‘Trespassing was never a crime in his eyes and neither was a bit of light poaching! As we talked, we noticed a gentle bob of Guy’s float…and then another… We looked at each other in amazement because neither of us thought that the pond contained any pike. Perhaps the sprat had had a Lazarus moment?’
There was, and still is, a small pond over in the cow field that we village boys called the ‘bomb hole.’ The actual history of it was unknown and, looking back, I strongly suspect that it wasn’t anything of the sort. Why? Well, for one, I can’t imagine the Luftwaffe targeting old man Jackson’s prized dairy herd during the battle of Britain some thirty years previously and two, the small stream running in one end and out again at the other in all probability meant that it was more than likely dug out as a drinking station for farm animals.
But as small village boys, fed on a regular diet of war films on black and white television sets and with grandfathers, and sometimes fathers, who had served during the war and told us stories of their escapades, we had not only heroes but our own ‘connection’ with a time when Britain stood alone against the most formidable of foes. Thus the romance of the bomb hole was born…
Out through the back door, with rod, net and old gasmask bag full of tackle, along with my dog I would go, with the words “Be back by teatime” ringing in my ears. Rarely was the message heeded and often I’d return late covered in mud, fish slime and occasionally cow muck, such was the life of a young country boy.
Life was carefree and time spent at the bomb hole catching gudgeon, rudd, roach and perch was always an adventure, away from adults and their world. We would sit happily upon its grassy banks chatting about this and that whilst watching our brightly coloured quill floats. Most of our tackle was hand-me- downs but treasured none the less. Occasionally one of us would receive a new reel or a rod as a birthday gift and this was always greeted with great awe by the rest of the bunch.
I remember Guy. He was always fun to spend time with; a big lad, he dwarfed me even though we were the same age. His father was a well-known radio broadcaster, having a jazz music programme on the BBC and thus, with a rather well off father, he often turned up bringing a new piece of kit for us to marvel at. One morning toward the end of one of those long, school summer holidays he arrived with a stout rod and reel, pike bung and a bag of sprats, declaring that he was going to catch a pike. None of had seen anything quite like it before, except perhaps between the pages of Mr Crabtree Goes Fishing, The Observer’s book of Coarse Fishing or the dark recesses of our father’s tackle cupboard.
Guy hooked up a sprat to his wire trace and under-armed the lot out into the middle of the pond, where it landed with a huge ‘sploosh’! Moorhens retreated into the reed beds, clucking loudly with alarm and the ripples caused by the commotion took a long time to settle, with our own small quill floats rocked in the subsequent wake which expanded across the once placid pool. We sat and watched, not our own floats but that of Guy’s. I remember clearly being quite astounded by its size and form, a huge egg-shaped thing with a stick protruding through the centre and with a bright orange top. Our tiny, by comparison, porcupine quills rather paled into insignificance.
Suddenly and from nowhere a loud thwack came from behind us and the float bounced up in the water. Looking round in alarm to see what had caused this, I spotted Trevor hiding in the bushes with a big grin on his face and his air rifle tucked under his arm.
Now Trevor was quite a character, a loveable rogue if you like; if there was ever any mischief going on around the village Trevor, bless him, was usually the culprit. Scrumping, poaching, playing truant from school, ‘borrowing’ the occasional tractor and a host of other misdemeanours often saw the motorbike of PC Savage, the village bobby parked outside his parents’ cottage situated in the aptly named Court Lane.
Still grinning, he lit a Players No. 6 cigarette, no doubt ‘borrowed’ from his father’s packet, and came over and sat down next to me. Wafts of purple tobacco smoke drifted across the pond like a calm, early morning mist, but our eyes remained fixed firmly upon Guy’s bung. Trevor talked quietly about some other pools he’d come across on his travels around the surrounding countryside and outlying villages. Trespassing was never a crime in his eyes and neither was a bit of light poaching! As we talked, we noticed a gentle bob of Guy’s float…and then another… We looked at each other in amazement because neither of us thought that the pond contained any pike. Perhaps the sprat had had a Lazarus moment?
Very slowly the bung started to move across the surface. Trevor and I both craned our necks above the tall reeds and I noticed that podgy Roger, who was on the other side of the pond, was doing the same. If he’d fallen in there would have been a tsunami! Roger always had more sandwiches than anyone else, accompanied by packets of crisps, chocolate bars and,more often than not, a pie of some description; scoffing food was quite obviously his other hobby, aside from angling.
Guy continued to watch his float and as it disappeared below the surface, he lifted his rod and struck. All hell broke loose as the fish came to the surface, shook its head and thrashed its tail. Water droplets sprayed the surface and then the fish burrowed deep, heading towards the lilies. His rod took on an alarming curve and the screech of the clutch on his Intrepid reel was probably audible from the other side of the field. Guy succeeded in turning the fish just in time and before long, with help from Trevor, it was netted and hoisted onto the grassy bank and unhooked with little effort. The four of just stood there and stared at the pike, then stared at each other in silence and near disbelief of what we were witnessing.
“A pike from the bomb hole!” remarked podgy Roger excitedly. “Let’s call it Monty,” exclaimed Trevor with an even bigger grin on his face than he usually had. And there it was: the legend of the bomb hole was born.
Guy never did catch another pike from the pond, despite his valiant efforts over subsequent seasons. Neither did he reacquaint himself with Monty. We grew older and as we did so we travelled further afield in search of unknown monsters but the bomb hole will always hold very special memories of friendship and adventure among small village boys starting out on their angling career without any guidance from their elders.
Some fifty years later, just for old times’ sake, I returned to the village recently and walked out across the field to visit our old haunt. Both of us much older now, man and pond both have a weathered look about us; the years haven’t been particularly kind. A fallen tree sat in the corner of the water, the reeds had taken over and, as for myself, I now have more lines upon my face than Network Rail. As I sat beside it, on its still lush, grassy banks, listening to the spring bird-song and reminiscing of times past, the fun, the adventure, the camaraderie, I thought I could hear laughter from a distant time. As I walked back across the field I took another moment and wondered where the time had gone and what paths the other lads had travelled… Oh, for the joys of youth.
Writing & Images – R.B.T, The Weald Of Kent, March 2025
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