‘Terry was always a gentleman and a gentle man, with endearing ways that my Dad and I often recall. He would drive in a pair of slip-on hush puppies with just the tip of his toe tickling the throttle, his window barely cracked open but allowing the smoke from his ever present Golden Virginia rollie to trickle out’
I knelt on our moss-green sofa, the epitome of late ‘70s chic,gazing excitedly out of the window. This was my now traditionalvantage point on most Saturday mornings. What would it be today? A Cortina, Escort, a Cavalier or something decidedly more exotic! He was due any minute. At 7am in the early ‘70s there was not much traffic on our road, so I knew that the first car I saw would be his. My eyes almost fell out of my head as a pair of twin headlights and a gleaming, commanding grille appeared between next door’s black cab and neighbouring cars. I watched in stunned silence as an enormous, blue shape glided up to the kerb outside the window.
Forgetting my usual yell of “He’s here” I ran to the kitchen where my Dad, wreathed in steam, was pouring boiling water into the old thermos and breathlessly croaked, “He’s in a Rolls Royce!” Running to the front door, I saw the familiar outline through the frosted glass panels and excitedly pulled it open. I was greeted by the calm, kindly face, framed by long, rock star hair. “Hello Rob.” “Hello Terry. You’ve got a Rolls Royce!” “Yeah.” He was a man of few words but all of us loved him dearly.
Part 1
Terry Archer, or ‘TA’, had worked with my Dad ‘In The Print’ in earlier years and they had struck up a great friendship before deciding that they should share some fishing adventures. Prior to this, my Dad and I would never a miss Saturday, getting the bus to Waltham Abbey to fish the river Lea. Like many folk back then, we didn’t have a car, my Dad cycled into the city every day to work. At this time, Terry had an old grey VW Beetle 1303 and that was the very start of our going further afield to fish, with rod bags stuffed between the seats, barely allowing gear changes let alone a functional handbrake.
He loved the river Thames and we went on many excursions to places like Penton Hook, Ham Fields and his all time favourite near Sonning, up by the power station. This entailed an interminable trudge up the river but had to be done because the warm outflow would attract fish to that spot apparently. We never caught a thing! I clearly remember on one of these journeys going around the old Heathrow airport perimeter road and Concorde taking off on full afterburn right over our heads, the sound of the thrumming air-cooled engine behind me, all talk drowned completely by the shrieking roar above.
Although these trips were usually pretty much fishless, apart from effervescent gudgeon or the odd desolate ruffe, there was one golden day at Ham Fields where we caught countless dace to near, or maybe even over, record sizes. But regardless of results, all the days were unfailingly magical; just me, my Dad and Terry out exploring, free in a world of wonder. Even as a young lad, I was always accepted as an equal part of the gang. My Mum too was represented on these trips by her ubiquitous cheese and pickle sandwiches, though over the years, as my successes improved, these did acquire an air of being more cheese and roach.
Part 2
Things really changed when Terry, disillusioned with ‘The print’, decided to go full-time as a second-hand car dealer. I suppose, with hindsight, he was probably a bit of a rogue, skirting around the day-to-day necessities of paying tax and such like; a real Arthur Daley in a way, rubbing shoulders with all sorts of villains and shady characters, but there was nothing malicious or dark about him. In reality, he wasn’t at all the type of person you would expect to find in that business in ‘70s London.
Being, as I already mentioned, a man of few words, he did have a distinctive selling style. In response to questions from prospective buyers he would invariably reply with, “It starts, stops and steers. What more do you need?” This obviously worked, as he developed a thriving business, although it was more likely that his charm, humour and kindness were the real drivers of his success.
During this period our exploration of the river Lea began in earnest and all of us fell in love with her charms and her exceptional fishing. Fish of great size seemed to queue up tempted by our, as yet, un-honed skills. All species were present but roach, chub, tench and bream were in abundance and, indeed, roach between one pound and three pounds were commonplace. Much of my time, however, was spent in other pursuits. Maggot races were a common theme, while knelt at the river’s edge, observing shoaling gudgeon shape-shifting across gleaming gravels that held me transfixed in timeless eternity.
We travelled all over and fished places whose names still resonate within me. Kings Weir, Dobbs weir, Carthagena weir and the smell of the decaying organic compounds released by their tumbling waters are evocative and unforgettable. There were other favourite places like the West Ham stretch with its extensive lily pads and colossal lurking pike, Fishers Green, The Jolly Bargeman or the Crown Fisheries where I would watch magicians like Dickie Carr effortlessly plucking chub from the overhanging willows. I will never forget one day, getting an unexpected personal roach fishing master class from Mick Saggers on the Relief Channel.
