‘Tackle was readied, Denny fixed up his Taperflash, having chosen a spot where the river ran off the weir and under the trees. He reached into the tin to look for a handful of maggots but, to his shock, there was nothing, just a warm and soggy pile of wood shavings.’
When Artie passed it was a titanic blow and, put simply, there was no one to take me to the river. For two seasons, June to March, I languished. Fishing was farthest from my mind, but it was Artie’s wife who eventually put that right. A young chap in a boiler suit came into her tea shop, one rainy October, and muttered the magic word, ‘Roach!’ Artie’s story was told, an introduction arranged, and out the blue Denny had shaken the dust off and got me out again. I was an old float with a fresh coat of varnish!
Denny had completed his tool-making apprenticeship in 1958 and, ten years later, was already married with a young wife and family. He lived a bit further out than Artie, in Chadwell Heath, so not a proper ‘East Ender’ (but I forgave him that one!). Next door lived Ron, and next door to that was a gaping hole where the Germans had dropped a bomb in August 1940. These two young neighbours were like brothers, and it was Ronnie that first introduced Denny to fishing. They even worked together, as toolmakers at the Rotor Gear factory. Those two ran some hair-brain schemes, and always in the quest for roach.
Back then, with the Avon out of reach, Ron had heard the place for a whopper was the river Waveney, and the bait you needed was maggots (and lots of them!). They could get the train from Liverpool Street direct to Beccles, and the weir at Mettingham was just a short final bicycle ride. Travel plans were easy but getting enough maggots was a bigger conundrum; they had neither the money nor the means to purchase them, so they hatched a plan, literally!
Denny had an old greenhouse in his garden so, two weeks before the trip, they put three dead fish in a tin, and left the door open to get the flies in. Through a combination of luck and vigilance they generated a considerable number of maggots, perfectly timed for the trip. The plan was for an early start, cycle to Liverpool Street, train, cycle again to the river, and fish till dark. A piece of tarp to keep the damp off, they’d sleep on the riverbank, fish the morning, and cycle back – simple! Everything was prepped, with tackle lined up in Denny’s hallway, ready for the early alarm. The maggots were left with the lid off the tin and a small towel draped over to stop them from escaping.
It all worked a treat, setting off in darkness the excitement was palpable, and they cycled through quiet streets, with all their kit, at record pace. As the drab east end of London swapped out for sunny Essex, and then the Suffolk countryside, they didn’t stop talking the whole way. More cycling, following a hand-drawn map of the lanes, and they arrived at the majestic Waveney. It was like being dropped into heaven compared to the waters they usually fished, and now they truly were within a rod’s reach of monster roach.
Tackle was readied, Denny fixed up his Taperflash, having chosen a spot where the river ran off the weir and under the trees. He reached into the tin to look for a handful of maggots but, to his shock, there was nothing, just a warm and soggy pile of wood shavings. Excitement turned to bewilderment, and then to horror. The lid had been placed on tight when they’d left his hallway, so it isn’t like they’d escaped on the train. There was only one place they could be.
Having come all this way, they were determined to fish, so the only solution was to find something for the hook. Ronnie dug up a few brandlings but all that produced was a pair of miserable perch and, in any case, the lad’s minds were no longer in the game and a decision was made to start the long journey home. After five hours travelling, they turned their bikes into Gordon Road and there, two houses up from the bomb hole, was a quite terrific commotion.
Denny’s front garden was piled high but seen from the top of the road he couldn’t make it out. It was like there had been a flood, or some other catastrophe, with everything thrown onto the grass. The front door, and all the downstairs windows were wide open and, as Denny finally turned his tackle-laden bike up the path, there was his wife in the doorway, red faced, arms crossed, with a look that would strike fear into a blind man. That was the last time to this day that Denny ever brought maggots into the house. You can imagine the rest.
The trip to Suffolk, unsuccessful as it was, had however left an impression. The local cut would never be the same after the countryside of East Anglia, so Denny and Ron looked for a club to join to take them to more distant venues. Back in those days however, fishing clubs were well and truly over-subscribed so, in typical Denny-style, he started his own! A sign on the shop floor Noticeboard brought enough like-minded blokes together one lunchtime, and the Rotor Gear Angling Club was born. By the time I came along it was thriving, with membership of the London Anglers Association, a full range of trophies to be fished for and awarded each season, and a coach trip every third Sunday.
The Suffolk Stour was a venue that would be visited at least twice a year; Bures, Secretary’s Farm, Pitmore Lock, favoured venues that delivered terrific bags of dace and roach but literally every species could appear at the weigh-in. The Best Mixed Bag Trophy was usually won here. The first Stour trip of the season was also witness to a standing prank that was nothing less than legendary. Woe betide being a new member of Rotor Gear AC…
First, the driver was given strict instructions to make his route via Chappel Station. New members would be seated together, or the seat next to them vacated at a very precise moment. Timing was to military precision. Up the London Road, turn left for Halstead and at Eight Ash Green the sniggers would begin. Past Rose Green, under the viaduct, right turn at The Street (The Swan), and preparations would be in earnest. The number of new members on board would govern how many flasks of hot tea were drawn from under the seats. At Chappel Station mugs would be primed to the very top and trusted only to the steadiest of hands. The shout would go up at Old House Farm…
“Chimneys!” Dennis would signal, and the lads with steady hands would each approach the new blokes,
“There you go fella, have a nice cup of tea to warm yer cockles!” (Being new members, they’d be too polite to decline).
Then, all eyes up front. Watching out the huge windscreen, Ronnie would instruct the driver to floor the pedal. A hundred or so yards past the Tudor farmhouse (with big chimneys), that coach would hit the hump-back bridge at fifty miles per hour. Hot tea would fly into the air like the Trevi Fountain. Laughter and screams of ‘Hoorah’ would fill the coach, mixed with cries of pain and expletives. To the last person, they’d collapse into the aisle in uproar. Every single year! And finally, when calm descended, all would be sworn to a veil of secrecy, until the following trip, and the next victims.
Me? Well, I tagged along for the ride; dace at Richmond, roach at Grove Ferry, and barbel at Burgate. Fishing with Denny was fabulous, and between us we filled the cabinet with trophies. But there is so much more to put down here on paper; the tackle we used, a ‘day of all days’ at Canbury Gardens, and the Pheasant of course is another tale still to be told. Artie was long gone, and a lot of water had flowed beneath the bridge, but there were still roach to be caught and, for as long as I could trot the stream, I would be going after them.
Writing & Images – Tengisgol, Winter 2023
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