Tales from the Riverbank

I learnt as a child that if you twist a maggot it eventually bursts.

That was something that I am now not proud of doing but, after 10 hours of fishing from a riverbank with nothing to show for it, anything was mildly entertaining even if it was cruel, sadistic and fatal . That was of course after a series of maggot races with the winner being set loose in the undergrowth. A magnanimous gesture, well not really as a small grub confused and in what would appear to be Land of the Giants would not survive long. 

The 5am start of a typical angling expedition always promised so much especially on a bright and cool summers day during the school holidays. Leaving the house with no-one else to question your choice of sandwich filling or how much of the family sized loaf you used. Being able to ride bikes madly through a deserted town centre with fishing rods tied to the crossbar. It felt like you were commander of a Panzer tank. Pity that the cross bar extension, cum imitation howitzer barrel, impeded actually steering the bike in other than a series of tangents with a frantic leaning to make a required change of direction to avoid lamp posts, street furniture and parked cars.

The best bankside pitch was just past the scout hut, some 100 yards downstream from where the High Street crossed on one of the town bridges. It took a few minutes to set up rod and tackle but in absolute silence so as not to startle the fish who were just starting to show activity with a fleeting silver flash on the surface or a swirl and skirmish producing ever increasing circles.

In summer it was float fishing with optimistic use of 10 pound line. The brightest, most fluoresecent stick float was an assurance of success or at least a migraine after many hours of staring and watching for a bite. In the later hours of an expedition the float appeared to strike itself and disappear under the murky waters. A panic stricken reaction to an apparent nibble always led to line, hook and maggot ending up wrapped in the branches of the horse chestnut trees on the towpath.

In winter the method was spinning or dead baiting. The line was upgraded to 20 pound strength as we were now big game hunting. The river had a good stock of Esox Lucius, Devil Fish or just plain Pike. These were fearful predators and folklore told of swimming dogs losing a limb to the cerrated teeth of the monster fish. A friend, keen to experiment with cooking a Pike after having read about Henry the Eighth's appetite for such, caught and coshed a large one but on the bike ride home it regained consciousness in his rucksack and had to be despatched again on the verge of the A15.

I can validate the power of the pike after sitting on a 9 pounder (a mere baby) in order to release the triple barbed hook with the use of a spring loaded gag and a long discorger. Dead baiting was a bit expensive to be sustainable on just pocket money. The whitebait kept flying off the hook even after being sewn onto the line and the residents of the chalet style houses on the far bank  often found loose sea-fish on their lawns. I was disappointed that this phenomena never made it into the local papers.

I soon realised that although there was the thrilling prospect of actually catching something that was not the main reason for going fishing. There was camaraderie, there were many hilarious moments, occasional opportunities for misbehaviour and vandalism , littering and urinating in a public place,
conversing as only immature lads can and, after the obligatory 10 hours of outside activity, a real sense of having had a brilliant day out