Casting For Cloopers

Chapter 1

My sister’s nose

I suppose my earliest fishing memories are from about the age of five, so we’re talking around 1972 I suppose. We lived in Rickmansworth, Hertfordshire and were right in the heart of the Colne Valley! How lucky I was to live in such a location, but obviously I didn’t realise that at the time.

My dad had been a very keen angler, right up until ‘we’ came along. I had an older sister and a twin sister, and the pressures of three kids had taken its toll on my dad’s fishing time. Most of the time his gear would just sit propped up in the corner of the garage gathering dust, next to the lawnmower.

I was a very inquisitive child (I suppose that could be describing me now too!), and I would spend hours going through my dad’s gear asking what this was for and what that was for. He had an old Efgeeco seat box filled with Golden Virginia tobacco tins of bits and pieces. The tins had a very unique smell and I can smell them even now; a mixture of rollup tobacco, rust and stale maggots.

My dad never forced me or encouraged me at all really; I was just really into the idea of catching a fish. I suppose that stemmed from my mental state at the time; I just liked catching things, whether it be insects (stag beetles mainly), frogs, toads, newts, slow worms, grass snakes… but mainly birds. I always failed to catch birds, unsurprisingly; I tried my hardest but it simply didn’t happen for me. I could never fly no matter how hard I tried.

I think my disturbed state was mainly associated with my mum dressing me in wool trousers, which itched like hell; that together with my weekly trip to the cinema on a Saturday morning to watch Sinbad. There used to be this little film at the beginning called ‘Chico The Rainmaker… The Boy With Two Heads’, which used to scare the living hell out of me and give me nightmares. Nightmares about wool trousers and Chico have scarred me for life.

My dad eventually gave in to my begging; slowly but surely we were making more and more trips out to either the local Grand Union Canal, Aquadrome, River Chess or Long Life Lakes at Harefield. Most of the time we would walk (yes… we walked back then), however to get to Long Life Lakes I would need to go on the back of his motorbike. From memory, we must have travelled very light! One particular trip we had got to the Rose & Crown pub towards Harefield when I realised that I’d forgotten to put a crash helmet on. I tapped my dad on the back to stop, whereby he just told me to put my parka hood up and nobody would ever know! That Honda 125 was my dad’s pride and joy; we didn’t have a lot of spare cash back then, and he would spend hours ‘fixing and polishing’ the thing himself. Again my inquisitive nature took over and I would watch for hours and help in my own ‘special way’. Most of the time I was not allowed to touch anything; he would instruct me not to cross an imaginary line drawn across the garage floor. Eventually after much begging he gave in… and I held his spanners.

One of my favourite places to fish at that time was the canal; the ‘blue bridge’ as we used to call it; the bridge that you drive over to get to Rickmansworth Aquadrome. Under and around that bridge was excellent for perch as you would imagine, but one particular day whilst walking back from the shops along the canal, I spotted a shoal of huge fish around the roots of the big conker tree next to the bridge. I stood on that bridge for ages with my chin on the floor; these fish were huge, some of them as much as 6 to 8 long! This was to be my first experience of actually targeting fish that I could see, fish that I had found.

I rushed home as fast as my legs would carry me, shouting as I ran through the door, Dad! Dad! I’ve just seen these massive fish next to the blue bridge! Can we go back down there and have a go for them?

After calming down and explaining exactly what I’d seen, my dad, twin sister and I were off to the blue bridge with our rods and a small tub of maggots. Whilst on the subject of maggots, these would have been bought at Sargents pets and tackle in Money Hill Parade, Mill End, a very special shop with a very special smell; again a smell that comes flooding back the more I think about it. Mr Sargent was a lovely old chap who always had a pipe hanging from his bottom lip; the smell of pipe tobacco, maggots and budgie shit all mingled into one… lovely. Over the years that shop would see most if not all of my pocket money changing hands in return for no.16 specimen hooks, porcupine quill floats, an assortment of lead shot and of course the prerequisite ‘gentles’ as Mr Sargent used to call them; maggots to you and me.