What I learnt about shotting patterns and bite detection never left me; neither did the taste of brandy from his proffered silver hip-flask that ‘kept him warm’ on cold days. Our real love though, was the canal at Waltham Abbey where wediscovered the ‘tench swims’: a secret spot that, at the time, was only known to us. Even now, the smell of warm maggots on a summer’s day instantly entangles me in a quantum skein of memory. All of us developed a deep love for this unspoilt part of the river; Terry in particular, the Thames king, became enraptured. Indeed, his ashes lie there now, forever to be entwined with those exalted waters.
Of the many cars to show up on a Saturday morning, the memory of that Rolls Royce was certainly the highlight, though being four up in an MGB GT on a damp autumn day, with three rod bagsprotruding from the sun-roof, was certainly a close second. I alsoremember being very impressed by a huge Vauxhall Cresta. Despite most of these vehicles being mundane every day models, the anticipation of what car would appear was a joy that never diminished.
Terry was always a gentleman and a gentle man, with endearing ways that my Dad and I often recall. He would drive in a pair of slip-on hush puppies with just the tip of his toe tickling the throttle, his window barely cracked open but allowing the smoke from his ever present Golden Virginia rollie to trickle out. He compensated by always having the heater blasting out, even when it wasn’t particularly cold or particularly welcome. One evergreen memory we have, is of once, when on a journey he started intoning, “15 love…15 all…30-15…30 all…” It took us a few moments to realise that he was commentating on the ‘tennis heads’ in the car in front, swivelling left and right waiting for the junction to be clear.
His reasonableness did slip from time to time, especially if he saw a car in front with a rod bag inside. These would have to be overtaken in case they were going to our swims. It was done with humour but I suspect a degree of seriousness too. I found it extremely funny at the time and what boy doesn’t like a bit of ‘drop a cog and boot it!’? I think this competitive streak also manifested itself when he fished at Kings Weir. It was never one of my favourite places, having a seemingly cold feel to it, not the warm companionable friendship I was used to. There was a kind of aggressive scramble by the ‘serious anglers’ to get the best two spots nearest the weir, where the barbel holed up under the sill. Terry, however, loved fishing for the barbel here and it was said that he was known to cast over these people’s lines if beaten to the hot swims. I know it’s not really something to be proud of but my respect for him wasn’t dented as, to my eyes, they were generally tight lipped, unfriendly anglers who didn’t understand the true essence of what it is to fish. Nothing has changed to this day really; I still see it as ‘us and them’.
Part 3
As the decades have passed, many of my memories have become enmeshed into a single fabric of existence. But some ‘Terryisms’ still echo clearly down the years. I will forever call maggots‘magnets’; they do what they say on the tin and, just like a fag with a cup of tea, nothing was ‘betterer.’ I will never laugh at moon-boots again, as I did at his first pair, while my feet froze inside un-insulated wellies despite four pairs of socks and growing room.
“Swimfeeder in the middle” was his standard response to the enquiries of prospective gate-crashers, with just the tiniest glint of mirth peeking out from behind his deadpan delivery; much like the response I give now to perfunctory enquiries of carp size and numbers in a beloved, unspoilt pond: “A few small ones but lots of bream.” There weren’t many trips when a rod-tip or float wasn’t lowered in front of me with a quiet request of: “Could you sort that out for me please, Rob?” These tangles were generally quite extensive and required time and patience to extricate hook and shot from the nest of line. He never rushed me, just rolled another smoke and sat in quiet contemplation as I became expert in the craft.
But I suppose my most abiding memory, probably unsurprising to those people who know me, was regarding food. Through a mixture of boredom and greed, my sandwich supply would be wolfed, certainly within two hours of our arrival, if not sooner. So when in the late afternoon, Terry asked, “Fancy a soup and a roll?” I was instantly in a state of hunger-induced euphoria. I watched with rapt desire as he poured the black pepper laced tomato soup from the flask and handed me a buttered roll. Never has food tasted nicer than that simple offering. Looking back, I realise that it was all planned, he had saved it for me in my hour of need; a small but loving gesture of pure kindness from a man I shall never forget.
Epilogue
When several years later after I had passed my driving test, it was only natural that Terry was asked to help supply a suitable vehicle, a van being my hoped-for choice. The day finally arrived and we were presented with a 1974 1100cc Mk1 Escort van, still resplendent in its G.E.C. livery of yellow over black. As I caressed it, my head a whirl of excitement and possibilities, I heard my Dad ask, “Are you sure everything is ok with it then, Tel?” His smooth response came quickly, “It starts, stops and steers. What more do you need?”
Knight Heron (Langmere, Norfolk. Winter 2025)
In memory of Terry Archer: friend, fisherman and second-hand car dealer (New York, Paris, Holloway)
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