Gone Fishin
We were wandering along the beach this evening in Egmond aan Zee watching the sunset, when we came across a fisherman casting his lines trying to catch sea bass. I had noticed him earlier that day standing around waiting for his lines to twitch. As I didn’t want to get my feet wet I refrained from asking him if he had caught anything that day.
This reminded me of my first and last attempt to catch a fish with hook and line.
I must have been about ten or eleven when my father gave me a fishing rod. I have no idea why he gave me one, as I had never showed any interest in fishing whatsoever.
It looked old and handmade, it could have been Dads when he was a kid. The rod was in three segments and made of bamboo and has a primitive spool. It came in a long thin canvas bag of coarse material that had also seen better days. I’m not sure what the motive was to give it to me, maybe he thought it was better that I got it than have it rot further in the attic. I think grandfather probably had the same idea.
I was half expecting Dad would politely ‘make me’ go fishing with him, but no, not a hint or word. Thinking about it this would have been difficult as we only had one rod! And the last thing I imagined was him going out and buying another one so that father and son could bond by going fishing together.
I heard nothing more of it until my uncle F said he would take me fishing. I think he got roped into it. I don’t remember any talk about fishing in the extended family circle, and I suspect F was not a fish catcher either, and was doing what he thought was me a favour.
I was taken very early one Sunday morning with my tackle to the Princess of Wales pub on the Lea Bridge Road to meet up with my Uncle.
The pub is on the banks of the river Lea which for non-Londoners is a river that runs roughly north to south through the east part of London ending in the Thames just opposite the Millennium Dome now the O2 Arena. It has also a canal running in and out of the river and is apart of the Ley valley water reservoirs that supply London. The pub was convenient as it was not to far from F’s home and my grandmother's in Finsbury Park.
After F turned up Dad went off to my grandmothers for a few hours and I went off with F along the river path until we were far enough away that the sound of traffic had disappeared. We set up ‘camp’ and F baited both his and my hooks with what I think was mealworms. We dropped our lines into the river and sat down on the embankment of the river and waited.
Now we are going back over 50 years here and I don’t remember that much about the place apart from the river was quiet and deserted apart from a few Sunday strollers and joggers passing by. Today almost every inch on the riverside is taken up with houseboats due to housing being costly in London.
What I do remember is the boredom.
I have no sense of time on that day, we could have been sitting around for hours or just minutes. Irrespective of the time we spent sitting there, it was boring.
Also the fish were just not biting, maybe they were insulted with not offering them something more 'on' line to their taste.
Whatever the reason, it was boring.
We just sat there. With me being about 11 and an age difference of 23 years, we didn’t have that much in common apart from F being my mothers brother. In my late teens we have more to talk about, but then just boring silence. I hadn’t even brought a comic to read with me!
After what felt like hours and with our sandwiches for lunch long gone, we looked at each other and read in the others face that it was time to pack it in, so we did. After we packed away the tackle we decided to empty the can of mealworms into the river.
After no evidence that fish were anywhere near where we had been sitting, the waters came alive with fish thrashing about grabbing as much as they could of the mealworms now floating on what looked like boiling water. In under half a minute all the mealworms were gone and the water returned to the tranquil flow we had boringly looked at the whole morning!
I can't remember how I got home, but I do remember telling dad about the ‘experience’ and that was that. No more was said and I still have the rod in the cellar.
Maybe it would be a good idea to let it go..
This reminded me of my first and last attempt to catch a fish with hook and line. I must have been about ten or eleven when my father gave me a fishing rod. I have no idea why he gave me one, as I had never showed any interest in fishing whatsoever.
It looked old and handmade, it could have been Dads when he was a kid. The rod was in three segments and made of bamboo and has a primitive spool. It came in a long thin canvas bag of coarse material that had also seen better days. I’m not sure what the motive was to give it to me, maybe he thought it was better that I got it than have it rot further in the attic. I think grandfather probably had the same idea.
I was half expecting Dad would politely ‘make me’ go fishing with him, but no, not a hint or word. Thinking about it this would have been difficult as we only had one rod! And the last thing I imagined was him going out and buying another one so that father and son could bond by going fishing together.
I heard nothing more of it until my uncle F said he would take me fishing. I think he got roped into it. I don’t remember any talk about fishing in the extended family circle, and I suspect F was not a fish catcher either, and was doing what he thought was me a favour.
I was taken very early one Sunday morning with my tackle to the Princess of Wales pub on the Lea Bridge Road to meet up with my Uncle.
The pub is on the banks of the river Lea which for non-Londoners is a river that runs roughly north to south through the east part of London ending in the Thames just opposite the Millennium Dome now the O2 Arena. It has also a canal running in and out of the river and is apart of the Ley valley water reservoirs that supply London. The pub was convenient as it was not to far from F’s home and my grandmother's in Finsbury Park.
After F turned up Dad went off to my grandmothers for a few hours and I went off with F along the river path until we were far enough away that the sound of traffic had disappeared. We set up ‘camp’ and F baited both his and my hooks with what I think was mealworms. We dropped our lines into the river and sat down on the embankment of the river and waited.
Now we are going back over 50 years here and I don’t remember that much about the place apart from the river was quiet and deserted apart from a few Sunday strollers and joggers passing by. Today almost every inch on the riverside is taken up with houseboats due to housing being costly in London.
What I do remember is the boredom.
I have no sense of time on that day, we could have been sitting around for hours or just minutes. Irrespective of the time we spent sitting there, it was boring.
Also the fish were just not biting, maybe they were insulted with not offering them something more 'on' line to their taste.
Whatever the reason, it was boring.
We just sat there. With me being about 11 and an age difference of 23 years, we didn’t have that much in common apart from F being my mothers brother. In my late teens we have more to talk about, but then just boring silence. I hadn’t even brought a comic to read with me!
After what felt like hours and with our sandwiches for lunch long gone, we looked at each other and read in the others face that it was time to pack it in, so we did. After we packed away the tackle we decided to empty the can of mealworms into the river.
After no evidence that fish were anywhere near where we had been sitting, the waters came alive with fish thrashing about grabbing as much as they could of the mealworms now floating on what looked like boiling water. In under half a minute all the mealworms were gone and the water returned to the tranquil flow we had boringly looked at the whole morning!
I can't remember how I got home, but I do remember telling dad about the ‘experience’ and that was that. No more was said and I still have the rod in the cellar.
Maybe it would be a good idea to let it go..
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