Tales from the riverbank


BILL SIVITER The Potteries-based angler, aged 59, recalls an angling fantasy that went awry…


Crabtree. I often imagined that I was Peter, and that Mr Crabtree was taking me to visit all the idyllic waters featured in the book and teaching me how to catch all those specimen fish. I suspect that this has been the


WHEN PASSIONS WERE STOUR-ED F


OR starters, my lifelong obsession with angling is all down to Mr


fantasy of a generation of anglers raised on Mr Crabtree Goes Fishing. So it will come as no surprise that it has been a lifelong ambition to visit the two Meccas of coarse fishing – the Hampshire Avon and the Dorset Stour. In particular, the chance of some


quality roach fishing appealed enormously. To that end I decided that a few days on the Stour would be just the ticket. Unfortunately, due to working in


education, the only option open to me was to try and book a guesthouse during the school holidays. The local tackle shop had a few suggestions as to finding suitable digs. Predictably, most of them were


completely booked up, and having gone down the list of phone numbers until I was beginning to lose hope, my call was eventually answered by a charming female who assured me that she had a vacancy for a gentleman and that she had “accommodated angling gentlemen before and know how to cater for their particular needs.” It turned out that it wasn’t really


a B&B, but belonged to a lady who occasionally took in guests when other establishments were full. She seemed a pleasant enough old girl, and I assume that she had done


herself up a bit due to having a guest. She was wearing full warpaint,


which may have been appropriate in her youth, but at her now rather more advanced age looked frankly a bit 'witchy'. I also noticed that she was wearing


fishnet stockings and very high heels, which 30 years earlier might have drawn her some admiring glances, but now only heightened the flaws that time unkindly bestows upon the female anatomy. However, she had prepared a


light supper for me, which was very welcome after the long journey, and having served me left me to tuck in. I’d just about finished when she


swished back into the room. She was still wearing the stockings and heels, but nothing else, save for a very sheer, very see-through, negligee. She told me that she was going to bed, and asked me to leave the dishes in the sink when I’d finished. Then added, helpfully, that her


bedroom was opposite mine if there was anything I needed. Frankly the negligee had left


nothing to my imagination, and it reminded me of a map of Siberia – you know, lots of folds, creases and lines representing the contours. Everyone knows where it is, but no


one wants to go there... Her parting comment had set my


mind racing, and I was beginning to feel slightly uneasy. Conscious that I intended an early


start in the morning I put the crocks in the sink and warily climbed the stairs up to my room.


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encountered the landlady as she emerged from the bathroom in a toxic cloud of strong perfume. As I stepped onto the landing she ‘tripped’ and fell into my arms: “OOOOh you are strong aren’t you?” she pouted. I quickly set her on her feet and


‘‘


beat a hasty retreat to my room. It was now fairly obvious that the landlady had a few fantasies of her own, and it wasn’t Mr Crabtree she wanted to guide her, it was me! Before climbing into bed I looked


for a lock on the door, but there wasn’t one. The only alternative was to wedge


a chair under the doorknob and trust that it would protect my chastity.


I heard the doorknob rattle several times during the wee small hours.”


At the top of the stairs I Sleep did not come easily that


night, and it wasn’t helped by the fact that I heard the doorknob rattle several times during the wee small hours. I had no desire to 'feel old age creeping on,' so I decided to beat an early morning retreat. At 5am I sneaked down the


stairs and out of the house, feeling completely knackered due to a lack of sleep. I was so disturbed by the nocturnal


goings on that I decided to vacate the area completely, and headed for the Hampshire Avon. I never did get to fish the Dorset Stour.


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