Early Daze...

[Pickerel]

How it all began for me....

In the beginning, at the age of five, my first few fishing outings were via a bus ride to the Thames at Chertsey. There, watched by my father, I would attempt to drown some poor worm by hanging it off the end of a ‘complete fishing set’ which had cost the sum of 5s 11d.

They say a bad workman blames his tools and I’ll use any excuse. The two piece bamboo rod was slightly less than 6′ long when assembled, the brass ferrules would have doubled for parts of an Iraqi supergun, the wooden reel was screwed to the rod without the need for unnecessary adornments such as a handle, and the line not only resembled string, it was string!

Thus equipped, and standing some three feet back from the water’s edge for safety’s sake, my technique was to drop the tackle in at the top of my swim, trot the stream for a distance of about 5ft, float and bait lying flat as they hadn’t time or inclination to sink, and then lift the tackle out and start again.

You may not be surprised to know that this particular method of fishing cannot really be recommended if you are expecting any kind of success, but it may keep a small boy busy in the expectation that something might

A year later my uncle Roy, who had won huge silver cups for fishing, took me to a gravel pit at Bedfont. This was another world altogether. For a start I was entrusted with a proper rod with a handle to put the reel on, strange thin see-through stuff called nylon, and a magic float that not only stood upright, but also stayed where you put it in the water - Uncle Roy had obviously arranged for the lake not to be rushing past while we were fishing, or so I thought.

The other strange thing was that on that morning was that more than twenty perch pulled the float under, which meant that I had caught more than my cup-winning uncle. No matter that the few fish he did manage to catch were huge slimy things called bream – I caught more fish!

Shortly after this my family moved to Buckinghamshire, and after a lapse of a couple of years the fishing bug slowly took hold again, beginning with an assault on the sticklebacks in the town pond. Standard tackle was now a one-piece fibreglass rod with wooden handle, and a small metal reel with a spindle diameter of around half an inch, and permanent, noisy ratchet

These delightful little reels had several interesting features 1) The retrieve ratio was such that the only time you wound in was to pack up. 2) You only needed around twelve feet of line on the reel, as there is no fish swimming that was ever going to take line off against that ratchet. 3) When you did take the line off the spool, the diameter of the spindle had turned it into something which could do service as a throttle return spring for a Ford Anglia.

Despite all this we managed to tame those wild sticklebacks and started to search around for a bigger challenge. This emerged in the form of the Grand Union Canal at Berkhampstead, which was some seven miles distant and had to be reached by bike. Here my friends and I spent several seasons doing exactly the same things in the same swims and with the same fairly predictable results.

qTechniques were usually double maggot under a self-cocking float, fished mid-water and half way across. This would sometimes be varied by trying a cast to the far bank, but with our centrepin reels this meant pulling off and holding loops of line and prayer assisted casting. We did manage to catch a variety of small fish including roach, perch and, of course, gudgeon.

Various other exotic baits were tried such as worms (quite good), bread (very slow), paste (even slower), cheese (hopeless), and even stewed wheat (tried once – gave up!)

It may be seen from this that our patience was not limitless, but at the time we were happy enough with what we were doing, namely a nice ride out, and a days’ free fishing The local bailiff patrolled the towpath on a moped, and the noise it made gave us plenty of warning that it was time to retreat to a safe distance until he had passed).

Our tackle slowly became more sophisticated over the seasons and such developments as two- and even three-piece rods were acquired, in lengths reaching upwards of ten feet. Mostly they were Japanese split cane ‘combination’ rods, five or seven piece, which could be assembled into a rod to tackle anything that swam. Reels went to 3” then 4” centrepins, some Bakelite, some wooden, some were even metal and then the first fixed spools started to appear.

These reels were Intrepid ‘Prince Regents' and when you saw your former best friend cast three times further than you with his new toy, you learnt the true meaning of envy. Funds were found by whatever means to enable us to all purchase one of these wondrous machines and then it was off to new waters to empty them of fish – couldn’t fail, could we?

The first new venue chosen was the Tring Reservoirs group, famed at that time for their huge bream and roach and we were bound to get arm ache pulling out fish all day long. (Yes, yes – I know now, thank you!).

