‘Mr Winsome straightened a plaid blanket and cushion on an ancient fireside rocking chair and settled, making himself comfortable. He leaned forward to rattle an iron poker amongst the glowing embers of half-burnt logs in the fire grate and, satisfied that the logs would provide a little more heat, sat back, staring at the flames‘
Good day, ladies and gentlemen, piscators all! Before venturing further, I ask that you take a moment to think upon your treasured items of vintage tackle, items that you have perhaps assembled over years of searching. These may consist of many a rod and reel, or indeed might only be a small and carefully selected collection of articles of particular merit, maybe of no particular value, or perhaps a singular most valuable piece. Whatever they may be, have you considered what will become of them when you are no more?
It may help if you now draw a chair closer to the fire; maybe have a comforting hot cup of tea or even something stronger if you have it to hand. So, sit back and join me at Winsome’s Vintage Tackle Emporium, for perhaps the answer lies there within.
It was a cold early December day, not as cold as winters used to be but still cold enough to make your breath steam and to mist up your glasses. The past few weeks had been anything but seasonal, rainy and damp, cool, overcast and too breezy for my liking, with the occasional frost to tingle the toes. It had been in fact just the sort of weather to keep a chap indoors, certainly not anything like pleasant enough to get me out and fishing. I am not just a fair weather angler but we all have limits.
I had waited long enough and had not wet a line for an age. Today looked a good day to try the river for a pike. The wind had been forecast to drop, the weather had brightened somewhat and the temperature had dropped a bit but that was compensated by the occasional glimpse of some wintery sunshine.
I had intended to set off after breakfast, having prepared all my gear the night before but things, as they do, had got in the way.The good lady had taken the car to town at 9.00 a.m. to collect some dry-cleaning and had rung me to say she had been delayed but would be back soon. It was gone 10.30 when she finally arrived home, looking pleased with herself.
Quickly collecting my tackle bag and bits together, I said “I am off now. I should get a couple of hours in before the sun dips and the cold really sets in.” I bundled the gear, rods, net, bag, seat and many another sundry item into the car and, waving goodbye, set off.
The drive to the river was not a long journey at all. Coming to a halt on the stony car-park I could see that I was probably the only angler there and, shouldering my bag, rods, reels, bait and most importantly my old Kelly kettle in its own even older canvas bag,I set off upstream, full of anticipation. I was bit late getting there but I had a good three hours or more to give old Esox a challenge he could not refuse. It was cold though, a bit more chilly than I expected. I was wrapped up warmly and layer upon layer of clothes made the trudge a bit difficult. In fact I was almost too warm but knew that as soon as I stopped, the nithering icy cold would creep inside and soon make me crave the hot drink that would cheer up the inner man.
To my left the river looked so forlorn, reeds wilting, brown-stemmed and some crooked at crazy angles. The few bankside overhanging trees now had lost their summer clothes and were stark against the muted browns of the grass on the opposite bank. The occasional glimpse of the sun daring to pop through the clouds did little to brighten up the view.
Whereas in summer it had been impossible to even see the river because of the banks of thick rose bay willow herb, it was now visible but looking cold, with a slow flow and not very inviting. As in summer, it was still inaccessible in many places.
There were the occasional spots where intrepid anglers, far more determined to brave the elements than I, had hacked and forced their way through the winter jungle to perhaps reach a favoured swim downstream of a bankside feature. I wondered if they had had any luck… I had decided that to fish a spot where a drain entered the river a bit further upstream, a place where the silvery roach would congregate. These places attracted old Esox and I hoped that my theories would bear fruit. It was not so far ahead now. Looking at my watch, I hastened my pace; it had taken a good ten minutes to walk this far, with not much further to go.
Nobody was around but myself, the path was deserted, whereas in summer it would have had walkers out enjoying a riverside stroll or maybe the odd cyclist avoiding the roads. I had a glorious moment of feeling that I was the lord of all I surveyed until my reverie was interrupted by the sound of somebody sawing wood. The sound came from ahead of me and beyond the trees and bushes to the right hand side of the pathway. My solitude broken, I shrugged the noise off and continued my walk, the river curving gracefully to the right and the path following suit. My chosen spot was not far ahead now.
