dung are pretty good for roach。 you can take a chub on a cherry； so they say； and i’ve seen a roach taken with a currant out of a bun。
in those days； from the sixteenth of june （when the coarse…fishing season starts） till midwinter i wasn’t often without a tin of worms or gentles in my pocket。 i had some fights with mother about it； but in the end she gave in； fishing came off the list of forbidden things and father even gave me a two…shilling fishing…rod for christmas in 1903。 joe was barely fifteen when he started going after girls； and from then on he seldom came out fishing； which he said was a kid’s game。 but there were about half a dozen others who were as mad on fishing as i was。 christ； those fishing days！ the hot sticky afternoons in the schoolroom when i’ve sprawled across my desk； with old blowers’s voice grating away about predicates and subjunctives and relative clauses； and all that’s in my mind is the backwater near burford weir and the green pool under the willows with the dace gliding to and fro。 and then the terrific rush on bicycles after tea； to chamford hill and down to the river to get in an hour’s fishing before dark。 the still summer evening； the faint splash of the weir； the rings on the water where the fish are rising； the midges eating you alive； the shoals of dace swarming round your hook and never biting。 and the kind of passion with which you’d watch the black backs of the fish swarming round； hoping and praying （yes； literally praying） that one of them would change his mind and grab your bait before it got too dark。 and then it was always ‘let’s have five minutes more’； and then ‘just five minutes more’； until in the end you had to walk your bike into the town because towler； the copper； was prowling round and you could be ‘had up’ for riding without a light。 and the times in the summer holidays when we went out to make a day of it with boiled eggs and bread and butter and a bottle of lemonade； and fished and bathed and then fished again and did occasionally catch something。 at night you’d e home with filthy hands so hungry that you’d eaten what was left of your bread paste； with three or four smelly dace wrapped up in your handkerchief。 mother always refused to cook the fish i brought home。 she would never allow that river fish were edible； except trout and salmon。 ‘nasty muddy things’； she called them。 the fish i remember best of all are the ones i didn’t catch。 especially the monstrous fish you always used to see when you went for a walk along the towpath on sunday afternoons and hadn’t a rod with you。 there was no fishing on sundays； even the thames conservancy board didn’t allow it。 on sundays you had to go for what was called a ‘nice walk’ in your thick black suit and the eton collar that sawed your head off。 it was on a sunday that i saw a pike a yard long asleep in shallow water by the bank and nearly got him with a stone。 and sometimes in the green pools on the edge of the reeds you’d see a huge thames trout go sailing past。 the trout grow to vast sizes in the thames； but they’re practically never caught。 they say that one of the real thames fishermen； the old bottle…nosed blokes that you see muffled up in overcoats on camp…stools with twenty…foot roach…poles at all seasons of the year； will willingly give up a year of his life to catching a thames trout。 i don’t blame them； i see their point entirely； and still better i saw it then。
of course other things were happening。 i grew three inches in a year； got my long trousers； won some prizes at school； went to confirmation classes； told dirty stories； took to reading； and had crazes for white mice； fretwork； and postage stamps。 but it’s always fishing that i remember。 summer days； and the flat water… meadows and the blue hills in the distance； and the willows up the backwater and the pools underneath like a kind of deep green glass。 summer evenings； the fish breaking the water； the nightjars hawking round your head； the smell of nightstocks and latakia。 don’t mistake what i’m talking about。 it’s not that i’m trying to put across any of that poetry of childhood stuff。 i know that’s all baloney。 old porteous （a friend of mine； a retired schoolmaster； i’ll tell you about him later） is great on the poetry of childhood。 sometimes he reads me stuff about it out of books。 wordsworth。 lucy gray。 there was a time when meadow； grove； and all that。 needless to say he’s got no kids of his own。 the truth is that kids aren’t in any way poetic； they’re merely savage little animals； except that no animal is a quarter as selfish。 a boy isn’t interested in meadows； groves； and so forth。 he never looks at a landscape； doesn’t give a damn for flowers； and unless they affect him in some way； such as being good to eat； he doesn’t know one plant from another。 killing things—that’s about as near to poetry as a boy gets。 and yet all the while there’s that peculiar intensity； the power of longing for things as you can’t long when you’re grown up； and the feeling that time stretches out and out in front of you and that whatever you’re doing you could go on for ever。
