A moment in time.

[ALLROUND TRYER]

Hi all, great forum btw.. well here goes my first thread.
Im an 80s kid just turned 50, My fishing started out on small farm ponds, and every summer holidays we would literally spend dawn till dusk on various ponds within reasonable walking distance.
Occasionally a trip to the canal if the old man was feeling generous, or we did the dreaded bus trip with tackle {you know the one} and ventured to the mighty ribble, which was always a steep learning curve to say the least. But worthwhile in the long run.
Anyways after doing some reminiscing about times gone by with a mate recently my thoughts turned to a small pond where my fishing bug really took hold.
A 3rd of an acre maybe.. 2ft deep maximum, choked with weed and absolutely full to the brim with stunted perch.. you could easily catch a hundred or so in a day, and so we did regulary and it was great fun.
There was also a shoal of bigger perch in there.. looking back i would say 20 or so fish and these were obviously cannabalising on the stunted perch and getting huge, but landing them was a nightmare mainly due to the nature of the pit.. it was snaggy as well, and my fishing skills being raw to say the least, it was seemingly impossible to land one, so the race to a hundred stunted perch always won the day and the bigger fish remained something the older anglers occasionally caught... and the pond became a place to go if all the other ponds were full or fishing slow.
Fast forward a few years or so and my thirst for knowledge growing, skills gradually improving and john wilson on the box i was ready for the perch pit again.
Gone was the 2.6lb bayer and 18 hooks, instead it was 4lb maxima a size 8 hook and a lob from the old mans compost heap.
I arrived at the pit an hr after school, the pond was empty as it quite often was and i set up in anticipation of what might be.
An hour passed by,,,Nothing.. nothing happened.. was it the worm?.. to big?..surely i could get a bite on a piece of worm.. NOTHING.
I sat there all day confused.. wtf was going on, wheres all the fish gone.. it was a mystery... the stunted perch had dissapeared too WTF???
I mentioned at the beginning i was an 80s kid.. and the dreaded perch disease of the 80s in the uk had hit overnight and the pond was no more.. the fish had been netted by the farmer a few days before and that was that.
Anyways my question is this.. if you could take the skills and knowledge you have now, and grab one moment in time from the past, where would it be and why?
Cheers.

 

[Robwooly]

Good question. Probably to that little pond like yours to see them 'monsters' dragging our poorly set floats along the surface like that bouy in Jaws. Just me and dad sitting there knowing very little.

Probably wouldn't change a thing and would just enjoy it, If we only knew then the adventures that lie ahead.

 

[Zerkalo]

As above, good question... and I probably wouldn't change a thing either. When you're learning there's a lot of mystery.

But I would go back to a private pond on the Bournville Estate of Cadbury in Birmingham that we had access to as my dad worked for Cadbury. To get access to the pond you used to have to go and get the key from the security gate of the factory.

I used to go for evening sessions after school with my dad and it sounds a very similar pond to yours, in that it was shallow and choked with weed. It meant the only way to fish it was with floating baits which we eventually got the knack for so I'm not sure I'd take any skills back with me, but that's where I'd go to get another look at the 'Wild Carp' that were in there, as never seen Carp like them anywhere else... true Wild Carp and not Ferals.

Other than that, thinking of taking new skills back... definitely my Junior Club matches on rivers.

 

[Me and my lad]

I would go back to Cleethorpes boating lake armed with a lot more confidence and a game plan. In the 80s as a teenager I would marvel at everybody else and copy them. This meant I was always behind in angling terms. Now I would know more of the target species and what I was trying to do. Wouldn't really change much, just give my old self a head wobble and say believe

 

[rudd]

The day I caught my first ever coarse fish.
The fish that instantly addicted me to angling.
The anticipation, the excitement, the buzz, that feeling you get when you hook a fish but for the first time.

That fish gave me my life long nickname - Rudd

 

[Silverfisher]

I’d go back to my first fish simply because I don’t remember it!

