John Ledger
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We begin with the very interesting story of the life and times of John Ledger, the son of a Sheffield steelworker.
John is known as a man who 'tells it like it is', with an attitude that says, 'well, that's me, like it or lump it'. Yet underneath the gruff exterior is a generous man with a wicked sense of humour.
John loves his river fishing, especially with the float. He is, however, one of those gifted anglers who can turn his hand to catching anything that swims should he choose to do so.
My Story - John Ledger
IF I COULD drift back 57 years to the very first time I went fishing with my uncle I could never have anticipated that I would still be doing the same thing today.
My uncle, who was a very decent man, took me to Rivelin dams near Sheffield and I was given a rod and reel which Samson would have struggled to hold. With a small bent pin for a hook and a worm as bait I never had a bite on that cold dull day and I was glad to get back home to see my mother and father. Anything was better than fishing, but at the same time money was in short supply, my father never ever owned a car nor was he interested in fishing and it would have suited me never to go again.
I was brought up in a tight knit community; my father being a steel worker, a job he did for over fifty years, my mother was a grammar school girl and spent all her spare time working for the local church. My sister was five years older than me and was more like a brother than a sister and despite her slim appearance could handle the hardest case at the local school as one bully was to find out one afternoon in the school yard.
John's wife Anne. “The greatest of all my catches,” says John
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I will never forget the day when someone came up and told me that my sister was fighting with the local hard case and how nervous I felt at the time. My fears where unfounded as she gave him as hard as she got until the teacher came out and stopped the fight. I still remind her now even though she is retired after being the Personnel Officer to one of the biggest companies in Cheshire, certainly the tomboy who became a lady and has lived in Spain for the last 15years.
My father was a man of few words who had spent time in a boy's home when his parents split. He inherited some of his fathers Irish temperament and one thing I never did was to give him any lip. He was very funny at times and used to tell me about the time in the boy's home and how the only time he had ever shut his eyes to say grace someone pinched his breakfast and he never ever said grace again. My father used to frequent the local Conservative Club and it was through this I really found my mentor for most of my early formative years as an angler.
Albert Taylor was the father of my best school pal, Keith, and a very good match angler who used to frequent the same Conservative Club as my father. It was Albert, God bless him, who took both myself and Keith under his wing and showed us what angling was all about. A year must have passed after my first abortive trip with my uncle but the offer of a trip to Stixwould on the River Witham was too good an offer to refuse.
A trip on the bus took us to the railway station in Sheffield where we and hundreds of other anglers boarded the train for Boston. I can still remember all the stops and the smell of the wicker baskets and nets. Each stop would drop off a few anglers to their regular haunts, Shireoaks, Retford, Laneham, Torksey, Five Mile House, Bardney, and so on. All exciting stuff for a couple of schoolboys.
I was hooked
I caught four fish that day all on borrowed tackle, two roach, a perch, and a ruffe, but I was hooked. The float going under and the feeling of elation that only an angler feels when a fish is on. All I had to do was get back and ask my father if I could have a rod of my own. The difference that day had been Albert who took the time to set us up right and stand over us both, making sure we did the right thing. This is something I was to do in later years whenever I took a young angler with me; set him up correctly.
The next two years of my life were spent following Albert around like a lapdog, he had been injured during the war so we helped to carry his tackle, but it was well worth the effort just to be with him. He really was our own Mr Crabtree and when he finally passed away in later years I was very sad indeed. When you are in the company of a good angler usually another turns up and that's exactly what happened when Danny Mann turned up one day, Danny the stick float king.
Danny's favourite river, and later John's, the river idle
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Danny's favourite river was the River Idle, later to become mine, in fact if any man has spent more time on this river than me I would like to hear from him because he will be bloody well tired. How we used to laugh watching Danny tie his own size 20 hook to 1lb bottom with his three-lenses-in-one glasses and his large magnifying glass. No good to us kids who liked 4lb straight through to a 12s hook, but what did we know, we were only kids and Danny was indeed, the man.
