Going Back

I've previously blogged about my first fishing trip way back in 1964 and followed it up with a nostalgic visit some eight years or so ago. Fifty Not Out I have fished the old waters from time to time and always found the Weir to be full of dace, roach and nowadays chub. Trotting maggots in the outflow guaranteed plenty of bites and lots of fish swung up over the fence and into your hand. Anything bigger was 'walked' along to a lower point where it could be netted. It was like fish soup.

This month, I passed my 60th anniversary, six decades of dangling baits in the hope of that feeling through the rod as a fish twists, turns or runs. It has rarely been as easy as snatching fish from the weir but it has always been engaging and entertaining.  There is though an old adage that is often used about fishing spots 'Never go back'. 

I have returned to the scene of past glories and found them destroyed by age, 'progress' or the apparent needs of the matchmen or carp chasers. It is always disappointing but a heavy sigh and a shrug of the shoulders is usually enough to assuage the soul. But not today. 

Let me explain the thrill of the weir to a young lad who grew up and took his own child to catch the magic of its atmosphere. The main weir outflow ran parallel to the bridge and fish could always be seen attacking loose feed or your hookbait. This flow met the lesser outflows whose clear waters ran over clean gravel that harboured trout and grayling. Then the entire force of the currents joined to go obliquely across the pool to where the gravel settled and formed a bank, the perfect roach area. You could catch almost anywhere, but a favourite method as autumn approached was to long-trot silkweed under a bulky float. The float would be dragged under by roach and even dace, it was thrilling and this young man caught a roach just a couple of ounces shy of two pounds using this method. Chub became more prolific over the years but, by roaming downstream a few hundred yards roach could be caught in good numbers.

The white water from the outlet used to push fast water across the pool

To mark my anniversary I decided to fish the weir one more time. I made a considered decision to avoid using maggots. Minnows were cherished when I was young but nowadays, although I do love a minnow, I know that they would only attract small fish. After all, with so many fish available, why waste time on tiddlers, an indication of how my angling developed during my life.

Looking off the high fishing point of the bridge I was immediately aware of how shallow it all looked and the abundance of weed that was growing there now. The main current now dribbled back against the weir sill and seemed devoid of life. The other outflows were too shallow for anything but tiddlers and were again uninhabited. A stronger flow was coming from the far end of the weir but, after a few feet was diverted by a bank of stones and ran across the main pool looking fishless. The banks, despite it being school holidays, were devoid of anglers.

Having set up my tackle I watched four paddle borders gather in front of me. Not something I ever saw in the past but the middle classes do love spending their money, don't they?  Having waved them goodbye, they were later replaced by five more borders and a canoe. To be fair, they did hold off from entering my swim but, in the good old days, all canoeists were greeted with a hail of maggots right along the river. Oh well, times change.

I did see a couple of small trout idling in the current but they soon spooked from my shadow. I scattered a few small pellets and they sank to near the bottom where the minnows bothered them until they could be eaten. As I fed the area a few dace appeared but never really seemed very interested in my offerings. Little chub drifted in and out and a small shoal of dace gathered over some deeper water nearby but these too were gone as fast as they had arrived. 

I fished away from my shadow, tried pellets, some paste that was too soft and some hookable pellets that simply dripped off the hook. I have never had success with hookable pellets. I turned to sweetcorn and impaled a small grain on a size 16, this was presented as delicately as I could but the grain on the hook was never approached.  Where are all the fish? Why are the few I can see acting so indifferently? I felt certain that maggots would have taken something but I had made my decision.

Dispondent

By now I was disappointed, my dreams of reliving the past had been shattered but, ever hopeful, I opted to give the backwater a go. I must explain that the backwater was very different to the fast and clear waters below, they ran slow and deep but the roach fishing could be great fun. It also threw up dace, I once had one of ten ounces, and grayling, chub, even carp. It was more of a challenge but with plenty of places to fish, it always held an army of kids and grownups armed with rods and ambition. Now there is a large cafe and a boat club that prevent access to some of the best water. 

I settled on a familiar swim and put on a waggler. As I set to make my first cast so the wind came up and continued increasing until I left. I was also visited by the canoeists from the club but they were young, saw my disapproval and headed back upstream. I did however have a couple of bites on pellet but failed to contact either. I guess it just wasn't my day.

I finally revisited the weir bridge, it had not improved but I persisted for a while. A group of lads walked past me and one cheeky little begger asked, "What you fishing for - rats? There's nothing in there except rats.... and sticks". He added as he threw a stick into the water. And that summed the day up. Whereas there used to be countless eager youngsters catching or at least trying to catch often visible fish. Where there were grumpy adults each looking for solace by the waterside and harumphing at requests for bait and hooks, there was now nobody. 

I wandered down into the town alongside the river and whereas just a few years ago there were plenty of access places down the bank for the anglers to scrabble and fish, now there were just three and one of those was so overgrown as to be useless.

Maybe all the local anglers are more sensible than I and they waited for less bright and windy conditions. I know that very few kids would be allowed to roam and explore without a parent's eagle eyes upon them and all things considered, fishing is just not attracting people the way it once did. Some were playing football on the green, and a small group with a couple of rods between them did drown a small amount of maggots in a very short time before they left, doubtless to play on a gaming device. Oh yes, they left a plastic bag and drink bottle behind not eight yards from a bin.

Remember these?

I smiled at the elaborate play area where our children can frolic on brightly coloured climbing frames and things that make their senses tingle, all standing on softened flooring. In my day we had a slide, the Weir one being particularly high, black and intimidating but we greased it with candle wax and flew off the end. There was too a 'horse' that sat five or six of us and which threw everyone about as its copious weight gathered momentum. It was a wonder we had no fatalities but, for those that were unseated, a hard concrete ground broke their fall.

My local river, the Wye, is dying on its ass and despite the goodwill of many, it continues to fade. I have long been aware of its ill health and that of many others I have visited over the years but not the Tone. It never was a 'prime angling location' in the way of The Royalty, Throop or so many others but, it was 'my' home river and it kept producing each time I fished it over so many years. But I do now fear for its future and for the future of our hobby.