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Dave Gladwell's Fishing Tips

Worms and making a wormery

It was Saturday again, weather holding fair, paper round finished, a fishing trip firmly on my mind. The Angling Times, better than God’s holy word, but daily read, held news of enormous specimens hoodwinked into captivity from all corners of the Country. Four-pence worth of fishy features. Fantastic photos of leviathan monsters from the darkest deeps and bubbling streams, fed to foster the fertile imagination. Even better it gave tips and last week “Worms” was the wonder word.

The back door cannoned open into the kitchen and the cat leapt hurriedly out of the way as at fourteen years and three weeks, I made my energetic entry. "Any news?" the question was posed. Mother had the headline. "Mr Allington said he is going fishing at ten o'clock!" Broad smiles, "Great, the opening day of the fishing season, what a wonderful world!" I recall saying excitedly!

Dad had finished shaving at the sink stropping his razor on the leather thong from time to time. His green London Transport uniform was immaculate and his head was inside The News Chronicle as he crunched his toast. “Did your friend at the Chapel get them, I asked?” “Which friend and what?” Dad mumbled viewing all the troubles of the World. “The one with the big garden by the Park, and a compost heap with the worms,” I replied Dad paused and mumbled. "Blasted Boy and his flipping fishing. You have got to go round at eight-thirty. Here is a new big zinc bait tin for a late birthday present, and you had best be away now," he said.

Upon arrival at his door, the religious and righteous brethren fellow was as good as his word. The much famed heap was turned and smelled sweet of rotting vegetables and fruit. It fairly seethed with worms of up to three inches long. Striped, with orange and red rings across their body’ lively and interesting. “Brandlings they call them, but there are a few red ‘uns in with them” he commented. The new tin with its small breathing-hole gauze circle inlet to the lid,was soon filled to the brim and the lid pressed home.

These were the bait described in the blessed angler’s bible of the day. I was sure that today would be the first time I’d catch more than the Old Man next door. It was back on the bike, oh trusty steed, and homeward bound. Unfortunately in the impetus of enthusiasm, arriving home, I forgot to wipe feet and my heart sank as I saw a messy compost clot transferred from the instep of my shoe appear squashed and smeared on the hall carpet. There was only one thing for it. The residue was secretly scrapped up and in a panic rapidly placed in the tin. Out with the handkerchief and a quick spit clean up. Not good but better than it was – hardly noticeable I thought! Ten minutes later as ten o'clock struck, yours truly, the ever-ardent Apprentice angler picked up his bag and once more viewed the lively worms lovingly in the new bait tin. An escape was made but not before the offensively grubby handkerchief was flushed down the outside loo on the way out the back gate!

An hour later the grass waved welcomingly, bees buzzed and the song thrush sang strongly as the country lane turned towards the River Wey. The waters wound their way along and invited attention at almost every step. The wider bend was the chosen and well appointed place and produced, just as the Old Master had forecast. "Good bread bait today", the Old Man announced netting yet another seemingly huge seven pound bronze bream. "Yes," I agreed still keeping my secret safe, ten minutes after landing my first ever bream. It had laid in the net slowly extending its lips, bronze and black looking fresh and clean. By the time it went into the keepnet it’s slime was on my trousers, coat arms and hands. It looked as though I had a bad cold and hadn't’ blown my nose for weeks! I rebaited, trying hard to remember that biting my nails today may not be a wise move.

Yet another cricket size ball of bread and bran was lobbed in like a cannon ball from the Tutor's bag, but this time into my own swim. The Observer's Book of Freshwater Fishes', featured the Common Bream on page 55 and now it looked good with a new first time species entered into the log book. Only two pounds but certainly the largest fish caught to date. "Thanks. Good here a'int it," I called out as a pound perch was disgorged having engulfed the brandling deep down. "Something like that," muttered the Old Man. The beautiful bronze bream came regularly and Mr Allington’s net thrashed and bulged showering spray everywhere as he hauled it noisily up the bank. “There you are Boy, eighty pounds of copper coloured croppers, and all on bread. The Glorious Sixteenth eh!”

It was defeat yet again as my five brilliant battlers, the biggest weighing all of four pounds, were pulled up the bank to gleam in the sun. Breathtakingly beautiful with the stripey perch laying beside them. My best-ever catch and a wonderful start to the new Season! The Old Man looked and a smile crept on to his face and he cracked my secret wide open. “Perch don’t take bread me Boy. Well done indeed today, and keep the worms as they will be a handy change for us. Share and share alike. Fishing mates remember now.”

It was the pride and praise I was to savour for ever. We were “mates”, and I had been afforded friendship. A debt I can never ever repay, and I shed tears freely at his passing twenty years later. Arriving home, Mother meanwhile, was in a very menacing frame of mind. The outside loo had overflowed annoyingly blocked yet again. This time it was not my Sister’s seemingly somewhat regular fault. A certain Boy's handkerchief had been retrieved in the vigourous pokings and proddings into the depths of dark unsavoury things which blocked the toilet outlet! As a newly born angling hero I had returned, in full enthusiasm. Very soon however quelled with harsh words and a hearty cosh from the copper stick. It had its benefits however because until this day my worms come from my own efforts. Dear old Dad made me a worm heap of my own and then a tackle box with shoulder straps. I had my own bit of the outside shed for fishing things. It set a scene to escape into for a lifetime.

What you need is a plastic container around 18” t0 24” high, by 24” x 18”. A square one is best. Place it on four house bricks out of direct sun, near a wall, but where it will catch the rain. Drill four holes, half the size of a pencil roundness, about two inches up from the bottom in each of the sides. Fill the bottom three inches with stones/gravel up to one inch in size. This will enable firstly drainage but leave a wet base for worms to go down into when they want.

Trot off and get some horse or pig manure and make a layer of four inches. Put a couple of inches of lawn clippings in and them some old rotten apples, about a twenty or so. Cover with another couple of inches of manure. A two inch layer of dead tree leaves is ideal now. Keep adding vegetable waste left overs. Fruit skins, rice, pasta potatoes; all rot-able (biodegradable) stuff. Keep 2” below top. Find an old piece of carpet and cut to fit top size. This will keep the moisture in.

Now when you buy your next lot of worms or scrounge some from someone’s compost heap, add them to your “wormery” to breed. Leave for a couple of months before you turn it over, watering often at dry times. Little worms will appear after a while but do not exhaust the heap of worms or you will lose your breeding stock. Worms should be right under your wet carpet when you lift it up. Like all things – keep trying until successful. – Good luck!

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