 

[Deejay8]

When I started fishing nearly 40years ago, I used to fish a lake about 20 minutes walk from my house in the village of Marchwood, which is across Southampton Water from the city. It was in the grounds of an old manor house, then called Marchwood Park, but now well known as Marchwood Priory Hospital, the rehab centre.
I fished this lake almost every week in the Summer and Autumn from July 1982 until 1986. After that, I still fished it now and then, but I was able to travel and fish other waters.
It was a magical place to be. A long thin lake of a couple of acres with two islands. Most of the banks were surrounded by trees. The lake was about 4 feet deep,and covered in weed and lilly pads. The way the light shone through the trees was very beautiful.
There was originally a stock of about a hundred old carp up to about 20lbs, along with a good head of tench, roach, rudd perch and eels. There were also pike, some of which were over 20lbs.
I suppose the venue had a magic for me, because I was a college student at the time, so from June until September, I could be there nearly every day. I made a group of friends from the village who were also either students or just leaving school, and our days would revolve around meeting at the lake. Lifelong friendships were founded on the bank of that beautiful little lake. And the days just seemed to drift into each other in a wonderfully unhurried kind of way. Chris Yates and Bob James once described how time, doesn't seem to pass normally, but rather seems to collect at Redmire Pool. Well so it was with Marchwood Lake.
I caught my first fish there, a small roach. My first tench, my first carp, and first double figure carp were also caught from there.
There was a little community that seemed to exist around the lake. Myself and my new fishing friends from the village, but other faces who I would see at the lake and nowhere else. A group of dedicated carp fishermen, who seemed to embody the spirit of B.B, Walker, Hilton and Yates of the early days of carp fishing, rather than the buzzer bar and bivvy brigade of today's Ilk. There was Ian, the club bailiff who organised some of us into a ragtag army of a work party. Old Sid, a veteran of two world wars, fishing for carp with his old cane rods and fag packet foil bobbins.
My moment in time to revisit, would definitely be from those halcyon days of my youth.
One very strong memory is of one particular fishing session. Why it sticks in my mind, I don't know. But I can picture the scene vividly. It was the last Wednesday in September of 1983. I had arrived at the lake in late afternoon, after a day at college. Autumn was beginning to show itself, with that soft light that is a characteristic of the beginning of the journey into Winter. Some of the trees were just beginning to turn to shades of gold, ochre and brown. The Sun shone, and it felt almost like a memory of Summer days, only recently departed. But there was that feeling of it all coming to and end. And the weatherman had predicted an unseasonably early frost in the early days of October. The lake was not known for fishing well in the Winter, so there was a definite feeling that this was going to be the last session of the year.
I chose a swim at the top end of the lake, where the trees thinned out before opening up into a meadow. There was a favourite swim that I had here. A small channel in the weeds by the small island. I was floatfishing with sweetcorn to catch a carp or tench. As the Sun lowered in the sky, I felt an intense connection to the moment. The scents of Autumn began to filter through, ushering in the season of mellow fruitfulness.
And after three biteless hours, the float bobbed a couple of times and then slid into the dark water of the pond. I struck and the rod came alive as I connected with a carp. A spirited fight followed on the float tackle, with the carp making a bid to reach the island. But eventually the fish was subdued and netted. It was a plump mirror carp of about 4lbs. The fish was the most beautiful scaled and coloured carp I have ever seen. A mix of gold, brown, purple and grey seemed almost as if they were painted on with watercolours, with a row of scales along the back and along the lateral line. It was the perfect carp.
After admiring it and slipping it back to it's watery home, I spent a few moments just taking in the moment. I knew that it was going to be the last carp of the year,and my fishing on the pond was over until June.
As twilight fell I walked home to the village, feeling a mixture of happiness and wistfulness.
And I still think of that carp and that afternoon.

 

[davej1981]

Division 2 national. I fished it as a 16yo on the ouse at ely. There was a huge shoal of bream shared between me and the guy next door. My lack of experience on this kind of venue at the time caused me to have a disater. The guy next door won it as an individual. Ive gone through that match more times than i care to remember and im sure if i knew then what i know now id have been chasing him! Completely out the blue I happened to get chatting to the guy on the next peg a month or 2 ago on a post on Facebook. A gut called rod finch i think, lovely guy and he still remembers my nightmare and even apologised for giving me a hammering

 

[ATTICUS FINCH]

My venture back to days of long hot summers and warm evening's would be Norman's pond in maresfield east Sussex.
No more than half an acre and depths to six feet , surrounded by trees and full of weeds ,and it stunk to high heaven in the boggy margins ,but it was a smell of anticipation of a day of tench fishing . Although only small ,stunted more like as anything over two and a half pound did was unheard of .
With a split cane rod and a very old omnia reel ,peacock quill that took a swan shot to cock ,a size ten hook and bread paste for bait I would fish for hours on end catching the beautiful green tincas ,up to twenty sometimes, sometimes only a couple but the thrill of those bubbles surrounding your float and the lift of the quill as the tench sucked the soft paste in ,and then watch it slide away towards the weeds ,striking into it and holding tight to stop it making the sanctuary of the weed beds.
I'm sitting with a tear in my eye now as I'm remembering the days of my youth without a care in the world and catching beautiful tench and enjoying every minute of my time doing so.

