Gone but not forgotten - "a touch of glass"

I recently heard a writer in an interview use the phrase "nostalgia falsifies", and I guess we all have a tendency to don "rose tinted spectacles" and remember the past as it never really was, but not all memories are false and our minds are not always playing tricks on us. There is a neutrality expressed in  the truth with which LP Hartley opens one of his novels: "The past is a foreign country- they do things differently there." Sometimes better, sometimes not, but invariably differently.

My fishing these days consciously harkens back to bygone times as a consequence of the pleasure I've discovered in recent years through using vintage rods and reels for almost all of my fish bothering  activities. Life expectancy may have been shorter, social attitudes may have been more intemperate, working conditions less refined, "health and safety" unheard of, and TB and polio still a present threat, but they certainly knew how to make glorious fishing tackle "back in the day." Pride of place in my collection goes to my cane rods, which includes an almost 70 year old marvel of whole and split cane made by the famous Allcocks company, and a particularly  aesthetically pleasing float rod by Aspindales replete with an exuberant abundance of intermediate whippings. Sadly, neither manufacturer still exists, Allcocks were acquired by Norris Shakespeare back in the 1960's and Aspindales have followed the path many other businesses reliant on craft, guile, and hard earned skill have trodden into oblivion, courtesy of the modern obsession with functionality and utilitarian efficiency.

However,  it is not only rods made from cane that have captured my affection, as the majority of my vintage rods are made of glass fibre and originate from the late 1960's and early 70's. Not only do these rods have the advantages for the collector of being cheaper to purchase  and virtually indestructible in usage, for me they also provide a tangible connection to my earliest angling experiences. Born in the late 60's and raised in the 70's, by the time I began fishing in 1981 there were few cane rods to be seen on the bank, although I do recall one elderly gentleman who used to fish our local lake with split cane rods, and was a dab hand at extracting  good numbers of the lake's tench population. This was the early carbon fibre era, but for those of us solely reliant on pocket money, birthdays, and Christmas to fuel our fishing addiction, graphite was beyond our financial means, and we cut our angling teeth on glass fibre.

The two absolute favourites among my personal arsenal of  glass rods are a 13 foot Rodrill float rod  and an 11 foot ET Barlow specimen rod. Both are unpretentious no-nonsense rods devoid of frills, that would have been standard fayre in the rod holdall of the the average adult angler of their period, while being the envy of the army of small boys to be found wielding 6 foot solid glass Winfield spinning rods round any lake in the 1970's.

Again, I suspect that early adolescent and childhood connections, in part, account for their favoured position among my glass fibre collection. For a start, there's a geographical link. Although I've lived in the Midlands for nearly 13 years now, I'm from the South East and have never forgotten the fact. My boyhood and teenage years were spent in Reading in Berkshire, I studied (I use the term very loosely) for my degree in London, and the first few years of my married life were spent in North London, and I still consider myself a Southerner adrift in the East Midlands. Rodrill were a North London company, while Barlow hailed from Thames Ditton, a suburban village on the outskirts of London in Surrey. A further link with my childhood comes from the fact that for several years the rod I most coveted in my local tackle shop was an ET Barlow Vortex rod which had taken its design cues from the Bruce and Walker rods of the era, with their lustrous glass, "fake" intermediate whippings, and iconic cartoon perch that formed the brand logo for Vortex rods. My Barlow rod has the logo, but is a model devoid of the "fake" whippings.

The Rodrill match rod has accounted for everything from small perch, roach and rudd up to near double figure carp, while the Barlow rod has been employed on several occasions in pursuit of pike, although to date has never been tested by anything more substantial than jacks of 2 or 3 pounds in weight. 

I have no doubt that in most situations a modern carbon fibre rod would be more efficient (and certainly lighter to hold), but for me that misses the point. In some strange mystical sense, my Rodrill and Barlow rods transport me back to a point in my own history, a time when footballers were still allowed to engage in a full blooded tackle and as long as the ball had been vaguely in the vicinity of the felled player within the previous sixty seconds the referee was unlikely to remove a card from his pocket, to the days of rented televisions, an era when being given 10 pence to spend at the sweet shop ensured a veritable feast of sugary confections, and to the time when I was awkwardly charting the transition from child to teenager. I seem to recall that there were lots of things that didn't make sense to me back then, as my hormones transported me on the journey from short trousers to spots and the (mostly unsuccessful) pursuit of girls, but none of that seemed to matter when I was sat on a folding stool with a glass fibre rod in my hand and all of the confusion fell away as every part of my being focused its intent gaze on the orange tip of my float. 

