South Parade Pier, Hampshire

Yesterday, the rucksack was hastily packed and I once again threw myself at the mercy of our train system; three hours and two changes later, I was greeted by the owner of the Amberly International Guest House in Southsea. He took me to the fourth floor, and to the smallest room I have ever paid money to sleep in – fortunately, the dimensions were reflected in the price, and the breakfast I enjoyed this morning was generous.

The family have long connections to the Portsmouth and Southsea area. My father lived there as a boy, and is a life-long follower of Harry Redknap’s blue army. He (and I’m talking here of my father, not Harry) spent his early Navy life drinking and carousing with pals there, earning the improbable nickname ‘Coiled Spring’. Dad occasionally recalls this brief period of hedonism in a story about my parents’ early courting. Allegedly, mother was keen to know if she was his ‘first’. His reply, family legend has it, went along the lines of ‘I don't know, were you on Southsea Common in 1957?’

She wasn’t.

I lived in nearby Fareham for twenty years, and my brother and I had fished for pollock, pout and devilfish from South Parade Pier long as youngsters, and later watched (and played in) the annual Battle of the Bands competitions held in its ballroom. During the train journey, I had worked out that it had been a quarter of a century since I had cast a line there; re-acquaintance was long overdue.

The afternoon walk from the guest house to the pier was eventful; on Southsea Common I encountered a kite flying festival and a travelling fair, and the bandstand was surrounded by hundreds of holiday-makers enjoying a Jam tribute band thrashing out Town Called Malice; rather good they were, too. The pier itself was similarly populated, with dozens of anglers. They were an eclectic mix – families, day-trippers, hard-core bass heads, semi-feral kids, Eastern Europeans in search of fish to sell to the local hotels…twenty yards away, in the ballroom, the Southsea Blues, Folk and Roots Festival was underway. I felt a very long way from my quiet pools and glides.

The pier’s history is a fascinating one, dating back to 1879 and including a number of fires and rebuilds, one or two scandals, a military requisitioning in World War II and the use of the Gaiety Theatre for The Who’s pompous rock opera Tommy in 1974. In the interests of brevity, I shall save details for the book.

Dan’s Tackle – essentially a shed at the entrance to the pier - had no fresh bait, and precious little tackle. The proprietor had informed me, in finest Pompey terms, that due to bad weather throughout August ‘the ‘oliday season’s been fucked, mush – I ain’t bothered to get much in’. He did kit me out with mackerel feathers and a free lead weight, and with these in my hand I found a spot on the end of the pier’s lower stage. The chap next to me was reeling in garfish and mackerel at an impressive rate, and with the aid of some of his bait and a pike float that I’d serendipitously left in my trousers months ago, I joined him in the sport. My first garfish was soon writhing in my hands, and others followed.

As dusk fell, one of the Eastern Europeans landed the catch of the day – a bass approaching five pounds. This was bloodily dispatched amid great excitement. I decided to leave them all to it, and went in search of beer and food.

This being Southsea, and me being the son of the Coiled Spring himself, my search was all too successful.