Anyway back to the blue bridge; I hastily set up my little cane rod that had already been acquired by me from my dad’s vast selection. I remember my hands shaking as I threaded the line through the rings; rings lined with a red acrylic type material. I could see those big fish darting around and the adrenaline was coursing through my whole being. All of a sudden I was ready to go; two maggots on the no.16 hook, and I moved the rod to the side and slightly behind me ready to cast. What happened next has stayed with me forever and at the time mortified me, and of course from that moment on was mentioned at every family social occasion going. As I jerked the rod forward to cast, it snagged in the bushes behind me, losing me precious seconds. I tugged and tugged for it to come free, oblivious to the screams of pain from one of my observers. As I looked back at my sister, she was shouting and screaming and flailing her arms around like a maniac, frightening my fish. I told her to hush but suddenly realised that my tackle was attached to her; the more I tugged, the more she screamed out in pain frightening the fish some more. Then the penny dropped… I’d hooked her, and not only that; I’d hooked her fair and square right in the end of her nose.

That was my first momentous catch; my twin sister at a weight in excess of 40lbs. As you can imagine, a forty back then was unheard of, and I was absolutely over the moon. I never did catch one of those fish under the conker tree… and I’ve always blamed my sister for that.

Around that same time I had a fascination for minnows; although small they had vivid colours and would often gobble up a double maggot intended for roach or perch. One of the best places for really huge minnows was the River Chess in The Bury grounds where the town fete was held. Even on fete days I would much rather be catching minnows or crayfish next to the little wooden bridge. The crayfish were huge and back then they were the species indigenous to the UK, well before the signals and the Turks invaded our shores.

The little wooden bridge over the river had concrete foundations and these were severely undercut by the flow of water. Huge crayfish inhabited those dark places and I was totally in awe of these creatures with huge snapping claws. I had to catch them! One day we saw this guy dangling pieces of meat and fish tied to string down alongside the concrete undercut. We watched open mouthed as these huge claws grabbed hold of the bait and tried to drag it back in to their lair; more often than not this guy would pull the bait up and there would be one and sometimes two crayfish hanging on, refusing to let go. They would freak me out moving their whiskers around and snapping their tails… but I was fascinated and spent many a day catching crayfish using the same method. They would be placed in a bucket and counted regularly, not intending to harm them in any way but just fascinated by them. Sometimes I would even pluck up the courage to grab one on the shell behind its head, but they would move their claws back at you and their tails were snapping up and down. That would freak me out, so I’d kick the bucket over and watch them reverse one by one back to the edge and go ‘plop’ over the side.

One of my primary (and secondary) school friends, Jeremy, also got into fishing around that time. We (me, ‘Jem’ and another friend, Marcus) would spend the school summer holidays at the Aquadrome ski lake fishing for the silver and bronze bream. As you can imagine, these fish were much bigger than anything we had experienced before and we were soon in our element. My dad had shown me what to do using a weird device known as a swimfeeder, and this was to be my first attempt at a method known as ledgering. An addition to my fishing tackle at that time was a swing tip, which screwed into the small thread on the tip ring of some of my dad’s rods; however my favourite was a butt indicator. This was similar to the swing tip, but could be used on any rod, as it simply clipped on the rod by the reel and then you threaded your line through a small split ring at the other end.

Armed with a pint of ‘gentles’ and a bag of Kestrel groundbait we absolutely emptied the lake of bream (well, in our eyes), often catching a dozen or more in a day, along with roach, perch, ruffe, gudgeon… anything that came along really.

One bonus for us was that Marcus’ dad worked for Three Rivers District Council and was the lake bailiff, so the 23p day ticket was quite often not applicable! We also discovered crucian carp and tench around that time, and I can honestly say that these two species became an obsession for quite some time. I used to love the early mornings, fishing a really delicate float literally two or three feet off the reed line watching the small telltale bubbles and the float dancing around. Bread flake would instantly get you a positive bite and these little fish fought like tigers and really got you buzzing.