Along the pathway, if you took time to look to the right and In beyond the tangled undergrowth as you made your way, you could occasionally see the outline of maybe a cottage or a farm building, some still used but also some in decay. On these the roofs were sagging, windows like empty eyes staring out at the world, doorways wreathed in years of weeds and brambles which clung to the frames like bony arms and fingers determined to choke the last breath from the rotting timbers. I wondered if the sawing was somebody doing some improvements to one of these neglected properties.
Shrugging off the thought, I spotted an access point to the river where some kind soul had taken time to clear a pathway through the jungle. This was a bonus as it was where I wanted to fish, the drain being just ahead. Forcing my way through the clinging undergrowth, with the rods, net and rod bag catching on errant bits of bramble or dead thistle at every opportunity, I eventually found the river bank. I was pleased to see that there was a goodly length of perhaps 50 feet of bank, right up to where the drain entered,that was fairly clear and I could take my pick of the area to set up shop. Obviously others had had the same idea as me, that the drain entry could attract predators to the silvery roach which would be shoaling there.
Wasting no time, my rods were soon out and assembled, the net extended and laid on the bank, the rests in place and my first cast, slightly downstream, with a joey mackerel as bait, was placed about six or eight feet from the bank. I had used a nice old Fishing Gazette pike bung, not a modern replica; this was the genuine article, a bit battered and the paint faded, but it went rather well with the Mitchell 300 reel and the heavy-ish whole/split cane rod I was using. I had built the rod myself from odds and ends and it was not the prettiest rod in the world but functioned perfectly and had a distinctly vintage look about it. It would do. I hurriedly set up a second rod, this was a three-piece, split-cane Ogden Smithsalmon spinning rod, a very substantial rod that would hopefully handle any pike that should come along. I was not expecting anything massive at all, maybe a ten pounder would be more than I could hope for. In the limited time I had it was more a hope than a certainty.
The second rod was cast slightly upstream with the bait, another small joey mackerel, this time set on the bottom and a bit further out. Both rods were pointing skywards as I did like to keep as much line out of the water as feasible. A couple of elastic bands secured the butt sections of the rods to the rear rests as I did not want them pulled into the river by an energetic pike. The reels were set with the anti-reverse clicked to ‘off’ to allow a pike to take the bait without too much resistance and the line clipped up through a rubber band on the cork handles.
Satisfied that everything was where it should be, I stood back looking at the rods. It looked a positively vintage set-up; together with the vintage landing net it could have been an angler from perhaps 50 years ago or more that was fishing, not somebody from 2025. I was content that the vintage setup would be fine for any pike that came my way. I had probably far too much ‘old gear’ but was more than happy with it; I regarded myself as more than a collector really and liked the feel of a cane rod in my hand. With a fish attached, the tackle almost spoke to you, telling you what it was capable of and, just as importantly, where they may fail. Modern carbon-fibre rods, whilst being light and powerful, just had no soul.
I suddenly shivered and noticed that it was getting colder, icy fingers seemed to be clutching at my ears. In fact, despite my many layers of clothing I was definitely cold. The winter sunshine, welcome though it was, had hardly warmed me.
Time to fire up the Kelly kettle and make a welcome cup of tea. I scrunched up a sheet of newspaper and used it to lightly plug the bottom of the kettle’s chimney. I then fed a few kindling sticks down inside the chimney from the top. The base-dish was set level on the bank nearby and the kettle sat upon it. The kettle was filled with water from the small plastic bottle I always carried and I finally rummaged in the old canvas bag for my lighter, only to be very dismayed that it could not be found anywhere. Damn!
Having a second look for the lighter merely reinforced the first disappointment in not having it. Now, what do I do, walk back to the car for a second lighter that I always kept in the door pocket? Doing so would mean taking the rods and baits out of the water and a good twenty minute walk there and back. I decided against this as daylight was precious today and instead elected to freeze whilst waiting for a run on either rod or, better still, both of the rods.
It was very quiet, the rods had no indications that any wary or hungry pike was about. Then I suddenly remembered the sound of sawing I had heard earlier. It had now stopped. I had the river to myself, cold as I was, with some watery sunshine making the honey-coloured cane of the vintage rods glow. It was quiet and peaceful but the temperature seemed to be dropping. For some reason I began to feel a little bit uncomfortable, uneasy if you like,but I had no idea why. The surroundings were familiar enough and I had fished around this spot several times. I shrugged the feelings off, probably because I was cold. I hated being cold but did not bother too much about being wet, when it could not be avoided or indeed when it was too hot but cold, well I just did not like being cold at all.
