‘The 40-year-old Creel containing his reel, floats and tobacco tin of hooks and shot was the last item he had loaded. It sat safely a-top of his Barbour and thicker jumper, for it was still nippy at 4.30am despite it being near midsummer’
The proprietor had no idea it how long it had been hanging around. It had, he said, come in at some point, as part of a house clearance. He had tucked it away amongst the miscellaneous items of ‘stuff’ yet to be sorted, priced up or discarded.
The prospective buyer, a younger man, cast a keen eye around the cluttered shop – a tackle exchange – where shiny new equipment had not yet reached, but what we now call ‘pre-loved’ filled every corner, high shelf, and rod rack.
Such was the level of stock, and evident slow turnover of items, there appeared to be a skin of dust and cobwebs shrouding most things.
Eventually he came back to the where his eye had first dwelt for slightly too long.
The Creel was lovely, yet unloved.
It had a mustiness to it. A mix of tobacco smoke, and an earthy scent impossible to describe.
“How much for this?” …
“I’ve no idea yet, what do you want to pay for it?”
The younger man looked again at it. It was in poor shape.
The canvas strap and stitching were sound, but the leather around the buckle was dried hard and showed signs of cracking. He could get another strap somewhere if necessary.
The willow was made of whole cane, unusually. He had seen others much lighter in construction, made of half willow strips to reduce the weight. Pleasingly, while slightly shapeless and loose, there were no glaring holes or splits in the bodywork.
Despite its fluffy grey lint overcoat, he could sense there was life left in the old thing and agreed a fair price with the shop owner.
Once home, the Creel was set aside for another day and a bit of tender loving care at the proper time.
Late Spring 1994
The weather had been typically fair in recent weeks, and as the last days of May approached, the blue skies, stark shadows cast by the strengthening sun and the sounds, sights and smells of the countryside had whetted the appetite for spending time outdoors again.
June 16th was within touching distance, and thoughts turned to the purchase of the previous year. Buried under his fishing bag, last used during the milder days of winter, slumped the Creel.
He took it out into the garden and looked it over properly in daylight for the first time. He decided to get out the vacuum and determined he would try and get the basket back in use for its intended purpose.
The golden coloured cane came alive once more, but the pot-bellied body creaked and wobbled as he moved it around under the hand brush and suction nozzle.
He had read somewhere that by giving it a good dunking in the bath, the wood might swell up and tighten everything. This seemed a risky solution, as he was planning to give it a good coat of varnish or two afterwards, and given the shortness of time to the start of the season, was concerned he might trap in moisture and then the rot would set in.
Instead, he found a tin of Danish oil and liberally worked it into the crevices and over the cane. It dried surprisingly quickly, so subsequent coats were applied. The Creel seemed to drink in the life sustaining nectar, and the matt finish pleased the younger man.
June 16th, 1994
Daylight streamed through the gap in the bedroom curtains, and the younger man had naturally awoken without need for an alarm.
Tackles had been gathered and loaded into the car the evening before to minimise disturbing the rest of the household. His wife had just found sleep again after a 3am feed of their infant son.
The 40-year-old Creel containing his reel, floats and tobacco tin of hooks and shot was the last item he had loaded. It sat safely a-top of his Barbour and thicker jumper, for it was still nippy at 4.30am despite it being near midsummer.
The leather work had not needed to be replaced. Instead, a delightfully scented balm had been worked in and the suppleness had returned.
The first trip of the year was a successful one. Sleepy mists had drifted across the warmer water as the night air made way. Bubbles had fizzed, the scarlet tipped quill had dipped on many occasions, and green Tench or golden scaled Carp had rewarded him.
It promised to be a wonderful summer.
Writing & Images David Chalcraft – Summer 2026
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