but to my skewed way of thinking they are too close. Going fishing to me means an adventure, and you just don’t get that with a ten-minute car ride. My local club, MKAA, has more waters on its books that you can fish in a season, I should perhaps get their book and spend a season doing just that, visiting each water once or twice then moving on to the next.

And I know there will be those of you who will say that by not concentrating on particular waters I am seriously reducing my chances of catching anything worthwhile (or at all!). But to me, just going somewhere is part of the adventure, catching is a bonus. To give a prime example, when Fred Buller’s Doomsday Book came out, I was straight off to fish places like Belvoir Castle Lake, once home to a monstrous 39lb pike.

Here is piscatorial ecstasy for me. A very early start, a long drive, picturesque fishery, and about as much chance of catching a similar sized fish as winning the Lottery, probably more chance of winning the Lottery, actually, but I was there, fishing on a lake that had produced a monster! In fact, a pike was caught, all of 12ozs, that took a liking to a triple section plug almost 9″ long. But the fact that there are baby pike means that there are bigger fish, so give self a mental note to make a return visit, one day.

Perhaps if I had been bought up with a river or pond to fish on my doorstep, I would be happy to concentrate on the venue in hand, get to know it through the seasons, through the years, know every swim, maybe even most of the fish, but that is not my way. Sticking my rod rests back in the same holes in the bank week in week out has no appeal to me, I’m afraid. (Hmmm….all sorts of Freudian psycho-sexual connotations there, I think…).

There are those who dream of a little retirement bungalow beside their own lake or stream to see out their fishing days, but I’m no one of them. I’ll still be trying out far-flung venues in my dotage, or until my wife takes the car keys off me, which she threatens to do as soon as she thinks I’m not fit to drive, and by her reckoning, that day is not too far off!

* These were the only occasions I ever had ‘lads and dads’ time with my father. Family events soon after this soon conspired to change our lives forever, and neither I, nor my two younger brothers were ever to enjoy quality time with him. Partly, I suspect because he came from an age where children were to be seen and not heard, and also from him finding out quite late in life that he was adopted. To realise that you have endured a particularly stern upbringing in a family ruled by a domineering father who, it transpires, isn’t your own is bound to have an effect on your idea of father/son relationships.

In true family tradition, I wasn’t told until just before I got married that my grandmother and a host of aunts and uncles were not true family, and the fact almost fifty years on that I still vividly remember my first and last outings with my own father, shows that I must have been affected to a degree.

Perhaps I have over-compensated with my own son, with support by attendance at whichever sport is the current fad at school, trips to the zoo, theme parks, seaside, all the latest must-have electronic toys, holidays abroad, shopping trips to New York, driving lessons, and currently we are both playing cricket for a local team means that we are always doing things ‘together.’ He has never really caught the fishing bug, and I have never forced him, but he will make the effort on occasions and come on the odd trip with me.

With Father’s Day looming, this all becomes even more poignant because my own dad died on a Father’s Day, this event made even worse because it just happened to fall on the 16th June, when I was out celebrating the opening of a new fishing season with my own lad. For those of us who are lucky enough to have sons, I hope they remember you on this day because the time you have spent together means that they want to, rather than give you a card on Father’s Day just because they feel that they are obliged to.