I concentrated on the rods, the river quietly meandering past downstream, the occasional bit of debris disturbing the smooth surface of the water. What was that…? My senses had somehow been heightened by the uncomfortable feelings I had been experiencing. I could hear nothing except the sound of the river, I had no idea why but I looked around, unaware why I was doing so…
Behind me I saw the figure of a very tall, quite heavily-built man walking quietly along the bank towards me. He would be probably in his late 70s but looked quite fit, clean shaven with piercing blue eyes, strange for a person of his years. He was wearing a flat cap on his head and bushy silver hair billowed out from underneath it. The old chap was wearing work clothes; an old stained blue boiler-suit with a thick leather belt around his waist and underneath the boiler-suit he wore a substantial woolly sweater and a warm scarf around his neck. A pair of heavy leather boots completed his outfit. I noticed that the man’s boots had a showering of sawdust around the lace-holes. Maybe this was the mysterious workman who had disturbed the earlier silence?
The most interesting thing and one which was very noticeable was that he was carrying a split-cane spinning rod, with a Mitchell reel identical to my own pair of reels. Two anglers who appreciated vintage tackle appearing on the bank at the same time? Unless you were in a vintage tackle club or with a like-minded friend, it was almost unheard of.
The unexpected visitor said “Well, hello young man. I did not think to meet anybody here today. I was going to have a cast to see if I could maybe catch one of the pike that live hereabouts. No trouble, I will try further along.” The old chap turned and began to work his way back along the makeshift path. As he turned, thoughts raced through my mind. The first was that he might have a lighter for my Kelly kettle and the second was that there was plenty of room for him to try a few casts below where I was fishing.
“Please don’t leave on my account…” I shouted, “…there is plenty of room here for two and it is nice to see another person using vintage fishing tackle. I thought I was about the only one on the river to use split- cane.”
“Well, if you don’t mind”, the old chap said, “it will save me walking further.” He turned and walked down to join me. I asked him about his rod and reel, saying they were similar to mine. He replied, “They work well enough for me, so why change them. I must have had them forever, like old friends. I will try a cast or two further along here if it is right with you.” I said, “Fine.”
The old chap moved a bit further downstream, choosing a spot a few feet above where the wilting growth smothered the bank down to the water’s edge; not an impossible place to cast a spinner at all. He was out of the way of my downstream rod that had the big orange Gazette float and he took care to cast well away from it. I watched him make a few casts. He seemed quite at peace with himself, choosing where to cast his copper spoon lure. Meanwhile I returned to my rods, where nothing was happening. Meeting the old chap had momentarily made me forget how cold I was.
Remembering the Kelly kettle had been set, I went to ask the old chap if he might have a lighter or matches. As I approached him I saw his rod bend momentarily, then spring straight. “Blast!” he said, “Missed it.” I commiserated with him on missing the strikeand he replied: “There are always more pike to be had in the riverand hopefully there always will be…always another unwary one to be caught.” He chuckled, then said: “I have lost more fish here than I will ever land.” I agreed, at least as far as there being more pike to be had and then I broached the subject of him maybe having a lighter I could borrow for the kettle.
“As it happens, I have, it’s for my pipe but you can use it if you like”, he said as he rummaged in the breast pocket of his boiler-suit and produced a battered pipe and a very large brass tube with a rounded dome bullet shaped top. He removed the top and handed the tube to me and I noticed it had a striking-wheel and a wick. It was a very old, large and well used petrol lighter, made from some type of bullet or projectile.
“Wow!” I said, “This looks very old and I’m a bit scared to use it in case I break it.”
“Don’t worry”, said the old chap “It’s been through more than two wars so I doubt you could harm it; it is made from a Hotchkiss round, made years ago before my time.” I took the lighter in my hands and looked closely at it. It was quite large, a bit battered and probably scarred from its history so it must have seen some sights in its eventful life. “How did you come by it?” I asked. “It was my father’s”, the old chap replied. “Goodness knows where he got it from. He passed it on to me.”
“I will just go and get my kettle going” I said, “Back in a second.”I rushed back along the bank, struck the wheel on the unusual lighter and it burst into flame straight away. The newspaper in the funnel flamed and in no time the wood was crackling as the flames from the paper ignited the kindling wood. I waited until the water in the kettle boiled, made a brew and then hurried back along the bank to the old chap, who was still casting and winding in. I handed him back the lighter, thanked him and asked if he would like a hot drink, as I now had plenty, to which he replied “Thank you, but as I am only a stone’s throw or less from home it’s not necessary.” I then asked, “I heard some sawing earlier, was it you?” “Probably, yes” he replied. “I was sawing up some wood for the fire. It is cold of an evening and I have a wood fire that lasts as long as coal and is cheaper which reminds me, I must be going. Things to do, you know. It was only a short visit to the river; no fish but I have made a new friend. I am sure we will meet again.”
