Dave
Gladwell's Fishing Tips
A
CHRISTMAS EVE OUTING TO REMEMBER?
It was
Christmas Eve and Uncle Eric’s postal order gift for five shillings
had been cashed. The kidney spoon laid gleaming and enticing in the
tackle shop window, it’s red woolen hackles hovering around size
four trebles. I was much impressed by page 29 of God’s holy word
for all aspiring young anglers of the day, "Mr Crabtree Goes Fishing".
Here before us now, was the very replica of the spoon advised, almost
guaranteed, to produce a pike of truly outstanding proportions, and
I could now afford it!
The hope of the Nation’s future lay unpredictably in the hands
of the “Artillery Road Seven” uniform in their short trousers
although having recently entered their teens. Together they entered
the emporium with the quiet reverence tackle shops commanded in those
far off days.
They surveyed the hero who was the enduring idol of their imaginations.
The former
commando stared down from his rangy six-foot wondering what misfortune
was now to befall him on this appointed occasion. His patience prevailed
as he was asked as usual if his “hand was any better now”.
Unfortunately it’s glaring absence and vicious-looking iron hook
resulted from a gallant episode in World War II which he knew he would
yet again be called upon to recount in detail.
His dispatch
of heinous Huns commanded the respect and envy of all, surpassed only
by his piscatorial prowess performed largely with the one hand he had
left. Old man Morley regularly demonstrated this by landing truly amazing
catches to the adoring eyes of his annoying band of bank-side followers.
The present
money purchased this prized spoon, and soon the Canal Bank was graced
with our presence. This 5”-levathian of a lure was bigger than
most fish living in the stretch, but of such is the optimism of youth.
It was in accordance with our visions of the alleged gigantic predator,
devouring all within the Canal’s murky waters that came unwittingly
before its presence and insatiable hunger. The strong brown braided-silk,
waxed line was laid out from the centre pin reel, and the first few
casts resulted in satisfying casts, plops and retrievals.
Then, the
Spanish-reed cane rod suddenly bent alarmingly, far, far earlier than
was expected. Certainly a positive resistance was encountered. It was
not the enormous esox, but a hollering Harry Hall who hopped and danced
around with the lure’s needle-sharp end-set of treble hooks embedded
very fairly in one of his rather large and protruding ears. He was stopped
on the first run and a joint inspection took place.
 Chocky,
always an unsympathetic sort of a lad, compassionately accused the unfortunate
victim of making an unnecessary fuss. Smithy endeavoured to prize the
offending article from the freely bleeding ear with the same pliers
that had featured famously in the past disgorging hooks from unfortunate
fishes.
Then, Grammar
school clever clogs, Dude St John, commanded the victim should be laid
down upon the grotty ground. With all the wisdom he had acquired from
his better education and greater learning, he instructed ice be taken
from the margins of the murky canal waters and laid upon the gory ear
as a local anaesthetic. Enthusiastically, and not without some skill,
he poked at the entry area with the pointed corkscrew end from his rusty
penknife to no avail.
Always
a doyen of fashion, our “Dude”, wore woolen, fingerless
grey gloves, lovingly knitted by his Granny. Unfortunately a filthy
fraying fester of the fibres became entangled on a prow of the treble,
it’s formidable barbs holding fast.
Off came the glove, now reddening rapidly with a bloody brilliance as
bright as the hackles. "Stop making such a row," Singy commanded
as together we restrained Hally’s struggling prostrate form. With
the attempted surgery’s failure eventually acknowledged and aborted,
the entourage leapt aboard their cherished steeds and biked like blazes
off to the local cottage hospital.
The glove
hung down attractively from Hall’s ear, swaying in the cycle’s
slipstream, now sodden and colouring his face and coat with blood. It
was all rather reminiscent of Dracula returning from an overnight outing.
Uncaring the emerging romantic Kimber, called out from the back.
"Hang
on there’s Dorothy Hangshot." Now Dotty was a rapidly developing
girl, who, it was rumoured, had certain wiles others failed to possess.
Nobody else faltered in the mission, and years later we learnt it was
liaisons of this very nature that eventually endured her father to turn
into a "£10 Pom" and vanish her to safety on the other
side of the World.
At the
hospital desk, Crosby, always a dramatic lad, screeched out at the top
of his voice waving his arms about impressively. "Quick! Quick!
He’s dying! He’s dying!" The surly Sister was unimpressed
and her colleague muttered, "Oh its not that lot again is it?"
Now this was particularly unfair, as we were only practising arm locks
in dislocating Choccy’s shoulder last month. Besides which the
lads really did think the sheath knife cut between my thumb and forefinger
joints was going to give me tetnus-based lock jaw the previous week.
(You wish!)
Then after
all, none of us knew Bartum wasn’t dying in his bankside thrashing
tumult in October! Why? Well Pratty, had a very lethal bait called "Breathing
Bread." Even the stalest of slices could be invigorated as it was
held before his mouth. He panted, exhaling upon it with great enthusiasm,
and a vengeance, in my adult maturity, one envied in the depths of a
double bed. All in all, it produced an impressive damp breadflake and
being of a Jamaican family, boasted many of the aromatic advantages
of a garlic motivated menu.
Unfortunately, we did not know poor old Bartrum had a pending malady.
 The
great momentum of his “go”, induced an epileptic fit and
considerable pandemonium up along the beloved Canal Bank, particularly
as someone rather mis-guidedly called the fire engine instead of an
ambulance. What an adventure!
Upon this
eve of the great Christchild’s anniversary and without any attention
to all this “goodwill towards all men” (and boys), we were
banned to the foreboding silence of the waiting room. Our attention
was largely taken up by the two-colour blue and white front page of
the Woman’s Weekly which bore a rather ripened, I recall, female’
encased in corsets and a bra, to inspire our fertile imaginations.
After seemingly
agonised ages, the luckless Halley emerged. He had been injected in
his behind for innumerable ailments, then the offending article cut
out and his ear stitched up. It was agony! We all biked home, with the
victim’s abused bottom inelegantly and uncomfortably raised an
inch above the hard leather saddle. United again, in the evening fog
and frost, fingers tingling, knees rosy red from chaps and chilblains,
suitably chastised and subdued but moaning at the heavily head-bandaged
Hall for spoiling the day!
However,
at some time I must have lost the famous “spoon” somewhere,
gone forever, but no greater love hath any man, than for that same Allcock’s
Grice & Young Gypsy D’Argent centre pin reel. For when I take
it out to use, lovingly preserved over the years, it engenders before
me all it’s wonderful boyhood memories and maturing days into
adult hood.
The moral
of this story is that barbless hooks would have been removed without
much trouble at all in a few seconds on the bank, and, always use clean
fingers and tools when doing things like this!
A happy
Xmas to all! - Dave Gladwell
www.bungay-suffolk.co.uk
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