But the fervour of my early years had reduced. All of that was to change when I started a new job, and on my first day one of the lads already working there asked me what my hobby was. When I told him I liked fishing he replied that he, too, was an angler. ‘Wellsy’ then asked if I fancied going the following week. “Why not?” I replied. That was the start of it all, and if I thought my enthusiasm for fishing in my early years was high, it was nothing compared with what was to follow.
You see, on that first trip with him to a gravel pit in Hertfordshire, he caught his first twenty – a lovely 23 pounder; a fish that I expertly gaffed for him I might add! I had become very proficient in the use of the gaff: being a child of the 60s it was the norm for me, and I might add that, wielded correctly, they did little harm, far less in fact than the monster trebles on modern lures and the horrendous mess ive seen with hooks and thrashing fish entangled in landing nets. The capture of this fish, it seemed, turned him overnight into a fanatical pike angler. On the day in question I had lost a very large fish myself, and this made me in turn, more than keen again. What followed in the following thirty five years was like being caught up in a maelstrom: I cant describe it any other way.
1966…and the boy was in apprenticeship mode on The Ripples, Essex, tragically back-filled in the early 70s
Far and wide he and I travelled: to lakes, drains, rivers, pits, ponds, broads, loughs and reservoirs all over the place. He and I, along with other mates met along the way, also made frequent trips to those fabled limestone loughs in the west of Ireland where, if you knew where to look, fabulous sport was to be had on these vast inland seas. It came to seem that if I hadn’t travelled 200 miles for a days fishing I hadn’t been out at all: it verged on utter madness. But relentlessly we pursued big pike, week in week out throughout the winters of those years: we never summer-fished for them. Late September would see the tackle prepared, live-bait tanks stocked and freezers filled in readiness for the onslaught. The big fish started to come in unprecedented quantities; twenty pounders became almost a given, even thirty pounders it seemed at one stage, were not too difficult to come by. I hope that doesn’t sound too crass but it must, I know. Never the less it was true.
The more I caught the more I wanted to catch. It became like a disease – a drug that I had to have more and more of. One evening on the late shift in work, we were sat in our usual spot drinking tea with all the others discussing football, rude women and such like. Wellsy and I, as usual, were discussing the prospects for the coming weekend’s fishing. ‘Jim the Grass’ the erstwhile storeman on our shift (so named because he could never keep a secret) interrupted our conversation saying “I expect you two are going to freeze your bollocks off sitting in a boat somewhere all weekend?”.
“Course Jim!” my mate replied, “What are you going to do – take the old woman to Lakeside?”
This was met with ribald laughter by all those present, and we returned to our fishy conversation. My mate then produced a book. “Have a read of that” he instructed. The tome in question was the excellent book written by Steve Harper detailing the many captures of big pike from the Norfolk Broads. I took the book home and, I think, stayed up for most of the night devouring it from cover to cover. There in its pages were accounts and pictures of the great fish and great anglers from yesteryear that I remembered so vividly from the 60s. Amongst them was the photo of Peter Hancock with his Horsey forty. Well that was it, I just had to have a trip there. Strangely I had never fished Horsey despite having fished many of the other broads and associated rivers and I couldn’t fathom out why. This had to be corrected!
Rushing in to work the next afternoon, I sought my mate out and said “Look we”ve GOT to have a trip to Horsey”. He, being somewhat younger than me, didn’t have the same sense of the history of this water and, coming to pike fishing perhaps a bit later in life than I had, couldn’t understand my burning desire to have a go there; weren’t we, after all, doing ok elsewhere? I needn’t have worried of course. Had I suggested a trip to Mars pike fishing at that time he”d have agreed to it. “Ok” he said, “I’ll see what info I can find on it”. He really did have his finger on the pulse in the pike fishing world, so investigations began.
It transpired that the mere was privately owned by Lord Buxton; we met him several times on this and other trips we were to make to the mere. The water was only now open for fishing for the last two weeks of the season. Plans were made and digs were booked for the opening three days from 1st March. A couple of our mates, Terry and Roy, from Canning town, decided to come along for a couple of the days. That meant that this would turn into a boozing as well as a fishing trip! A more comical pair of cowsons I have yet to meet! So even if the fishing was poor, we’d have a bloody good laugh. As it turned out I could write an article about the things that happened on that trip other than the fishing itself, suffice to say that we all returned home with dreadful hangovers, and guts aching from laughter.
My mate had been in touch with a well known Norfolk angler to try and get the SP on the water, “Whaaat youse want boi is ‘errins, fished not up agin’ them reed-beds, but roight in among ’em. This didn’t ring true to me. I remember the fish from the 60s were mainly caught on wobbled deadbait, and large free roving live baits, and that fish don’t change – only anglers’ perceptions of them. To that end I went to great troubles to secure a supply of great big livelies.
The fateful day arrived, and I turned up at my mate’s at silly o’clock in the morning, loaded our home-made boat onto the roof-rack and took off with all due haste for the 120 mile drive in order to be on the water by daybreak. The journey was pretty uneventful, and we didn’t even get lost for a change! On the journey up, my sense of excitement grew and I just couldn’t wait to get afloat and at ’em.