For the first visit we chose Marsworth, in those days there were still the remains of the old landing stage and boathouse, and numerous secluded tree-fringed swims – perfect! We arrived at 11.00am and chose the one remaining swim, and opened the batting with double maggot float-fished three feet deep, and one rod length out.

Early anticipation was waning a little after an hour, but a visit from Bernard the bailiff stirred us up again. The reason – we read the day tickets we had so kindly been offered, and were duly amazed.

Rule 1, No more than four fish to be retained together at any one time – damn, we had only bought one keepnet

Rule 2, You were allowed to take away as many bream as you liked – we would have to acquire a cat

Rule 3 was a list of the sizes of ‘takable’ fish – did they really grow that big??

We didn’t find out on the first trip as we had to leave at 3.30 pm in order to cycle home in time for tea. We didn’t find out on the second trip either, or the third…… Now it was time for a cunning plan, a new method – legering, was going to do the business for us, and an earlier start – 8.30am would give us the pick of the swims. We even took two keepnets now because we couldn’t fail – could we!

Six trips resulted in one very small perch caught on double maggot fished three foot deep etc, etc. Arriving at 8.30 didn’t confer any advantages on the swim choice front either, what time did those blokes get up! A new plan of attack was hatched, simplicity itself – fish somewhere else! I returned to Tring later in life – hell-bent on revenge, but that is another story.....

Now we really broadened our horizons and somewhat spookily returned to my fishing birthplace, the River Thames. There we had two lines of attack, by bicycle to Cookham, or by bus to Windsor, both of which were free fishing at the time (a major consideration to small boys).

The swims at Cookham were actually backwaters, and were very kind to us in that we never blanked, and we caught some different species including dace up to half a pound. These we had to stalk, then tempt on freelined single maggot - very advanced!

We also fished the main weirpool, but legering meant one cast, one lost leger weight, and the currents around a small island right in front of the prime swim would simply sweep your float round to join the rest of the collection festooning the overhanging branches. As our float sets usually numbered about three, we couldn’t do that too often.

There was the very tempting option of climbing over the gates to the weir bridge were you could trot down a distance or some forty yards, and have perfect control of your float. What you wouldn’t have was perfect control of was your bladder because the island reached by the weir bridge was guarded by three Pyrenean Mountain dogs whose hearing was attuned to the slightest suggestion of someone attempting to scale the bridge gates. It was always fun to watch a newcomer try, however, because the sight and sound of those huge, howling dogs bearing down on the gates was awe inspiring.

Windsor was another venue which was always guaranteed to produce something and did indeed throw up some surprises. The actual swims we fished were on Romney Island, and we would usually try to fish right at the end of the island into the huge slack where the weir and lock streams met. Here we could leger at thirty to forty yards distance with a chance of barbel (we always managed gudgeon) sometimes roach, perch, dace, occasional bream and there were always bleak if we just needed bites.

Looking back it seems almost perfect, and in truth it was pretty close. A number of new techniques were also tried, including spinning, livebaiting and deadbaiting, because we were now after Pike. Fishing for pike in those days meant going very ill equipped and looking back it still causes a shudder. Rods were usually the Pike/Pier combination from the ubiquitous ‘set’. Reels stayed the same and line was upgraded to around 12lb b.s. Pike floats were Fishing Gazette type and snap tackle was Mr Jardine’s finest shop bought variety, hook size – huge.

Two seasons of half-hearted pike fishing yielded just two fish. The reason being that the amount of time we actually spent fishing for pike usually amounted to no more than thirty minutes per session if we were spinning, an hour or two if livebaiting, and sometimes up to half a day deadbaiting.

Of those two fish, the first was a pike of seven pounds which, I am ashamed to say, was tapped on the head with a bankstick, and then taken home on the bus This fish was paraded round our bemused neighbours and ended up on the compost heap.

The second fish was a four pound trout which took a gudgeon livebait. When I finally managed to land it I became a mini celebrity as anglers and others crowded round to see, shaking their heads and muttering something about preserves and my parentage.

Photographs were taken by one of the anglers and names and addresses were noted but I am afraid the pictures never materialised. Eventually I was persuaded to let the fish go, which, with some reluctance, and not a little pride, I did.

