Of a Wild Day
J.W Martin
Of a Wild Day on the Trent
J.W. Martin fishes in a storm on Christmas Eve
It was Christmas Eve some years ago, when a storm was raging down the old valley of the Trent; the white lippers of the rolling waves hissed as if in protest at being driven backwards by the bitter north-east blast. The trees creaked, groaned, and bent to the tempest; while ever and anon a brief but blinding snow-storm drove into our faces, and swept onwards with a whistling shriek. A small fishing boat was laboriously working its way down the river in the face of this tumult of the weather, and the occupants were wondering if they would live through it all and see the snug inside of the bar-parlour of the Bridge Inn, for the pair had actually braved death in a dozen forms that wild afternoon, on purpose to get a shot or two at some wildfowl; or, haply, to put a hook and tackle into the leathery lips of a big pike or chub. One at least of the occupants of the craft was ready to swear off fishing for ever and ever, and vowed if ever he got out of that scrape never more would they see him in it. But when the calmer morrow dawns we forget the past peril and laugh at our fears, and are ready to brave them again. The valley of the Lower Trent from Clifton, round to Old Torksey Castle, lent itself to be storm-tossed and tempest-driven; it was open country, wind-searched and wild, for the most part, but in its calmer moments yielded up some good fish of many kinds and some wildfowl to the gun. I have seen 8lb and 9lb barbel, 5lb chub, 6lb and 7lb bream and 27lb pike come fighting every inch from its waters; while roach, dace, flounders, and eels were in such quantities and size that these were not to be despised alongside their larger brethren.
My old friend (long since dead and gone) and myself had determined to break away from the old Christmas traditions and feasting, and, for once in a way, spend the festival in loneliness and solitude with Nature, in all her barren nakedness around us, and most certainly that Lower Trent in those days was the place to find it. Even in the summertime the stillness and quiet were appalling to a town-bred man, but I can recommend the district to an angler who wants to get ‘far away from the madding crowd’. We had a job to successfully navigate that boat round the broad bend at ‘The Dubbs’; and it was a couple of weary and heart-sick men that staggered over the threshold of that friendly inn and faintly called for a good stiff dose of ginger-brandy. One would have thought that the experiences of that Christmas Eve would have been enough to cure the most virulent fishing fever; but your true-born fishermen rise superior to this. Next morning after a good night’s rest and a breakfast of ham and eggs, put before us in Mrs Dixon’s inimitable style, and the weather considerably moderated, we started with some hopes of success.
In those days the nearest stations were six miles away, in nearly opposite directions, and the good fishing grounds difficult to get at, although it was most of it free. Now a new railway has been constructed with a station at Clifton, much more convenient to the river . . .
The 12-pounder was our first Christmas pike that day, and when he came I was casting my dace in the teeth of a very keen wind. I saw him move some weeds and flags at my third cast, but he made no further sign until I had cast and wound home again at least a couple of dozen times, then he took it almost the very instant it struck the water.
My old friend (long since dead and gone) and myself had determined to break away from the old Christmas traditions and feasting, and, for once in a way, spend the festival in loneliness and solitude with Nature, in all her barren nakedness around us, and most certainly that Lower Trent in those days was the place to find it. Even in the summertime the stillness and quiet were appalling to a town-bred man, but I can recommend the district to an angler who wants to get ‘far away from the madding crowd’. We had a job to successfully navigate that boat round the broad bend at ‘The Dubbs’; and it was a couple of weary and heart-sick men that staggered over the threshold of that friendly inn and faintly called for a good stiff dose of ginger-brandy. One would have thought that the experiences of that Christmas Eve would have been enough to cure the most virulent fishing fever; but your true-born fishermen rise superior to this. Next morning after a good night’s rest and a breakfast of ham and eggs, put before us in Mrs Dixon’s inimitable style, and the weather considerably moderated, we started with some hopes of success.
In those days the nearest stations were six miles away, in nearly opposite directions, and the good fishing grounds difficult to get at, although it was most of it free. Now a new railway has been constructed with a station at Clifton, much more convenient to the river . . .
The 12-pounder was our first Christmas pike that day, and when he came I was casting my dace in the teeth of a very keen wind. I saw him move some weeds and flags at my third cast, but he made no further sign until I had cast and wound home again at least a couple of dozen times, then he took it almost the very instant it struck the water.
I never strike a pike heavily on spinning tackle; I simply hold them tight and let them pull well for every yard they take out. I find this hooks them more securely than a heavy strike that might cut the hooks out of the jaws. This jack ran about ten yards with a heavy, solemn, cart-horse-like pull, and then suddenly sprang his length out of the water. I dropped the rod point and as he fell back, he stood, as it were, on his tail, with his head above the surface, opening his cruel jaws and the great red gills to their utmost capacity, shook his head savagely, and we grinned defiance at each other. The hooks held through the savage shaking and very often that moment is fatal ‘when he opes his ponderous jaws’ and shakes his head like a terrier with a rat. I saw him eject the bait at the moment of his spring, felt I was still fast with the hooks, and knew with luck that splendidly-coloured, mottled, and spotted pike was ours. I have seen them more than once shake themselves free just at that critical moment, especially when the line has been slacked for a moment. We tried a live-bait for an hour all along those slacks and shallows and dimpling eddies, but did not get a run by that plan.
Another stretch of roots and overhanging boughs now courts trial, but this place is only a very short one, some 15 yards in all. One chub only, and the best of the day, comes from there, a very shapely fish of 4lb 10oz. The shadows are lengthening on this too short Christmas holiday, and the frosty breeze is getting keener every minute; black clouds surge up from the northward, and wildfowl are beginning to drop in to the backwaters and lagoons . . .
We leave the boat in the hands of old Charlie to take it home on the morrow. Counting up the spoil, we have five chub, largest 4lb 10oz, three pike, largest 12lb and a brace of wild duck- a mixed bag, which when we consider the fact that they were got on the public waters of the Lower Trent, was not so bad. We were just in time to partake of our host’s five o’clock Christmas dinner with its turkey and sausage and the blazing plum-pudding, and this formed a fitting finale to one of the best if somewhat stormy visits I ever paid to the dear old Trent; and I do not mind owning up we turned in the trap that carried us to the station to catch the 8pm down train with many a deep sigh of regretful longing.
Another stretch of roots and overhanging boughs now courts trial, but this place is only a very short one, some 15 yards in all. One chub only, and the best of the day, comes from there, a very shapely fish of 4lb 10oz. The shadows are lengthening on this too short Christmas holiday, and the frosty breeze is getting keener every minute; black clouds surge up from the northward, and wildfowl are beginning to drop in to the backwaters and lagoons . . .
We leave the boat in the hands of old Charlie to take it home on the morrow. Counting up the spoil, we have five chub, largest 4lb 10oz, three pike, largest 12lb and a brace of wild duck- a mixed bag, which when we consider the fact that they were got on the public waters of the Lower Trent, was not so bad. We were just in time to partake of our host’s five o’clock Christmas dinner with its turkey and sausage and the blazing plum-pudding, and this formed a fitting finale to one of the best if somewhat stormy visits I ever paid to the dear old Trent; and I do not mind owning up we turned in the trap that carried us to the station to catch the 8pm down train with many a deep sigh of regretful longing.
Read more about J.W. Martin.
This extract was taken from The Trent Otter
