I was 11 or 12 years old at the time and had been allowed out on the river for the first time all on my own – whoopee! My parents were very recently separated and my dad eventually let me out on the understanding that I was to stay on the “school stretch”, so he would know where I was.
The school stretch was maybe 400 yards long and ran alongside the school I was then attending. This would never have happened under normal circumstances but the old fella wasn’t himself, given the chaos that had unravelled at home, and he knew, even then, that fishing would soothe at least one of his offspring.
This was, and is, the river Caldew in Carlisle, my training ground and somewhere very special to me. Fast flowing, shallow, gravelly and relatively clean, it held chub to perhaps 4lbs, dace to 3/4lb, and beautiful brownies, sea trout and the inevitable swim-buggering salmon.
This river and its mysterious dark vanishing fishy shapes filled my young mind for over three years. I would set off for school an hour before assembly to wander the bank and try to put W. H. Davies (an author of beginner’s angling books from many years ago) wisdom into some kind of practical plan of action that never quite worked out. I had the wrong tackle, or the wrong bait, the method wasn’t right, maybe the bait was wrong, so apart from the occasional fish, usually trout, I was failing dismally as a coarse fisherman. Then I met a ‘proper’ coarse fisherman.
This bloke was fishing more or less opposite me. I was in my usual place on a large concrete breakwater, sat there like a beacon against the skyline trotting a bunch of maggots into the eddy created by said lump of concrete. I was as usual catching trout or salmon par, or a bootlace eel if I was unlucky.
Eventually I tired of watching this fella’s float instead of my own and asked 10 questions a minute until he said something like, “Pack your stuff up and come ower ‘ere an I’ll show you the crack, like.”
Somewhat nervously I walked down to the bridge and made my way up to his swim, ready to bolt at the slightest sign of ‘weirdness’ (a friend was into train spotting and we had a ride in a shunter at Carlisle station, with a 50-something pervy driver that scared me silly, he’s probably dead now, but how I would like to meet him again, , , well worth 6 months inside!). This chap was ok, though, you can kinda tell who the weirdoes are when you are young, easier I think than as adults.
Well, he had all the kit, a seatbox, an impossibly long float rod, a beautiful Mitchell 300 and most impressive of all, a brolly! I sat for a couple of hours, watching and listening, learning the basic stuff we all take for granted, overdepth, holding back, fine, fine lines and small hooks, feeding accurately in a flow, the fast but gentle strike required for dace, shotting patterns, etc, etc. It was a revelation and something that changed my outlook completely.
To top it all, just before I had to leave (an hour late, dad never noticed, and how I RAN home!) he caught a grayling! I had looked longingly at the pictures of this fantastic fish in my books and there it was, in front of my eyes, piscatorial perfection.
I have no idea who this moustached average angler was, I’ve long forgotten his name, but the impact he had on the soaking wet (did I mention it was raining? It always rains in Carlisle!) youngster was profound, and lasts to this day.
Books are fantastic, Mr Marsden’s ‘Advanced Coarse Fishing’ had a similar effect to my adult mind as Mr ‘tache had on my beginner’s outlook, but nothing, I repeat, nothing, beats on the bank, real life dirty down to it reality, in the company of someone who has been there and done it.
If YOU see a youngster struggling away, doing god-knows what wrong, give it a try. It’s hard these days to break the barriers between adults and sprogs, easier if the parents are present, but still worthwhile even if only one in a hundred heed your advice.
My 12 year old’s joy when he slips the net under anything worthy of not swinging-in is reason enough for me.
