Raider of the Stashed Flies

When I was a kid I used to love being left in the house by myself.  It gave me a chance to go and raid those cupboards and sideboards that I usually wasn’t allowed in, albeit for a very short time.  Mum was a professional with sheets and clothes pegs and that, along with her nine senses, meant a very short window indeed.

I once liberated a huge bag of marbles from Dad’s bottom drawer and stashed them in my school bag.  The next day at school, despite feeling no great need to bring them out and show off – the fact I had them at all was enough for the time being – the marbles decided to liberate themselves from my battered rucksack during lunch break rush hour, and just in front of the chocolate éclairs.

I remember my Dad’s face when I emptied my pockets after school and put three marbles on the coffee table. I watched as, in the space of 5 seconds, his expression changed from quizzical to realisation, from anger to sadness and finally to acceptance that sometimes 12 year olds will get their hands on things that are not protected by magical force fields or snakes.

Anyway, the fact that I feel guilty today does not change the fact that I spent a huge part of my childhood looking for treasure.  Dad, if you get to read this, I apologise for losing your marbles.  Now let’s move on.

On another much earlier day of Indiana Jones type adventure, I was in my parents’ room with a bag of sand in one hand and my other hand hovering over a dark brown leather wallet with a single brass buckle.  Trying to work up the courage (while obviously calculating the item’s weight from its dimensions and removing sand accordingly) to grab and run, while in another region of my mind picturing myself that night in bed, under the covers with a torch, being rewarded with untold riches.  Or maybe even a tenner.

I grabbed and I ran.  I dodged a huge boulder without a second’s thought about where such a thing came from in a 4-in-a-block cottage flat.  Mum came back from the shops and came into the living room as I was plucking the last of the Inca darts from my arse.  And I looked forward to Late Call and being told to go to bed.

Now, to cut to the chase, the wallet had no money in it.  Nor did it contain any great archaeological secrets or classified maps of Nazi bunkers outside of Eastern Berlin.

It contained 25 sheets of white paper, each of which had several slits. On a few of these slits hung bits of wire.  Some could even be called hooks as they had points under the rust, and all had a few feathers on them.  I had no idea what to make of it and I wouldn’t for another 23 years.  I put the wallet back the next day.

I learned many years later that it belonged to my Pappy – my Dad’s dad – and it so happens that he was a fly fisher.

So, to all those parents who are feeling the weight of responsibility to introduce their kids to fluff chucking at the earliest stage possible, chill out.  I felt no inclination at all to go fly-fishing until 3 years ago.  They’ll get to it in their own time.  Console yourself with the fact that they may not be able to avoid it, that DNA might just be the best parenting tool around.

In the meantime, get a lock on the drawer you keep your Abels in.

Stewart Lochrie is a wannabe fly casting instructor from the south side of Glasgow, with a sometimes-unhealthy obsession for upstream dry fly and expensive gin