Fishing with My father
My father had always liked fishing and, as a young lad in Hooe, Sussex, he often went across the marshes to fish in the river and in the sewers – the where? – I hear you say. Actually, I didn′t hear you say anything because I′m all alone, as I write this, and you haven′t read it, yet, anyway. I hope that′s clear.
Yes, that′s right, the sewers.– to those who don′t live in the country around Hooe, these are the drainage ditches that keep the low–lying land, on which Hooe stands, dry and farmable. Without these surface water drainage channels and the sluices, the land would return to marshland, as it used to be not so many centuries ago. "Sewer" is the old name for these ditches but has, generally, to–day, had its meaning restricted to the carrying away of effluent. That′s "effluent" and not "affluent" – I do know the difference though, in my life, I seem to have got more of the former than the later – but that′s another story.
These sewers can be quite wide and deep and there are fish that swim in them – well, if you′re a fish there′s not much else to do. So, for my father, it was a very short trip, from his home, through the country lanes, to a fisherman′s paradise – so many places to choose from and, virtually, no one else around unless you went together.
Well, returning to Shropshire, which doesn′t need drainage ditches, except when the River Severn floods, the house we bought in Ironbridge was right by the side of the river, so he could just cross the road, cast out a line, and wait – that′s, all he ever did, really, wait, because I don′t remember him ever catching anything, in all the time he went fishing. He became expert at casting out a fishing line, however, but there′s not much call for that.
Later, in the 1950s, things changed for the worse, as restrictions were placed on fishing along the Wharfage because, so I was told, a Birmingham fishing club had bought the fishing rights all along the banks on both sides of the river.
Shortly after we moved into our house in Ironbridge, sometime in 1949, my father found an alternative to the river; a very large pond or small lake, somewhere, I think, up Coalbrookdale. I was young, then, about ten years old, and time dims the memory – well, I′m older now but I′m still dim and my memory′s no better. I believe it may have been a "hammer pond", used in the making of iron (not hammers) – we have many hammer ponds in Sussex, which date back to the time when iron was produced in the county, but on a, relatively, small scale.
He got permission to fish there and, one day, for whatever reason, he asked me and my sister, Pamela, to go with him. This was a surprise as he never took us fishing, but this was mainly because we never wanted to go. I couldn′t understand the pleasure of sitting perfectly still, and perfectly quite, for hours on end, watching a float lying on the surface of the water waiting for it to bob down only to pull it out and find that the worm or the bait was missing.
I′ve often believed that he, really, didn′t want to take us, and we certainly didn′t want to go, but I′m sure that mother wanted us out from under her feet for some reason. I don′t know why, I was a wonderful son, a regular treasure, she didn′t deserve me – something she said many times.
Anyway, off we went fishing, which wasn′t strictly true as he was the only one with a fishing rod and bait, while our part of this enterprise, it came to pass, was to remain totally still and quiet so as not to frighten the fish – situation normal. I wasn′t looking forward to the coming day very much as I didn′t do "still" and "quiet" very well at all but, then, I hadn′t had that much practice.
After quite a considerable walk, we, finally, arrived at the pool and the next step was to choose the spot from which to fish. This, I left to my father as I had lost all interest after that walk and he wouldn’t have asked my opinion, anyway.
My father had a look around and, then, made his decision - he strode off in the direction of what looked like a flat path running, just above the pond level, and quite straight, along one side of the pool, with us following as we had no other choice.
The “path” turned out to be the top of a wide wall, about three feet in width, and made of large blocks of solid stone – the sort of stone from which they built castles. The wall had been built at least a century before and, as we walked along the top, the purpose of the wall became all too apparent; it was to keep the waters of the pond, on one side, from flooding on to the railway line on the other. Being a young lad who suffered from vertigo (that's a fear of heights, not a skin disease) the railway looked to be about three light years below me, but, when you’re young, you exaggerate, so it was, probably, only one light year.
“Be careful”, my father said, obviously, full of care for our well-being, “the pond’s bottomless”. That cheered me up no end, as, from where I stood, balanced on a three foot wide wall between death and disaster, looking down on the railway line below, that, too, looked pretty bottomless to me.
Following our father religiously, which is to say we were praying that we wouldn’t fall one way or the other off the wall, my sister and I, finally, arrived at a spot that our parent deemed ideal for catching fish. We weren’t, however, convinced as, from experience, we very much doubted his ability to be a judge of anything to do with fishing – this was based, purely, on the quantity of fish he had caught since we knew him, which in my case was about ten years, as a comparison with the number of times he went fishing. This calculation produced a fraction slightly less than zero.
My sister and I sat, as instructed, and tried not to move, also, as instructed. With instant death on both sides of the wall, we weren′t ready to play blind man′s bluff but we did try a bit of thumping each other on the arm – and elbowing into the other ribs - something we still do to–day, when we meet.– it's become sort of a family tradition, a way of greeting. No we don′t I′m lying – while we thought it funny, at the time, I don′t think we′d get as much amusement out of it now.
We watched as my father threw the line in, waited, and, then, took it out again – each time the worm had managed, somehow, to make its escape and it was necessary to push the sharp end of the hook through another worm′s side before casting it in to the dark waters of the bottomless pool, as my father had done with all the others. I found it difficult to see what amusement there was in this and I′m sure that the worm had a similar opinion. I must admit that, while our situation seemed precarious, balanced on that wall, I, still, thought that we had it a bit better than the worms.
To give my father his due, he tried hard, but luck was always against him; fate seemed to decree that either they (the fish) weren’t biting (fish can be like that, sometimes, just plain awkward) or "it" (the bait) was wrong (this was strange because, somehow, though he’d made it, selected it, dug it up, or whatever one does with bait, this wasn’t his fault). Finally, it was "obvious to a blind man" that the river, stream, brook, lake, pond was, probably, fished out - so honour was satisfied.
The excitement of that day′s fishing, sitting still and not talking for several hours, was only surpassed when an inter-stellar steam engine, occasionally, passed by way, way, way down below us, and I found myself staring straight down its funnel as clouds of dark smoke and steam came up to meet me. It seemed to me that the engine driver must have seen us way up above him, and deliberately blew the whistle just as he passed below us because I coulod see no other reason.
After some time, my father decided he′d caught enough fish (usual amount, none) and we could now walk home.
It was a bit scary, standing up on the wall, after sitting and kneeling for so long, but even more scary was making our way back along it to reach ground that was considerably wider (about a planet width) and safer.
I′ve been fishing since but sea–fishing, from the beach or the wide, safe harbour arm. I never catch anything so my father, obviously, trained me well. Thanks dad!
