Winding softly through the Norfolk countryside, the Wensum is neither grand nor boastful. But it possesses a gentle beauty that has shaped the soul of many an angler, myself included. It was along its shaded banks, where John Wilson inspired countless future anglers to wet a line, and on this most recent visit, decades later, it was not just the fish I sought, but a reconnection with the boy I used to be.
There was no need for elaborate tackle or modern sophistication. A light float rod, a tin of maggots, and a simple stick float. The same uncomplicated tools of my childhood were all I carried with me. The swim I chose, a narrow run where gnarled branches still draped the water like the arms of time itself. The air was thick with the scent of midsummer, and the river whispered its familiar melody, the rustle of reeds, the gentle swirl of current, the flutter of wings overhead.
I trotted the float gently down the crease of the flow, feeding sparingly, watching the float tip dance lightly on the glimmering surface. Then, a pause, a deliberate, almost imperceptible dip, and instinct took over. The strike was crisp, and from the depths emerged a glinting prize …… a gudgeon, resplendent in miniature, its pearlescent flanks flashing in the sun, its stubby little barbels twitching with life. The gudgeon is a modest creature, often dismissed by those who chase trophies. But to me, they are river royalty. Their abundance, their boldness, their sheer willingness to play their part in an angler’s story make them unforgettable.
Each one I landed brought with it a wave of reminiscence, the thrill of my first rod, the feel of warm grass beneath me, the excitement of watching a float vanish beneath the surface. All of it came rushing back, as if time had folded in on itself. There is something profoundly meditative about fishing a stick float on a flowing river. It is an art of rhythm and patience, of watching and responding, of becoming attuned to the nuances of water and line. But more than that, it is an act of presence, of slowing down and being entirely in the moment. In this stillness, I found not just fish, but fragments of myself I had long forgotten.
Jumpers for Goalposts
In those mild and murmuring waters where the willow stoops to sip, and the stream winds in quiet industry through its green-tufted banks, there dwelleth a modest fish, not famed in angler’s lore, nor hung in tavern boasts…..yet dear to me as any big roach or tench.
The gudgeon, slender of flank, silvered with motes like fallen stars, darts through shallows where the pebbles glint, quick as a child’s thought. Not the quarry of noblemen, nor the prize of patient sport, but the first joy of boys who knew no better and needed none.
There was a time, when days were long and school was but a passing cloud, when we made goalposts of jumpers and rods from willow wands, tying line with clumsy fingers and hope. And in those sun-flecked hours, what treasure we found, not in weight nor measure, but in wonder.
He would take the bait with earnest heart. No cunning here, no subtle rise or sulking fight, only a twitch, a shiver, and lo, a gudgeon, honest and bright, held up in small, wet palms like a gem. The old men by the bank would smile, remembering.
He is a fish of beginnings. Of stream-dipped toes and jam sandwiches, of glass jars for keepnets and laughter echoing down the meadow. While others spoke of barbel or perch, we knew joy in humble form. For he was ours, and we were his.
Though the rod now rests more often than not, and the stream runs quieter in my ears, I see him still ……a silver whisper beneath the flow, a prince untroubled by fame or fate. And I, grown, feel again the tug, not of line, but of time.
So here’s to the gudgeon, dear friend of boyhood hours. He asked no more than to be noticed, and in so doing, gave us everything. A fish, yes, but also a key to the golden door behind us.
Long live the boy.
Stephen Gibbons July 2025