More fishing

Having watched a group of young people, all with their heads down, fiddling with tablets and mobile phones it occurred to me just how different life is today for our youngsters. As a result I got thinking about the stuff I and my friends did in Kingsley when we were of a similar age to the above mentioned group. I suspect the modern youngster walks very little and spends hours sitting with their gadgetry exercising only their fingers. It seems the newspapers are, almost daily, warning us of an obesity crisis among our youth. Trust me, there was no such crisis in my childhood days. Not least because we walked miles every day in order to perform some task or another, fishing, birds nesting, collecting nuts, blackberries, fungi etc. depending upon the season and or time of year. We left home after breakfast and, for the most part, did not return until tea time. Apart from all of the exercise we didn't have anything like the food available to us that the modern child enjoys, the war was not long over and rationing went on for quite a while. 

The fishing aspect of our activities, apart from the village pond, took place in the river at the back of the common and extended from Shortheath Common and Oakhanger all the way down to the rear of the Sleaford garage. That is a lot of walking, no doubt, amounting to many miles. 

Of course, we didn't do the whole length in any given day but we did cover long distances in pursuit of the wild brown trout which was plentiful in the river in those days. 

The other great joy, as far as the river was concerned, was tiddler fishing. This was done in the feeder stream which ran from, north of the village, behind Dean Farm under the B3004 and down hill towards where Mr and Mrs Waters farmed, before entering the river. It was the area behind the Waters farm which was the most popular with us as, in those days, it teamed with small fish. I suppose the close proximity to the main river contributed to this abundance. At the time my best mate, Lewis Batty, lived in the old chapel cottage. The cottage had a tinned roof lean-to and it was in this that we housed our collection of containers holding our fishy captives. The stream in which they had been caught was not a deep one, probably for the most part, about a foot deep. Not having lovely waterproof footwear available to us then we simply took off our shoes and socks, rolled up our trouser legs and paddled, this was in the summer months! In order to capture the tiddlers we used jam jars, bottles and netting, if we could get it. There was, I remember, a significant ridge worn away under the bank of the left hand side of the stream as it flowed to the river. Under this all manner of little fish would take refuge from our efforts to catch them. But catch them we did and we did so by pushing a jar into the ridge cavity downstream and them by means of a hand of foot slide the fish towards the jar causing the tiddlers in front to dart down and into the waiting jar. We caught dozens, in hindsight, far too many. There were bullheads, loach, (these we referred to respectively as dog and cat fish ), sticklebacks, minnows, small trout and very occasionally, fresh water lampreys.

It would interest me greatly to learn if there are still tiddlers in the stream and if so, do today's village boys go fishing for them. Sadly, I suspect the answer to both questions is a no, however, I would be absolutely delighted to be wrong on this assumption. The last time I visited Kingsley, a little over a year ago, I attempted to drive over and have a look at the river, a task that was always possible when I lived in the village, but found the way barred by military barriers. Not only that but whilst I was attempting to turn around a small detachment of rifle carrying troops came jogging up the path. It would appear the military has taken far more control of the common than in days gone by. Apart from occasional maneuvers, and they were very occasional, and the odd military radio lorry, not much was seen of a military presence. People used the common pretty much as they liked, is it still so? I am aware that the common is now designated an S.S.S.I and I wonder if that has had an impact at all? I would be very interested to learn the answers to these question, perhaps some kind soul will let me know.   

Fishing

On Friday of last week my brother Don and I went to our local reservoir for our first days fishing of the season. It was a pleasant day, calm and quite mild. We got to our destination at 0800hrs and having paid for our tickets we pottered off to our usual fishing spot. We had been fishing for, I suppose, about five minutes when another angler appeared on the scene and came over to have a chat with us. All quite normal, most fellow anglers will stop to pass the time of day and to enquire as to the state of the fishing and to get an idea off what fly or lure the fish are being tempted with ….or not, depending on circumstances. So having observed the usual social niceties the newcomer moved along the bank a few yards down from where Don was fishing and began to prepare to fish himself. 