 

[Deejay8]

My venture back to days of long hot summers and warm evening's would be Norman's pond in maresfield east Sussex.
No more than half an acre and depths to six feet , surrounded by trees and full of weeds ,and it stunk to high heaven in the boggy margins ,but it was a smell of anticipation of a day of tench fishing . Although only small ,stunted more like as anything over two and a half pound did was unheard of .
With a split cane rod and a very old omnia reel ,peacock quill that took a swan shot to cock ,a size ten hook and bread paste for bait I would fish for hours on end catching the beautiful green tincas ,up to twenty sometimes, sometimes only a couple but the thrill of those bubbles surrounding your float and the lift of the quill as the tench sucked the soft paste in ,and then watch it slide away towards the weeds ,striking into it and holding tight to stop it making the sanctuary of the weed beds.
I'm sitting with a tear in my eye now as I'm remembering the days of my youth without a care in the world and catching beautiful tench and enjoying every minute of my time doing so.

That to me is the essence of tench fishing. Rather than chucking a ton of bait out in the Spomb and following that with a maggot feeder on a helicopter rig on a carp lake or gravel pit, hoping for a double, I would much prefer to be casting a float next to the lilly pads on a small misty pond, and watching the bubbles, as the excitement and anticipation builds. The tench may only be a pound or two, but on float tackle they fight well, and it's just a lovely way to spend an early Summer morning.

 

[The Runner]

Like any match angler I can think of plenty of matches early in my "career" (and quite a few after that...) where if I'd only known what I know now etc etc...
Outside of match fishing, would have loved a day in the early to mid 70s, armed with my later knowledge and skills. on the Tweed at Coldstream, preferably with a couple of feet of water on, after those big roach and huge dace which are now long long gone.

But to go back for any reason it would now be for one more dusk and dawn session after tench on a small lake near Strokestown, Co,Roscommon with my old friend Gary. A bunch of up to eight of us went to Ireland every year for about ten years from 1978 staying in and around Athlone, but the two of us always split off for one night in the middle of the week and had some lovely catches from this beautiful little lake. And the reason I would have this one more visit is that I will be going to his funeral later this week, same age as me (66) but he'd developed early onset Alzheimers nine years ago.
Most of the old crowd plus partners still have a get together at least once a year, and a couple of years back one of the few things he still had real memories of was the Irish fishing holidays.
Was having a good think about this just the other night, and in my mind we're sat at either end of the platform out in the reeds, sun setting behind the hill opposite, not a sound other than the snipe drumming. Just lovely.

 

[Peter]

Having given the OP's question a good deal of thought, I honestly wouldn't want to go back and change a single thing.
All those past memories are precious and to be treasured, Changing any single part of one would have a knock on effect on the rest.
I'm more than happy with the way my fishing journey has gone and looking forward to more being added to it in the future.

 

[Pompous git]

Having given the OP's question a good deal of thought, I honestly wouldn't want to go back and change a single thing.
All those past memories are precious and to be treasured, Changing any single part of one would have a knock on effect on the rest.
I'm more than happy with the way my fishing journey has gone and looking forward to more being added to it in the future.

Yep, enjoy our memories but we must always look forward.

 

[Peter]

Yep, enjoy our memories but we must always look forward.

Exactly Pomp, now ditch those old Mitchells and get some proper reels.