The old chap smiled briefly, his piercing blue eyes twinkled as he did so. He wound in his old fashioned copper spoon lure, hooked the treble over the frame of the first eye on his rod and turned to make his way back between the dying bankside vegetation,clutching his old cane rod and reel in hand as he did so. I shouted, “Yes, we may meet again sometime. Goodbye and thank you for the loan of the lighter.” The old chap made his way back through the dying vegetation without looking backwards.
I fished on but the old Fishing Gazette pike bung gave no indication that a fish was interested in the bait beneath it. The second rod likewise remained static. The light had started to fade and a mist had descended upon the river. It was now an inhospitable place, even slightly eerie, given that I had felt uncomfortable earlier and was now shivering. Having had no luck, I quickly gathered the tackles together and made my way back to the riverside path, thinking about the old chap, his cane rod, Mitchell reel and his lighter. There was no sign of light coming through the bushes at the side of the path and no smell of wood-smoke. I wondered where he lived…
Making my way back to the car I thought about the chance meeting but quickly put the thought to one side. Striding out, I was soon back at the car and on my way home.
Now, we fast-forward in time a little way...
Christmas Day had arrived and on Christmas morning, while sitting at the breakfast table, my wife handed me a white envelope. Opening it, I was very surprised to see a hand-written script done in a beautiful copper-plate style. It was a gift voucher on what looked like vintage writing paper. The voucher was indeed a gift and from a place called Winsome’s Vintage Fishing Tackle Emporium!
After I thanked my wife, she said that just before Christmas and when in town, on the day I had gone fishing, she had spotted a sort of old-fashioned fishing tackle shop and, knowing my liking of all things vintage, had entered and purchased the voucher. It seemed that the shop did not normally do vouchers but the owner had,after a conversation with her, made out to her this hand-writtennote in beautiful script set on faded vintage paper, saying that my wife had deposited a not miserly sum to be redeemed by myself at the shop on some future date. It was a lovely gift and one which I intended to use as soon as New Year came.
Came the day!
My wife and I drove into the town and at first we had a somewhat fractious visit to a garden centre. She who must be obeyed had a bee in her bonnet and insisted that our garden needed a new gnome for the New Year, the last one having suffered terminal injuries at her hands, breaking into a thousand pieces, some of which I had to fish out of the pond myself.
After a healthy discussion and for my future peace of mind and domestic harmony, I conceded that she was right, just as long as I could add a small input into the choice. We looked at quite a few examples, some plastic which somehow did not seem right and some made of pottery which were far better to my eyes. Eventually we agreed on one which fitted the bill. I christened the gnome ‘Peter’. I liked him very much: he was sat on a tree stump with a little cane rod in his hand. In the garden Peter would look fine on the miniature walkway I had created on one side of the pond.
Peter the Gnome having been purchased and snugly wrapped, we drove into town and made our way to the Vintage Tackle Emporium. Well, actually I should say that my wife guided me to the place. I had been to the town many times but had no idea that such a place as Winsome’s Vintage Tackle Emporium existed. It was tucked out of the way down a small alley, between some of the old town shops. There were dustbins, and old newspapers littering the narrow street and the shop seemed to somehow fit in very well, despite being out of the public’s view. I asked my wife how she had found it and she answered that she thought, after visiting the dry cleaners, that the alleyway would be a short cut to the car-park. It turned out not to be but serendipity was out and about working her miracles and she had found the shop without actually looking for it.
Winsome’s Vintage Tackle Emporium declared its existence on a faded board above the shop doorway. It did not seem to have been designed to attract passing customers, indeed the sign could easily be missed, so goodness knows how my wife had found it in the first place. The shop had a small window that was hard to see into,dark inside and with a few cobwebs framing the items on display. The alleyway was narrow and daylight had a hard business illuminating the front of the shop at all. It reminded me of The Old Curiosity Shop, the novel by Charles Dickens and, smiling to myself, I wondered if Nell Trent and her grandfather would be found within.
