Article - Coarse
The First Time
By Ian, added on 04/11/2007
Memory is the first casualty of middle age, if I remember correctly.
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Candice Bergen
I came comparatively late to fishing, as I seem to come to all the important things in life. However, my first vivid memory is of dead and dying fish in the pond on Barnes Common, when I would have been about four or five. I was fascinated with these irridescent creatures thrashing out the last seconds of their short lives, and an obsession with water and its inhabitants developed that has stayed with me ever since.
There were no anglers in my immediate family, so I never really saw anyone fishing in close-up. I was far too shy to approach strangers and ask them how to fish. Coupled with this, my parents worked for a company which set up newsagents shops around the country. They would arrive in a new location, set up the business and then move on to the next one. Thus, we moved about eleven times in my first nine years, circling London and then on to Birmingham; opportunities to make friends and find potential fishing companions were naturally very limited. Finally, drastic steps were taken to remedy this lifestyle and we found ourselves living in Derbyshire, the reason being that my mother had been evacuated there during the war and her younger sister had stayed, marrying a local chap, so there was family in the vicinity.
Roots were extended, wanderlust curbed and life settled down into something like a normal pattern. I made friends with some local lads (Philip, Paul and Martin); they remain in the area to this day but I don’t think any of them continued fishing beyond early teens. First came bikes which gave us the freedom to roam the hills and dales during the (seemingly) endless school holidays. Those were the times when we would leave home first thing, and, providing we returned before dark, no questions were asked or needed – what a contrast from modern times. A favourite excursion was to cycle down to the Derwent at Darley Bridge, and from there up into the hills behind the old lead mine, where a series of stream-fed ponds offered mystery with their unsettling milky blue colour and aura of stillness, hidden as they were in dense woodland. This place was secret (to us, anyway) and secluded and where we first learned to tickle brown trout in the feeder stream. I hanker after revisiting this place but I fear it may have changed. As Edward de Bono says, “A memory is what is left when something happens and does not completely unhappen”. Perhaps some things are best left in the past.
Darley Bridge
A natural evolution from hand fishing was to want to try the proper thing – rods, floats, all that stuff. None of us fished and we were a little nervous of starting out in these ponds since we knew we were trespassing and had heard tales of tackle confiscation for anyone caught fishing illegally. How would it be to save up all our pocket money only to see the spoils taken away, or worse, broken in front of our eyes? We decided the first expedition had to be a legal one. The obvious choice was the River Derwent at Darley Bridge, and we had learned that fish could be caught in the stretch above the bridge itself, and that day tickets could be purchased from the Square & Compass pub for the equivalent of a week’s pocket money.
The next step was tackle. The nearest town, Matlock, had a tackle shop and also in those days Woolworth’s had their own-brand range of tackle (Winfield). This stuff was surprisingly good, in retrospect, and supported Woolworth’s nickname of Woolfridges – something more of an upmarket pretension than its current incarnation can boast. The first purchase for me was a “How to Fish” book from Woolies. Armed with a dangerous amount of knowledge I then returned, having emptied the piggy bank and everyone’s pockets, and bought my first rod, reel and associated tackle. The rod was a dreadful (not then, obviously – it was a thing of wonder and beauty) 6ft solid fibreglass affair, with basic wire rings and a metal ferrule which gave a most satisfying “plop” when parted. This was married with a Garcia-Galion fixed spool reel (probably a 12R, but it’s long-gone) - cheap and cheerful, but effective. The Derwent then (and now) was a trout and grayling river and I knew from my readings that the best way to catch the latter was to use a grayling bob, so an appropriate float, a gaudy thing, orange-topped and cork-bodied, was purchased. I can’t say I contemplated any method other than float for my first fishing trip, and still to this day I love floatfishing above all else. Winfield line, hooks and shot completed the outfit. Maggots were the bait of choice. All could be carried easily by the cyclist and an angler was born.
On a September morning, cool and misty, we set off on our bikes. The road was edged with soggy, fallen leaves, the first sign of the coming autumn equinox. Dew lay heavy on the lush grass in the field where we abandoned our steeds, soaking our trousers up to the knees and making shoes sodden and squelchy. Cowpats provided an additional peril. With cold and wet feet but feverish anticipation we approached the river, its surface dappled by pale sunlight filtered through the trees. We found the Derwent in good heart, not too coloured and with a decent flow, seemingly oblivious to our arrival. Nervously, we tackled up.
I can still feel the excitement of that first expedition to an unknown water; this feeling hasn’t really changed oh so many years later, although the mode of transport and the tackle have been upgraded somewhat.
The first problem was arboreal rather than aquatic – the riverbank here was tree-lined and there were very few places where we could get near the water to cast. Naturally we fished in a gaggle rather than spreading out along the bank. The received wisdom was that you had to cast as far as possible or you wouldn’t catch anything, but the first half-dozen attempts resulted in tangles, hooked branches and general frustration.
The Derwent at Darley Bridge
After a major rethink I decided to just lob the float into the water a few feet out from the bank – at least it would be in the right medium to actually connect with a fish, in contrast to the current aerial approach. The float was set at a depth of about three feet; this was nothing to do with good technique and plumbing the depth, but merely what was achievable with such a short rod and lack of expertise. To my utter amazement, on the second trot down, the float disappeared and an urgent tugging on the rod told me I had hooked a fish, more by luck than design. After a few heart-stopping moments, caused more by incompetence and anxiety than the size of the fish, a grayling of some four ounces was hauled unceremoniously bankwards (a net was an accessory too far at that time).
I stared, open-mouthed in wonder, at this silver-gilt jewel laid on glistening autumn leaves, entranced by the multitude of colours on its expanded dorsal fin. This was not just any fish, it was my fish and I had caught it. It was a live, otherwordly creature, conjured up by a magic I did not yet understand. The sublime scent of river and fish pervaded my nostrils and embedded itself in my olefactory memory.
A jolt from the grayling woke me from the spell and I quickly unhooked and returned it, as gently as my trembling hands were able, back to its underwater home. It kicked its tail and disappeared in a flash of bronze and blue, like a momentary oil slick. I peered into the river long after it had gone, keeping the connection with this watery spirit for as long as possible, not wishing to release the moment. All anglers will know this feeling, and anyone who hasn’t experienced it is the poorer for it.
Thus was the newborn angler baptised.