With regard to fishing, I don't do it to "escape" or banish memories of past unpleasantness. It's far more fundamental than that, more like an essential process of life such as respiration or tissue repair. It must happen to ensure continued existence and for over 40 years since early adolescence it has always been there.

In South Wales of the 1960's coarse fishing was something that happened in a foreign land far to the east (all of 40 miles away) and so was a mystery unexplained for several years. Thus the first fish was a trout on the fly, a Peter Ross, cast with an early glass rod and what I honestly thought was a fly line but turned out to be backing. The kind but geographically distant angling relative who gave me the tackle obviously didn't include this essential in the package and in my ignorance I had developed a casting style that allowed me to propel the fly far enough to fool what must have been a particularly dense fish. It was this absence of a mentor that proved the biggest barrier to progress in these early years, nobody in my immediate family and circle of friends showing any interest in the sport. A Kingfisher silk line came along at the next birthday although a level line as opposed to the more expensive DT profile. Strangely the Peter Ross did not bring much success with trout ever again but it did catch my first salmon on Lewis 30 years later.
Salvation came from books and the local library, so essential to any civilized community in those days! I devoured everything I could get my hands on irrespective of immediate relevance and consequently became an authority (due to the rather unfocused choices of the head librarian) on American streamer patterns and the trout of Lake Taupo in New Zealand. The books of O. S. Hintz still strike a chord.

Slowly the picture cleared although for some time the word "spinning", a casual aside in so much that I read, caused great puzzlement. How could revolving on the spot catch fish? Wouldn't dizziness compromise success?

As well as the slowly recovering trout streams that drained the Glamorgan coalfield there was the sea, particularly the Gower peninsula. First fish to sacrifice themselves to an old fashioned brass paternoster were the pouting and whiting of Mumbles pier. Later came bass from the rocky shores further east, although lack of transport and funds made this a tantalisingly occasional glimpse of paradise only.

Time passed and the chaotic acquisition of expertise continued until at University I encountered a group of distinctive individuals (both visually and aromatically) known as the angling club. Here at last under the tutelage of a strange breed, which I believe are referred to as Northeners, the ultimate dark art was revealed and I was a true all-rounder. As well as the delights of Roach, Chub and Carp I also had my first taste of wreck fishing. I can still remember the interminable drive to Plymouth through the small hours of a Sunday morning in order to meet the skipper at first light. These journeys in the mini-bus were not one of life's great pleasures taken as they were after a typical student's late Saturday night and usually involving more anglers than available seats, not forgetting the tackle.  Even though I am blessed with good sea legs it was often touch and go and not helped by projectile vomiting by many of my fellows and the typically dynamic waters around the Eddystone. Still, the results were almost worth it. If the Pollack and Coalfish didn't pull you out of the boat you returned exhausted but happy.

A move to employment in the beautiful countryside around Bath led to the discovery of the Bristol Avon and its barbel, chub and pike and the trout of Chew and Blagdon. All of which I still pursue with the same "tense anticipation" (to quote Hugh Falkus) as ever. The Usk and its wonderful tributaries are not far away and a lot of time is spent in deepest Ceredigion both at sea and on the Teifi catchment.

Being blessed with a wife who actively encourages such activities and who can cast a mean fly herself make it all the more pleasurable.
Tackle-wise I collect all sorts of stuff including split cane rods but if truth be told apart from fly rods of 8 feet or less when this is always the material of choice, I much prefer to use carbon. My other big weakness is centrepins but again I must admit to the heresy of preferring modern to vintage.
The library has grown to an alarming degree and thinking about this has led me to crystallise my view of angling authors. My absolute favourite is John Gierach whose material to me at least seems to have real literary merit. If it seems strange that I should pick an American I would plead early exposure to the outstanding Negley Farson's  "Going Fishing" as striking a spark that Gierach ignited. Of British books Clive Gammon's "A Tide of Fish" and "Hook,Line and Spinner"  are frequently returned to, not least due to their geographical familiarity to a Welshman. I tend to go with the consensus that Sheringham and Yates are excellent writers but must admit that I have never really got it with BB or Bernard Venables although my old issues of Creel are amongst my most prized possessions and his artwork was in a different league altogether.

I try hard to resist the temptation to grumble about current trends in angling although like everyone I have my likes and dislikes. Of the latter I must admit not being too keen on commercials whether trout or coarse and the tabloid type journalism they often seem to attract.  In addition no matter how much our fellow man may despoil our waters and otherwise threaten the integrity of our sport we have to remain positive and active and not take refuge in an imagined Golden Age that probably never was if we are honest with ourselves.

Finally, it continually amazes me that so many anglers fail to support organisations dedicated to preserving the purity of our waters (fresh and salt) and the integrity of our sport. The excuses I hear range from the moronic to the frankly untrue. No organisation is perfect but we stand united or fall divided.