Sadly Marcus’ dad passed away over the next year or so and we all felt deeply saddened by this loss. His dad was a lovely guy and one that we all sorely missed; he was one of those gentle giants who had a smile for everyone. Soon after the death of his dad, Marcus’ mum started driving us over to the River Misbourne in Old Amersham. This was somewhere I really enjoyed fishing and was my first encounter with the mighty rainbow trout (something I could finally eat). Fishing was very simple: legered lobworm in the fast flow of the little mill pool next to the road usually did the trick, and I was blown away by my first experience of this hard fighting fish. These fish used to pull like something I’d never felt before, and it was truly exhilarating for a kid of my age. Occasionally we used to sneak into the churchyard where the river ran through to the other side of the mill house and cast a line upstream under the culvert. This would also produce a few rainbows, however usually you would catch one and that would be it until the next trip; the fish obviously spooking after just one capture.

I usually carried my sheath knife everywhere attached to my belt; this was my fishing knife for gutting trout and for carving my name into trees etc. Going back to the fetes in the grounds of The Bury in Rickmansworth, they used to have a week in the spring called ‘Ricky Week’ (in fact they still do), but back then they used to let anyone go up inside the bell tower onto the roof of the church. Mad really when you think of it these days; there’s no way they would allow that now, not with health and safety as it is. Anyway we used to go up every year and carve our names into the lead on the church roof with my sheath knife! Would a kid these days be able to carry around a 6" blade on his belt? It’s bonkers really, but back then it was so innocent and nobody batted an eyelid. I do blame my parents for buying a six-year-old kid a blade; I cannot be held personally responsible for childhood naivety can I?

Time moved on and my obsession deepened; I had by now started secondary school and felt that I needed bigger and harder fighting fish. That fish was to be the chub, however the fish written about that really interested me was the barbel.

Unfortunately barbel were very scarce back then; in fact I knew of nobody who had seen one let alone caught one. Bearing in mind this was around 1979, the River Colne may have contained a few, but I’d never heard about any being caught. We didn’t have the transport to drive us to the Kennet or anywhere like that, so I would make do with just the chub.

Most of the chub I caught were quite small really, maybe only 2 or 3lbs, but those together with my trout fishing kept me content for quite some time I seem to remember. The River Chess in The Bury was where the chub came from; I used to freeline a lobworm where the river flowed under the road, and just let the current take it. I would hold the line lightly between my fingers and kind of tweak it around until the rod tip banged round. These were really exciting times and the fish fought furiously in the fast current, often slamming the rod into the concrete culvert as they powered downstream.

I soon started exploring the Grand Union Canal looking for another adventure, and it was here that my obsession with carp began. My first carp would only have been a few ounces and then following on, up to a pound or two; these were caught at Stockers Lock next to a farm where a lot of filming took place.

The farm was used for all sorts of filming around that time, from Black Beauty to feature films such as Dragon Slayer and the series Dick Turpin with Richard O’Sullivan. We used to get up to all sorts of mischief on the sets trying to interrupt the filming and get on camera. One particular day I remember Mary Crosby was on set (yes the one that shot JR) and she had the most amazing breasts a 13-year-old kid had ever set eyes on. The wardrobe department had quite obviously squeezed her little body into a period costume with tight corset, which laced up at the front, and her boobs just bulged out all over the place. I was literally transfixed; I could not take my eyes off them no matter how hard I tried. I would later in life become a breast man, but perhaps we’ll leave that for another publication.

We used to set up our kit right next to the lock gates on the lower section; this used to be a bit awkward when the barges came through, but it was a great little spot for small carp. The emptying water from the lock used to stir the bottom up and literally minutes after the barge had gone through you’d put your bait in and get bites straight away, just float fishing a few inches off the bottom. Bait for those sessions was bread paste with a bit of sugar or honey mixed in; the carp just went crazy for it. Worms were always on standby though, and often a change of bait would bring yet another bite, usually from a nice fat perch. Other species which were a welcome bonus were tench and crucian carp, only small though, up to about a pound I suppose.