Dan was a great angler and on his day up there with the best and in those days nobody could live with him on the Idle. Using the porcupine quill as a stick he was a joy to watch as he removed the roach and chub in numbers. His favourite saying went along the lines of “I was catching roach to 2lb, chub to 5lb, then big 'uns came on.” Danny could tell a good tale, but what an angler.
The Wild Man
In the late fifties and early sixties I was a teenager and decided to try different venues. Jeffcocks coaches operated from Ladies Bridge, Sheffield. Each coach came in green and red and each had the name of a fish. Emmanuel Jeffcock, the owner, was a wild looking man with long grey curly hair and scant respect for the law but on the credit side he would get you to your venue cheaply.
Overcrowding was the norm and I spent most of the time sat in the middle of the coach on my basket and keeping my mouth shut as there were certainly some mean looking characters on these coaches. One of the venues I could reach was the Trent at either Sutton, Cromwell, Muskham, or Newark. Each drop off was on the old A1 and included a fair walk to the river bank.
The tidal Trent was covered in industrial detergent in those days as it came over Cromwell weir and rule of thumb was that it would not disappear until late morning. It would also take the varnish off your rod. On the plus side the river ran warm and the roach were plentiful, having a liking for Kraft cheese moulded around the hook. The river was infested with gudgeon and maggots would bring one every cast. Chub were not as plentiful as some people think with only odd ones coming, usually when the river was in flood and cattle drinks were the only option.
Sometimes we would make the journey to the Forty Foot and always there would be a sweep on the coach for the biggest fish, which me and my pal won a few times. This in turn gained us a bit of respect and suddenly we were on first name terms after weeks of no one noticing either of us. As well as having scant respect for the law, Emmanuel had even less for 'No Trespassing' signs saying the word originated in France meaning 'TREES PASS' or 'Please Pass'. Many a time I have been fishing whilst constantly looking over my shoulder.
One of the characters on the coach was an old fellow called 'Cheesy Steary' who had been an ex-boxer with a liking for cheese and onion sandwiches. Cheesy collected the fares and organised the sweep, he also organised the beer in the pub and was usually very much worse for wear just like Emmanuel (our driver) on the return trip. The mixture of cheese and beer was a potent mix and I can tell you the windows were constantly open with hands over the nose. How we ever made it back with a drunken driver I will never know.
I used to notice a small river just outside Newark on the way down and asked if there was much in it. “Loads of chub.” was the reply. It was the Upper Witham, so one day I asked if I could be dropped off at Long Bennington. It was a long walk down to the Mill House at the side of the weir but I found no signs and fished about 100yds below the weir, catching four chub and a roach of around 1lb 4oz. Later in the seventies I had some of my best catches on this small fast flowing river and I will come to that later.
Nether Lock, Newark and a Bankside Altercation
In the sixties I was returning from the Sunday night dance at the Locarno in Sheffield when I was set upon by two thugs. One tapped me on the shoulder and asked for a light while the second head butted me before kicking me as I was on the floor. I decided to do something to see this would never ever happen again. I was 17 at the time and was around 12st 8lb and 6ft 2inches tall.
I booked in at a weight lifting club and for three years trained both at home and at the club, having bought myself a set of weights for home use. High protein foods pushed my body weight to over 15st and I was bench pressing 250lb and squatting at 375lb. I had done a little boxing and felt ready to take on the world. But on one occasion wished I had never bothered.
A friend and I had gone down to a place called Nether Lock on the Newark Dyke and we were fishing below the weir when these two unsavoury characters approached my friend, who was about 8st dripping wet, and started to give him a hard time. Voices were raised and their language was appalling, it became apparent they wanted to fish in the swims we were using and they hated all Sheffielders.
I asked the tallest one what his problem was and he came towards me in a threatening manner and questioned my legitimacy. I had remained seated until the last remark was made regarding my parents, which was the straw which broke the camels back. Nobody but nobody gets away with that. Jumping off my seat I hit this arrogant swine, first off with a left hook and as he was falling a right cross caught him flush on the nose and I am pretty sure, breaking it.
