Fishing a proper river................

[Traditionalist]

The rod was rather heavy and seemed too long, it was a nine foot six Sharpes #7 built cane rod, which I had got second hand from a friend who did not fish, but had gotten the rod as a present, after begging and cajoling for almost half a year, and paying most of my small savings. The fly-line was a cheap mill end, got from the remnants table at the local tackle shop, and the leader was a piece of six pound nylon monofilament about three yards long. These implements had cost me a small fortune, saved diligently from various jobs I had done, but I was mightily proud of them.

Attached to this was the pride and hope of a veritable multitude of fly-dressing experiments, a "Partridge and Orange" tied without the help of a vice, on a size ten hook using sewing thread and feathers from an old pillow.

My elder brother sat not too far away legering in the big pool with a thirteen foot match rod, and smiling indulgently at my efforts to cast the rig. He had come and picked me up early that morning, to take me out for the long promised day fishing on a "proper" river.

It was the Yorkshire Esk at Lealholme in the heart of the dales. We had got a bus to the railway station at Middlesbrough, and then the train from there, we changed twice and after what seemed an eternity, finally arrived at our destination. I was far too excited to appreciate the beautiful scenery flowing past the train windows, and instead sat sorting my small collection of flies and making plans for their baptism, and trying feverishly to remember all I had read about casting and reading the water and such. A fairly brisk walk brought us to the scene of operations, the "free stretch" at Lealholme, which only required a river board licence, and feverish preparations were then carried out in the hopeful expectation of catching a decent trout.

My impatience to start was further aggravated by my brother insisting that we eat something first. Strangely enough I remember this as though it were yesterday, we had halves of French bread from the village shop, broken open and then filled with great thick slices of ham cut roughly from a large chunk my brother had bought, with his wonderful pocket knife, and then smeared liberally with French mustard.

My brother got a foaming glass of ale from the pub over the bridge, and I got my first ever shandy. Following this memorable meal, we went down to the river and he set about putting his gear together, while I waded in in my bare feet, ignoring the sharp stones and extremely cold water, and scanned the water for signs of fish.

Such was my faith in the magical power of flies, having read everything I could get my hands on, concerning them, I had no doubt whatsoever that I was going to catch a bag-full. I scorned my brothers offer of a legering rod and worms, and determined to show him that the flies were superior to all known methods.

Not far away, under the bridge on the opposite side of the river was a large slack pool, and here swimming around apparently unconcerned by my machinations, where a group of lovely trout which seemed massive. I had already caught quite a few trout on worms in a few local becks, but not yet with a fly, and I was certain that this enchanted apparatus now in my possession would increase my chances practically to the point of certainty.

Shaking with nervous excitement, having watched the fish for several minutes, I commenced operations. Try as I might I could not get my fly out far enough to reach the fish. After trying for quite a while I became aware of an older gentleman watching me from the bank. He called over and asked "doing any good ?" I said no, it was more difficult than I thought, and he nodded his head wisely.

He walked over and talked to my brother for a few minutes, and then came back to me. He asked me to step out for a minute and show him my licence, he was the Esk Fishery Association Bailiff for that stretch of the river, and he also controlled the free stretches. After checking my licence he asked to see my equipment, and asked if I would mind if he had a cast with it. I agreed, and after checking the fly and line, he rubbed some mud from the bank onto the fly, and then he moved down to behind a bush, pulled what seemed like an awful lot of line off the cheap tin reel accompanied by an awful high pitched grinding noise, and with one fluid motion of his arm and a single back-cast he placed the fly directly in front of one of the larger fish that was swimming placidly around the pool.

Difficult to say what happened next really, my recollections are a bit jumbled, suffice it to say the fish grabbed the fly, he struck, and handed me the rod, saying, "there you are, he?s all yours." Pure terror gripped me, the thought of losing such a wonderful fish which was plunging and bucking and tearing around like a mad thing on the end of the line gripped tightly in my hand caused me to forget all I had read about the correct procedure after hooking a fish. "Give him a little bit of line," came the quiet but firm advice, and I let go at once.

The fish tore off downstream accompanied by the most awful moaning screech from the reel, I was trembling and shaking so much with excitement that I was quite incapable of grasping the line again. "Let him run, but brake the line a little with your fingers," came the quiet but firm advice again. Somehow I managed to get hold of the line, and slow the seemingly unstoppable progress of the fish towards the sea and freedom. Accompanied by occasional calm comments from the man at my side, and after what seemed like an eternity, I finally managed to get some control over the creature, and my shaking and trembling reduced sufficiently to start getting some line back.

My brother in the meantime had come running with the net, and after further spirited struggles and nearly being lost twice through being touched by the rim of the net, the fish finally lay on the bank in the enclosing mesh.

