Fair do's!
"Off down the river, Mum!"
"Ok - better be back for tea, though!"
"Yeah - sure" (not bothering to check what time that might be....)
Now the Creedy was a typical westcountry Stream - very little in the way of coarse fish, but plenty of 3-to-the-pound brownies. These were generally suckers for a dead minnow, threaded mouth to vent with a darning needle , size 12 treble tied on and pulled back to secure the bait - swan shot pinched on at the mouth. This was lobbed into likely-looking holes and trundled back until ...bang! ....if a 7oz brown trout can produce that sort of take....seems unlikely now....
A quick stop with size 18s and bits of worm (kicked out of the bank) at the 'minnow run' in the brook in the 2nd field down, and we were well set with bait for a few hours.
"Where to then?" Kev asked, flicking a Players No. 6 between 13-year-old lips and sparking a Swan Vesta....
"The Lightnin' Tree?" Opined Steve, a year younger, but you'd want him on your team if a scrap with the lads from tied Farm cottages beckoned....
" Nah - we did that last time" I over-ruled . " That big hole down Brown's land where the other Brook comes in".
" We ain't supposed to go down there, mate" Said Steve a tad nervously. " 'E said 'ed tell our dads if he caught us again..."
" You Chicken, then, Perry? " Grinned Kev, blowing a near-perfect smoke ring. " Come on you Pillock - don't be girl all your life!"
That decided it - another raid on the miserable old git's bit of the river, then....
10 minutes later, we crept into position(s) around the Myriad tree roots, the brook trickling in just upstream, and "Splosh! Plop! Splash! " Syncronized minnows hit the water....
"Got one!" yelled Kev. A very nice 12ozer thrashing the surface.
"Keep it down you Spaz!! D'you want Brown down here with that Effin ' dog!?" Hissed Steve - not really enjoying this at all.....
Next chuck for me was a disaster. The line went over a low-lying branch....and the curse of the Interpid Black Prince struck again - as the bail arm engaged the line somehow got behind the spool and round the spindle.....
Rod laid down, I could just reach the offending branch without taking a swim and retrieve the line. Now the spool. Rod tucked under arm, Mercedes Benz badge-style clutch and spool removed - I went to work as Steve to my right helped himself to a 10ozer.
Swearing worse than a sailor under my breath, I completed my intricate task. Right. Time-to-start-FISHING and shut these two muppets up with their "Ha-ha-why-did-we-bring-him" ........Hello!!???
As I took up the slack and lowered the rod trip to rescue my minnow from the snag-strewn bottom - everything went tight . What-the-F....? .......Oh RATS!!.....it's stuck in a bleddy tree root.. yank yank yank ....Then the bottom pulled back with a power I 'd never experienced before.
Forgetting the slightly delicate nature of our current position vis a vis permission to fish etc. , I screamed for my mates like I'd been cornered alone by the Farm cottage kids.
"What IS it, Mike??" Shouted Kev as he and Steve stumbled quickly to my aid." And for Chrissake keep quiet-OH MY GOD!!"
His eyes followed mine the dark water almost at our feet. There, pulling and thrashing against my bent-double solid glass 6ft spinning rod ..........was the biggest freshwater eel I have still - ever seen.
It was pale grey, as thick as Boxy Strong's (the local Biker gang leader) bicep and - I kid you not - FULLY five of your English feet long. British record?? Phaaa! It was bigger than some of the congers dragged up off the Needles to feature in the pages of our weekly Anglers Mail. I would swear it then and would swear it again today on the biggest stack of bibles you can find.
As we stood there gawping, my arms, legs - whole body- shaking, my treble hook nicked in the top of its mouth, we could see the gill slits actually working behind it's head - who's ever seen that??! it was that big.
It undulated in the dark shady water in front of us, regarding us with its tiny black eyes.......PING!!
My treble flew over our heads into the branches above - and it sank from sight.
In unison we let out the inevitable phrase at top volume - the one that rhymes with "Clucking Bel!!" Followed by Kev voicing what we all thought......" Thank F### for that!!!" If that thing had ended up on the bank I think we would all have jumped in the river!
After what must have sounded like an adrenaline-fuelled swearing contest - our walk home was silent.
The whole incident can't have lasted more than 15 seconds - 20 at the outside - and yet I still occasionally dream about it today.
Obviously- later- full of emergent testosterone and bravado- we returned many times - sometimes armed with Kev's air rifle (for God's Sake!
) . Of course- we never saw anything like it again.....