I then went for his mate who shot off into the distance never to be seen again. My best pal said to me, “John, why did you do that, if you had killed him they might have hung you.” (they did in those days).
We packed up and went home early and I have often wondered if this fellow still walks around with a bent nose. I should never have done it, but what the hell, I did. Insulting me is one thing, insulting my parents was another.
A more light hearted moment happened about five years ago on a local lake when I was catching a few fish. This old fellow turned up, looked around the lake and dropped in about 2ft from my rod rest. I told him not to bother opening his maggots because he was close enough to use mine. He was not amused and came out with the proverbial “Who has rattled thee cage?” And carried on fishing. Silly bloody Yorkies, I cant stand 'em.
The Yorkshire Rivers and my first barbel
The one really good thing to come out of my days with Manny Jeffcock was the close season trips to the River Rye in North Yorkshire and my first encounters with my favourite fish, chub. All or nearly all the anglers would go up in pretence they were fishing for trout while it was obvious they where fishing for chub. Lumps of cheese on size 6 hooks, fishing for trout? Yes, I believe you.
In the early sixties I was working as a junior draughtsman (is there a more boring job?) and at last I was starting to earn some money. Not much, but it gave me a bit of independence and as well as fishing I was hard at my other love, cricket.
As a young schoolboy I had this inbuilt ability to propel a cricket ball at a rapid rate of knots off a shortish run up and was sent off to the Sheffield schoolboys side and then to the South Yorkshire boys as an up and coming very fast and very erratic bowler. I was then sent down to the nets at Bramall Lane to play for Sheffield United and was coached by George Pope the ex England and Derbyshire fast bowler. George was a lovely bloke and had none of the snobbish views of some of the players in the side.
My only joy came from hitting them with the ball in the nets during the winter training and I can still hear old George saying “Go on, John, give him a short one.” which I promptly did. My cousin Tony, who played for the Yorkshire second team and later became a pro, was also there, but in two years I had had enough and turned my back on playing cricket for good. Far too much of the old school tie for my liking and besides, I began to appreciate the delights of the fairer sex.
In 1964 I bought my first car, a Ford Classic, and from that day my fishing began to pick up. It was like being let off the leash and now I could fish where and when I wanted. What joy! Previous to buying the car my trips to Yorkshire had been a horrendous experience. After catching the last bus to the station it was the long wait for the cattle train to York which set off at 3am. Arriving in York we would wait for the first bus to Boroughbridge, get off at Kirk Hammerton and walk nearly two miles to the river.
The Nidd is the most picturesque of all Yorkshire rivers and it was here I caught my first barbel from under the far bank willows. Not a big fish, but it nearly took the rod in and I had never felt such a fighting fish as this one. Another two followed and I could not wait to get back even though it would be another nightmare journey home. Those were hard days and how easy the car would make my future angling, with trips to the Rye at Amotherby, Swale at Topcliffe, and the Ure at Boroughbridge.
My personal bests started to go up with a chub of 5lb 4oz from the Rye and in the late sixties, two huge barbel from Boroughbridge. Both taking my spring balance past the 8lb limit and both caught on half a link of sausage meat. The last fish left me shaking and I sat and lit a cigarette. I laugh when I hear anglers say there were no big barbel in the Yorkshire waters. I still have the photos of these two even though they are in black and white.
Stan Pope caught two chub over 7lbs from the Ure at Ripon, yet once again the so-called experts disputed the catch and that made me really angry because Stan, like myself, was not after publicity. I continued my exploits into Yorkshire fishing for most of the sixties with an anti publicity and sod off stance to any fishing paper.
The Fabulous Seventies and Upper Witham Roach
If I could go back in time to any era it would be the seventies with the halcyon days on the Trent and one little river, the Upper Witham between Long Bennington and Aubourn. On one cold January day in 1971 I caught nine roach trotting bread flake, the smallest weighing 1lb 8oz, with four being over 2lb, the biggest 2lb 10oz.
