Chapter 4 – 1986 – Anglesey

This was the first of our ‘round the regions’ trips and the Chelmsford team got off to what we thought was a bad start when neither Geoff T nor John W could manage the date set. I recall that this was rather earlier than the previous two matches (late October as opposed to middle to late November) but cannot remember why they were unable to attend. After extensive phoning around by John he was eventually able to find more than adequate replacements, Kelvin M and Mike S, both whom I knew to be excellent anglers from winter boat fishing trips. Frank C and I were both happy to appoint Mike as Captain and he showed that he was taking it all quite seriously by holding a team meeting at a local pub some weeks before the match – we thought that was taking it all a bit too seriously!

 Mike had been in touch with the famous Essex charter boat skipper John Rawle, for whom he ‘crewed’ in his spare time and through him had made contact with an experienced angler in Holyhead. This contact had resulted in various bits of advice and information on venues and bait that were to prove invaluable.

 Obviously, without Mr W, we had to make different arrangements to normal with regard to travelling and it was agreed that as Mike and Kelvin both had managerial responsibilities which would result in their not being able to leave until late afternoon, Frank and I would go in my car. We set out at about 11am and worked our way round the M25, M1, M6 and M54 to Shrewsbury where we joined the A5 which winds through Snowdonia and across Anglesey to Holyhead. This was my first experience of driving through what pass for mountains in the UK and as a lifelong resident of the flatlands of East Anglia I was extremely disconcerted by the sheer drops occurring only feet from the edges of the road. At least I had the road to concentrate on which was more than Frank did and he was nearer the edge than I was! He was not a young man when we started and from occasional sideways glances, I could almost see him getting years older by the minute!

 As we came out of the mountains near Bangor it began to pour with rain and we crossed almost all of Anglesey in poor visibility – indeed I was not to see the island properly for another 6 years when on a family holiday I found that it was a very drab place and I had not missed anything after all!

We arrived at our destination, the Treaddur Bay Hotel on Holy Island, in time to have a walk around before darkness fell and it seemed that Treaddur Bay would itself make a good venue for the match if the previously arranged location was not available for any reason. The hotel was plainly intended for family summer holidays and we found that most of the Barclays people had been placed in a series of bungalows and apartments outside of the hotel proper. We were in a first floor apartment with two bedrooms, a lounge (with television) and its own kitchen. Fortunately we were not required to cook our own meals but were allowed to use the hotel’s restaurant! The kitchen was, however, to come in handy later.

 Having eaten we awaited the arrival of Mike and Kelvin in the bar adjacent to both reception and the restaurant and they arrived at about 8pm, just before they stopped serving meals to those of us on the ‘Barclays package’.

For some reason (possibly having to do with the journey – even the ‘home’ team had to come some distance) the evening before the match was more subdued than usual.

 However, we did get to hear of one incident. A member of one team (no, I do not know which one) had to be ‘helped’ back to the hotel by a couple of policemen after becoming ‘tired and emotional’ during an evening in a night-club in Holyhead! He was apparently sitting on the low wall surrounding the Hotel grounds waving goodbye to these officers when he tumbled backwards over it cutting his head open, fortunately not seriously. His roommate, faced in the early hours of the morning with this bleeding, drunken apparition, would not allow him into the room and he spent an unpleasant night on the sofa.

 The morning of the match was warm and sunny with not a breath of wind which caused no end of confusion to those who had been present for the last two years – what were we to do with all these layers of warm clothing and heavyweight waterproofs?! The answer turned out to be to leave them in the car.

 After breakfast our first task was to drive into Holyhead and collect our bait from a tackle shop in town (also recommended by John Rawle’s friend). Amongst other varieties of worm this comprised the largest ‘King’ Ragworm that I have ever seen. When held by the head these were all over a foot long and I hoped that they would not scare the fish the way that they scared me! For the benefit of the uninitiated Ragworm (which resemble giant centipedes) possess pincers in their heads to hold on to their food and these ones were so large that you could hear them clicking together as you went to pick one up. Cowards like me would take no chances with these locking on to a finger and would cut off the top inch or so of the worm before attempting to put it on a hook! This seemed to make no difference to the worm’s activity or attractiveness to fish.

