“Do you ever wish you can turn back the clock to those great days of match fishing in the 1990’s”
– Mark Hoye
Where did the time go, how did we get to this point in our lives that all we do is look back and remember better fishing days gone by. Remember the days that we could park our cars safe in the knowledge that they would still be intact when we returned. When we never had to worry about hooded cyclists nicking our tackle from the towpath, and being too old to give chase. The anticipation at the draw, where there were over 100 anglers all eager to see which section they had drawn. Only to have that anticipation drained by drawing in between Dave Vincent and Derek young on a bloodworm venue.
Venues that we used to fish like the River Lea and Grand Union Canal are now like tap water, weed filled and barren of fish. Fish have been removed for the pot, and canal boats line the towpath hiding all the pegs. If its a fight your after, you don’t look for the Friday night ruck after a few beers in Wheelers, you simply go fishing and try to fish between the boats lining the canal. For now, it’s their water, they own it, them and the cyclists that roar around the bend at 60mph, it’s their world now.
All this happens, thats if you can actually get to the towpath. Simple things like parking that we all took for granted, parking behind our pegs, in a car park or on the road. All now cost a fortune, to ignore sees a yellow ticket slapped on the windscreen, and a tow truck around the corner waiting. Congestion charge, parking, breakfast and pools would set you back a small fortune these days, thats before we even talk about bait. So these are the real reasons that we don’t fish the Lea or GUC, Regents Canal any more.
Big team matches have gone, the comadre, the thrill, the practice, and the draw. Team meetings in a pub before a big National, Super League or Winter League, the selection committee picking their favourite friends. I miss the meetings in Rifles, Enfield, the weeks practice in far flung destinations like Sleaford, Nottingham or Leigh. The laughs, the moans and the talking bollocks that come with so much enthusiasm. Those looks of disgust as you role in from a night out whilst everyone is having breakfast during a practice week. Hung over all day, and still catching more than the ones that showed that same look of contempt a few hours earlier. Falling off your box where you were so tired, and needed a few hours kip, all to do it again that same night. Yes these were classic times, what would it be like to be young again, to be in Trev’s again, to do it all over again.
Those weeks away on a team practice, getting all your kit ready, setting it all up on the bank. You had to have everything set up or it would go against you, whips, poles, waggler rod, feeder rod, the lot. Walking so far, just to get away from other anglers, and to stop other anglers spying on you and the team. The Tony Marti treks were legendary, and the amount of fields, meadows and hills we crossed, just to get away from the crowds. The best one at Hoveringham on the Trent, and the little white house where we parked our cars, that kept getting smaller in the distance.