I told no one about this little river or venue and continued catching big roach for the next 18 months until I could contain myself no longer and took a couple of friends. It was with these two I caught my biggest roach, a fish weighing 2lb 12oz. The photograph of this fish is in the article I did for the Angling Star in 2002. I have never experienced river roach like these and doubt if I ever will again.
I remember another day on this little river when I had promised to take my late father to Bramall Lane to watch Sheffield United and caught 45 chub to 3lb 8oz in around three hours, and all on the stick with bread on the hook. I then rushed back like a bat out of hell to get him to the match. The river, like most small rivers, has deteriorated much like my other river, the Idle, and finding a swim with 4ft of water would be an accomplishment indeed.
The Trent in the seventies and eighties was in its heyday with the Golden Mile, the matchman's paradise, and it was at this time I joined Derby Railway AC to fish the Upper Trent and Dove. I can remember a certain young angler called Mr Graham Marsden (send the cheque through the post) writing some terrific articles, plus we had our equally good Tag Barnes at our end. If ever I had an angling hero apart from Dave Thomas it would be Tag Barnes who did some terrific articles for the Angling Telegraph all those years ago and has since, sadly, passed away. A terrific angler.
God's own river, the upper Trent
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Fishing the Upper Trent on the Kings Mills shallows was indeed a joy to behold and me and my pal would have a knock up for the last hour and would catch around 70 fish each (roach, dace and chub) on the stick. The Dove at Tutbury was another famous venue with its prolific shoals of dace, chub and the odd good barbel. In those days a barbel of around 7lb would be considered a good fish while a 5lb fish would have been a good one from the Trent. Sadly the Trent at Kings Mills is a shadow of its former self with its overgrown banks from the lack of anglers.
Discovering the 'Jewel of the North' and my worst ever day
Cracking the Idle
The River Idle flows about 15 minutes from my home and I once described it as 'The Jewel of the North' such was the quality of the fishing with its superb roach and chub catches. It's a river I have spent more hours on than any other, fishing it on and off for fifty years. It's also a very, very hard river to crack, but find the code and the fishing is superb.
Forget your big hooks and 4lb line on this river and think more like 2lb reel line size 20 to 24 hook with a 1lb or even 12oz bottom. Think, instead of shotting your stickfloat with no. 6 and 4 shot, try groups of no. 8 with 10 and 12 droppers and its then you might unlock the code to this very fine river.
Years ago the Idle was considered to be the best roach river in the North, some would say in England. Catches of 60lb on the stick would not be uncommon with many roach between 1lb to 2lb among them. Chub fishing in the higher reaches around Scrooby was superb on the right day yet I know many anglers who hated the river primarily because they never bothered to find out how to fish it. An hour without a bite would be too much and they would go away calling the river all the names under the sun.
I remember as a schoolboy my friend and I had gone down to fish the Ryton at Scrooby, caught nothing and had followed the Ryton until it joined the Idle. Three Doncaster anglers where fishing the Idle, trotting bread flake under the far bank. We watched in amazement as one fish followed another and the sight of the bulging keepnets full of roach and chub will stay with me forever. Such was the quality of the Idle. Over the years I have seen many top class anglers fail on this little river mainly because they paid it scant respect and didn't ask local anglers for advice.
The best angler I have seen on the river is Bawtry tackle dealer and top match angler, Len Squires, who taught me a lot about the river. Last but not least I have one telephone number in my book who I ring now and again for bits of advice, that is ex-champion angler Dave Thomas whom I consider the best float angler of all time. Without wanting to sound a name dropper, Dave is a true gentleman and any advice he has offered me in the past is gladly accepted and believe me he has given me plenty.
Dave does not fish matches any more due to chronic back pain and what a travesty of justice when one main angling paper never named him in the top fifty anglers of all time. If I had my way he would have been No1. Dave Thomas, the angler who could turn a bad peg into a winning one.