After that it was on to the match venue, Holyhead Breakwater, which necessitated going off the beaten track across wasteland to follow the course of an old dock railway line which used to run out along that structure. This ‘Breakwater’ requires some description particularly to those who visualise, as I did, a concrete jetty protruding a short way into the sea. In fact this outer wall to Holyhead harbour is over 1½ miles long and it is possible to drive right to the end! The lower level which faces the inner harbour is more than wide enough for two cars to pass and therefore for anglers to park their vehicles on the side away from the ‘open’ water. From this level steps lead up at intervals to the ‘promenade’ level, a walkway some 10 feet wide bordered on the seaward side by a four feet high concrete parapet. Over this wall there was a thirty foot or so drop to the sea necessitating quite heavy ‘crane-driving’ tackle.

 On the advice of our resident expert (whom we never did meet) we stopped at a particular point about half a mile out (the walls had painted numbers at regular intervals for pegged fishing matches – which this was not) and our fellow competitors seemed to think that we were mad not to join them in a race for the end of the wall.

 We were soon getting bites, however, and while most of the fish landed had to be returned as too small we each slowly accumulated a collection of ‘weighable’ fish. Most of these were Wrasse, a very colourful fish, but you had to be very quick to catch them as they would grab the bait and then head smartly for the jumble of small boulders making up the seabed at that point. You would then, unless your rod, line and reel were strong enough, lose all of your terminal tackle in the rocks. Frank and I were particularly susceptible to this problem and after we collected a few acceptable fish each we found that, despite preparing by bringing extra weights, our supplies of these were running dangerously low. Reluctantly therefore we abandoned our upper station and sat on the edge of the lower level fishing into the harbour. While fish were, unfortunately, rather scarce from that point (I do not actually remember catching anything there) it was a glorious day for sitting in the sun and I believe that this was the only one of these trips that I returned from with sunburn! (Wrong! – see 1994. DJS)

At the end of the match Frank and I weighed in some smallish Wrasse, Kelvin some quite good Wrasse but Mike surpassed us all with a collection of Wrasse plus two good sized Mullet – quite a rarity in open sea! With the others so scattered along the length of the Breakwater we had no idea how well we might have done and had to wait for the results back at the hotel.

Before the presentation dinner we, as usual, had time for a hot bath and a bit of a rest and on emerging from the bathroom I found our apartment filled with the most atrocious smell. I should mention that after these matches any edible fish are either bagged and put in the hotel freezer or given to someone (usually a Cat owner) who specifically asked for them. Non-edible fish are ‘recycled’ by throwing them back into the sea. It transpired that in addition to the Mullet, which were definitely edible, Mike had brought back the Wrasse, which are not usually eaten, and was gutting and cleaning them in our kitchen sink. I think that some part of the normal Wrasse diet (crustaceans, barnacles etc.) must produce an unusual chemical reaction which results in a hideous stench! At any rate we were obliged, for the sake of future residents as well as our coming night’s sleep to go down to the meal leaving all of the windows open. I never did discover why Mike wanted to take the Wrasse home!

 When the results were announced we learned that Mike was in 1^st place and Kelvin in 4^th place. Frank and I were 13^th and 10^th respectively – personal bests for both of us. Despite these excellent placings the Maidstone team had claimed 2^nd, 3^rd, 5^th and 6^th places leaving us runners-up for the trophy. We were, however, presented with ‘silver’ goblets (the silver wore off after only a few polishes!) and Mike won another for ‘best total catch’. This was the first trophy of any sort that I had ever won for anything and I still experience a warm inner glow when I think of it.

 Many months later I read the AGM minutes of the Chelmsford Local Head Office Sports Club and recall that we were mentioned as one of the area’s sporting successes of the year 1986. That felt good too although it does not say much for the Region’s achievements in other sports!

I understood from chats after dinner that we were nearly pushed out of 2^nd place by one member of (I think) the South West Region team. He had been fishing into the harbour, although much further out than Frank and I, when he got an enormous ‘bite’. He wound in his line very slowly and carefully and was amazed to see the head of a huge Conger Eel break the surface. He may have taken too long, however, because this hefty fish apparently glared at him, bit straight through his hook trace and vanished back to the depths. The angler in question was not at all bothered by this and was happy to have foregone at least one trophy for the sake of not having had to land and keep this monster safely until the weigh in!

 Of the journey home with Frank on the Saturday morning I remember very little except that the M54 from Shrewsbury to Birmingham was virtually deserted so I indulged a secret desire to see just how fast my Astra GL could go!  I believe I got to somewhere just over 110 mph before Frank started to look anxious again and I took pity on him!