First steps

I was given my first fishing rod as a present from my Uncle John and Aunty Muriel. Both are now sadly gone from this world but very much alive in my memories. Muriel was my mum’s sister. She and John never had children and as a result were devoted to my cousins and me. I have many cousins!

Muriel and John were in turn adored by us. They had many things going for them which made them popular with us, especially when going on holiday to stay there or having them over at Christmas; John always had time to play with our Scalextric or railway set. They had a dog, they lived in Thornton near Blackpool, near the seaside, they were the first people any of us knew who had a colour television, John played golf which to me seemed tremendously glamorous and as I grew, I was occasionally allowed to act as caddy. Both functioned as Agony Aunt and Uncle to us all. We adored them.

It only just occurred to me that had John given me a golf club instead of a fishing rod my entire life would have panned out differently. But they went for the rod and for that I am eternally grateful. The rod itself was a basic affair. It was seven feet long and made of bright yellow fibreglass, had a little centrepin reel and was set up with line, quill float, lead shot and hook. All ready to go but for an absence of somewhere to fish, bait and any clue as to how to actually fish. My mum duly sewed a rod bag for me from some 1960s/70s patterned greenish material, still pretty cool camo by today’s standards. My dad grumbled about the potential expenses of fishing as a hobby.

Two books were bought for me which fired my imagination. That said, my nearest venue was the Bridgewater canal in Stretford, Manchester which at the time was less than clean due to proximity to the industry of Trafford Park and hardly brimming with the various species depicted in these books.

Initial trips to the canal with a couple of cousins, Steven and Trevor, proved fishless and I had more fun messing with the maggots than anything. Unaccompanied trips to the canal at that time would almost certainly result in being robbed! I was a shy child and somewhat tubby then (back when being a bit overweight was NOT the norm!) so I would be an easy target for passing gangs of bored kids from the nearby estate.

And so I continued fruitlessly trying to catch my first fish, mostly when staying at Thornton with Muriel and John on holiday. Nearby their bungalow were what we as children referred to as “The Country Lanes” where we would go for walks, spot birds, look for frogspawn and have fits of giggles at the lively smells coming from a pig farm. Raikes Road and Underbank Road as these lanes were actually called. I was allowed to try for fish in ponds there (still in existance per Google Maps) but fish refused to co-operate.

Across the road from Muriel and John lived Aunty Margaret and Uncle Tom. Tom is my mum’s brother. That’s the Owen side of my family which remains very important to me. Tom is the Uncle who I was always told I was similar to; fair, tall, of occasionally fiery temper and handsome. We are obviously both modest, too. Tom is a bit of a dude; me too sometimes, I like to think.

Maragaret sadly passed away this year. An elegant woman who is greatly missed.

At the time I was friendly with Gary and Tracy, their two older children, my cousins. Tracy is about the same age as me and Gary was a few years older. Importantly, Gary went fishing and in my eyes was hugely experienced compared to me. To my utter delight it was arranged for me to go fishing with him. You have to bear in mind that some of my childhood memories from then are sketchy; I may get some details here wrong.

I was sent over to see Gary and found him in his bedroom. I seem to recall he had a T Rex poster on the wall which I thought was fantastic. We went out into the back garden to gather what Gary called ‘Tiger worms’ (brandlings) for our trip. The venue was a pond in a field not far away at, I think, Four Lane Ends. I’ve scoured Google Maps but either the pond has been built over since then or I have the location wrong.

We were dropped off with the instruction to have fun whilst not falling in. It was a popular little pond and we had to pick a little spot on the far side. Gary helped me to impale a worm on the hook and I cast in. Well, dropped the hook, line and sinker at the edge. Gary went off to talk to some other, older lads and I recall thinking that they must be terribly experienced fisherman. It was an exciting time for me. Gary returned and pointed out that my float had moved so I picked up my rod and there it was, wriggling away, my first fish. It was a little perch (same as on the cover of the second book above) and Gary warned me to look out for the spines as we unhooked it and slipped it back into the water. Now I too was well and truly hooked.

I fished other pools in the area with Gary after that, hooking and landing a number of fish and also one evening, my little finger. This resulted in a trip to Blackpool Victoria hospital and painful threading of the hook right through and out of the other side of my finger. Painful because the nurse managed to numb the wrong finger beforehand.

I never got to grow up going fishing with Gary. A few short years later he tragically died in a climbing accident. The shock and pain of that loss still ripples through my family. When I went up to Thornton recently to attend Margaret’s funeral I saw that Uncle Tom has a little memorial to Gary on his kitchen wall. My cousin David and I were quite moved by that.

So, I owe the birth of all the joy that fishing has brought me to three people who are no longer with us but will never be forgotten.

Thank you Muriel, John and Gary. I still have that first fishing rod.