i was rather an ugly little boy； with butter…coloured hair which was always cropped short except for a quiff in front。 i don’t idealize my childhood； and unlike many people i’ve no wish to be young again。 most of the things i used to care for would leave me something more than cold。 i don’t care if i never see a cricket ball again； and i wouldn’t give you threepence for a hundredweight of sweets。 but i’ve still got； i’ve always had； that peculiar feeling for fishing。 you’ll think it damned silly； no doubt； but i’ve actually half a wish to go fishing even now； when i’m fat and forty…five and got two kids and a house in the suburbs。 why？ because in a manner of speaking i am sentimental about my childhood—not my own particular childhood； but the civilization which i grew up in and which is now； i suppose； just about at its last kick。 and fishing is somehow typical of that civilization。 as soon as you think of fishing you think of things that don’t belong to the modern world。 the very idea of sitting all day under a willow tree beside a quiet pool—and being able to find a quiet pool to sit beside—belongs to the time before the war； before the radio； before aeroplanes； before hitler。 there’s a kind of peacefulness even in the names of english coarse fish。 roach； rudd； dace； bleak； barbel； bream； gudgeon； pike； chub； carp； tench。 they’re solid kind of names。 the people who made them up hadn’t heard of machine…guns； they didn’t live in terror of the sack or spend their time eating aspirins； going to the pictures； and wondering how to keep out of the concentration camp。
does anyone go fishing nowadays； i wonder？ anywhere within a hundred miles of london there are no fish left to catch。 a few dismal fishing…clubs plant themselves in rows along the banks of canals； and millionaires go trout…fishing in private waters round scotch hotels； a sort of snobbish game of catching hand…reared fish with artificial flies。 but who fishes in mill…streams or moats or cow…ponds any longer？ where are the english coarse fish now？ when i was a kid every pond and stream had fish in it。 now all the ponds are drained； and when the streams aren’t poisoned with chemicals from factories they’re full of rusty tins and motor…bike tyres。
my best fishing…memory is about some fish that i never caught。 that’s usual enough； i suppose。
when i was about fourteen father did a good turn of some kind to old hodges； the caretaker at binfield house。 i forget what it was— gave him some medicine that cured his fowls of the worms； or something。 hodges was a crabby old devil； but he didn’t forget a good turn。 one day a little while afterwards when he’d been down to the shop to buy chicken…corn he met me outside the door and stopped me in his surly way。 he had a face like something carved out of a bit of root； and only two teeth； which were dark brown and very long。
‘hey； young ‘un！ fisherman； ain’t you？’
‘yes。’
‘thought you was。 you listen； then。 if so be you wanted to； you could bring your line and have a try in that they pool up ahind the hall。 there’s plenty bream and jack in there。 but don’t you tell no one as i told you。 and don’t you go for to bring any of them other young whelps； or i’ll beat the skin off their backs。’
having said this he hobbled off with his sack of corn over his shoulder； as though feeling that he’d said too much already。 the next saturday afternoon i biked up to binfield house with my pockets full of worms and gentles； and looked for old hodges at the lodge。 at that time binfield house had already been empty for ten or twenty years。 mr farrel； the owner； couldn’t afford to live in it and either couldn’t or wouldn’t let it。 he lived in london on the rent of his farms and let the house and grounds go to the devil。 all the fences were green and rotting； the park was a mass of nettles； the plantations were like a jungle； and even the gardens had gone back to meadow； with only a few old gnarled rose… bushes to show you where the beds had been。 but it was a very beautiful house； especially from a distance。 it was a great white place