A fisherman's tale

In my early to mid teenage years fishing was all I thought about. £5 a week pocket money was enough to buy all the sweetcorn, luncheon meat and bread I needed to go fishing every spare day. That is exactly what I did. In fact, I went fishing most nights too.

At 16 I caught my first carp - a golden scaled 8Ib mirror - from a river on a small farm. As I gently released it into the murky depths and watched it drift out of sight... back into my dreams I was bitten by the carp fishing bug. That was the longest and laziest summer. But like all English summers that magical year eventually faded. So too did thoughts of fishing. I lost interest during my late teens and my early twenties. Now I'm thirty years old and part of a family of four. My rod and reel sit increasingly motionless gathering cobwebs in my garden shed.

  I get to spend the odd day at the edge of a river. With rod and reel in hand I let my thoughts drift downstream to a place where a monster lies in waiting for a roving angler. My brother Kev and our friend Adam spend days at a time on the edge of motionless lakes. They often fish so far apart that they cannot communicate (other than by torchlight when one of them after hours or days of silence strikes into a fish). Because of their obsession with big carp I was surprised by their enthusiasm when I suggested we book a fishing holiday on a river in January. Kev discovered a small cottage with an open fire and its own stretch of the River Wensum in Norfolk. We were exited by the prospect of a specimen chub or barbel. We'd read about the Wensum as children. We'd seen pictures of bearded men with flat caps and wax jackets cradling huge barbel against the backdrop of endless Norfolk countryside. We'd been waiting for this adventure for years. Like an old friend the idea came back into our lives and we welcomed it with open arms.

We spent the entire journey to Norfolk taking it in turns to listen (and subject one another) to our favourite rock classics - Pink Floyd, The Stranglers, The Who... stuff our Dads used to listen to. Surely we'd never have entertained this as teenagers! By the time we arrived it was completely dark. The cottage sat peacefully next to a tiny country lane that branched off another (slightly larger) country lane in the middle of flat open countryside. Somewhere in the darkness hid our challenge - the Wensum.

"Lets take a look" Kev and Adam both said. Kev had been driving... but Adam and I had treated ourselves to an early start - we launched our holiday with a few cans of lager during the drive up. I saw in the distance what I thought was the river twinkling in the darkness. Suddenly Adam fell to the ground. I looked down and saw the look of sheer panic on his face as he clutched hopelessly at tiny tufts of wet slippery grass and disappeared down a steep embankment. Before I had a chance to think, there was a tremendous splash. It dawned on me then that Adam had clambered into four feet of icy, evening, January river water. I ran into the cottage, doubled up and fell to the floor laughing. Kev ran behind me and fell onto the grass outside the front door. The swamp thing came inside with a face like thunder. His hair stood on end, he shivered uncontrollably and his clothes dripped all over the floor. He looked both formidable and hilarious. Evenutally someone suggested we get the fire going. We composed ourselves and tried to warm the place up.

We later ventured outside again and found a hospitable pub in the Norfolk countryside. Adam had to wear his fishing clothing - camouflaged trousers, boots and a dodgy old jumper - whilst his decent clothes dried out (or didn't) near a smouldering set of logs in our increasingly cold and dark living room back at the cottage. On entering a suitably old fashioned looking pub we were greeted by a room full of locals wearing green trousers, wellington boots and dodgy old jumpers. Kev and I were seriously overdressed in our denims and polo shirts. The locals stared. Adam smiled victoriously.

After a delicious plate of steak and chips, a few ales and some time at the bar discussing tactics for the next day, we headed back to the cottage. We planned to start fishing at the crack of dawn so didn't stay up late. When the morning came upon us, in the dark, under my duvey, in the absence of work, with no children bouncing on my bed, the prospect of a lie-in seemed like a golden opportunity. Adam - a dedicated angler - had risen to the occasion. He got up, dragged himself out, captured a nice 4Ib+ chub and even spotted a barn owl before breakfast.

Kev and I prepared a full English breakfast whilst Adam told us about his morning. We were enthusiastic about the day ahead. We blanked! Not a sausage (lucky we had one for breakfast)! The river was in flood. Mucky brown water belted past me as I stood freezing in the bitter wind. It rained hard. I remembered why I rarely go fishing in the winter. We had (an early and leisurely) lunch back inside the cottage. We washed it down with a few cans of lager and discussed our options for the rest of the day. Perhaps we should we try a rolling ledger? Or should we sit tight in one spot and wait for the fish to smell our bait? Should we pop down to the nearest tackle dealer, buy some dead bait and try for the pike? We opted for none of these, but instead carried on drinking. We lit the fire and remembered long summer days, balmy evenings and starry nights on our local river catching carp.

That evening Adam cooked a magnificent curry. After this we got the urge to venture outside again. Kev and Adam gave up and went inside after about half an hour. I sat motionless in the dark and icy cold January night air with only the sound of the river racing past for company. The pull of the log fire, which by now was burning brightly inside our cosy cottage became too much to resist after about an hour of no joy. We spent the evening telling stories and jokes before retiring to our beds in the early hours of the morning.

Though disappointed by the lack of fish we enjoyed the weekend immensely. We spent more time in the cottage keeping the fire going than we did on the river but we got what we went for - laughs and a chance to do what we'd dreamed about all those years before. Fish are just the icing on the cake. Next time we'll try for pike. We'll hire a boat on the Broads! Next time I will get up at the crack of dawn and we'll bag up! We'll see.

For ideas on where to fish in England visit http://www.enjoyengland.com/ideas/inspirational-ideas/outdoor-activities/fishing/freshwater-fishing.aspx

Tell us your great fishing stories or share your fishing tips with us by leaving your comments below.

Comments

[Mark Shrago]

I really enjoy reading about and looking at pictures of the English Countryside. I have just retired and am looking forward to my first visit to your country. I must say the friends that I have fished with thru the years have been my longest and most loyal friends for life. No greater place to bond than on your favorite river, lake or stream.

[Rob North]

Great! Thanks for the feedback. I loved your poetic 'Waiting' piece. Keep an eye on this site as we'll be putting more stories on every month. Please do feel free to post your own journals as well, with links back to your own site (if you want to). I don't go fishing all that often these days so good guest contributions are more than welcome! I know you crafty carpers don't always like telling people where you fish, but if you could give clues (even if you only mention the place name or region) that would be great. Happy carping!

[William James]

What a great read. It captures the wonderful, social side of the sport rather than the technicalities. Show me an angler who doesn't love a good story?!

There are a couple of similar pieces on my site, you might enjoy 'Specimen Hunters' or maybe 'Waiting'.

Good stuff :-)