Golden Age
Many years ago, when I was about twelve, I used to go fishing regularly with two mates, Baz and Wiggy. We were fortunate because in the late 1960's we didn't really have to consider our safety like you would today and would often disappear for a day's fishing, just taking our tackle, a brown paper bag of jam butties and a bottle of water. We would wander off through the Cheshire fields in search of new waters to fish. Our idea of waters was little more than big puddles in fields - but boy, did we enjoy ourselves!
These little ponds contained the usual fish; roach, rudd, perch, tench and our favourites, Crucian carp. None of them would have pushed the needle of a set of scales past the pound mark but the magic was in the catching.
We would start a competition between us, who could catch the most fish; not the biggest, but the most. Weights were pure guesswork as scales were way beyond our budget, which was generally nil!
I have often thought since that any fish we caught must have been suicidal, as silence was an unknown to us three boys of twelve years old.
Our tackle was restricted to what we had cobbled together from friendly anglers we met on our travels and what we could beg, borrow, or permanently borrow. Rods were split cane of an indeterminate age and reels varied from tiny fixed spool reels to ancient centre pins.
Maggot Boy
Bait was bread or worms. We'd never heard of sweetcorn, boilies were far in the future and even maggots were only available to the brave…or Wiggy.
Wiggy was so called because he had an amazing thick mop of wiry red hair, which had a mind of its own. He was also known as Maggots, which I'd better explain.
Now and then we would breed our own maggots by putting a piece of offal, a few fish heads or a chicken carcass in a bucket, cover it with newspaper and leave it in a shady spot well away from houses. If we were really lucky the bluebottles would lay their eggs and give us some decent sized maggots. The problem came with harvesting them. Only the bravest, or Wiggy usually, got the bait, and did it stink! Wiggys advantage, (in our eyes at least, if not in his) was that he had a genetic defect which left him with no sense of smell! We definitely did not keep maggots warm in our mouths!
Treasure
One day I thought that Christmas had come early. My mum had been to a local jumble sale, (remember those?), and had come across a job lot of fishing odds and ends. I was chuffed to bits when I saw what was in an old toffee tin. Inside the rusted tin was a whole jumble of floats, hooks, lead weights and various spools of line. Some of the line was so old it was just rotten but one spool had survived, probably because it was about 30lb breaking strain. I've moored boats since with thinner ropes! There was also an old landing net with a wooden handle and mesh that would have let most of the fish we caught straight through it. I didn't care, I was like an alcoholic in a brewery, and I didn't know where to start.
There was one small item of tackle that really caught my eye and my imagination. It was a very battered silver metal imitation of a rudd with a treble hook attached. We had never tried pike fishing and I couldn't wait to get started.
I legged it out of the house to round up my fishing partners so they could admire my assortment of “new” tackle. After much oohing and aahing we finally got our tackle and ourselves together and headed off for the Millpond.
The Venue
We didn't often venture as far as the Millpond because it was at the very edge of our travels. The other reason was that we didn't often go there was that the effort was rarely worth it. This was probably due to our behaviour and inexperience rather than lack of fish in the pond!
The Millpond was about ¾ of an acre and the most beautiful of settings. The mill was sat mid-way between two ponds, the upper and the lower. Stone walls channelled the river into the mill wheel from the upper pond. It then flowed from the mill wheel, dropping about eight feet over a long, sloping weir so that the incoming water only gently disturbed the pond below, where we fished. At the other end of the pond the water was again channelled by stone walls into another weir and then into the river proper where it widened and slowed.
Over the years the banks had been colonised by all types of flora and fauna. They were almost completely lined with rushes, interspersed with Marsh Iris, their elegant flowers creating patches of bright yellow amongst the banks of green stems. The vegetation was broken by gaps where the bank sloped down to a foot above the water. Here the grass was kept short by the geese who often visited the pond.
On one side stood a tall willow, which bowed over the water like a Chinese painting, its branches reaching down into the water where they became draped with weed. There had once been an otter lodge beneath the willow but it had been deserted for many years. The holes were now used by bank voles and the inevitable rats, which we had seen beneath the tree in the shadows of the green curtain of branches.
Deer were frequent visitors in the early morning, creeping warily out of the woods behind the willow. They would never stay long and on both occasions when we had made the trek for an early start, we had startled them. Once as we arrived noisily and again when we had managed to keep quiet for all of five minutes after we had seen them.
There was a pair of swans often seen at the pond but they never nested there, as there was nowhere isolated for them to build.
Other wild fowl were resident with coots and moorhens constantly clucking or screeching to each other. The ducks were common or garden Mallards, which used to nest in amongst the rushes with the coots and moorhens. In the summer the pond was a real nursery of chicks, all competing for each morsel of food.