On the Move
In 1977 I emigrated to South Africa, living in Amazamtoti just south of Durban, having reached the time of life when I just wanted to change both job and environment. Working as an engineer at the ICI plant in Umbogatwini I enjoyed the job and lifestyle but not the violence that was always close at hand.
We had a good standard of living but all was to change when one afternoon I came close to getting a bullet from a group of people who were arguing over a woman (always the case). I was phoning the local drive-in at the time when this fellow pumped two shots into the other bloke's body and I was just 6ft away. The fellow survived, the police came to see me at work. We packed up and came home after 12 months.
In 1982, after working as a technician at a large pharmaceutical company, I was offered a job in Australia and went out with my family working for the giant BHP PTY in Port Kembla, New South Wales. Living in Corrimal, all was fine for a few months until the bombshell that all UK engineers would be retrenched due to the downturn in the industry. BHP employed over 250,000 people in Australia and they had promised everything at the UK interviews and delivered nothing.
We took the company to the high courts in Sydney and won a massive compensation payout. I stayed in Australia for two years before moving over to New Zealand, working for the New Zealand Electricity Commission in New Plymouth and staying less than 12 months. In all honesty I hated the place and moving back to Blighty was a good move.
I did a little fishing in Wollongong Harbour, NSW, taking my old Mk IV Avon rod and fishing prawns on a size 14 hook with 3lb reel line and catching about 20 yellow fins (not related to the Tuna) in about one hour. The Aussies had never seen such light tackle and that's the reason I caught these very edible fish which came in on the surf, but don't grow very big. Catching them on light tackle while the Aussies struggled with their 50lb lines was the highlight of my fishing even though I did catch some strange looking fish over there.
The Big C and the Worst Day of My Life
Just under five years ago I had been feeling a bit rough and to cut a long story short, the doctor sent me for the camera down the throat. I remember the specialist saying “There is something down there I do not trust.” I must add that being awake and having a camera down your throat is one of the worst experiences in my life and if you ever need to have this done make sure they put you to sleep.
Going back for the results I was told to sit down as he had some bad news, “You have a tumour on your stomach and it's malignant.”
The very word cancer had me in a daze and I could not take it in. After all, it's other people that get this dreadful disease not me, but yes, I had cancer and things were looking bad to say the least. They gave me a cup of tea, but I could not drink it and a cold sweat just rolled off me. How could I tell my wife who is disabled and how long had I got to live?
I drove home on auto pilot and then I explained the situation to my wife who in turn could not take it in. A phone call from the hospital asked me to go back for an X ray which in turn gave me my first bit of hope for the X ray showed the cancer had not spread and was confined to one area. A visit to see the surgeon gave me more hope when he thought he could remove it. A small preliminary operation proved him correct and within two weeks of being diagnosed I had been operated on. I'd had nearly 70% of my stomach removed, but having no need for chemo or radiotherapy, just a B12 injection for the rest of my life.
I felt I had won the pools, only much, much more. I had my life back and could make plans for a return to the bankside. It's funny how, when you have had a disease like cancer (and I tell people I am only on loan from God) how it changes your perception on life. I don't have the weight I used to have, nor the energy, but I have my life back and someone must have been smiling on me. I told my surgeon I would be back fishing four weeks after my operation. I didn't make four, but I made it in six.
Ron and Me
I fished for around three years with Ron Clay, virtually every week we would try a new venue, but our best days were spent on the Idle with Ron liking Misson and we had some happy days on there. Ron would fish close in with his bait on the bottom and wait, whereas I would trot the river and between us we managed to winkle out a few half decent fish. Ron came up to see my local club water on the river which was the Bircotes length above and below Bawtry Bridge and promptly joined the club. We fished this area for a couple of years before it went into decline.