We entered the shop, a small bell on a steel spring above the door advertising our presence to those within. Inside the shop, it was quite cramped and even darker than the alley-way outside. We made our way as best we could between dusty fishing baskets piled one atop the other, past forests of split-cane rods leaning at crazy angles against the walls, past glass-fronted cabinets containing aged centre-pin reels which nestled cosily with a few vintage fixed-spool reels, vicious pike gags, wooden lures, bait kettles and a multitude of other items.
Small child-sized knotted keepnets made from oiled cord dangled at crazy angles from the ceiling and a large display, propped crookedly against some of the baskets, contained floats by the many, some in fancy tubes or rolled in waxen material and placed carefully in slots formed between layers of the cloth. Elsewhere there were age-stiffened waxed jackets, wading staffs, landing nets, vintage leather reel cases and rusting tin containers of dry and wet flies. In fact, there were too many desirable things to list here. It was safe to say that if I could not find a suitable exchange for the voucher here, then I would never find anything elsewhere,for everything I could desire must have been somewhere in this old shop. It was the kind of place where you could spend a week just browsing and agonising over what to buy.
There was more than just fishing tackle, there were fish mounted in dusty glass cases, their soulless glassy eyes watching every move I made, books, paintings, post cards, photographs, oiled leather boots, in fact just about anything you could imagine that had even a tenuous connection with Izaac Walton, or with any other vintage angler you could name. It was truly a treasure trove.
Behind the counter, and reaching to switch on a bare dusty lightbulb above him, was the shop’s proprietor, Mr Winsome. He was dressed warmly, with a scarf around his neck beneath an old tweed jacket. A gold chain looped from his jacket lapel to breast pocket, presumably with a suitable pocket watch on the invisible end. Mr Winsome had piercing blue eyes behind tortoiseshell-framed glasses and though his hair was receding a little, it billowed out at the sides like a trimmed silver halo. He was clean shaven but rather pale and gaunt. The glasses made him look like an aged head teacher waiting to greet a parent or maybe a slightly eccentric professor. Mr Winsome was quite tall and his head constantly seemed to have to evade coming into contact with various items hanging from the beamed ceiling above. Mr Winsome looked at me, a slight smile flitted across his pale face and he said “Good day. Good day to you, and what may I help you with. I have been expecting a customer and here you are!”
I explained our presence and I handed Mr Winsome the hand written note. “Oh yes, I do remember this. Please look around to your heart’s content. If you see anything you would like to look at or have any questions at all, please ask. I will be just in the back here, just call me. I shall just provide a little more light for you.” Mr Winsome smiled again but, strangely, the smile never seemed to reach his eyes, his eyes remained piercing blue but without a flicker of emotion. He vanished into the nether regions of the shop, through a hanging curtain, leaving us to browse. Two more dusty bulbs flickered into a yellowing light and did their best to illuminate the shop’s interior.
Looking around and having flexed several cane rods, spun several centrepin reels and handled too many vintage tackle boxes and crazed leather vintage tackle wallets, I saw a series of three photographs framed and mounted on the wall behind the counter. The photos were quite old and were all, as you may have guessed,of men holding various species of fish, clearly very proud of their success. One of these photos will look really nice in my tackle room-cum-office, I decided.
I called Mr Winsome from his hidey hole and he re-appeared just as he was lighting a pipe of tobacco. The pipe lit, and a wreath of tobacco smoke with a rich wholesome and sweet aroma now filling the air, he took the pipe from his mouth and said, “I hope you don’t mind me smoking. I do not have many customers and we have sort of got used to smoking around the shop. I know it’s frowned upon these days.” Mr Winsome put his lighter down upon the counter so I inspected it and suddenly a multitude of conflicting thoughts passed through my mind. It was large, made of brass, cylindrical, with a round, domed bullet-shaped top.
“That’s an unusual lighter” I said. Mr Winsome replied “I agree, but I would hazard a guess that you do not know what it is made from, or its original purpose.”
