pike fishing

February isn’t the best month for fishing, but the quarry was pike, and the lure of Vauxhall lakes with my big cousins was irresistible.

Billy Smith was the senior fisherman followed by his brother Leslie and Cousin Brian Booth, who was the consummate angler, what Brian didn’t know about fishing wasn’t worth knowing. I hadn’t been course fishing before, and I was all too keen to learn.

We set off from Dover on a bright and sunny morning on our bikes, for the sixteen mile uphill journey to Canterbury. I thought I was a practiced cyclist, but for most of the journey I was being waited for, on the brow of most hills, and as soon as I caught up, we immediately set off again at what seemed to be an even brisker pace. My chain came off at one point and I stopped for a well earned breather to put it back on, luckily I had a hankie to wipe the oil off my hands, it wasn’t a clean one to start with and now it was even less so. By the time we arrived, I was ready for a drink but was disappointed when the order of the day was to get set up first.

Vauxhall in the fifties were a series of ponds and lakes set in about eighty acres of woodland with the river Stour right running through the middle of it. If you weren’t familiar with the terrain it was easy to get lost.

We set up on the edge of a small lake about the size of football pitch, and in the center was an tiny island about thirty yards out, and hanging in a tree was a bright yellow pike float that someone had lost. I heard Brian say to Les, “how far do reckon that island is then,” before Les had the chance to reply Brian was stripped naked and in the water swimming toward the island. I’d never seen anyone swim naked before, let alone in a murky lake in the middle of the winter. Ten minutes later Brian emerged from the lake with the pike float in his hand, his lips were blue along with a lot of other parts of his body and he shivered uncontrollably. “Any of you lot got a hankie,” I gave him the dirty one I’d used earlier and he dried himself the best he could and got dressed, I threw the oily muddied hankie away not thinking It would be required any more.

According to Brian’s rules, we needed to catch some small fish to use as live bait for the luring of the Pike. My cousins had some pretty fancy freshwater rods and tackle, I had a 9ft greenheart pier rod with a 4 inch centre pin reel and 30lb braking strain cat gut line, which I wasn’t allowed to use. I sat and watched for an hour until Billy caught a fair sized bream. “That will do just nicely! Get your rod over here quick, Ken,” said Brian. I watched in amazement as Brian attached the still live fish to a wire trace and a triple hook. The tackle was cast in and the recently acquired pike float was now wandering all over the place. I couldn’t help feeling sorry for the poor bream. After an hour of this I got a bit bored and wandered off to explore the lake. I wasn’t gone long when I heard Les shout out, “Brian quick, help” I ran back to where the others were, to find Brian knee deep in the lake struggling with my rod, and it was bent like a banana.

I was looking at Brian; he was now up to his thighs in muddy water, trying desperately to reel in this thing that was on the end of the line. Billy asked Brian if he could help and was told to “Just hang on to my jumper, when I start to reel in.” Billy stood in the water behind him and did indeed hold on to his jumper, with both hands. Les and I just stood there watching. Brian leaned back and started to reel in, Billy leaned back to assist. All of a sudden there was a loud crack; both Billy and Brian fell back and sat in the lake, Les jumped forward to help in the fracas but mistimed his step and fell right in, I tried desperately to stifle my laughs but Brian caught me and shouted, “When was the last time you changed this bloody line.” “I only brought it two years ago and it’s only been used a couple of dozen times, I can’t afford new line.” The look I got from all them suggested I better shut up, or else I might find myself in the lake. They all looked in a sorry state, covered in mud and weed and soaked to the skin, even Les’s beard had weed in it. Someone asked if I’d still got the hankie, what the hell they were going to do with that I’ve no idea, what they needed was a hot bath and three bath towels not a bloody hankie.

The ride home was a long and silent one; at least, I was still dry. I guess I wasn’t the only one who looked back on that event and wondered, how big was that fish. We would never know.