Ron Clay, “I have a soft spot for him,” says John
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One day I took Ron into the upper river near Scrooby, it was a long walk to the swims and we had both been seriously ill. It was quite apparent that we would struggle to get back and struggle we did, we had grown old and had to accept the fact. From then on it was the lower river and parking behind the swim.
A trip to the Swale at Cundall produced some barbel in the flooded conditions with Ron taking one at 9lb 8oz which made his day and proved to Ron that the barbel in the Yorkshire rivers were indeed getting bigger. Ron's knowledge on angling is second to none and he would drift back in time to all the old anglers, in fact the odd time I glanced into the back of the car to see if the ghost of J.W. Martin was sat behind us.
Nice upper Trent barbel for John
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Ron loved the tidal Trent, I did not and that, plus my love of the small rivers and float fishing, was probably the main reason we went our separate ways. I just hated the lower Trent, it was an inhospitable place and not very scenic, but was producing some very big barbel as I was to find out at Sutton. I had just landed one of about 5lb when my mobile went off and it was Ron in a very excited state “John, you will not believe this, but I have just landed my fourth double-figure barbel.”
Ron had been night fishing and had taken a catch of a lifetime. If memory serves I think he had caught about 12 barbel with 4 of them being doubles, not a bad feat for the old coffin dodger. Although we don't fish together any more I still have a soft spot for the man and usually see him once a year at the Angling Star dinner. Ron Clay, a very gifted writer, angler, never boring and a gentleman.
Memorable Catches
Rather than target any one species I do like to go for quantity, especially where chub are concerned, and I have taken a few 100lb catches of this species, especially when the Derwent was in its prime at Amberston and Borrowash. The peg on Amen Corner at Amberston produced some huge bags before the Courtaulds pollution, mainly to bread trotted down over balls of mashed bread. I used to be the engineer at a large food company and the chef in the canteen would save me all the old bread.
Another catch on the Swale when I had gone up to do an article for the Angling Star about three years ago springs to mind. I remember ringing the editor Jim Baxter and saying “Jim, chub number twenty has just come to the net and there are not many under 4lb and a few over 5lb.”
The Swale at Catterick produced a big catch of dace with the biggest going to 1lb 4oz and four others over the pound, plus one huge one lost at the net. The roach catches on the Upper Witham. How I dislike perch, pike, eels, and trout. I have to be honest, I have never picked an eel up in my life and even though I have caught perch to 4lb I just don't like the fish.
Another catch that springs to mind was the A1 Pits bream with my mate Mike Townsend. The rudd and roach catch at Selby Three Lakes plus the Shannon bream and the Blackwater dace in Ireland. One can go on about catches and it all seems a bit pretentious, at my age nothing is more boring than seeing some old git like me showing his photographs; a bit like looking at someone's holiday snaps.
Mike Townsend and me with some A1 pits bream
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I will continue to write my monthly article for the Angling star while I have new ideas and while ever they want me. I never try to complicate matters and try to make them easy reading so any Tom Dick or Harry knows where I am coming from. I have read too many articles in the past where the writer must have a back catalogue of previous articles and thinks “Well I haven't used that one for a couple of months so I can use it again.” Neither do I get any enjoyment out of seeing one top matchman's favourite pole rig set up: some anglers are far too technical for words and would be far better employed by NASA.
When I first came on FM I was not sure if I would stay on and just used to look at the threads without comment, but it is addictive and old Graham (old being the operative word) does a great job even though he has to keep us in check at times. I have met and fished with some good blokes off FM; Mike Townsend, Mick Howson, Ian Cloke, Beecy, Fred Bonney, etc, and what a star Tom Riordan is.
Tom Riordan - what a star
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Last but not least the greatest of all my catches, 5ft 1in and just over 7st, my wife Anne who, although disabled and epileptic, has stuck by me through thick and thin, never complaining about my fishing. Emigrating when she would possibly have preferred to stay at home and always being there, what more can an angler ask for?
Lets be honest, it's always better to remember what you did in life, not what you didn't do. You only get one.
Graham Marsden
