LAKE FIDDLEMORE

THE WHITE WELLIE MAN
(aka Johnny Ray)


The white wellie man was so known because of the colour of the wellingtons that he always wore. He was also a fan of that singer from the 50?s The Mahob of Sob, or the Prince of Whales Johnny Ray.

It would be nothing unusual to see him out fishing, when all of a sudden he would stand up from his black Diawa fishing box, take a black plastic comb from his inside pocket, dip it into the lake, and proceed to meaningfully stroke it through his hair, forming a perfect D.A. at the back of his head. With his hips swaying back and forth, he would then burst into song. ( If Your Sweetheart Sends A Letter Of Goodbye). In true bathroom style.

Everybody always waited for the second line in the song; it?s no secret, you just wanna break down and cry. At this he would drop to his knees and pound the floor out of frustration in a heartbroken manner.
If he was having a good session it would be ( Not Tonight Josephine Not Tonight). And that really was worth getting out of bed for.

He didn?t look anything like Johnny Ray, I?d say he was a little under 5ft. and a bit on the plump side, but he always fancied himself with the women, and you had to give him credit for believing in himself. Whatever has happened to these characters? Where have they all disappeared to?

As an angler, he was nothing special, although I would say he was better than the average person. His one weakness was the beef heard that frequented the field that he had to cross to get to the pond. Many is the time that I have watched him climb over the style and walk halfway across the field, only to turn around and run back when the cattle spotted him and made a bee line for him. He would either wait for somebody else to turn up and cross the field with them, or I would go and rescue him, that?s if I thought he had spotted me hiding behind the bushes laughing at him.

HALYCON DAYS

This little gem of a lake, or large pond, was shaped in a figure of eight with a small footbridge crossing the two halves. On a bright day, you could see that one half of it was black with silver fish, The other half held a decent few Carp, that always seemed to be basking under the overhanging rhododendron bushes. But catching them was another matter. If you dared as to so much as free line a bait to them, they would slowly disappear even further back amongst the overhanging branches where you had no chance of getting at them.

The Carp scene was getting more prominent at the time, and the talk was that that somebody was creeping on at night and fishing for them, and that was the reason why they were so spooky. But nobody wanted to do anything about it. For one thing it wasn?t really a problem, and another, who was there to do anything about it? This was a silverfish water, although the phrase silverfish had yet to be invented, it was so laid back in time, it wasn?t even considered a Carp water either. It was just a place to fish and no more than that.

continued.....

THE LITTLE GREY CLOUD THAT CRIED

About once a month, somebody would organise a match which usually consisted of about 15-20 anglers. Although these matches started as a fun thing, it soon became noticeable that two anglers in particular had designs on running the show themselves, and a rather nasty feeling of watch your backs was hanging in the air.

Johnny Ray became the first victim of the two new would be match organisers, for some unknown reason they wanted him off the water. Maybe it was because he was a half decent angler who was a threat to the money pot, all three quid of it if you won the match. Interestingly enough, he usually did get placed on a regular basis. I now know that being a good angler was his only crime. The backbiting and sniping became so bad that eventually poor old Johnny told them to stick their matches and club where the sun don?t shine, and he was never seen again.

The following season, matters took a turn for the worst. What was once one of the most natural looking waters, had been butchered and disfigured into an almost featureless goldfish bowl. Six 3x2 concrete flagstones had appeared on each peg. Bushes and shrubs had been ripped out, trees cut down, and all for what? The chance of winning three lousy quid.

I had a go at these two match snatchers myself, I did my best to expose them for the cheats and vandals that they were, but it was all to no avail, they had the place (what was left of it) neatly sewn up. The name of this water shall remain anonymous, except to say that I have written about it on a number of occasions, under the name of Lake Fiddlemore. If I didn?t laugh about some of the happenings that took place on this water, I would have no other option other than to cry.
Come back Johnny Ray, all is forgiven

Now that IS brilliant Baz.

Thanks Deanos, that true story came straight from the heart mate.
I think this is a sad reflection on what anglers all over the country once knew, and had. Some of us anyway.

Just brilliant Baz!

Great story Baz. For some reason angling doesn't seem to have its local eccentrics anymore. They are sadly missed.

Anyone any more stories of fishing eccentrics?

Great story BAZ.

