The brook ran into a river which was all of about a quarter mile away. The river ran right next to our little village - in fact our village was named for it. I recall the day we walked, wellington boots only just protecting us from the water, from the brook at the bottom of our road all the way to the river. By the time we got close to the river, the wellington boots were pretty much useless. That river was neck deep.
But we didn't need to go all the way to the river to see some fish. There were two bridges either end of the green, for cars to cross the two foot wide little stream, and these bridges cast a lot of darkness onto the water for the little fish to call home.
There were two types of fish that lived in our little brook. Tiny ones. Like a few centimetre in length, never more. I can't for the life of me find out what one type was. Fat, ugly, big-headed things they were. The other was the ever-present stickleback.
The other fish, the fat, ugly, big-headed things were hard work to catch. They were the real challenge. Many a day ticked by during those summers were we'd try to catch them with whatever our childish minds could create. We even, rather naughtily, caused a swell in the water by dropping a ton of rocks into it, damming it up and raising the water level. More for us to splash in, and the deeper water made catching the fish more of a challenge.
But we did it. Myself and the two friends I used to live with on the street. Catching a fish with your bare hands was a set challenge, and none of us would live it down if we failed. Maybe it was just the lesser stickleback and not the Big Ugly, but a fish WAS caught, in bare hands.