We used to see which was the fastest out of the ducklings by constantly varying where we threw the pieces of bread we fed them. We'd roar laughing at the antics these fluffy brown balls got up to as they practically ran across the water in case they were missing out on something to eat!
The Session
We arrived in mid-afternoon with the sun still high in the sky. There was nobody fishing which was great as it meant we had the place to ourselves. I set up my rod and reel which I had loaded with the mooring rope line I had found in the tin box. I tied the line to the swivel at the end of the spinners snout and I was ready to catch a pike!
After checking that the landing net was close (Baz had 'bagsied' that job) we surveyed the pond looking for evidence of pike. I don't know that we had any idea what we were looking for, tail-walking pike or shoals of fry or just that small area with an unmistakable aura of fish.
My first cast was a disaster. I launched the rudd to a likely looking spot with a double-handed over-the-shoulder heave. The ancient bale arm snapped shut and the rudd hit the water at mach 2 about six feet in front of me. Jeers and catcalls rang in my ears as I blamed the old reel. It was fortunate that the bale arm did shut, as it was pointed out to me numerous times that the rudd would have ended up buried in a tree in the woods opposite!
Eventually I got sorted out and cast out towards the middle of the pond. I waited for the spinner to drop down in the water and began a slow retrieve. Within seconds I felt a resistance on the line and struck into my first pike. Except it was nothing more than the spinner stuck in weed. I'd let it go too deep. The clamours for my replacement due to my useless display had reached a two-voice crescendo. I talked my way into a further ten minutes of casting. This was due to a mix of bribery, threats and the trump card that it was my 'piking tackle'!
I managed to do a few decent casts and retrieves in the next ten minutes or so. By this time I had no choice but to give Wiggy a go. He was next on two grounds; firstly Baz had been holding the net, and secondly, Wiggy was four inches taller and twelve months older.
We wandered around the pond with me carrying the landing net, as it was 'my go now'!
Wiggy did his best, casting pretty accurately considering the tackle but not getting any return for his efforts. After about twenty minutes with Baz pestering him for 'his go', Wiggy shoved the rod at Baz with a comment that he couldn't catch a cold never mind a pike.
Wiggy and I sat back, ate jam butties and watched Baz casting and retrieving. We lay back in the sun, careful to avoid the goose droppings which stained your clothes any colour from black to brown to dark green.
Suddenly Baz gave a pre-pubescent scream and we hurriedly sat up to see the rod bent over with Baz leaning back as he put his weight against the fish. We battered Baz with a load of questions about the size of the fish, the kind of fish, arguments about who was going to land it and various instructions on how to play it.
Baz was straining with his heels dug into the ground and the rod bent right over. The next thing we knew was that Baz was lying flat on his back with the rod about six feet behind him. We heard a whack as the spinner crashed into the undergrowth. We commiserated with Baz as he told us in great detail what had just happened. He had obviously pulled out of the fish and we excitedly discussed how big it would have been. Our enthusiasm had received a huge boost and we were raring to go again.
Baz picked up the rod and reeled in as he walked towards the undergrowth to get the spinner back. Wiggy was quicker and delved into the Rhododendron bush to get it. He emerged triumphant; brandishing the spinner with a piece of twig firmly embedded on a hook.
Accusations flew about never having a fish on at all, hooking submerged branches and pretending to hook a fish. Baz took exception to this, especially the last comment and accused Wiggy of putting the branch on the hook. I looked at the twig and declared that as it was blackened from the silt and soaking wet, he had definitely not hooked a fish. Once again the accusations flew and, knowing that Wiggy's red hair gave him a temper to match I pushed the rod into his hands, telling him to have a few casts.
Luckily he accepted and giving Baz a dirty look he turned away and walked to the water's edge. Baz and I approached either side of him with Baz muttering dark mumblings under his breath.
With relative peace restored, Wiggy began to cast and retrieve. I have to admit that of the three of us he was by far the best fisherman. Sometimes when we were fishing, wherever it may have been, we would not get any bites. Not so Wiggy. Even on the worst of days he would catch fish. That wasn't the annoying part of it. He would catch fish in his swim for a while, then up sticks to your swim and shove in at the side of you. He would survey the water for about 30 seconds and then cast in. Within minutes he would be getting bites! You would still be looking at an inactive float whilst he was pulling out fish from your swim! He would then move swims again, usually to one occupied by a blanking mate and repeat the process again. He was unfailing!
I once asked him what he was looking for when he surveyed the water. His reply was that he didn't exactly know. It was a sort of a feeling he got when he looked at the water and certain parts just 'looked right'.