BETTER DAYS.
It doesn?t somehow seem right that I leave Lake Fiddlemore on a sad note; after all, I have spent many a happy evening and weekend on this water in the 80?s. I think this was the first water of where I first heard tales of a monster fish that had never been caught before. This particular monster took the form of a Monster One Eyed Chub. And this was well before Chub had become more commonly known in my area, let alone on a stillwater.

This surely was the invention of somebody with a vivid imagination, and there were plenty of them types about I can tell you for nothing. Just think about it. If this Monster One Eyed Chub had never been caught, how did they know it was in there?
One thing for sure though, a figment of somebody?s imagination or not, it didn?t stop us from fishing for it. How gullible and much happier we were in those days.
It was the White Wellie man that first showed me what a really good bait that bread was. While most people fished maggots for the Roach, he would be on flake and would be catching a never ending run of Tench and Cruicians. I honestly think that eventually this was his undoing. I reckon he caught most of the fish that resided in Fiddlemore, but he never caught the One Eyed Monster Chub.

THE DARKENING CLOUDS.
There were a couple of Carp lads in the club, all decent anglers, but it was a lad called Iffy Paul who was the most talked about. I never did really find out for certain how he got his nickname, some said he dabbled in drugs, others said it was doubtful about which side he batted for, while others said It was him who was creeping on at night and fishing for the Carp. The only signs that I knew of that he had been fishing were an offset line of six inch nails sticking out of the tree trunks which enabled him all the better to climb the trees and spot his quarry. Whatever the reason for his nickname, he was a damned good angler, and knowing the way in which the club was going, any of those reasons would be good enough to single him out and get shut of him. It had been well and truly decided by the Witch finder Generals that his name must be blackened.

One Sunday morning when I was fishing Fiddlemore by myself, I was approached by two anglers that I had never seen before. They didn?t carry any rods or tackle, they were simply on the mooch sifting for information of any possible Carp that might be in the water, they wasn?t interested in anything else. These were the new breed of Carpers that were beginning to darken the landscape country wide.
I could tell by their attire and mannerisms what kind of Carper they were. Lumberjack styled shirts wore outside of their pants, highly polished shoes, and their hair jelled straight back, and one of them was even sucking on a pen top that was hanging out of his mouth as he spoke. The obligatory smirk on their faces said it all. The times they are a changing as Bob Dylan used to sing, and it was time for me to find pastures anew, but not before I had sampled the delights of Lake Fiddlemore on a moonless night in late October. As far as I was concerned, the match lads could feed it up in the day for me, and stuff them, I?d fish it at night.

CONTINUED...

A NIGHT TO REMEMBER.
I chose my night to creep onto Lake Fiddlemore, I can remember it as though it was yesterday. It was warm with a slight breeze blowing and no moon, and I knew exactly where to cast my bait. I crept along the hedgerows like a thief in the night. Oh yes! I was really going to enjoy getting one over on them. Over the style I went, softly speaking to the beef herd so as not to startle them. I reached the lake, and as I turned to see where the cattle were before climbing over the final style, I realised that I was now completely alone as the beefs had left me and gone around the other side of the woods.
My rod was already set up, and I cast a good chunk of luncheon meat into the corner of the lake followed by half a dozen free offerings. I had only been fishing for about ten minuets when I decided that I didn?t want to be there anymore. I can?t explain what it was, but something wasn?t quite right, and to be quite honest, I couldn?t get off quick enough.

It must have been a month or so later that I bumped into Iffy Paul. We chatted about the good old days on Fiddlemore, and where we were both doing it nowadays. I asked him if he ever did nightfish on the lake as some people said he did. No he said I didn?t, although I did try it once, but there was something about that water which frightened the crap out of me once it went dark. I told him of my little escapade, and oddly enough we had both tried to fish in exactly the same spot. So the rumours about Iffy Paul creeping on at night and fishing it were completely untrue. And if the Match Snatchers don?t believe me, they need to go and try it for themselves.
And I wish them all the very best of British.

Thanks for your comments lads.
It seemed that we could all relate to that story. There is progress, and there is naural progress.
I suppose that this was a case of progress going unchecked.

Cracking read Baz sounds familiar in lots of ways .Bread for crucians and tench and big lumps too is my motto always works for me.