I took a moment and thought, should I risk the answer? Putting aside any doubts I said “Is it a brass-cased Hotchkiss round?” Mr Winsome, funnily enough, did not seem at all surprised that I knew, because he replied “Well, it is exactly so. You must be an expert in such matters.” “No, not at all”, I said. I was thinking that something very strange was happening here but for the life of me I knew not what. I had momentarily forgotten about the vintage photos on the wall so, trying to avoid the subject of the lighter, I went on to remark: “Looking around there are just so many items here. Where on earth did it all come from?” Mr. Winsome smiled and said: “Well, I surmise that you yourself are a collector. In fact, I remember your good lady saying you were an angler who owns vintage gear so I assume you are a user as well. ”He then enquired: “What will happen to your collection when you are unable to dust, polish and admire all the things that are so precious to you? On occasion people, in fact customers such as yourself ask me if I could take certain items off their hands or maybe put them up for sale for them, as sale or return items. These stalwarts come back to the shop, some quite regularly, to see if their items are gone. Some take their rods, or reels or whatever home again if they have not gone on to other new owners. Occasionally items remain here, even after the true owners pass away. Other collectors just cannot bear to be parted from their vintage collection, ever. At times I feel as though I am not a purveyor of vintage tackles at all, merely a custodian.”
Mr Winsome shook his head and said: “It’s hard to make a business such as mine pay. Even I cannot bear to be parted from some of the things here; they are like old friends.” I could perhaps see what Mr Winsome was talking about; my own rods, reels and all the other odds and ends of my vintage tackle were like old friends too. I could not imagine them being anywhere else. Glancing back at the pictures, I said: “I have been admiring the photographs on the wall there and wondered how much it would be if I chose one?”
“I’m afraid that they are not for sale, sir” he replied. They are old family photos and could not be replaced. I asked if I might look at them more closely and Mr Winsome readily agreed, reaching up and, taking the three frames down, he placed them on the counter.
“These are my father and grandfather”, he explained. “It was because of them that I started, from an early age, to appreciate the finer things in life, including vintage fishing tackle. This photo is of my father, several years before he died, with a large pike he took from the local river. In fact the pike is up there in that case.”I paused for a second and looked up at the pike, a monster of over twenty pounds I would have guessed; without any inscription to read, I could not really say more.
Mr Winsome pointed to another photo, saying: “That is him again and the cottage behind him is where he lived on the banks of the river where he caught that pike, and many others as well.” I looked at the old photos more closely. In the poor light it was hard at first to see them clearly. Leaning forward, I had better view and the hairs on the back of my neck started to rise. The photo was of the type from the 1960s, black and white but with a faded appearance. The photo again was of a man holding a pike. It was the same man who I had met only weeks before, wearing the same clothing, a boiler-suit with a thick leather belt, flat cap and heavy boots.
“When did your father pass away?” I asked. The words came tumbling out; I just had to ask. Mr Winsome replied, “Oh, it was some thirty years ago. He was in his late seventies and had an accident when fishing. I had told him many times to take care on the river bank but he was a stubborn old man and would not listen, which was his eventual downfall. The riverbank was undercut and collapsed beneath him. He was not found for several days. When the river gave him up, he was still clutching the cork handle of his rod, the reel still attached, as if his life had depended upon it. The rod had been broken, the tip was missing but the reel was intactand these are now precious items to me.” Mr Winsome glanced back into the corner below the cased pike, where I saw a battered split-cane rod with a broken tip propped against the wall. It had a much weathered Mitchell 300 attached.
I said that I was so sorry and had not meant to be insensitive to Mr Winsome’s passing. “It matters not”, was his reply. “This lighter was his, given to him by my grandfather. It was found on his person and passed down to me, along with the broken rod and reel. Some of the articles in here were his. He was a hoarder and had so much stashed away in that dilapidated old cottage that I had to think hard on what to do with it all. That is why I startedthe shop. I kept certain things as personal memories of my father but there was far too much, hence the shop.”
The enormity and the impossibility of what I had just been told had left me with many unanswered questions. I had always had a healthy suspicion of any ghostly goings on or sightings of ethereal beings but this was simply impossible to rationalise.
Mr Winsome seemed to accept that I was in a state of some confusion. I did not want to tell him about the unbelievable event I had been involved in with his father, well at least involved with someone who appeared to be alive and well and who could be no other person than his father. I turned to my wife but she was stood looking out of the window and seemed oblivious to the conversation. Indeed she had been very quiet, even subdued, since we entered the shop.
As if to ease my confusion Mr Winsome leaned forward to meover the counter, as if to disclose something confidential. He said in muted tone: “I sense something here has confused you. I think you may yourself be a pike angler. We have had similar things happen here before with other customers. Do not be concerned, I always had a suspicion that Father could not really ever let go of his beloved cottage and river. That is why, despite the cottage being in a desirable place, I have left it to remain just as it was when he last lived there. Whatever you have seen or experienced here today, or elsewhere, is nothing to be worried or confused about, I assure you.”