One particular scorching hot day I sat there on the mooring post daydreaming, when I happened to glance up to a bend in the canal about 300 yards away. I could see these enormous eruptions and splashes across on the outside of the bend, which, I thought, needed further investigation. I stashed my gear in the garden of the house next to the lock and wandered along the towpath. As I got closer it became clear that the huge eruptions were in fact fish… huge fish! This was to be my first experience of watching carp spawning at close quarters, and it blew me away. The outside of that bend had a thick weedbed and it looked like every carp in the canal had congregated in that one place. They were charging about, bashing the hell out of each other and it was a truly incredible sight to witness for such a young angler.

Now as I have already said, I was 13 or 14 at the time, so I already knew a fair bit about the birds and the bees. I had worked out that these fish were ‘at it’, and call it intuition, but I somehow also knew that they would probably be uncatchable, and that it was a little unfair fishing for them. Due to that, together with the fact that I only had a float rod loaded with 3lb line, I decided that I would return the next day with stepped up gear to see if they fancied a bit of a ‘post nookie’ grub.

I remember vividly that I was so excited that night; I set my alarm for 5am and all I could think about was hooking into one of those monsters. What would I do? I may have to use the clutch on my reel for the very first time. Before that point, on those few occasions where my line had reached breaking point, I had simply flicked over the anti-reverse and back wound a little bit. This may be different I thought, so I made a mental note to set the clutch on my reel before I began.

All fired up, I left the house about 6am with my float rod, Mitchell 300 with the spare spool attached this time; the line being really strong at 6lb breaking strain. That’ll get ‘em, I remember thinking; they’ll have no chance of breaking that rope!

Bait was a tub of brandlings; I don’t quite know why, but that was the bait I thought those big carp might gobble up.

So there I was wandering down the farm track with my little rod holdall and Efgeeco canvas bait bucket, which held all my bits and pieces including my usual flask of coffee with 12 sugars precisely. I think that my seat was dispensed with; this was going to be proper ‘stalking’ that I had been forever reading about.

My attire had been carefully thought about too; indeed this was to be the first outing for my camouflaged jacket that my mum had recently bought me from Watford Market. I was a proper carp angler now and nothing could stop me!

I crept silently along the towpath, aware of every footstep, trying not to crunch the gravel beneath my feet; I may even have been stooping.

As I neared the bend in the canal I looked across at where the mayhem had occurred the day before. I watched… and watched a bit more… I continued to watch… The surface of the water was flat calm and not a thing stirred. I sat there cross-legged in the grass for a few minutes, scanning up and down the weedbed; the only thing that moved at all was the cows and sheep in the adjoining fields. The odd dimple broke surface amongst the slight mist that was still rising, but nothing to suggest any big carp lay beneath. I was gutted, and kicked myself for not having a little dabble the day before. My carp fishing career had only just begun and for that split second it was already over.

Oh well, I thought to myself, sighing with frustration, whilst I’m here I might as well go down to the lock and have a few hours at my usual spot; so I picked up my bottom lip out of the grass and muttered Sod it under my breath. I grabbed my gear from the back of the towpath and headed back towards Stockers Lock, totally dishevelled and fed up with the world. As I wandered back, kicking stones into the water with frustration, I passed Stan and Avril’s huge barge that was moored up opposite the farm buildings. They were a lovely couple that I had often chatted to, who were no doubt still curled up in their bunks or hammocks, or whatever they have on barges. I remember thinking that I might as well still be tucked up in my bed for all the good getting up at 5am had done me.

I neared the lock and the only sound was the water trickling through the lock gates; the lock was obviously full up and I wondered when the first one of the day would be coming through. I sat on the mooring post; you know the ones, black and white and shaped like a mushroom, and I contemplated what to do.

As I watched the golden pheasants in their pen next to the barn opposite, I noticed a couple of reeds on the far bank twitch. They were just two reed stems growing on their own right at the taper where the lock widens out to the full width of the canal. As I sat there and watched, the reeds would jerk back and forth every few seconds; there were quite obviously a fish down there rooting around.