I spotted that there was movement in the edge of the rushes to our left and thought it might be a fish. Wiggy reeled in and cast out alongside the rushes just feet past where the movement had been. He reeled in slowly for a few turns and then speeded up just as he passed the area of movement, bringing the spinner to just under the surface. At that moment a small bundle of brown down shot out of the rushes, cheeping away as it chased some morsel of food. So much for a fish moving the rushes!
There was a sudden increase in the volume of the ducklings' calls and then becoming quite frantic. We couldn't see why until the duckling came tumbling across the water towards us. Wiggy had hooked a duckling and we didn't know what to do. We may have teased the ducklings but we wouldn't knowingly injure a creature. We debated hurriedly as to the best course of action and quickly, (unusually for us three), decided to reel it in and unhook it hoping that it wouldn't be harmed too much.
Wiggy slowly and carefully retrieved trying not to set the hook any deeper. He had real problems with this as the duckling was going frantic trying to escape. The mother, alerted by the cries of its young, emerged from the rushes, quacking with concern. Baz and I bawled advice at Wiggy only inches away from us. He in turn shouted abuse back at us and the place was in uproar.
The Battle
Then it happened. In the midst of the chaos at the edge of the pond, the water erupted. I was on my knees at the bank edge and leaning out to catch hold of the line. A huge head shot out of the water and massive jaws engulfed the duckling. This all happened so close to me that I got wet from the splash of the fish as it re-entered the water.
We failed to react for a few seconds, stunned by what we had just witnessed. Then we all seemed to re-awaken at the same time. That was when we three realised that the fish was on, if not yet hooked. We screamed at Wiggy to strike and he jerked backwards on the rod. We could see at first that there was some resistance to the strike but nothing seemed to happen for a good few seconds. Then the fish began to swim off, slowly at first but it then seemed to realise that all was not right and took off with all the speed that a pike is built to produce. The tone of the centre drag on the old fixed spool reel increased quickly in pitch until it was a high whine. The fish was charging for the far side of the pond with Wiggy holding on like his life depended on it.
”….we were just kids, just fishing”
|
Again we screamed instructions to Wiggy to turn the fish as it was now rapidly approaching the old willow tree and the snags that lay beneath it. Wiggy applied what sidestrain he could but he was limited as the fish was swimming directly away from him. He suddenly changed tactics and raised the rod as high as he could until his hands were above his head. His plan then became clear. He couldn't turn the fish so he would try to get it as high in the water as he could to avoid the roots in the deeper water.
We watched the line cutting through the surface debris, heading relentlessly towards the willow hanging into the water. The fish then appeared to swim even faster as the line cut more quickly through the water. We then witnessed a sight that I know all three of us have never forgotten as the pike launched itself out of the pond. It seemed to happen in slow motion as the line moved faster and a shadow sped up from the depths. It emerged spectacularly from the water, the spinner clearly visible in the angle of the fishes jaw. The great fish shook its head ferociously, its jaws agape and the back teeth clamped onto the end of the spinner. Its beautiful markings were clearly visible for what seemed like ages before it hit the water and disappeared once again into the depths of the pond.
The splash alone would normally have impressed the hell out of us but to say we were gobsmacked was an understatement. We were all, for once, totally speechless. I remember that we just looked at each other, amazed at the size of the fish.
Then, yet again we realised that we had a fish to deal with! Quickly Wiggy pulled the rod tip up and reeled in even faster as the fish had begun to swim towards him. He reeled in frantically on the small reel and again lifted the rod in the air until he made contact with the fish. The pike accelerated when it felt the resistance and again leapt from the water, lashing its tail as it moved along the surface and shaking its head frantically.
All of a sudden it was over. The spinner flew through the air, landing not four feet from where we stood. The pike slipped back into the water tail first with hardly a ripple. There was no trace that the pike had ever been hooked. Except a small brown, downy feather curled up on the water.
The Inquest
Silently we just stood there, saying nothing, looking at the water and imagining where the great fish was at that moment.
Wiggy broke the spell by flinging the rod down on the grass and swearing at himself, angry at the loss of the fish.
I picked up the rod and reeled in the spinner. Baz collected the landing net and without a word we all turned for home in silence, still contemplating what had just happened.
We wandered along for a while. While I walked I ran my hand along the rod to where I had attached the spinner to the bottom eye and turned the spinner over to look at the markings. Then I noticed something stuck in the eye of the treble. I looked closer and it was a tooth about half an inch long. It was as if this find had confirmed what had just happened and we began chattering loudly once again, reviewing the events of 'The Fight' as we came to know it. By the time we reached home the pike had reached record proportions, it had taken a full sized duck from the surface and I had nearly lost my hand when it first struck!
It is no surprise looking back, that nobody believed a word of our story. I wouldn't have believed it either. But we know what happened, what is now many years ago, when we were just kids, just fishing.
Les Clark 
