Martin Bowler keeps the sport alive

03 June 2008 15:38

My legs spun as fast as they could, propelling my bike along as I desperately tried to keep up with a gang of older lads that included my brother. I was being taken fishing for the first time and, at last, I could ditch the net that I used to prod into every brook or stream that crossed my path.

Proudly strapped across the bike’s frame hung the rod. It was held in place with string, and the two-pieces of the 6ft green glass fibre model clonked together as I rode the bumpy country lanes.

On my back sat a rucksack that contained the other necessities. A packed lunch was accompanied by a metal maggot box, corroded and distorted but still capable of holding half-a-pint of ‘pedders’, the local tackle shop’s finest grubs. A selection of his cheapest hooks, shot and floats had also been purchased and placed in an old cigar box.

Finally came my reel, a rickety old centrepin that I found hidden in a corner of the summer house among my grandad’s fishing tackle. This, too, was loaded with line bought for just a few pence from the same place. I cared little, though, because if I managed to keep up with the older lads I would at last become a proper fisherman and be changed forever.

I remember those days of wide-eyed excitement with huge fondness, even though I know that total innocence and the simple desire to catch a fish has been lost forever.

I now look back at the mistakes I made with mild amusement, like the time I was convinced I had a net of zander, only to be told mockingly that they were ruffe. Or the trip when I spent my pocket money on a batch of Winfields aniseed paste, only to find every cast produced a sailaway bite which was promptly missed. It took me all day and 100 strikes to work out that the weight of the bait was enough to pull the float under, and that the mystery fish didn’t exist!

The beginning of an angling career is, unknowingly, a time when the pinnacle of excitement is reached. I may have tempted British records but neither has given me the feeling of my first fish. I wonder if a more modern route of ‘instant’, out-of-the-packet carping would have been more enjoyable. Somehow I doubt it. For me it truly is a crime if your first cast isn’t made with a float and is replaced instead with the crash of a 3oz lead.

I know in this world of instant fixes a child may prefer to spend pointless hours playing a computer game, but fishing can offer so much more…a chance to be a real-life ‘Huckleberry Finn’.

Allow me now to recount a trip where I took a child out for a day’s fishing, and hopefully, a new angler was born.

Abe, to his good fortune already, comes from a family that treasures the countryside, and from an early age he was proficient in its code. Bowood Lake in Wiltshire sits close to his home, and hidden within its depths is a fish he knew about but, as of yet, had failed to come into close contact with on the many sorties around its margin – the tench.

Any angler will tell you that the ‘doctor fish’ is an early riser who demands breakfast before the sun warms the water. So, with this in mind, I made a pre-dawn call at Abe’s cottage and we headed off, hoping that we would come face to face with a tench and he would return the triumphant hero.

Shards of light streamed over the stately home of Bowood as we walked across the manicured lawns, our footprints leaving their imprints on the dewy grass. Mist steamed from the lake, swirling occasionally as it was caught by a stroke of breeze, its force still not strong enough to ripple the surface.

Our arrival at the wooden boathouse sent an alarmed coot clucking across the water, while a pair of wood pigeons cooed above us, perched on the roof. Only one thing was still missing from this perfect scene – a tench or two.

While Abe sat quietly on the steps which led down to the jetty, I sprinkled pellets and maggots alongside a bed of lilies, its flowers still asleep in a blanket of green pads.

The pair of us began to pull line from the reel and thread through the numerous eyes, all the time hoping the bait would work its magic.

Progress was slow because our attention was continually being drawn to the water, both of us eager for a sign. It came on cue just as the hook knot was being tightened down. An eruption of bubbles popped on the surface – those tiny, frothy ones which herald the arrival of tench at breakfast time.

Excitedly, we made our way on to the last rung of some wooden steps which would provide us with a seat.

I removed line from the centrepin, and with the hook in my hand it was time to make a bait choice. Typical of a young boy, he opted for a fat, juicy lobworm.

From our position little more was required than the float being lowered down under the rod-tip. The end tackle was laid a couple of inches overdepth to the edge of a tangle of stems.

Abe hovered like a heron over the rod, willing a bite but apprehensive at what the result might be. Judging from the bubbles, I was able to whisper to him that three tench were present, and that it could only be a matter of time now.

“Strike!” I broke the spell of silence as the orange tip sank away. Following this instruction, Abe got only halfway through his lift before the rod bucked in his hands.

For a moment he did indeed make contact before, as quickly as the fish had come, it was gone and his line was left hanging limply from the rod-tip.

A somewhat puzzled young man stared at me, his expression saying: “What just happened?”

Fate had dealt us a blow and the hook had pulled out. No-one was to blame; it was just one of those things that happens in fishing. Explaining this to Abe, though, didn’t really temper his disappointment. There was only one thing for it – we needed to hook another.

For the next hour little moved, and especially not our float. I tried to cheer Abe up with tall tales of my adventures and exploits – all of which he found utterly ridiculous. There was only one cure for this malaise.

The first bubble broke, followed by a cascade around the float. Swaying from side to side it dithered, as if it was making up its mind up before plunging from view.

Abe knew what to do, and he heaved the rod upwards with all his might. He held on – it was an even match, but who would deal the knockout blow?

Time and time again the paint brush tail slapped against the surface in defiance.

Abe’s words came at a crucial stage. “Help,” he said, “it’s too heavy!”

But his desire to succeed was stronger than the pain, and the little lad turned the tide on his own. With an outstretched net I scooped his prize from the water.

Abe’s eyes widened in wonder at his green-flanked opponent. It was a moment I hoped would make him an angler for life.

»For a National Fishing Week event near you visit www.nationalfishingweek.co.uk

Martin’s Top 8 tips to taking a beginner fishing

1 Always start by teaching the art of floatfishing. I believe that skill should be learned before leads are chucked around.
2 Show them how to hold a rod properly (it should be an extension of the arm), and where to fit the reel (no less than a quarter of the way down the rod).
3 Don’t start them off with a fish that’s too big. There’s not very far to go if the first bite is from a 20lb carp.
4 Ask you local tackle dealer to put together a tackle package. Avoid those ‘starter kits’ that are sold in some mainstream high street shops.
5 Visit a venue where you are likely to get a few bites. There’s no point visiting somewhere that’s rock-hard.
6 Use barbless hooks to begin with – they make unhooking fish so much easier. Progress to barbed when the youngsters have gained more experience.
7 You don’t need to spend a fortune on bait. Bread, worm and maggots are perfect. Leave the boilies at home!
8 Contact the local angling club and find out about the junior section. They’ll often run specific days aimed at bringing newcomers into the sport.