That’ll do for me I thought! I quickly assembled my rod with trembling hands and threaded three brandlings onto a huge carp hook; this would have been a Sundridge Specimen size 12 in gold (as I used to think gold must be better and stronger). I set the float to about three feet deep; I didn’t want to be using a plummet and risk spooking the fish. This later proved to be a good decision, as what happened next will stay with me forever.

I cast the peacock waggler towards the reed stems and it landed with a little ‘plop’ right on the money. I waited for the shot to sink and for the float to settle, however nothing happened; the float just lay there on the surface, flat, drifting around in the flow. I left it there for a few seconds and then realised that I must be over-depth, so proceeded to wind in. As I tightened down to the float I hit a solid resistance and instantly thought that I’d hooked up on the reed stems. All of a sudden a huge bow wave and vortex erupted as the fish panicked and torpedoed away from the lock.

I suppose it took a second or two for it to sink in what was happening, then I looked down at my reel; I hadn’t set the clutch! I suppose instinct told me to start walking, and that’s exactly what I did. The fish was heading down towards Stan and Avril’s barge and was on a mission! As I started walking, following the fish, I flicked off the anti-reverse and picked up my little landing net and shoved it under my arm. The fish knew exactly where that barge was and headed straight towards it, seeking sanctuary in the darkness beneath. I suppose I was 50 feet away from the barge and had the foresight to stop, put my landing net down and give it some severe side strain with my rod tip under the water. The fight was absolutely manic and I was getting extremely hot in my new polyester lined, Watford market camo jacket; (30 years on and thank god for breathable Gore-Tex type materials). Slowly but surely the fish eventually came out from beneath the barge and was swirling around in front of me. I could see the size of the thing and I was hoping and praying that it didn’t fall off; I was actually chanting Please don’t fall off… Please don’t fall off under my breath.

Thankfully it never did fall off, and it was to be my first double figure carp. I was absolutely over the moon with this long, lean common carp with an under-slung mouth. I can’t even remember exactly what it weighed, 10lbs something or other, but it was to represent a lifelong obsession that would simply never ever go away. Looking at the photos now, all I can think about is how bad my hair was back then; a kind of white afro, which was never going to attract the girls. Sod the girls for now I thought at the time, there’s far too many fish that need catching!

Over the next year or so the canal would produce many more carp for me, mainly commons around double figures. One particular fish I remember being caught on anchored crust on the far bank between two blackberry bushes. The fish was swimming back and forth between the two bushes and mouthing the crust, until I pulled the bait down an inch and then, bang, it was on all of a sudden, sending the reel handle spinning wildly. I obviously didn’t realise at the time, but I was using an adjustable zig rig; a rig which would be overhauled by me some 30 years later for much larger fish in much deeper water.

My attentions then turned to pike fishing; I’d had a dabble over the previous few years, but never really got into anything big. Tiny little jacks used to attack the spinners offered to them and this hadn’t really floated my boat.

There was a lake further down the valley that was rumoured to hold much bigger pike, so Jem, Marcus and I all arranged season tickets. I suspect that these were paid for by saving our pocket money for a few weeks, plus I’d also had a milk round for a few years, which originally paid 60p a day for helping the milkman on a Saturday. It was a great job, and quite often the milkman would leave me in charge of the float for about half an hour at a time, whilst he ‘attended to some business’ in one or two of the houses. Childhood naivety never allowed me to twig what he was up to, however a few years later the penny well and truly dropped!

Due to my constant ‘looking after the milk float’ skills, and keeping my mouth well and truly shut, my Saturday pay (or bribe money) had risen to £2 or £3 by the time I was 13 or 14, however the main bonus was free milk and caramel wafer biscuits whilst matey-boy was having his end away with all the women! I’m also ashamed to say that I had started saving my school pocket money to spend on bait and tackle (sorry, Mum). I thought this was particularly clever until one day I thought I was going to faint from hunger, eventually confiding in my twin sister and asking for some of her Monster Munch. At least I didn’t spend mine on fags eh, sis?

