The Cult of Fishing

Introduction

When I was eight, my father brought home a young persons starter fishing set, it consisted of a pale green, solid fiberglass fishing rod (6ft) with a cast-metal reel. There was also by way of accompaniment, a small canvass sling-bag in which there was an assortment of (to me then) strange and curious objects; hooks ranging in size from the ridiculously invisible 22's through to the more pratical 12's and 14's. Strangely there was also a single size No1. which would not have looked out of place as a meat hook in a butchers shop window. Delving further into the bag I can clearly remeber discovering 2 floats; one - a jolly green colour with crimson top (just as a float should be) the other was made of quill, and it had a rather dissapointing dull yellow tip.

At the bottom of the bag was also disgorger and a few lead weights in a little plastic dispenser - this was my first introduction to AAA, BB etc. For several weeks I thought the disgorger was a small bread punch for roach, ( I assumed to go with the size 22 hooks) only it took multiple attempts to try to get the bread out, before I realised the error of my ways.

Wrapped in tissue paper and further sealed in a press-seal plastic bag I discovered five ledgers: two were coffin shaped and the other three resembled a pear-drop sweet with a little swivel attachment at the top; my friends at school assured me that these strange items were called 'Arssy Bombs' - it was only months later when trying to secure some replacements at the local tackle shop that I was updated on their actual name, 'Ardsley'; I left the shop with two replacements and a shop keeper in fits! - it seemed like a fair exchange. Finally there was a plastic bait/tupperwear box, the type of thing you were supposed to keep maggots in - more of which later.

Apparently, it was my brother’s birthday, and a fishing set was his priority request. If this was not a surprise to my father, then it certainly was to me, as I had no idea that Royston had even the slightest interest in fishing. At that time, I had no burning ambitions in that direction either, having only ever dabbled for bullheads and stone loaches - with my hands, in the stream at the bottom of our garden. I assumed that fishing with rods and reels, was only for the 'big boys'* whom, occasionally could been seen down at the mill trying their luck. Perhaps, as it was my brothers birthday, he now felt that he was old enough to join the big boys. NB* (10-14 years old is considered 'big', when you are 8 years old; anyone older than 14 was simply considered to be an adult)

So it is my brother that I can thank for the indirect introduction to fishing - a passion that has truly given me some of my most memorable days on Gods great planet. This blog is dedicated to his memory.

...getting back to the story:

These 'Big Boys' were however, normally trying their luck with the local girls, rather than the local trout; out of respect for Cambridgeshire schoolgirls, I shall not press the analogy any further - suffice as to say that apparently, some were harder to catch than others, and some were known to be repeatedly caught by more than one angler. I had guessed that this was the activity that I had heard so much about, and now understood why it was called fly fishing!

Anyway, it was the summer holidays and I pleaded to be able to tag along with the older boys, to see what they were able to do with their tackle… (I am of course, still referring to fishing). From that moment on I was hooked; fishing and I were to become inseparable partners, I lived breathed and dreamt of fishing. As a now balding 40 year old, I look back and wonder exactly how this 'cult of fishing' has affected my life, and how I have devoted many days, weeks, months and years in service to this form of religion. The blog I am currently writing seeks to explore (hopefully in a humorous way) the similarities between religion and fishing. It is not for the highbrow scholar, nor the serious minded theologian. It’s just a bit if fun, so no hate mail or letter bombs please.
I hope you enjoy reading 'The Cult of Fishing'; if you don’t fish, then you may miss a few ‘in jokes’, but I hope that fishermen/women, and 'non fishers' enjoy it all the same. If fishing is not your 'Cup of Darjeeling', then there are some nice photographs dotted about this blog (see links) and some poetry that you might enjoy.

The Picture above is of my son, now 15, with the first fish he caught from the mill, where I first accompanied my brother on his first fishing foray - OK, 'accompanied' implies some form of consent, in fact I tagged along about 100 yards behind, trying to keep out of sight, as if they had caught me following, my punishment would have been a wedgie. Incidentally, my brother, as far as I can remember, only went fishing that one time, - the 'other' trout were more to his liking, and I must say, he was rather a dab hand at catching them! - as a reference point to the novice, this is known as 'Tickling Trout'. I, being rather shy and rather young, was much more successful with the cold-blooded slippery ones with the cold eyes. - Out of the deepest respect for my darling wife, I again draw the analogy to a close. - I hope you enjoy the 'Cult of fishing'

Tight Lines!