Gone Fishing . . . Memories of a Corsham lad.

Well, to tell the truth, I don't go fishing any more, and haven't done for many more years than I care to think about, but I certainly did when I was a boy growing up in Corsham. I recall that when I was around eleven or twelve I made my own fishing pole from a four foot long bamboo garden cane, some cut of and bent over safety pins which I taped on for the eyes, and an authentic fishing reel, also taped on to prevent it falling off.

Armed with this piece of creative engineering, off I would walk to Reybridge, which is near to the National Trust village of Lacock, a distance I guess of about five miles, and there I would spend the greater part of a Saturday --- or a weekday if it was school holidays --- throwing my float and baited hook at the water with great gusto. I'm not certain whether I was trying to knock the fish out by my efforts or what, but I was certainly an energetic fisherman!

Above is a photo of the very bridge that I used to fish from

On rare occasions I even managed to hook a fish, although landing it was a completely different kettle of --- yes you've got it 'fish'. I recall one particular occasion when I was fishing from the bridge and hooked a fish about six or seven inches in length. It was well and truly hooked, but I struck so enthusiastically that the weight of the fish carried it up and over my head, finally freeing it from the hook and releasing it into the water on the other side of the bridge!!!

You've probably gathered that I was never what you might call a successful fisherman, but I nevertheless enjoyed the experience of a day spent by the river, even though it was mostly spent teaching reluctant worms to swim. That particular stretch of the River Avon provided some good pastoral scenery, and I have very fond memories of some happy days spent along the river banks or simply on the bridge itself. The waters seemed to teem with a wide variety of fish, including some large pike which could often be seen basking close to the bank on a warm Summer day. Sandwich lunches, warm orange juice, and an apple, made up my food for the day; all meant to be eaten about 1 o'clock but, typical of a boy, usually well and truly scoffed by about 10.30 in the morning, meaning that the rest of the day would see the birth of a few hunger pangs, although somehow, when you are a young boy on an adventure, they never seemed to matter very much.

I remember trudging back to Corsham at the end of the day, often as dusk was beginning to fall, extremely tired and hungry, but ecstatically happy. In those far off days that make up the distant scene in my memory, it was generally perfectly safe for a lad to travel a few miles from home and stay out all day, even though things like mobile phones hadn't been invented, even if they had been imagined, as they probably had in the pages of The Eagle.

Nowadays such a trip would be unthinkable for most parents to allow, for their is a constant fear of attack or abduction, and whether real or imagined it is certainly enough to put the brake on such activities for the average boy. That is, even if they should want to follow such harmless and healthy pursuits in these days of bedroom-closeted, computer- game-playing, youngsters.