Mr Winsome stood upright and suddenly became brisk and business-like. He said: “Now, you still have a voucher to redeem. Who knows, you may even choose something that father used himself in all the years he lived beside, and fished in, the river.Please, take your time and choose whatever takes your fancy. I am sure we can come to some arrangement if the value exceeds your voucher. I insist, do take your time but choose wisely.”
I breathed out heavily. Since entering the shop, as our conversation had progressed, I had begun to feel distinctly uncomfortable, even uneasy, if you will. Cold fingers were dancing up and down my spine and I had a tightness in my chest.In fact, it was the same feeling that I had had on the riverbank on the day I had met… well, whoever it was. I turned to my wife and,taking her arm, I said to both her and Mr Winsome: “I think I will return another day. I do need some time to think about it. I trust that will be alright with you, sir?”
Mr Winsome smiled and said: “That is no problem. I am always open for those amongst us that have a love of all things vintage.” I thanked Mr Winsome for his time, saying I would return to redeem my voucher sometime soon. Mr Winsome smiled and said: “Please visit at any time; we are always open for friends.” He then picked up the lighter which was still stood on the counter like a silent sentinel and put it in his pocket, standing with his hands flat upon the counter. As we left he waved and I closed the door behind me, the little bell tinkling as I did so. I felt a rush of relief to be out of the place.
Walking away from the shop, I had another thought. I had been to this town many times and believed I knew it quite well. I had always had an interest in vintage fishing tackle and collected various items, repairing vintage reels and rebuilding vintage rods for many years. As a follow on, I had visited vintage tackle fairs, antique fairs, shops and the like, with a view to finding that special item that anglers desire, whatever it may be. I had a passing to good knowledge of the vintage tackle trade generally but had never heard of Winsome’s Vintage Tackle Emporium. Surely it would be known about, such were the quality and variety of its goods on offer, despite the shop’s rather ramshackle appearance. Would the shop even be there the next time I was in the town? Or had it ever been there? I glanced at my wife who was walking at my side. She looked at me, smiled and said: “So now where shall we go? I have my gnome. Let us go and redeem your voucher.” It was as if the events of the past half hour in Winsome’s Vintage Tackle Emporium had never happened at all.
“Maybe another day; I’m rather weary so let’s get Peter home and settled”, I replied. Had she found that strange shop or had it found her? I knew not but I did know that I would not set foot in the place ever again, voucher or no voucher. I had little desire to plumb the strange depths of Mr Winsome’s Vintage Tackle Emporium.
During the following weeks, the feelings of discomfort I had had in Mr Winsome’s shop slowly began to fade. I had turned over the events of that morning and of the previous meeting on the river-bank in my mind many times and it seemed to me that there was a logical explanation somewhere. I just had to find it.
And again, there had been some lovely items in the shop, even if the old photographs were not for sale there were multitudes of other vintage angling paraphernalia that I would be only too pleased to have in my own collection. Maybe I would just pop back another day. I still had a voucher to redeem. The uneasiness in the shop had been forgotten. It would not hurt to look around once more…
Back in the shop, after we had left on that morning of strange events, Mr Winsome had waved to me as we left. He locked the door, turned out the lights and, under an ethereal cloud of sweet-smelling tobacco smoke, retired through the heavy curtain to the dark and dusty back room. As he entered, a faint voice said: “Will he be back?”
Mr Winsome straightened a plaid blanket and cushion on an ancient fireside rocking chair and settled, making himself comfortable. He leaned forward to rattle an iron poker amongst the glowing embers of half-burnt logs in the fire grate and, satisfied that the logs would provide a little more heat, sat back, staring at the flames. Further back in the dark shadows of the room there was the gentle sound of a pawl ticking against a cog.
Was a vintage reel being quietly and gently tested by cold and withered hands? Was that the creak a willow basket being opened, its contents to be once again explored?
Mr Winsome replied: “I believe he will, father. After all, our customers always come back…eventually.”
The murmurings of many voices from the shadows at the back of the room agreed.
Thank you for joining me at Winsome’s’ Vintage Fishing Tackle Emporium. So, “until we meet again”, as Mr Winsome would say.
The season’s greetings to all. May good fortune give you a peaceful and harmonious Christmas and a prosperous New Year.
Writing & Images David Craine – December 25
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