My first experiences of 'fishing' were when as kids we would walk the mile or so to a neighboring village to fish in a tiny little gravel stream for the Bullheads, Sticklebacks and Stone Loach that resided there. Depending on our social standing we would be armed with either a shop bought butterfly net or a couple of jam-jars. Being from the wrong side of the council estate I was a 'glass' man.
The tactic for those of us who couldn't afford a net were to wade into the six inch deep brook and carefully lift the various half-bricks, flints and quartz boulders. We waited for a few seconds while the brisk flow cleared the resulting cloud of silt and more often than not after a few second more intense staring one would spot either a Stone Loach or Miller's Thumb lying nervously, wondering where its roof had gone. At this point the two jars were gently placed a few inches either side of our quarry and slowly, slowly moved towards one another. If the would be angler was fortunate the little fish would eventually bolt straight into one of the jars, which was then lifted swiftly clear of the water. It was a tricky sport and the strike rate was probably no more than one in ten.
The netters on the other hand had only to sweep their gaudy nets through the deep hole (At least 12".) below an overhanging willow tree to bring up a comparitively huge haul of perhaps half a dozen spiky Sticklebacks. Species were relatively unimportant, numbers were what mattered, so the netsman were able to lord it over us on most occasions.
On a personal note to make matters worse I usually brought up the rear with the jam-jar boys too. I wore glasses which, looking back, I'm sure didn't help matters. Whether it was because I was often duped by the added glare and refraction of light, or because my ill fitting NH spectacles were wont to drop into my 'swim' and spook my target fish I cannot be certain, but either way I usually headed home with the least number of fish gulping behind the curved glass of my keep-jar. (We kept the entire catch on each and every session of course -until the lack of oxygen or ill suited diet of crumbled cornflakes finished them off.)
Then the fateful day arrived! For reasons I simply don't remember I found myself off school for the day. There obviously couldn't have been a great deal amiss with me because I spent the morning pestering my mum to take me fishing. I was among the youngest of the fishing crew and would only have been allowed to go when accompanied by older boys from the village, so my mother's accompaniment was key to me be allowed to go. Eventually, no doubt sick to the teeth of my whinging, she conceded and we walked to the little stream -me carrying my two best catching jars and mum toting my plastic seaside bucket to bring home the catch.
It was one of those baking hot summers and we ambled there under an unbroken impossibly blue sky. On arrival at the next village we had to walk along the course of the little brook a short way to reach the deeper water just below an ancient old road bridge -the hot-spot. My initial thoughts were one of complete dismay. There was virtually no water! All along the stream the gravel and silt runs had been laid bare by the blistering July sun. Mum seemed strangely unaffected by this terrible sight and carried on walking to the bridge. I followed her dejectedly cursing my bad luck.
We reached the bridge and with a heavy heart I hoisted my self up by the elbows to see over the old brick parapet and the sight that greeted me took my breath away! There below us the last inch or so of water remained between dry patches of bed, not deep enough even to cover the the bricks and rocks that littered the stream bed. Their mossy green tops lay exposed drying in the sun. But between the rocks and dry patches the last remnants of water flashed and winked like a hoard of silvery treasure. There were quite literally hundreds of gasping little fish only moments away from certain death. I could not believe my eyes!
I scrambled down the nettle ridden bank filled the bucket with water scooped from a hollow and grabbed at the little prizes like a boy possessed. Time and time again I climbed up to mum and emptied my burgeoning jars into the bucket full of water, until there were more fish in it than water. After that I filled the two jars as well, only admitting defeat when it was obvious I could cram no more fish into the receptacles.
At home the fish which had survived the oxygen starved portage were tipped into a plastic paddling pool newly topped with fresh tap water and then I spent the remaining hours of the school day waiting for my angling peers to arrive home on the school bus. Before we'd had our teas that evening I had been elevated to the status of master angler. (There had been no need to admit my good fortune.)
That was my most amazing day's fishing, and by some measure!
