Andrew Hewitt considers the reasons for the closure of a beloved trout fishery
AS I STAND ON THE retaining wall of my local reservoir, gazing across the misty expanse of its 40 acres, I can only bow my head in sadness as memories of days gone by come flooding back.
Unashamedly, I wipe away a tear, as this may be the last time I will look across this water. For shortly, unless a miracle happens, Toft Newton Trout Fishery will close its doors for good.
Perhaps it is harder for me and a handful of others, for we are a small collection of individuals privileged to have been managers of this venue for close to 50 years. We have watched it flourish and grow into one of the country’s premier stillwaters and, equally, observed from a distance as the decline began, and its closure dawned.
Peering through the gloom on this damp early morning, I can see, in my mind’s eye, John Faulkner, one of best buzzer fisherman of his time. There he is, perched on his old Shakespeare tackle box, with three olive green buzzers, of his design, teamed on a floating line.
This is the same man I sat next to as he lay in his hospital bed in Nottingham, where he was battling leukaemia. We discussed the catch returns and the entomology of that particular period of the year. I spent perhaps 25 minutes with him before we said our goodbyes.
Staring further across the light ripple forming within this Dickensian scene, I notice Steve Radford, inventor of that famous fly, the Concrete Bowl. A regular at weekends in the heydays of Toft, he would fish with his father, casting a line behind the boat and then drifting with the wind, adjusting the depth
depending on where he considered the fish to be lying. He never failed to catch his limit and would often buy a further ticket to complete his sixth brace of quality rainbows.
Within casting range of Mr Radford is Steve Parton. Steve sadly left us in 2013, but he was a familiar face at the reservoir, too. As many of you know, he was at the vanguard of float-tubing in this country, instrumental in spreading the word about this fantastic sphere of our sport. It was Steve whom I went to when I purchased my first tube and when I regularly upgraded until my time at the reservoir came to an end.
There are so many other individuals that I have not mentioned, so many characters —genuine, enthusiastic and loyal people. So many memories, so many years of dedication by so few, so many stories that will, sadly, remain untold.
So what’s happened that has meant all possible chance of further memory making will be denied us?
Well, in my opinion, it can be summed up in three words: a perfect storm.
This metaphorical meteorological disaster is like all storms of this magnitude, requiring a number of factors to coalesce before tragedy can ensue.
So