Recounting this tale to my other fishing colleagues and schoolmates without any proof proved difficult, and at twelve years of age their cynicism hurt. However, fate then dealt some strange cards and I was allowed a period of self-satisfaction.

Two weeks after the capture of the four pound trout I was back at Windsor with three of my doubting schoolmates, whilst they appeared not to believe in Thames trout, they couldn’t pass up the remote possibility of catching one! As we approached the swim, it was obvious that word had got round and every possible inch of fishable bank on Romney Island was occupied by anglers. Somewhat despondent we trudged back to the lock and crossed over to the downstream riverbank to fish.

Here we were fishing in the main current but were opposite Romney Island, which seemed to resemble an ant colony, such was the activity. My swim had a vestigial weedbed at my feet, to give some cover, and on the third trot down using double maggot, I hooked a barbel, or so I thought.

The fish shot up and down the river and made several runs almost to the island with me hanging on for dear life. If this was a barbel it would be my first, so it was coming out! After five minutes, my friends gathered round the landing net in astonishment as I pulled in a two pound trout.

I, of course, acted quite nonchalantly, with the ”It’s just another trout, why all the fuss” attitude of a seasoned professional, while my legs rapidly turned to jelly. The ant colony on Romney Island evaporated and re-assembled behind my friends in time to see the fish being returned. There was a torrent of questions, a scramble for bank space and once again those comments about preserves/parentage!

My friends and I packed up and went home early, but glowing with the strange sense of a job well done. The following week the story of the four pound trout appeared in the ‘Angling Times’, still without pictures but enough to guarantee fame amongst family and friends for a short while.

The rest of my youthful fishing experiences were of little note other than the constant search for the perfect venue, and in that I travelled as far and wide as bicycle and public transport allowed. My then home base of Chesham in Buckinghamshire did not offer a lot of scope to coarse fisherman.

The local River Chess was a ferociously guarded trout stream and anyone caught poaching was likely to have their hands (or something else!) cut off. Being resourceful I learned that the warden in charge of Latimer Lakes on the Chess had a teenage daughter.

I did the honourable thing and invited the girl out for a Chinese meal as an opening ploy to a long lasting relationship. The meal cost me six weeks’ paper round money and I didn’t get anywhere on either front.


After that, fishing took a back seat for a while as hormones became involved, and the nature of the quarry changed from cold-blooded to warm- blooded....

[Liphook]

I enjoyed that Pickerel

[AllRounder]

A very enjoyable and entertaining read thanks for posting

[Pallenpool]

A super account of some of your early fishing ‘daze’ memorable as they are - I also enjoyed the interlaced and very generous humour - I certainly enjoyed the diversion this afternoon.

4lb Trout - my word what a cracker!!!

Many thanks Sir.

[Santiago]

As always, as great read Pickerel.

[Pickerel]

Thanks for the kind comments on my stuttering start to fishing

Just remembered I have a handle from one of the Japanese combo rods mentioned in the tale. This was acquired at an auction for the princely sum of £3, described as a 'Rod and reel set' the 3 piece rod comprised this handle, a whole cane middle and a fibreglass top with a porcelain top ring.

None of these pieces bore any relation to the other, but attached to the handle was a very serviceable Mitchell 324.

Shown in the picture is a 'Flick 'em' which I am not sure what to do with. It spins fairly freely and is generally tidy, but should it be painted, or left how it is?

[Santiago]

You should consider sending some of your stories to Fallons Angler, they're so good!

[Dave Burr]

It's lovely to revel in someone else's childhood. I bet that if you'd try to eat your first trout you would have been mightily disappointed, I know I was.

[Pickerel]

Hi Dave

You are right about the taste of my first trout. Along with a couple of school friends we fished a small dam on the Misbourne at Little Missenden (just upstream of Shardeloes, home to the one-time record pike, hauled out by one A Jardine esq.) This dam contained a number of uneducated rainbow trout, partial to float fished worm and were removed without ceremony.

I took one home, a nice fish of 1 3/4 lbs and presented it to our neighbour who was something of a cook. The fish was duly prepared and offered up to my family. For those whose only other experience of fish was something covered in batter and soaked in salt and vinegar, the epicurian delights of a well prepared trout fillet tasted of mud ..

[Danesman]

Thank you for a great read