‘I had made myself a ‘tank aerial’ rod with safety-pin rings taped upon it, and it had a small boy’s rusting, pressed-steel centrepin reel attached. This tank aerial rod was my pride and joy, using it to catch those young boy favourites, small stripey perch’
Well, here we are in September 2026. The balmy days of summer are quickly giving way to autumn’s colourful hues and, as time passes, I like to look back at the times I have spent fishing over the past years, decades, even a lifetime’s angling, as indeed I am sure we all do. But, exactly what do you remember most about the ‘best’ or, more correctly, the most memorable times you spent at the waterside? Is it having achieved your ‘target’ species or is it your personal best of whichever species you favour, or a visit to a place of angling history, maybe a trip to Bernithan Pool, the Legendary Redmire, or perhaps a day’s fishing with a famous angling personality?
For me it is none of this stuff. Indeed, it may sound a tad strange as, despite having had some truly memorable experiences over a lifetime of angling, none of the more memorable incidents or situations sprinkle my memories with such delight as does the finding of my favourite and most treasured piece of fishing tackle.
I am now 73 years old but this memory has stayed with me since a certain day in the summer of 1964. I was then twelve years old and had been fascinated by the world of fishing and everything even remotely connected with it for quite some time. The world of water was always in my mind, it was almost a schoolboy obsession. I had no interest in football or indeed any sport, my rusty pedal cycle was used for wobbling down the road to a local mill dam where I had first watched grown-ups catching the odd fish from between the thick beds of weed and the odd old pram thrown into the water by unthinking souls.
I had made myself a ‘tank aerial’ rod with safety-pin rings taped upon it, and it had a small boy’s rusting, pressed-steel centrepin reel attached. This tank aerial rod was my pride and joy, using it to catch those young boy favourites, small stripey perch, landed from the same mill dam using wriggling worms dug from my grandfather’s compost heap. The rod was often strapped to the crossbar of my bicycle and, with my father’s old army bag containing my bits and pieces slung over my shoulder, I would venture out, always hoping for a red letter day, which meant catching a fish over the four-inch target, a target I almost managed to achieve but not quite.
Money was tight at home and really I had no hope of improving my small collection of fishing gear within any foreseeable time. However, I was still a happy young chap, enjoying using my home made rod and other bits and pieces, together with bait collected by myself or maybe a half a pint of maggots paid for using my spending money or the small ‘wage’ I earned from my paper round. A welcome plus was an occasional small bag of sausage rusk given to me by our local butcher to be used as a cloud ground bait that the little roach seemed to like.
So, here I was with probably a typical boy’s fishing tackle collection and this now leads me on to describe how I came to own my still favourite, indeed my most treasured, piece of what is now vintage tackle…a Grice & Young Gypsy- D’Or wide arbour centrepin, the reel which pushed my tank aerial rod into second position. I can still relive the day I found my favourite ‘pin as if it was yesterday. Indeed, in my mind the sun still shines down on me as it did when I was standing up to my ankles in a lock somewhere between the top and bottom of the five rise locks on the Leeds & Liverpool Canal at Bingley, between Bradford and Keighley in Yorkshire.
Bingley five rise locks, taken in 2012.
Allow me, if you will, the time to describe the day. The father of a childhood friend, Colin, had asked if I would like to accompany them on a day trip on the Canal; he had built a canal boat and it was now going on its maiden voyage from its mooring, venturing as far north-west as would go, and return in a day. Of course I would like to go with them. On the morning of that wonderful day I was collected by Colin and his father bright and early and we were whisked off in their little car along unfamiliar roads, through the outskirts of Bradford where I had never been in my life (and have no desire now to return to) then onward through more rural areas until at last we arrived at the Canal. We tumbled out of the car and I was led to the boat. It not, as I remember, very large but it had an inboard engine which Colin’s father duly fired up and in no time we were chugging along the Canal. It was very pleasant in the summer sunshine, the boat bobbing along, the birds singing and all was well with the world.
I cannot remember very much about the journey along the canal. It was all new to me so I suppose much of the time was used to stare into the water, maybe hoping to see the form of a pike lurking in the reeds or maybe some small fish topping and leaving small circles on the surface of the water. Eventually we arrived at the Bingley Five Rise Locks. From the bottom, looking up at this vast staircase of lock gates I do not doubt for a second that, as a twelve-year-old, I was awed by its structure and no doubt wondered how on earth this little boat was going to scale this watery ladder. We had already navigated a couple of small locks but this was in a league of its own.
I remember there was a lot of going backwards and forwards, lots of noise and clamour as lock gates were opened and shut, ropes thrown to us from above, and then more noise as rushing water was let in from above and the little boat bobbing around as we were lifted as if by magic upwards. Then, there was some problem. Myself and Colin were blissfully unaware of what was happening around us but we realised something was amiss when, upon entering one of the locks, instead of slowly rising between the towering stone lock-walls, we started to go downward and in next to no time the little boat had grounded on the bottom of the lock. We tilted to the side as the boat settled on the base of the lock and both myself and Colin ended up leaning over the lower side looking into the few inches of water that the boat had settled in.
The water was quite clear and we could see the gravel in the bottom of the lock.
