Doggie Two
Doggie OneI had stayed at the small cottage in Blue Anchor, Somerset once before. Apart from having a wonderful view across the Bristol Channel to Wales, its location allows me to visit my parent’s grave, which is about 20 minutes’ drive away and to catch up with relatives in Bridgewater.
My first visit was in April 2008 when I was accompanied by my then girlfriend, Kate, and we were blessed with wonderful weather. This allowed us to take many lovely walks and Kate even indulged me by joining me on a trip up and down the full length of the West Somerset Railway. The railway is operated by volunteers who maintain steam and diesel locomotives as well as 20 miles of track and 10 picturesque stations guaranteed to inspire nostalgia.
I don’t believe in disturbing the ghosts of girlfriends past, so booking the two bedroom cottage for the sole use of myself and my dog was a gamble. I knew that it would bring back memories of happy times with Kate and maybe even invoke the odd late night, whisky fuelled, destructive act of self-examination and regret.
To avoid this I decided to leave the fine malt at home and focussed on the positive. Without Kate in tow I was free. Totally free to do whatever I bloody well wanted without having to tip-toe around Kate’s sensibilities or go on another sodding walk when all I really wanted to do was crash out with a book in the conservatory.
As this orgy of self-indulgence approached I realised exactly what it was I wanted to do more than anything else – go fishing.
At this point I think I should explain the extent of my fishing experience.
When I moved to Hull to train to be a teacher in 1976 I realised that I was moving nearer to the sea and with that came the opportunity to take up sea angling. I became friends with Steve, the student in the next room and he not only had a car but a fishing rod too. Steve wasn’t the most proficient of sea fishermen but he kindly took me on trips to Bridlington where we fished from the harbour wall and caught small whiting and the odd crab.
My parents bought me a rod and reel for Christmas and I even joined the college Sea Angling Society. My one and only trip with them involved 6 hours in a boat off Flamborough Head, where I spent 10 minutes fishing and 5 hours and 50 minutes puking up and sleeping.
In the intervening 30 odd years I have ventured out maybe half a dozen times to various locations with that same rod and reel and on every occasion the result has been the same. I haven’t caught a thing.
Thus it was that catching a decent sized fish made it onto my list of gap year challenges. I thought I was going to achieve it in New Zealand when Pete and I met Greg at Lake Tekapo But that ended in disappointment when our planned trip to catch brown trout was cancelled due to the lake being too choppy.
Blue Anchor afforded another opportunity. When visiting with Kate I had noticed the numerous fishermen lined up along the sea wall at high tide. And a bit of internet research indicated that it was a good spot for catching a variety of fish.
On arrival at my holiday hide-away I allowed myself a day to gather intelligence. I walked Tessa past the twenty or so fishermen spaced out along the sea front and casually observed their positions and the bait they were using, which was mostly mackerel and squid. Chatting to one or two of them I learned that not many fish were being caught but more importantly, the next three days would see some of the highest tides of the year. Great for fishing.
As Monday arrived there were only a handful of hardy fishermen and I stepped out to join them armed with my vintage rod and reel and a good supply of mackerel. I proceeded to the spot I had carefully concluded to be the most propitious and set up my tackle.
I have only been fishing for 10 minutes when the tip of my 12 foot rod begins to flex up and down quite violently. With eager anticipation I strike at my hidden prey and began to reel it in. Yes, there’s definitely something on the end of my line! A dark patch of seaweed breaks the surface.
Undeterred I re-bait my 2 hooks and cast once again. Five minutes later the rod begins to bend once more.
A middle aged couple out for a walk witness me make my deadly strike and gather close in eager anticipation of seeing a leviathan pulled from the deep.
‘Don’t worry, It’ll just be more seaweed,’ I say to them, fearful of disappointing my audience.
Three pairs of eyes fix on the point where fishing line meets water as the lighter line gives way to the luminous green heavier line that is used as the shock leader. Then my trace appears and behind that there is something very light in colour that appears to be wriggling. Not seaweed, but a leviathan from the deep. As the fish breaks the surface we witness the beautiful spotted camouflage of a dogfish. Quite a big one too.
From the sea wall down to the water is about 20 feet. Gently I reel my catch up the wall, hardly daring to breathe for fear that he will wriggle free or the line will snap. Inch by inch I raise him up and then over the wall to safety.
The dogfish is about 20 inches long and sandy in colour with darker spots along his sleek back. It is in every way a thing of beauty.
‘I haven’t caught one of those before,’ I confide to the couple.
In fact I have never caught anything remotely like this before.
‘They can be a bit nasty,’ says the gentleman, sagely.
My first visit was in April 2008 when I was accompanied by my then girlfriend, Kate, and we were blessed with wonderful weather. This allowed us to take many lovely walks and Kate even indulged me by joining me on a trip up and down the full length of the West Somerset Railway. The railway is operated by volunteers who maintain steam and diesel locomotives as well as 20 miles of track and 10 picturesque stations guaranteed to inspire nostalgia.
I don’t believe in disturbing the ghosts of girlfriends past, so booking the two bedroom cottage for the sole use of myself and my dog was a gamble. I knew that it would bring back memories of happy times with Kate and maybe even invoke the odd late night, whisky fuelled, destructive act of self-examination and regret.
To avoid this I decided to leave the fine malt at home and focussed on the positive. Without Kate in tow I was free. Totally free to do whatever I bloody well wanted without having to tip-toe around Kate’s sensibilities or go on another sodding walk when all I really wanted to do was crash out with a book in the conservatory.
