Stickle Tarn is a small mountain tarn lying beneath the huge crag of Pavey Ark, high on the flank of Langdale Pikes, about 1500 feet above sea level. Originally a natural water filled hollow carved out by a glacier, a dam was built in 1837 which enlarged it to provide a water supply for Elterwater Gunpowder Works lower down the valley.

Trout fishing was a popular pastime in Langdale,usually in all the rivulets and sparkling streams flowing along the valley floor. But Stickle Tarn itself, high, remote and rarely visited was reputed, in the proverbial fishermens' tales, to hold huge stocks of wild native brown trout.

The hardest part of the job was getting there. In the early 1950s usually three of us would go: my father Norman, a cousin David, and me Ted Bowness, setting out in the late afternoon.Two stops were obligatory on the climb, as none of us was used to arduous walking.

We set lines overnight - quite illegal -and the magistrates' court at Hawkshead would have welcomed us if caught by the local beck watchers, as we called the water bailiffs.

Our longest line held perhaps 80 hooks, hanging on droppers from a long cord set across one of the many small bays. The bait was always a fat worm, collected when digging up the Arran Pilot early potatoes from our garden.The best place was often where Bright Beck entered the tarn, bringing fresh food supplies to hungry trout.

Our catches varied, maybe ten or a dozen on a poor night, collected on the next morning after a second climb up the steep path.

One unforgettable red letter day produced our greatest haul ever, 57 sparkling fish gleaming in the water as we slowly drew in the line.

So now we had a problem! Not many houses had freezers or even fridges, as mains electricity did not reach the valley until 1957.

Very fresh trout was on the menu for friends and neighbours, crisply fried and served with thick brown bread, washed down with a mug of sweet strong tea.

So why did we do it? My grandfather had poached from Stickle, and my great grandfather was a labourer who worked on the dam over a hundred years before.

I'd like to think that perhaps old John Bowness was watching us at our illegal game, wishing he had been there to share a Westmorland tradition which will never be seen again.