We arrived at the dyke by the old windmill in the dark, hastily unloaded the boat and took off up the dyke just as a glimmer of light began to show in the eastern skies. Just before entering the mere proper, there on the right, was the old summerhouse with its lawn in front. It looked just the same as it did in those old pictures from decades ago! I was enchanted to see it, and all those old memories from when I was a boy came flooding back. I couldn’t believe that at last, after all these years, I was actually here upon the hallowed waters of the mere.
Peter Hancock’s historic 40lber
Finding a likely looking spot on the far side, we plotted-up and anointed the water with our ‘errins. It soon became apparent that we had picked the right spot to fish as pike began to strike all around the boat. As the light got stronger, activity increased and I thought any moment now and we’ll ‘ave em. Well, all morning we sat there, but apart from one little ‘un of about 8lbs we didn’t have a pull. By early afternoon with the fish continuing to strike I said to my mate “*&%”* this for a game of soldiers it aint happening, let’s put the lives on”.
As soon as we commenced our favoured livelie-trolling method we were into them, and for the rest of the day fish after fish came to the boat – all exciting stuff as many of the takes occurred on the surface in only 5 feet of water and the first 2 foot of that was weed. We had to set the baits very shallow with the floats set at the top of the up trace. It became apparent that the fish had already spawned or were in the process of doing so: one 19 pounder I had was shedding eggs in the bottom of the boat as she was being unhooked.
As the light faded so activity ceased and we sat quietly having a last cup of tea, basking in the afterglow. Strangely there were no other boats out that day, or for the remaining two days that we fished and I wondered why as I sat there soaking up the very special atmosphere. It was as if all the ghosts of our pike fishing forefathers were around us: what a wonderful place it was. Having packed-up and stowed the boat on the roof rack, we went and found our digs and then retired to the village pub, the Admiral Nelson, for some dinner and a much needed drink.
We had just ordered dinner and got the first pint in, when Terry and Roy burst in to the pub, “burst In” being a very appropriate term where they are concerned. Within moments they had this quiet little village pub in uproar; mayhem follows them wherever they go. Terry has said of Roy that when he dies he’s going to remove his brain and advertise it for sale as “having one owner, hardly used”. If you knew Roy you would well understand why Terry would say this! Anyway a riotous evening ensued, and having appraised the boys of the day’s events we staggered back to the digs about 1 am pissed as puddings. The uproar continued in there, and I don’t think the elderly couple who owned the lovely little thatched cottage quite knew what had hit them!
Anyway what happened in there is a tale for another time. Next morning, feeling very much the worse for wear, and after a monster Norfolk fry up, we were back out on the mere for first light. Terry and Roy, not having any lives, sat it out soaking herrings and nursing their hangovers, drinking mug after mug of tea in an effort to wash all the booze out of their systems. We on the other hand continued where we had left off the previous evening, trolling the lives. Straight away we were into fish, and a goodly few fish were boated: singles, and a fair few big doubles came our way.
Mid morning and a shout from Terry told us that Roy had just had a fish bang on 20 pounds – so the soaked herring method did work after all, albeit slowly. Shortly afterwards Terry had a smaller fish, so at least the boys hadn’t come all this way for nothing. Busting to answer the call of nature I had to go ashore into a reed-bed to attend to business. On returning to the boat we took off trolling again and immediately I had a take from what turned out to be a low double. The surface that day had a lively ripple on it and, although I generally loathe Americanisms, the term they use for it “nervous water” describes it very well. Re-baiting with a large bait of about 12 oz (which I lowered into the water by hand) we moved away using the electric outboard. We had hardly gone a few yards when a great swirl erupted on the surface and the float disappeared through a hole in the in the water, leaving the whole area flat calm, like a bucket of oil had been poured onto the surface. Leaving it for a little while (it WAS a large bait) I bent into a heavy fish that ponderously moved away making the drag tick like a clock. Nothing spectacular ensued and soon the fish neared the boat. My mate stood in front of me with the net in our well practiced routine, obscuring my view of the beast as it surfaced “effin “ell!” he said, “whatever you do, DONT effin loose this one! I fink it might be an effin firty!”
Tony Corless with a March ’99 fish of 26lbs 4oz from Horsey Mere
Scooping up the great fish up in the large net he hauled it into the boat, a great long beast of a fish it was, with a head like a shovel, typical of a big Broads fish. “Terry, Roy! Get your arses over here!” my mate shouted, “I fink we’ve got an effing firty!” The boys upped-sticks and came over to view our catch. It soon became obvious that this fish was one of those that had just spawned for despite her great length and wide back, she had no depth to her. On the scales she went: 26 1/4lbs. A week before she may well have been a “firty” but I wasn’t disappointed. In fact I was elated! After all, she might have been a great, great grand-daughter of Frank Wright’s thirty five pounder!
Copious amounts of grog were consumed once again in the Nelson to celebrate my capture in the time honoured fashion that night. I was surprised they let us back in after the antics of the previous night! In the years that followed plenty of bigger fish came my way but none compared with the feeling that fish gave me: I felt I’d become a proper pike angler at last. Well that, dear reader, is the story of the best pike I ever caught. Its the first time I have ever written an article and I have tried to make it a “ripping yarn”. I hope that I have entertained you but, if I have just bored you silly, then please accept my apologies. Regards T.C.
By the way……do you like the look of this one?