As this orgy of self-indulgence approached I realised exactly what it was I wanted to do more than anything else – go fishing.
At this point I think I should explain the extent of my fishing experience.
When I moved to Hull to train to be a teacher in 1976 I realised that I was moving nearer to the sea and with that came the opportunity to take up sea angling. I became friends with Steve, the student in the next room and he not only had a car but a fishing rod too. Steve wasn’t the most proficient of sea fishermen but he kindly took me on trips to Bridlington where we fished from the harbour wall and caught small whiting and the odd crab.
My parents bought me a rod and reel for Christmas and I even joined the college Sea Angling Society. My one and only trip with them involved 6 hours in a boat off Flamborough Head, where I spent 10 minutes fishing and 5 hours and 50 minutes puking up and sleeping.
In the intervening 30 odd years I have ventured out maybe half a dozen times to various locations with that same rod and reel and on every occasion the result has been the same. I haven’t caught a thing.
Thus it was that catching a decent sized fish made it onto my list of gap year challenges. I thought I was going to achieve it in New Zealand when Pete and I met Greg at Lake Tekapo But that ended in disappointment when our planned trip to catch brown trout was cancelled due to the lake being too choppy.
Blue Anchor afforded another opportunity. When visiting with Kate I had noticed the numerous fishermen lined up along the sea wall at high tide. And a bit of internet research indicated that it was a good spot for catching a variety of fish.
On arrival at my holiday hide-away I allowed myself a day to gather intelligence. I walked Tessa past the twenty or so fishermen spaced out along the sea front and casually observed their positions and the bait they were using, which was mostly mackerel and squid. Chatting to one or two of them I learned that not many fish were being caught but more importantly, the next three days would see some of the highest tides of the year. Great for fishing.
As Monday arrived there were only a handful of hardy fishermen and I stepped out to join them armed with my vintage rod and reel and a good supply of mackerel. I proceeded to the spot I had carefully concluded to be the most propitious and set up my tackle.
I have only been fishing for 10 minutes when the tip of my 12 foot rod begins to flex up and down quite violently. With eager anticipation I strike at my hidden prey and began to reel it in. Yes, there’s definitely something on the end of my line! A dark patch of seaweed breaks the surface.
Undeterred I re-bait my 2 hooks and cast once again. Five minutes later the rod begins to bend once more.
A middle aged couple out for a walk witness me make my deadly strike and gather close in eager anticipation of seeing a leviathan pulled from the deep.
‘Don’t worry, It’ll just be more seaweed,’ I say to them, fearful of disappointing my audience.
Three pairs of eyes fix on the point where fishing line meets water as the lighter line gives way to the luminous green heavier line that is used as the shock leader. Then my trace appears and behind that there is something very light in colour that appears to be wriggling. Not seaweed, but a leviathan from the deep. As the fish breaks the surface we witness the beautiful spotted camouflage of a dogfish. Quite a big one too.
From the sea wall down to the water is about 20 feet. Gently I reel my catch up the wall, hardly daring to breathe for fear that he will wriggle free or the line will snap. Inch by inch I raise him up and then over the wall to safety.
The dogfish is about 20 inches long and sandy in colour with darker spots along his sleek back. It is in every way a thing of beauty.
‘I haven’t caught one of those before,’ I confide to the couple.
In fact I have never caught anything remotely like this before.
‘They can be a bit nasty,’ says the gentleman, sagely.
‘Yes,’ I say uncertainly, eyeing the mini shark that is now lying on the pavement and looking none too happy to have my brand new hook stuck in its cruel looking gob.
The couple wish me luck and leave me to it whilst I reach in my bag for my small camera. I manage get a couple of shots of the dogfish with a can of coke for scale, in between its bursts of angry thrashing.
Believing in simplicity I had travelled from the cottage to my preferred spot with the bare essentials to catch a fish. I hadn’t considered what I was going to do if I caught one, let alone one that can bite you.
Luckily I had my gloves with me. I grabbed the beast with a gloved hand whilst trying to wrestle the embedded hook free. Even through the glove the dogfish skin was course and rough. As my catch writhed in my hand I could sense his immense power and he wrapped his strong tail around my wrist like a snake.
The fish was hooked just inside his gapping mouth, having taken the bait whole. I realised that my fears that he might have fallen off the hook were unfounded as I it took a good 2 minutes for me to finally prise the fish free.
The dogfish and I gazed at each other respectfully before I dropped him back into the sea and with a powerful swish of his tail he was gone.
I fished the tide for a further 90 minutes, during which time my rod went crazy just once more. I reeled in another dogfish, this time a bit darker and slightly smaller than the first one.
As I made my way back to the cottage I stopped to talk to each of the other four fishermen along the wall. A part of me just had to share the news of my success with someone. It turned out that the others had caught dogfish too. One bloke had caught six.
As I talked to these men it wasn’t just the joy of success that elated me. It was the realisation that I had finally passed an initiation ceremony and been allowed to join the curious band of people who spend hours and hours by the sea, or on boats, or by rivers and lakes just for the delight of winding in a bit of nylon line and wondering what is on the end of it.
Great story and sounds like you really enjoyed it. I haven't been fishing for over thirty years; my father used to take me, but I was never any good at it and spent more time asleep in the sun than watching bobbing floats. My son has taken the mantle however and may father now takes him fishing. I will join him on some nice sunny day sooner or later to bring back the childhood memories, and perhaps take the opportunity to do some painting or drawing while he fights with slithery, slimy fish.
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