My joy knew no bounds, forgetting all that I had learned I sat there gazing at this object of wondrous beauty, the gentleman asked my brother to fetch the priest, and the fish was dispatched. I sat holding and admiring the fish for what seemed an unconscionable time, feeling joyful that I had him, but also very sad at his death.

At last I removed the fly from the corner of his jaw, and just sat looking again for quite a while at his magnificence. My brother was obviously quite awed by the whole procedure as well, and did not say anything much apart from "congratulations, well done."

The gentleman complimented me on my excellent choice of fly, and my prowess in landing such a nice fish, and asked if he might see my other flies. I handed him my small tin cigar box, and he spent quite some time looking over the various monstrosities contained therein, all of which had been tied with sewing thread and pillow feathers. "Very promising," was all he said. "I tie quite a few myself as well, perhaps you would like to come along and have a look at some?"

I was overwhelmed, and though my brother did not seem to be all that enthusiastic, my beseeching look must have forced him to overcome his natural taciturnity and Yorkshire forbearance, as he agreed, and we gathered up our gear and climbed into the gentleman?s car, and drove the relatively short distance to his house in a village just up the road a way.

He invited us in, offered us tea, and then took us into his angling room. My eyes very nearly popped out of my head. Rows and rows of rods and reels, serried ranks of the most beautiful flies, and a host of other incredibly beautiful objects met my astounded gaze. I had landed in wonderland!

He opened a large filing cabinet and took out some of his materials to show me. Unbelievable, almost beyond belief that a mere human being should possess such untold treasures. Capes of wonderful feathers, whole skins from various animals, the first Jungle Cock cape I ever saw, a thing of incredible and rare beauty, and a host of other marvels.

After a while he sat down at his workbench in front of the window, and asked me to pull up a stool. In an incredibly short space of time he tied up several beautiful flies, showing me exactly every operation in the clearest manner I have ever seen. I have no idea how long we were there, I know my tea went stone cold, and the biscuits provided remained untouched, and my brother scolded me afterwards for being so impolite as to let this happen.

Some time later we rose to leave, as we had to catch the train, the gentleman drove us to the station at Glaisdale, and just before we went on to the platform he gave me a small envelope containing the flies he had tied, and several more, saying if I was in the area again to have a look in.

Rather dazed by events I forgot my manners so much as to not even thank him, for which unforgivable lapse, I also earned a scolding from my brother. I can no longer remember the journey home, I spent most of it fingering the flies I had been given, before I apparently fell asleep. My brother took me back to where I lived and went on his way as he had to work that night and wanted to get some sleep in beforehand. I bored my mother to death for hours relating the fantastic events of the day, and begging and imploring that my fish be treated with all due ceremony and the greatest possible care.

About a month after this memorable event, my brother turned up on my birthday and presented me with a small wooden box with a sliding lid. It was a fly-tying kit from the firm of Veniard. It was full to the brim with all sorts of wonderful tools and feathers, and my enthusiasm knew no bounds. I immediately set out to tie all the flies in the small volume from the kit, and practically every free hour I had after that was spent reading books from the library and trying to copy the lovely illustrations from them, and to follow the rather difficult instructions contained therein.

I met the gentleman quite a few times several years later when I got my first bicycle, and cycled the forty mile round trip fairly often. He remembered me and asked me round several times for tea and a bit of fly-dressing. After a further couple of years I got my first motorbike, a 250cc BSA , and later a 650 Triumph Gold Flash, and I rattled round the dales and elsewhere on this for several years. Occasionally going to visit my friend.

His name was David Cook, and he was a Bailiff on the Esk for most of his life apparently. Why he chose to help me out that day I do not know, he was rather feared and considered to be a grumpy old bugger by many who I met on the water over the years. He was the scourge of poachers and people fishing without a licence, but he was always very kind indeed to me.

When I read his obituary in one of the fishing magazines not all that long ago, ( It is actually quite a while ago now) I was rather surprised to discover that he was famous for his talents, and very well respected in the angling world. I often sit and think of him while I am tying up a few flies, and feel sorry that I never really got around to thanking him properly as he deserved for helping out a strange small boy that day so long ago.

I fear nowadays such a thing would be hardly possible, older men approaching small boys for whatever reason probably being dangerous in the extreme, thanks to some of the more unfortunate trends in our society.

Perhaps this story will serve in some way to thank him now.

Hello David, wherever you are I hope you are still turning out your beautiful flies, casting your line to wondrous fish, and dispensing your calm quiet and confident advice to all those who ask of it.

Thank you very much my friend.

Tight lines. ~ Mike Connor

[johnsd]