My role as fishing consultant with Mortimer and Whitehouse, Gone Fishing, has been one of the great gigs of my professional life in more ways than I can begin to count.
One of my responsibilities is to research the glamorous venues we visit, so I was gratified to see a tranche of feedback that suggested these are, for many viewers, amongst the highlights of the show.
It’s easy to think we live in an angling age when nothing but size and results matter, but that’s not the case. For the quiet majority of anglers, where we fish is often as important as what we catch. Norfolk anglers are ruinously spoiled we know and I have come to wonder where our own beauty hot spots might be?
Shall we start with jewels in the crown, our estate lakes, largely situated in the north of the county?
Blickling early morning is a stunner, but not if there’s a northerly blowing, brutal straight off the sea and whipping down the lake towards the hall. In my view, here it is best late afternoon, bathed in mellow sunlight, the reed beds on fire.
Holkham lake is magnificent, especially the islands at the dam end, but its size is daunting, perhaps making it overly grand.
I’ve worshipped Barningham, Briningham, all of them in my time, but perhaps the winner might just be Felbrigg, especially as it was, lost and lonely, back in the 70. It’s hard not to love that lake’s position, nestled between meadow and woodland and even the exquisite brickwork of the dam wall itself. Back when the rudd were there, rolling at sunrise, it was as close to Paradise as I have ever felt.
Kingfisher - a cauldron of mist (Image: John Bailey)
Gravel pits are not quite as much of a muchness as you might think, though there is a starkness that heals over with age. Those at Taverham have a mellowness about them and there is beauty to be found at Lyng Eastaugh. Sparham Pool can be heart melting, but my favourite has to be Kingfisher, notably at dawn when the whole lake is on fire with burning mists. The water will be ideally still as a mirror, broken only by a rolling tench or carp. You don’t have catch them to be in awe!
Some of our upper rivers would have Constable drooling; just think the Bure at Oxnead Hall or the Glaven at Wiveton bridge, with the church overlooking the scene.
The Yare at Marlingford chuckles along and I’ve always loved the Waveney, Bungay Common way especially. But the prize must go to the simply sumptuous Wensum at Bintree Mill. A winter sunrise. Mist on the valley floor. The poplars standing stark like sentinels. Thank God for Seaman stewardship I’ve always thought.
Where do you start on Broadland though? I’ve lost my heart to Upton Broad in the past. The Bure at Woodbastwick has a magnificence to it if you are there before the cruisers but, for me again, the upper Thurne, along Dungeon Corner and on towards Martham North Broad is as good as it gets. That feeling of wildness, those vast open skies, the whistle of the wind, the ghosts of pike angling’s past... what more could any angler desire on a blank day?
Our coastline is pretty special too, which is a good job considering what little we catch these days! I’ve always been a fan of the channel at Wells, all that sand, all the hustle and bustle, that feeling of being part of a picture postcard. The rocks at West Runton are superb and what about beloved Blakeney Point, crystal water, terns calling and seals enough to half fill Carrow Road?
But for me, travel east to Cley and Salthouse for where it’s really at. I’m a fan of winter storms when the waves pile high and you half expert a polar bear to stalk up the shingle. Even more than this, I think of quiet, August nights, a rising tide and mackerel driving the silver prey fish into the surf, whilst the gulls go crazy above. The lights of the Dun Cow twinkling across the marsh and Salthouse church standing bold on the skyline... bury my heart there if you like!
I’ve not mentioned the farm pond in the shadow of Salle church or the lily-strewn Monet masterpiece that’s Rockland Mere, but you get my drift. Where would you happily watch a float that never sinks or a fly that’s never taken and not give a damn I wonder? You’ll keep it to yourself, I guess and who can blame you for that?
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