All perfectly normal and acceptable. This chap did not introduce himself and we had not met him before. After a few moments he began telling us his fishing life history: where he had fished his best catches, places to avoid, it went on and on. All the while, of course, Don and I were trying to concentrate on our casting and presentational skills and, of course, trying to catch some fish. Eventually our companion began to fish himself but the chatter went on ….and on …and on. In short he didn't stop, hardly taking the time to catch his breath. We were treated to his theory as to the best fly to use at this time of the season and a constant questioning as which flies Don and I were using. We then got advice on the weather and he shared his doubts with us that none of us were likely to catch a fish that day. One wondered why he had bothered to turn up since his forecasts were so pessimistic. However, turn up he had and we were the lucky recipients of his company and angling wisdom! 

Time passed, and having heard Don and I talking to each other our "friend" began calling us by our Christian names. Very nice. The chatter went on and on. The dismal forecasts got more dismal with every half and hours that passed. I seriously began to think it was time to throw myself into the water and try and catch a fish by hand. I didn't voice my feelings but a few moments later having told us that we should all remain positive and try and make the situation a little humorous he actually asked if we had access to a wet suit. This, obviously, provided the humour he felt was lacking and he chuckled away whilst making similarly silly, and very humorous suggestions of a similar nature. 

One of the joys of fishing is the peace and tranquillity it provides, yes, it is good to catch a fish but there are usually plenty of other things which contribute to the pleasure of the day. The bird life being one. Where we were has a very healthy water bird population and amongst them are Great Crested Grebe. They are fascinating birds and I can happily watch them for hours. When they dive beneath the surface of the water it is always a bit of a challenge to predict where the bird will eventually resurface. It is quite amazing how long they are able to remain submerged. Also, at the time of year in question, there is the song of blackbirds and thrushes and various other smaller resident birds to cheer up the day with. That is, of course, if you can hear them undisturbed. By now our new found companion, let's call him Wally, was still chattering away on subjects which he clearly felt he was an expert . I don't really know why the name Wally came into my head, but on reflection I think it fits just right. By now Wally was beginning to get on my nerves and I seriously considered moving to another area. I changed my mind feeling that if Don and I moved on Wally was just as likely to follow us, probably in the (mistaken) belief that we may know something and were off to a better spot. 

All of a sudden I was into a fish which after a few minutes I was able to land. Wally became even more animated by this event. What fly had I used, how was I presenting it, did I pull it through the water slowly or with speed? The questioning was intense. Wally's predictions of doom regarding his chances of catching any fish became even more gloomy. Then, as things often happen, he hooked a fish. I went over and netted it for him reasoning, that if he actually got a fish, he might just shut up. No such luck we were now into the numbers game again, he was, he told us, very unlikely to catch a second or third fish and so on and so on. Don then got a fish and Wally hooked and lost another one. Sometime later I caught a second fish and the questioning from Wally began all over again. I'm afraid I had had enough, it was time to go home. Wally seemed quite surprised that I was not going to stay and try and catch three more fish which is the day limit for that fishery. Don decided to remain and I left him in the dubious company of Wally who was still rabbiting on. I wished him farewell and he said he hoped to see me again I smiled and thought I hope I am spared that delight. Well, you can't win them all ! 

Dorset John (2)

Having met John, as described last month, Don and I began to encounter him on each and every time we visited the beach. In fact it wasn’t long before John had provided us with his phone number in order that we could consult him with regard to the conditions and 'fishability' of our proposed trips. This has proved invaluable as it has saved us many trips which would have, no doubt, been fruitless. Over the ensuing months, not only were we advised by John, he joined us on a number of our fishing trips. So it was that we began to get the story of John’s life.

