I am sad to report that my local tackle shop here in St. Ives has finally closed its doors for good, to be replaced, ironically, with a computer store. I guess this is a sign of the times, though I feel slightly guilty because I never really patronised the shop as much as I could have. Truth be told, they only stocked the sort of gear that serves beginners and occasional anglers – and the bait was poor – but it was a warm and friendly place, and since I’ve returned to this magical pastime, I’ve found “warm and friendly” increasingly hard to find.
Many seem to blame the rise of the Internet for the local shops’ demise, but I’m not so sure.
Recently, the first weekend of the season in fact, I stopped in after work at a large and very well known southern tackle shop, to browse and buy a few things for the weekend. It was 5.30pm – a reasonable time I thought, having worked hard all week – only to be ushered unceremoniously out of the store without buying anything as they ‘wanted to lock up!’ What the Hell happened to service?
I use this particular shop purely for convenience as I have an office in the town, and frankly, I have now decided never to go there again. They have a fabulous array of very high quality stock, which I love. But before Christmas I treated myself to a beautiful little Free Spirit stalking rod for the princely sum of £230 with not even a smile from the surly manager. Indeed, I checked him out by adding a spool of line to my purchase of the rod, adding about £3 to my bill. When I was falling in love with fishing fifty years ago, the thought of asking me to pay for my line, having just purchased one of the most expensive rods in the shop, would have been unheard of. Now, however, I was grumpily presented with a demand for £233. “Stick yer pin in there, mate.” And not even a “good luck” as I go out the door!
In the 1960s, when I had to cross Leeds city centre to get to school, my journey was frequently distracted by the plethora of fishing shops in the heart of the city. Their overheads would certainly be prohibitive now, but in those days, within a few minutes’ walk I could divide my attention between Ritz Angling Centre, Gledhills, Linsley Bros, and the inimitable Kirkgate Anglers. This latter was the stronghold of the Leeds match fishing fraternity and, coincidentally, directly adjacent to where I changed buses on the school run. As a consequence, I could frequently be found dawdling over the floats and paraphernalia amidst an atmosphere of Woodbines and maggot ammonia. In those days, everyone was made to feel welcome, and the store often didn’t close until the last customer had been fully satisfied.
Even more memorable was the late and great Jim Sharp, the Nottingham Trent wizard, who presided over Tom Watson’s Tackle Shop. One of my most cherished memories is of the early ‘70s, when my friend Graham Lister and I drove a beaten up old Vauxhall Cresta from Leeds to Nottingham just to look at the legendary Tom Watson stick floats. On a busy Saturday afternoon, Jim patiently spread drawer after drawer of shiny new floats out on the counter for us to pore over and marvel at. I remember we spent the whole afternoon and probably a measly £10 or so on a couple of dozen sticks, whilst the busy Saturday trade thronged all around us.
I still have and use those floats today, whenever the rare opportunity to fish in running water presents itself. Indeed, in one of those ridiculous rites of youthful rebellion, I insisted in sporting the bright red tip of a ‘Trent-master’ stick in the top pocket of my suit instead of the usual buttonhole on my wedding day in 1972.
Through the late ‘70s and early ‘80s I was making my living designing and selling fishing tackle, which took me to lots of tackle shops all over the country. There was a real warmth and friendliness to most of these places, with many having a sense of camaraderie akin to a working men’s club. Children and beginners were readily advised and guided, whilst local experts and regulars swapped banter and information quite freely. It was quite common to find a regular clique of locals idling away most of Friday afternoon, drinking coffee and swapping outrageous stories. These were not cliques in the negative sense of the word, however. Everyone was welcome to join in, providing you had something to contribute.
Sadly, those days appear to be gone. In the past couple of years, when I have slowly come back to fishing after my long lay off, I have visited a wide variety of tackle shops and generally been met with cold indifference or unsmiling silence. There is more tackle to buy, more bait to show, and more money to be taken than ever before, but as with so many retail experiences today, it has become a matter of ‘processing’ customers and transactions, rather than engaging them and creating an ‘experience.’ My journeys to the tackle shop were once a part of and an extension to my fishing pleasure. Sadly, they are now just another chore.
The St. Ives Angling Centre was a notable exception. As the remaining tackle shops no doubt bemoan the disloyalty of the angling public and the invasive effect of the Internet, I confess I will be joining the ranks of the cyberspace shoppers. I’ve reached the age where I prefer my memories of tackle shops past to the miserable realities of today’s forbidding dungeons.
