By 1975 I had acquired some better fishing tackle. A 9ft blue fibreglass rod (short by today’s standards), a Mitchell 320 fixed spool reel, a basket to sit on and, mercifully, a proper fishing umbrella. Slight issue with the brolly; it was cotton, not nylon. When it rained, and this being the Lake District rain is never far away, the brolly became saturated and very heavy. But it did keep the worst off. By this time I had managed to catch a variety of fish from the Bridgewater canal and Lymm Dam. Also trout from Hardraw Beck near Hawes, Yorkshire where my school held camps. I considered myself to be a proper fisherman by that point. What little I knew!
My mum and dad had a 4/5 berth caravan that was towed behind whatever gas-guzzling car we had at the time; usually something impressive looking but unreliable. Dad never did get his head round the idea that you get what you pay for so most holidays were punctuated by running repairs to the car. The caravan had an awning to accommodate numerous cousins whilst the adults had the actual caravan to sleep in. The extended family trip involved three cars including Uncle John and Aunty Muriel’s.
Because I had brought fishing tackle I was mostly spared the daily trips out to crowded local ‘sights’ in a steamed up car and the tedious quest for free car parking. Luckily for me the camp site, which was rather good to be fair, was in a wooded area part way up the eastern side of Windermere. The shore was 5 minutes walk away and I found a secluded rocky outcrop with quite deep water, perfect for fishing. The woods provided plenty of worms which John would often gather for me in the morning. I suspect that John too wasn’t really interested in driving around as he spent most days with me. We would be called back to the caravan for lunch but aside from that I had a great time catching perch with John and watching the speedboats go up and down Windermere. This was of course before such craft were restricted. One vessel was a powerboat called, I think, Sir Lancelot. A huge red thing that at least a couple of times a day would zoom past way off shore. We quickly learned that a substantial bow wave would hit the shore a few minutes later requiring a hasty retreat.
The photo above was taken in another spot just round the corner. It shows me holding a perch of around 12oz although it’s hard to see it’s a fish. John is behind me trying his best to catch fish and looking quite pleased with himself. Photogenic wasn’t he! If you require any further evidence that this was the 70s, check out my T shirt and haircut. That photo has spent many years in a drawer and the colour is faded with a purple/red tinge which I’ve done my best to adjust. There’s nothing that can be done with the clarity; that’s 70s 110 format film for you.
So John and I spent most days sat slightly uncomfortably on the basket dodging rain under my brolly, sharing the fishing rod in turn whilst John smoked Player’s No.6 cigarettes and had the odd bottle of beer. Again, it was the 70s and most men smoked. It seemed normal then.
One day I fished alone. Without an adult to make me leave in time for tea I stayed a little longer as I was still catching fish. And then something happened that most 13 year old boys dream of. Out of the trees, along the track came a girl of about my age. Pretty too. She walked up to me and started asking about fishing, how long I was on holiday there etc. I couldn’t believe my luck. Good fishing and now a girl who seemed to like me. I probably blushed. However, this incredible situation was not destined to last. After about 5 minutes my mum rolled up and proceeded to tear a strip off me for being 30 minutes late for tea. The girl looked horrified and slipped away, never to be seen again. I was marched back to the caravan to be told off some more by mum and then ribbed mercilessly by Uncle John over what he called my first holiday romance. All 5 minutes of it. To his credit I did hear him later taking mum to task for embarrassing me in front of a girl.
Despite the rain, despite the telling off and embarrassment this was probably one of the happiest holidays I had as a child. The fishing was the best. I thought I’d persuaded John to give up golf and take up fishing with me; never happened of course. On the last day we all went off to Bowness and the sun shone for a change. My mum, usually very keen to avoid wasting money on "expensive pop" from lakeside kiosks, actually bought a can of chilled Ben Shaws Bitter Lemon for me. I’m guessing there was a little bit of guilt behind that purchase!
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