Perhaps the interviewed writer was right- maybe nostalgia does "falsify", but if my vintage glass rods are a part of the delusion, I really don't mind, and I'll continue to wilfully labour under its falsification, a 20th Century boy in a 21st Century world.

Return to angling- "take two."

It appears that "lockdowns" are like London buses- no sooner is one lifted, than another one turns up. I managed to fish three times in the period between the curtailment of the first hiatus and the imposition, for those of us living in some areas of Leicester, of the second.

Now that the latest of these restrictions have been eased I am at last at liberty to fish again, but it is a sobering statistic that tells me that eight months into the calendar year I had, prior to today, only managed five sessions. I realise, of course, that the loss of a few trips to the river, lake or pond pale into insignificance at a time when some have lost lives, loved ones, or jobs, it is, after all, only fishing, but it felt good to be back, even though I should have been on holiday in Greece with my wife (you've guessed it- holiday cancelled due to the virus!)

The afternoon sun was high in the sky, and the Club Lake was looking as splendid as ever, the shadows cast by the trees on the far bank muting their reflection in the water, and everything, leaves, grass and even the pond itself, a veritable sea of green. Flies hovered and danced above and upon the water's surface, and somewhere in the middle of the lake a carp leapt and crashed back into the depths, the sound of the splash rousing me from my temporary reverie. I chose a swim which had an extensive bed of lily pads as its dominant feature and set up a vintage glass fibre avon rod, paired it with an old Mitchell 204 and prepared to cast my bread (flake on size 12 barbless) upon the waters. The lake, whose surface was mirror-like in its calmness, exuded an air of benevolence, as if extending a kindly welcome, pleased, it seemed, to be making my re-acquaintance.

For the next couple of hours the action was constant, the delicate float frequently disappearing, leading to a lively tussle with the small but spirited carp that make up the majority of the pond's fish population. Birdsong provided the backing track for the afternoon, as I sat immersed in a tableau that, for the most part, could have been anytime in the last century and a half. Only the very occasional sound of a car in the distance, or aeroplane overhead differentiated the experience from what might have been familiar to an angler in Victorian times. The trees surrounding the lake were doubtless older than me, and hopefully they and the lake will outlast me to give pleasure to future generations of fishing folk. The English countryside has cleansing and restorative properties, of which we as anglers are privileged to be frequent beneficiaries.

Fishing the club lake is not quite as easy as shooting ducks in a barrel, but it isn't far removed from that particular metaphorical scenario. The carp are plentiful (and consequently never reach a large size) not due to the deliberate and wilful overstocking that typifies the modern commercial fishery, but because of the incredible fecundity that seems not only to cast its fertility spell upon the lake's environs, with its trees, foliage and lilly pads, but also its inhabitants who spawn with prolific success year on year, producing a steady stream of beautiful, but small carp.

The tackle I choose to employ is, these days, for me as much a part of the pleasure and rich angling experience as the landing of fish. Whether using one of my ancient cane rods or an old glass fibre wand, the pairing of one of my collection of well looked after (or in some cases, refurbished) rods with an appropriate vintage reel is a pleasure in the same order as pairing a good wine with a complementary cheese, or a fine cigar with a tumbler of whisky or rum. With the exception of the very occasional foray into the world of "serious" carp fishing, spinning for pike, or fishing for barbel, I choose to eschew the use of modern carbon rods, preferring the aesthetic appeal of tackle imbued with inherent beauty made venerable by the passing of time. I can only speculate on what tales these rods and reels may have to tell of the exploits they were party to with their previous owners in a bygone angling era.

The club lake is not a place for long sessions- the endless catching of fish would, in truth, become tedious- but for me has become a refuge in which to to while away an hour or two catching some of the prettiest carp I've ever caught, while enjoying the aesthetic delight of its setting. Summer will give way to Autumn, carp will move aside to allow for the pursuit of perch, and my fishing will become challenging, focused and concentrated rather than relaxed and casual, but until the leaves turn to russet and golden, the days draw in, and the air takes on a chill, I'll make the most of this particular oasis and enjoy catching these handsome fish, who require of me only the most modest investment of effort. Some people pay inordinate sums of money to receive therapy- mine just costs me the price of a loaf of bread, and a year's club membership.