Like many country folk John has lived his life in and around the village in which he resides today. He worked on the farm all his life until retiring. Clearly, a careful man he managed to buy his own house of which he is justifiably proud. He is a keen gardener and grows most of his own vegetables. John is of the old school, no political correctness for him. He is used to expressing an opinion freely and without fear or favour. John has an opinion on most things and he doesn’t like a lot of what he sees as modern life. He believes in good manners and being decent to his fellow man. He likes his sport, particularly football. On one occasion when John joined us he had read the previous day about a group of footballers at a race meeting, I think Ascot, whom had urinated on the people below them, they being in a posh box above the stalls. John was absolutely outraged and spent most of the fishing trip going over the matter in minute detail. Not only was he outraged but he couldn’t, for the life of him imagine how such highly paid "professionals" could have done such a thing. His view was, without a doubt, they should be sacked. 

In the summer months when the mackerel arrive along the beach in large numbers many anglers are attracted to what, on a good day, can be easy pickings. John likes mackerel fishing and Don and I have joined him on a number of occasions. He has a strict personal rule which would put a lot of other anglers to shame, take only that which you can use. So often, to their shame, anglers keep fishing and catching large numbers of fish only to leave the ones they don’t want on the beach to rot. Not only is it an affront to good practice but it is untidy and yobbish. It really gets John going and he’s not afraid to tell offenders what he thinks. When fishing himself he takes only the amount of fish he is likely to eat for his next meal and a few extra which he provides for a number of elderly people, free of charge, in his village. 

Perhaps the most outrageous event during last year’s mackerel season, as far as John was concerned, happened over a fine weekend when the mackerel were of the beach in great numbers. According to John, the matter was set up over the mobile phone network and was, "not on". 

Anyway, John was on his usual dog walk when he encountered large numbers of Asian people spread out all along his usual walking route. Not only were there large numbers of them but, "there wasn’t a hands width between them". Of course, as is his way John tried to engage with them but without much luck, "bloody rude they were". This did nothing to endear these people to John and matters took a decided turn for the worse when he discovered, from sources in the angling community, that the people concerned were all restaurant owners from a number of large towns and cities around the south west. Matters went from bad to worse when John discovered that the fish caught were to be provided on the menus of the various restaurants owned by the group. On top of all this when an angler, not a part of the Asian group, started to catch fish several Asians would rush to their side and try and push in, absolute outrage! It is the unwritten rule that a reasonable space is left between fishermen. In addition to all of this when shoals of little fish, (whitebait), were forced out of the sea and on to the beach by mackerel or bass, the Asians were rushing up and down,beneath the lines of everyone, scooping up the fish also for restaurant use. It took a great deal of diplomacy to prevent John telling this community what he thought of them. Even the warning of possible hate crime charges did little to calm his outrage. In all his long life he had seen nothing like it and John was not impressed. 

Just last week we heard from John that the mackerel were back and to his amazement there were also good numbers of herring appearing. So, I expect, in the next few days Don and I will be renewing our meetings with John. He is a joy to listen to and a pleasure to be with, a great character, of the like the world could do with a lot more. 

Messing about in a boat

A week ago last Thursday my brother Don rang to suggest a day's trout fishing up at Hawkridge reservoir in north Somerset. One of a number of waters managed by Wessex Water, Hawkridge is a Particularly beautiful place. Not as big as some, rather long and thin, but large enough to benefit from using a boat to fish from. The water people have half a dozen boats available for hire and so Don and I arrived early both in order to get a boat and secure a decent spot for our activities. The morning was still and misty which gave the numerous valleys,through which I had passed, an almost mystical beauty. 

Having arrived early we were at the front of a small queue of fellow anglers so no problem getting a boat. The boats in question come with a set of oars but, fortunately Don has an electric motor. Apart from the battery being extremely heavy to move around, the motor, when fixed to the boat, does away with a great deal of hard work. We were quickly being propelled to our favoured spot on the water and the sun was now shining. The water surface was as smooth as a mirror and fish could be seen moving around on, and just below, the surface. At that hour, around 0830, the place was alive with birds. Half a dozen Herons were positioned around the banks motionlessly waiting for any passing fish. Ducks … Teal, Mallard, Widgeon, Tufted and a pair of Carolina's were all around the water. The latter, no doubt, escapees from a domestic breeder. There were also Great Crested Grebe and the Little Grebe or Dabchick in small groups. As we motored to our fishing station a flock of, in excess, of a hundred Canada Geese came in to join us. My goodness, are they noisy!