 

[Dave Spence]

When I started fishing nearly 40years ago, I used to fish a lake about 20 minutes walk from my house in the village of Marchwood, which is across Southampton Water from the city. It was in the grounds of an old manor house, then called Marchwood Park, but now well known as Marchwood Priory Hospital, the rehab centre.
I fished this lake almost every week in the Summer and Autumn from July 1982 until 1986. After that, I still fished it now and then, but I was able to travel and fish other waters.
It was a magical place to be. A long thin lake of a couple of acres with two islands. Most of the banks were surrounded by trees. The lake was about 4 feet deep,and covered in weed and lilly pads. The way the light shone through the trees was very beautiful.
There was originally a stock of about a hundred old carp up to about 20lbs, along with a good head of tench, roach, rudd perch and eels. There were also pike, some of which were over 20lbs.
I suppose the venue had a magic for me, because I was a college student at the time, so from June until September, I could be there nearly every day. I made a group of friends from the village who were also either students or just leaving school, and our days would revolve around meeting at the lake. Lifelong friendships were founded on the bank of that beautiful little lake. And the days just seemed to drift into each other in a wonderfully unhurried kind of way. Chris Yates and Bob James once described how time, doesn't seem to pass normally, but rather seems to collect at Redmire Pool. Well so it was with Marchwood Lake.
I caught my first fish there, a small roach. My first tench, my first carp, and first double figure carp were also caught from there.
There was a little community that seemed to exist around the lake. Myself and my new fishing friends from the village, but other faces who I would see at the lake and nowhere else. A group of dedicated carp fishermen, who seemed to embody the spirit of B.B, Walker, Hilton and Yates of the early days of carp fishing, rather than the buzzer bar and bivvy brigade of today's Ilk. There was Ian, the club bailiff who organised some of us into a ragtag army of a work party. Old Sid, a veteran of two world wars, fishing for carp with his old cane rods and fag packet foil bobbins.
My moment in time to revisit, would definitely be from those halcyon days of my youth.
One very strong memory is of one particular fishing session. Why it sticks in my mind, I don't know. But I can picture the scene vividly. It was the last Wednesday in September of 1983. I had arrived at the lake in late afternoon, after a day at college. Autumn was beginning to show itself, with that soft light that is a characteristic of the beginning of the journey into Winter. Some of the trees were just beginning to turn to shades of gold, ochre and brown. The Sun shone, and it felt almost like a memory of Summer days, only recently departed. But there was that feeling of it all coming to and end. And the weatherman had predicted an unseasonably early frost in the early days of October. The lake was not known for fishing well in the Winter, so there was a definite feeling that this was going to be the last session of the year.
I chose a swim at the top end of the lake, where the trees thinned out before opening up into a meadow. There was a favourite swim that I had here. A small channel in the weeds by the small island. I was floatfishing with sweetcorn to catch a carp or tench. As the Sun lowered in the sky, I felt an intense connection to the moment. The scents of Autumn began to filter through, ushering in the season of mellow fruitfulness.
And after three biteless hours, the float bobbed a couple of times and then slid into the dark water of the pond. I struck and the rod came alive as I connected with a carp. A spirited fight followed on the float tackle, with the carp making a bid to reach the island. But eventually the fish was subdued and netted. It was a plump mirror carp of about 4lbs. The fish was the most beautiful scaled and coloured carp I have ever seen. A mix of gold, brown, purple and grey seemed almost as if they were painted on with watercolours, with a row of scales along the back and along the lateral line. It was the perfect carp.
After admiring it and slipping it back to it's watery home, I spent a few moments just taking in the moment. I knew that it was going to be the last carp of the year,and my fishing on the pond was over until June.
As twilight fell I walked home to the village, feeling a mixture of happiness and wistfulness.
And I still think of that carp and that afternoon.

Brilliantly written mate

 

[Pompous git]

Exactly Pomp, now ditch those old Mitchells and get some proper reels.

Cheeky bugger...

 

[The one and only Harvey]

Hard to say. It applies to life itself as much as it does to fishing.

 

[PJG]

I grew up in Stanmore, Middlesex. As a kid (1960s) I regularly fished Stanmore Common ponds, the biggest pond (called the Grove) held very big roach to well over 2lbs and some big tench. I caught roach there to 1lb 14ozs but looking back now I wish that I properly appreciated just how exceptional the fishing was there. Another regret is not fishing regularly enough a stretch of the Thames, bit too far to travel to now.

 

[Dave Spence]

Fishing Attenborough gravels from 1959 - 1999, magical place.

 

[Dave Spence]

A day that springs to mind is the one I wrote about in

Hooking Ducks and Hells Angels​