We had got into the habit of stashing livebaits in keepnets all over the place, sometimes even forgetting where we had left them. Our favourite baits were gudgeon of massive proportions, as there was a particular spot on this little river we knew that held loads of them. The best bait was ‘mystic’ (at least that’s what I think it was called), which was a tube of translucent minty glue that worked wonders. I think it emulated a little worm, but we didn’t care; it was made in France by French people, but it worked.

My pike rod was a Shakespeare strike float rod which had been shut in a car door (not on purpose I might add) and had lost the top 18". I had trimmed it back to the next ring and ‘hey presto’ a really strong pike rod appeared.

Our season tickets came through for the ‘Bird Lake’ and we used to go for frequent reconnaissance trips to find suitable swims to fish. One particular day I was stood in a swim by some reeds and there was an almighty eruption in the margins and small fry scattered everywhere. I quickly made the assumption that this must have been a huge pike chasing fry, so made a mental note of where this had happened and went home all fired up for a trip the following day.

With the stashed gudgeon found and all loaded up into my canvas bucket, we proceeded to the lake in double quick time. I had a small battery powered bubbler, which kept them nice and lively for their little day-trip to the Bird Lake. This little pump had been acquired from my dad’s kit, as I certainly couldn’t afford one of my own at that time.

A gudgeon of record proportions was cast under a large pike bung to the general area of where I had seen the eruption the day before. This was hooked onto a single treble through its back and a drilled bullet above the trace to keep it down deep in the water. Without the bullet, the bait would keep swimming up to the surface round and round doing somersaults and looked really shit.

The float bobbed and glided around for a while, so I got the old coffee flask out of my new Efgeeco seat box (acquired from my dad’s kit). Again the coffee was very sweet; I hadn’t quite got the hang of how many sugars a flask of coffee needed. 12 now seemed a little sweet, so I had recently reduced my sugar intake down to 11 and a half.

As I sat there sipping my milky coffee the bait was working well, going off in one direction and then turning and going off in the other. Suddenly the float stopped dead in its tracks and then bobbed very sharply; it stayed motionless for a couple of seconds and then very, very slowly just sank out of site. I stood up and grabbed the rod, bail arm quickly over and my hand paid out line. I watched the line entering the water and it was gradually trickling away in big coils; the little pilot float also doing its job, telling me the pike was headed off into open water. I counted to 20 (as you did back then), and then engaged the bail arm, tightened down, and then leaned in. The rod hooped over and it was obvious straight away that I was into a good sized fish. The slow, plodding runs had me back-winding very slowly, however it wasn’t a particularly spectacular fight. As the big pike’s head came up, it shook its head viciously and I could see the gudgeon right in the scissors of its jaws. After a bit more plodding around it came up slowly and Marcus soon had it scooped up in his brand new landing net. His new net was his pride and joy; it was huge compared to what we had used up to then; the only problem was that it had a steel frame and weighed an absolute ton!

That pike weighed 15lbs and was my heaviest fish to date, however the carp fishing had become my obsession and big carp were all I could think about. I went on to land several more big pike from the Bird Lake that winter, but the spring and summer were fast approaching and I needed to make a plan for the coming season. Little did I know what was just around the corner…

I lived in the heart of carp fishing’s Mecca, but didn’t realise it at the time.

The legendary blue bridge; now painted green.

The Bury grounds; home of monsters with claws.

Entrance to bream heaven.

Huge carp; much bigger than a Mitchell 300 now.

Bad hair and Watford Market jacket.

Early adjustable zig (anchored crust).

Chapter 2

Sabey’s Pool

I suppose it was the late 70’s and I had just started big school, but rather than studying hard, I became obsessed with satisfying my dreams – not the types of dreams that most boys in my year at school would be having, but those of catching monster carp! That’s not to say that the fish I’d already had up to double figures hadn’t pleased me; they most certainly had, but I remember being at a loss regarding where I could find some carp that were a little larger. That’s when my luck changed, all thanks to my older sister Tracey.