Having arrived at our chosen spot we set about the object of the exercise catching trout. The water is stocked with Rainbow and Brown Trout and contains some very large specimens. There are a number of options available to the angler but Don and I had gone for a full day ticket which, for the price of nineteen pounds gave a bag limit of five fish. All fish caught have to be taken and recorded, returns are not allowed. This, I understand, is to help reduce the likelihood of disease from stressed fish which are frequently caught and put back. 

As the morning progressed the weather changed and a stiffish wind blew up, not only was it stiff but also jolly cold. Coats had to be deployed. Having previously been calm there had been no need to use our anchor but now the boat was drifting and the anchor had to be dropped over the side in order that we remained where we wanted to be. 

By now we had been flogging water for several hours and not a sign of a bite or, for that matter, even a nudge. Flies and lures had been changed and re-changed but nothing seemed to tempt the trout below. Old favourites had not impressed so we resorted to some of the more bizarre creations within our fly boxes. These failed to stimulate also. Now, I have a theory, if all else fails go for black and green. Once again I changed my lure and, this time, on went a black and green hairy thing. A black body with a couple of green stripes, fished two or three feet down, this should do the trick. Well, it didn't, not at least until I had been dragging it up and down for another hour. A meal break had been taken, more to reflect than the desire to eat, and time kept creeping on without fish in the bag. Having eaten and rested we began our efforts with renewed vigour, if not expectation. 

There are times in angling when, just as one begins to think about giving up as a bad job, one is taken completely by surprise. This was such an occasion. All of a sudden my lure was hit like an express train. The fish almost had the rod out of my hand as I was so unprepared and had lapsed into an expectation of a blank day. It turned out to be a very nice two and a half pound Rainbow in quite superb condition. He fought like a Tiger. I got him to the net and safely on board the boat. It was at this point that things started to go seriously wrong. For the benefit of non-fishing readers, I should explain that the sporting angler carries within his bag an object known as a priest. This implement comes in various forms from a truncheon like wooden stick to a metal rod, to a piece of heavy pipe, or in my case, a solid length of stag horn. The idea is the priest is used to hit the fish on the head and kill it quickly and thus avoid a long and gasping death. Having got my trout into the boat, still within my landing net, I got out my priest and gave it a mighty whack. The trouble was that just at the very moment I launched my assault, the fish jumped and I placed the full force of my strike, fairly and squarely upon the large round bone in the inside of my left ankle. The shock wave was immediate and terrible. When I had finished exclaiming how painful it was and how jolly unlucky I was to have hit myself …. (well something like that!), I was half afraid to look at the damage. The pain was raw and extreme and a look revealed a very red globe like area. 

To cut a long story short we fished on for another couple of hours and both ended up with two fish each. It is now eleven days since my injury occurred and my ankle has gone through some interesting changes. Red went to blue and then black which then hinted at green on the edges and finally took on an insipid yellow colour all around the area. I resisted the frequent urgings from 'she who must be obeyed' to go and have it looked at! Worst still to go to A&E and have it X-rayed. Immediately after the event we went to Cornwall for a pre-planned long weekend and the pain came with me. Each night prior to going to bed pain killing gel had to be applied to the lump in order to get to sleep. Happily, all now seems to be getting better and apart from the annoyance of gum boots rubbing the hot spot, recovery seems well underway. So dear friends, if ever you are tempted to use a priest, make absolutely sure your aim is good. Oh, and also, don't expect any sympathy from your companion as on this occasion all my dear brother could do was to burst into fits of laughter and tell me that this was one of the funniest things he had ever seem.