Although those early sea trips were my introduction to this fishing life, it wasn't until my first coarse fish were caught, in the summer holidays of the late 1960s, that I was really hooked. It was the freedom to be ourselves in our own world that cemented the feelings of adventure and escape that remain with me today. The gang was my pal Jed, my younger brother Bob, Bob's mate Howard and me. Jed lived 'next door but one' and Howard directly across the street. We had an idyllic freedom as children. Leaving home after breakfast and shouting "see you later" over my shoulder was the norm. We would roam our territory all day and our mothers knew we'd be back when our stomachs rumbled or Dr. Who was on the telly.
Our home was a middle class house in a middle class street on a middle class estate. We didn't realise our fortune of circumstance and it has been only with age that I know of the very different lives that my parents had lived. Mum's mum had been 'In Service' for most of my mother's early life. Her father having "never really recovered from seeing action in the First World War" had died when she was very young. As a child she was brought up by an aunt, a wonderful one-eyed woman that many years later we knew and loved as Auntie 'Melsa'.
Dad's lot were a typical working class family of the time, council house and manual jobs, his father and grandfather great union men. It's not hard to see where my bolshie ideas and beliefs come from. "He'll make a right little shop steward" Dad used to joke. Encouraged to break the cycle of following their father into the Electricity Board at 14, Dad and his brother were persuaded to see the benefits of an education by my grandfather. "All my life I've been short of a bit of paper," was my grandfather's repeated muse. It's a 'gift' I can remember being force-fed by my father at the kitchen table before exams.
Our playgrounds were the lawns, yew trees and central lake of York University; grass stains and scuffed knees on the lawns, ropes and penknives in the yew trees, nets and buckets for frogs and minnows on the lake – it was boy heaven. Whizzing down the spiral walkway from the library to the lake on 'push-carts' was a great game of dare. Who would 'bottle it' and slow down? Would one of us crash into the lake? All day we would be away from home, doing as we pleased, den building anywhere we could. Years later, by some strange quirk of fate, I found myself working in Coventry with a guy who had studied at York University and remembered trading a can of Coke for a go on one of our 'carts'.
I can remember a time that I didn't fish and I can remember long days by the canal or on the banks of the Ouse at Fulford. But as for the first time? I'm not exactly sure. I couldn't say when it was; I can't even name the venue but somewhere, sometime in the last couple of years of primary school, Jed and I went coarse fishing. Maybe it was Bob's ingenious addition of a length of line and a hook to the underside of our minnow nets that inspired me? It certainly added something, you could get much bigger minnows and even the odd roach – ingenious. Maybe this failure of memory is because of some dreadful psychological event that has blanked out the experience. Maybe it's just relentless advancing years, but I like to think it was the speed at which this new found passion took a over my life. It consumed us. Every weekend in the school term time and as many days as we could blag a lift in the holidays we'd be there on the bank. Bob and Howard joined us on these adventures as they got a little older and before long we were that inseparable bunch of kids you see in American 'coming of age' movies.
A favourite venue was always the disused Pocklington canal at Melbourne. The lock gates were broken down, silt had made much of it shallow and vast reed beds obscured the bank opposite the towpath. The water was crystal clear.
Dad dropped us off early one Saturday morning as usual. As we made our way down the side of the bridge he spotted a homemade raft drifting into the broken lock gates. Putting on his best 'I really mean it lads' face he stressed that the raft was out of bounds. "Your brother can't swim well enough and you're in charge," I was told. "I'll be back about six to collect you" he said as he made his way back to the car.
Barely had his car rounded the bend and was out of sight when we tackled up – not to fish but to cast out and catch the raft that was way out of our reach. Successfully caught, we pulled it into the towpath and set about making it home for the day. Chairs erected, punting poles cut from trees and a flag made from old cloth we set sail. Drifting slowly along we took turns to stare, cup-handed, into the water. Tall waving trees of weed and depths illuminated by the sun were a wonderful world to look upon. Eagerly on the lookout for our quarry, we spent many hours staring down into the crystal water. The ease of propulsion and not of having to lug our kit for miles meant that by lunchtime we were further away from the bridge than we had ever ventured before. Moored against the towpath it was time for lunch: Heinz Tomato Soup, Pek sandwiches, crisps and malt loaf – all old favourites.
Time drifted by as it often does and the clock was getting closer to our collection. Laughing and mucking about the way only lads can, we headed back to the road bridge. Safely back at the lock gates we bumped into the towpath and were getting ready to unload when up went the shout.
"Yer Dad's 'ere!"
Panic. I jumped ashore, hoping he hadn't seen me; it was every man for himself. As I jumped off onto the towpath I pushed the raft away from the edge, disaster. Jed was next and again the raft went a little further out as he jumped and landed ankle deep. I ran across the fields as fast as my legs would go, Jed not far behind me. Bob next. I could hear the splash as he went in up to the waist as I rushed headlong into a nettle filled ditch. Scrambling for grip, I tried in vain to clamber out of the stinging tangle as Jed and Bob did exactly as I had done, yelping in surprise they landed heavily beside me. While jumping for shore we all had contributed to the 'equal and opposite reaction' that was now pushing the raft further towards the middle of the canal. Howard, never one to turn down a challenge, made a monumental leap and disappeared into the depths. He climbed out just as the raft bumped into the opposite bank; if only he'd waited.
Regrouped and sauntering back to the car in an over exaggerated casual manner we tried to ignore the prickling white bumps that covered us. Dad's face steamed with anger, he had seen everything. We slowed our walk to almost a standstill, heads bowed. The totally silent drive home was unbearable. Not a word, not a threat, nothing, just an ever increasing sense of doom – we really had blown it this time.
Arriving home we got out of the car and to my disbelief Dad went inside without looking back. The silent treatment confirmed it; I was for the high jump. The other lads looked blankly from face to face. With the shrug of his shoulders and a broadening grin Howard wandered off home and Jed left me to my fate, not believing his luck. The punishment was severe; the first month of the school summer holidays I was confined to the limits of our street. No fishing, no roaming, no fun. It was a very long month. Dad never did snitch on Howard or Jed, he knew how much their freedom only added to my misery. It was a tough lesson learned. I found out years later that Dad had escaped from his chores a little early so that he could join us for the evening. I'd give anything to turn back the clock and have that evening now.
