John Bailey: The magic fishing of north Norfolk's waterland

That’s as maybe, but the wonder I felt then and the passion has stayed with me all the long decades between and the mere thought of names like Blakeney, Cley, Stiffkey and Salthouse sends tremors of longing down my spine.

Of course, it was only when I did my apprenticeship as a lugworm digger and came under the tutelage of marsh men like Joe, Billy, Bernie, Caw Caw, Sykes and the rest that I really got to know this land of marsh, creeks and seeping tides and began to glimpse its unique and shadowy secrets. And now, half a century on, I accept I have forgotten more than I now know.

We anglers are lucky in Norfolk. Let’s say you wanted to give two good friends a cracking weekend’s sport, you’d be spoilt for choice. The Broads? The tidal rivers? The upper rivers, the estate lakes or a tour of the plethora of pits? A tough one, but I’d plump for that hallowed waterland of a coast that mesmerises me still. It’s along those 30 or 40 miles wended largely by the A148, that you find a variety of fishing to astound even Izaak Walton himself. And is there a more enchanting road in England as it snakes through Morston or opens up to reveal the sands of Holkham Bay?

But what tackle would you ask your fishing mates to bring? How about this for anglers’ menu of delights?

There are the tope in the Wash that also stray miles to the east and can even be caught on fly gear off Cromer I am told. Come June or July, there are mullet everywhere, absolute monsters that follow the skinniest tides into the creeks and staithes from the Burnhams to Blakeney and everywhere between. In my whole life I’ve only ever caught three of them, but I know those mullet whisperers who have the skills I lack.

Bass abound. Sam, my one-time window cleaner, had 74 of them in a single Salthouse afternoon and when I went out next day, I picked up three on fly and six on a spinner. And when the mackerel come in, well, blimey, move over bonefish if you have ever hooked one of those on featherlight spinning gear.

I haven’t even mentioned flatfish yet and did you know you could catch them on fly? A shrimp pattern tied on a double size six hook and twitched along the bottom they simply cannot resist. The fight is as weird as you’ll get, rather like hooking a submerged hearth rug, but get a biggie in a tide and your arm will be aching.

That’s the salt side of it largely done, but wouldn’t theses pals need fresh water gear too? What about the wild brown trout of chalk streams like the Nar, the Burn, the Stiffkey, the Glaven and other rivulets that can only be whispered about?

A special shot of an otter heading up the Glaven (Image: John Bailey)

And, in the brackish waters around the river mouths and along the coastal dykes there is a history of mammoth perch, rudd, tench and pike. Eels! Up at Kelling years back, one was netted so big it would have made an anaconda weep. If this is not all enough, what about the princely sea trout, the silvered traveller on the evening tides? If I told you how many of these I caught in the 1970s and added their sizes, you wouldn’t believe me. But I did and if my parents were still alive, they’d tell you so.

Now, a confession. Over the past 10 years or more I have taken my eye off this particular ball. I’m told there are sea trout still, along with all the other species, if you know where to look. But are you still allowed to dig your worms for bait or are all mud flats protected these bureaucratic days?

What about samphire? Is it still there to pick and cook and eat with your crab? Talking of which, can crabs still be caught by the score on bacon dangled on a string off Blakeney harbour? And a question I have never been able to answer. What about the seals? There are so many there cannot be any fish left. Or are there so many because the fish supply is so vast as to be inexhaustible?

We all know that our sport is called fishing not catching and my mates would fall in love with my coast, wet net or dry. Those sunsets. That melding of sea, sand and sky. The veils of geese, the oystercatchers’ cry. And best of all, more cracking country pubs than you can shake a rod at. What a place!