I cannot remember seeing very much else but suddenly I spotted what looked like a fishing reel half submerged, almost buried in the grit and silt. Without thinking I jumped out of the boat into the water and grabbed the reel. Looking back, it was a pretty silly thing to do but in those days ‘Elf & Safety’ did not really exist; we wore no floatation aids and had the lock suddenly started to fill I have no idea what would have happened to me.
Anyway, I scrambled back into the boat and both Colin and I examined my new found treasure. The reel looked as if it had been through a few battles, some of its paintwork was scratched which was unsurprising as it had been in the bottom of a canal lock but it was still basically sound, its ratchet check worked and it even spun,albeit rather labouredly as it was full of water. It was even loaded with line as well!
I had wet feet, my shoes were sodden, as were my trousers, my legs were scratched where I had clambered over the side of the little boat but I could not have been happier. At that moment I had no idea what reel it was, it was just quite large and obviously far better than my little pressed-steel boy’ ‘pin; this was the ‘reel deal’. After finding the reel I was now not much interested in the rest of the journey, in fact I cannot remember much more about that day except that the little boat was being bashed and buffeted about as water was let into the empty lock from above. I just wanted to clean the reel up and try it out.
So, that is how my most treasured piece of vintage tackle came into my possession. I should say that as far as I know, these reels were made circa 1960-70 so, knowing that I was twelve when finding it, that makes it at least 60 years old now, and when found, despite its appearance, could have indeed been quite a new reel.
I have used this reel more or less constantly throughout the years since finding it, starting out on a local mill dam, literally days after finding it and catching the small perch or ‘footballers’ as we used to call them, with my tank aerial and ‘new’ reel. I then graduated to fishing a reservoir here the reel was used for float-fishing for roach. When I started my first job at age fifteen, I purchased my first ‘decent’ rod from Bennetts of Sheffield, a fibre-glass Milbro Trophy which nowadays seems very tip heavy at fourteen and a half feet long. ‘The Gypsy’, as I call the reel, helped a little with the balance but back then, with nothing to compare it to, it was to me a decent set-up. Indeed I used the pair recently at a local pond, although it now feels an unwieldy combination.
As the years progressed and I became more proficient the Gypsy was used for trotting rivers for grayling and chub, or margin fishing for barbel with a much stronger rod. Then, much later,when I was on leave from the Army, I took it back to the same reservoir where I had caught net-fulls of small roach as a fourteen-year-old. The Gypsy proved its worth once again when coupled to the unwieldy Milbro rod. The pair was used on that day to catch a record net of tench for that reservoir, a feat which featured in the Bradford Telegraph & Argus angling column.
The same reel has travelled the world with me, visiting Northern Ireland, Africa, Australia, New Zealand, The Cook Islands, Raratonga, Singapore and America. It has visited Europe, Germany, France, Spain, Portugal, Greece, Italy and probably more places that I have forgotten about. It has caught many colourful unidentified fish from salt water harbours and rock marks in all the above places, not to mention mullet and wrasse in the UK. Then there are all the other coarse fish it has tamed, the chub, barbel, perch, pike; the list goes on; with different rods, different nets, different fish but always the same ‘never give up’ centrepin reel.
Some 30 years ago I decided it needed a makeover and decided to make it a tad lighter in the hand by drilling additional ventilation holes in its faceplate. I also painted it, using a grey Hammeritetype paint. I do not think that the additional holes made much difference to the reel’s weight but the paint certainly covered up a lifetime of, firstly, taking a beating-up in a canal lock, then subsequently being dropped and bashed about, and generally mistreated by a fast becoming vintage angler.
The Gypsy has been strapped to no end of different rods.
It was a first for this reel however, when I coupled it to a three-piece Ogden Smith split cane rod, a rod with lockfast ferrules, pink Syntox butt and tip rings and a history of being owned by a Naval officer who used the rod for fishing for mahseer in India. I spotted the rod in an antique shop in Hay-on-Wye and simply could not resist it. The same evening it was used on the Wye at Bredwardine with the Gypsy strapped proudly in the alloy reel bands. The pair was used for margin fishing with a home-made bobbin as an indicator. Yes, it did land a fish but there is no photograph and according to my diaries it was a half decent chub. I have noticed something which I had almost forgotten; somewhere in its history I have replaced the knobs on the Gypsy, removing the clunky plastic for slimmer and, in my opinion, much nicer examples. I am not so fond of the original that an alteration or two over the years will not improve it! The net result of this is that I look at my Gypsy D’Or with an affection that very few of my other angling possessions warrant. It is probably one of those things that I would grab when fleeing a raging inferno or perhaps even jump into a canal lock to rescue once again.
So now this brings me to another question: what would be your most treasured item of vintage fishing tackle? Maybe a vintage Allcock’s Aerial, a Hardy rod, or maybe a nicely built and varnished Mk 1V Avon? It could be a million different things, as we are all ourselves different as chalk and cheese. For me,monetary value, or possession of a well respected maker’s concourse rod means very little, almost nothing. Despite my owning some relatively expensive pieces, the most highly regarded, and certainly most treasured, my Gypsy, is probably of little financial value at all compared to the others.
The memories of using our favourites are far more important and most important of all, to me, is the memory of first meeting with my much battered and abused Grice & Young Gypsy D’Or centrepin. It now has a bit of a wobble but then again so do I, so we are a well matched pair. In fact, having been together for about 60 years I would say we are the very best of friends.
Writing & Images David Craine – Summer 2026
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