Now before anyone gets a bit sniffy about the title, let’s keep this in the context of the era of my childhood, before ‘guesting’ was a widely known term and the whole experience was nothing more than the enthusiasm of a child angler doing what so many did back in the day…
I never caught anything big on these early trips but what a pleasure it was to have these hidden waters to myself! There are no photographs here – just words – but I hope these can give the reader an accurate mental picture of my escapades.
Please note that no aristocracy were harmed in the writing of this tale.
I had lived by the entrance to the estate for most of my life. I was eleven years old and, in those days, eleven year olds were not as street-wise as they are today. I had never ventured into the woods alongside the two mile drive because of the older kids’ tales of the game-keeper and what he did if he caught you; even worse if his Jack Russell got stroppy. Besides, there was always someone in the gate house who’d shout “clear off!!” – or worse – at any kids thinking of going into the woods by that route.
There was a pool on the estate that could be fished on a day ticket costing five shillings (5/-) or a season ticket at two pounds and ten shillings (£2-10/-) Both types were available from the tenant farmer who lived nearby. It was where I had started fishing along with some of my friends and it was where I caught my first fish, a perch, that must have been all of 4 inches long. It had taken me almost a year to catch it; I hadn’t a clue what I was doing (some would say I still don’t!) as nobody else in my family fished, but I had my first fish now and I was well and truly hooked.
Most of my friends fished the pool as did some of the older kids and it was they who told of the estate pools that never got fished. The first time I got to see one of them was on a ‘nesting’ trip with one of the older kids, frowned upon today but then it was just what kids did – and I had quite a collection. But any thoughts of egg collecting were soon forgotten the moment I saw the first pool. It wasn’t large and, thinking back, it was possibly a couple of acres with patches of lilies adorning the surface. Along the right side were beds of Norfolk Reed, though at that time I didn’t know what they were called. Some small fish could be seen dimpling the surface near the lily pads but that was all, though I discovered some years later when a club obtained the fishing rights that the pool actually held carp, some very large for those days, in excess of twenty pounds. But that’s another story.
The lad I was with told of another pool not far from the big hall, but to get to it would mean crossing an open meadow. Nonetheless we decided to take a look and, after a frantic dash, we reached the pool, laughing with the relief and belief that we’d gone unseen.
We found the pool surrounded by trees and bushes and there looked to be only a couple of places where the bank was clear enough to get down to the water. It differed from the first pool being smaller, longer and narrower, perhaps 200 x 30 yards, and the older kid told me how it was once used to nurture carp for the residents of the hall to eat. He went on to tell me he’d seen fish bigger than any roach and perch caught from the day ticket pool and that, as far as he knew, it was un-fished.
While he went off in search of nests I stayed sitting by the pool which seemed to me, as a kid, everything a pool should be; it was far more interesting than nesting and I decided there and then it had to be fished – whatever it took!
Back at home all I could think about was the water I’d christened somewhat unimaginatively ‘The Long Pool’ and how I could get access to it without being seen. Crossing the meadow again was out of the question, too risky, but I knew of a road a mile or so from the pool on the other side of the estate. Between there and the pool were no farms or estate workers’ houses, just hedgerows and fields with copses left by the farmer who used the land. It would be easy to approach the pool from that side, unseen, if I kept to the edge of the fields, so that would be my way to the pool…
My fishing tackle at that time consisted of one rod, a cane thing with what looked like round burn marks along the length of the first two sections. What the top part was made of I haven’t a clue, fibreglass possibly. I don’t know. The reel was a fixed spool model bought for me by an aunt as a Christmas present but I don’t remember the make or strength of the line on it. The rest of my stuff was kept in various old St Bruno tins, the lot contained within a basket too big to lug to the lake. But I knew just the thing for the job – an old gas-mask bag my dad used to carry his snap but now hanging redundant in the shed.
Everything except bait was set: I would take my usual worms and bread – but maggots were out. Only rich kids could afford maggots. Those wrigglers from dad’s compost heap would do, they and the bread from the corner bakery where the warm smell of baking was always so, so good.
I remember it being around two weeks to the school holidays when I would put my plan to fish the long pool into action: why does time drag when you’re young and fly by as you get older?
I had always found it easy to rise early for a fishing trip but less so on a school day – or so my mam said. On the day I was to fish I was up and out of the house early, rods tied onto the crossbar of my bike and pedalling furiously towards the gate into the fields. Excitedly I undid the latch and quietly went through, closing it behind me in the way of the Country Code. I then wheeled my bike to where I could conceal it at the meeting of two hedges. That done, I set off for the pool.
I chose one of the clear spots where I could fish out of sight of anyone coming over the meadow or visiting the hall.
Tackling-up seemed to take an age! I was using a porcupine quill and a hook that looked about right for the size of my bait. The depth was set by using a big shot close to the hook and altering the float until it neither sank nor failed to cock; a worm was attached to the hook and I made my very first cast into the long pool.
I would love to tell you that the float disappeared immediately and that I landed my biggest ever fish – but it wasn’t to be. Hour after hour I sat on the bank watching and waiting for a bite that never came. Despite this I was determined to fish there again.
It was perhaps two or three days later when I returned, fishing with the same bait and tackle and in the same spot. I had been there a couple of hours before my float dipped and slid away. I struck and a perch some eight inches in length was dragged to the bank and grabbed before it could flip back into the water. It looked huge! The biggest I had ever seen or caught!
My spiny prize had taken the hook well back so I removed it with a disgorger and sat with the fish for a short while, not wanting to release it but knowing that I had to. It was good to see it swim off and out of sight, my first fish from the Long Pool. I continued to fish the pool making guest appearances whenever I wanted to and I never told a soul about my trips there.
I later discovered that Long Pool carp took floating bread and that was how I caught my first ever carp, a fish weighing 4lbs…possibly, but I have never forgotten that fish. I also found that fishing at night was more productive and I did indeed catch bigger fish at this time but they never went bigger than nine pounds on my Little Samsons. They all were fully scaled fish and now I wonder if they had been genuine wildies.
I ‘guested’ on other waters long after I ceased fishing the Long Pool, invariably on estate lakes where fishing was prohibited and sometimes moving to another lake on the same estate. It was, I think, the prospect of being caught that excited me, along with the uncertainty of what those lakes might hold.
It wasn’t until twenty years later when a water on the estate was taken over by a syndicate that I was able to fish legitimately. I then learned from the old keeper that he had known about my visits all those years ago! He’d seen the tracks I left in the early morning dew but hadn’t thrown me off as I never damaged anything and left no litter.
I haven’t been back for many years but thanks to Google Earth I know the water still exists and I sometimes wonder if the carp are still there. Apart from teaching me the gentle art it also taught me the value of staying still and observant, something that has served me well on my many visits to small clear rivers.
So that’s it – how I started my ‘guesting’ Did I do wrong? Probably, but did it harm anyone? Not that I can see. Would I do it again given the chance? Oh, yes – like a shot I would!
The Crow.
