Catherine Field: Fishermen lose their storyteller

More than two generations of fishermen would send him photos of their catch.Tomorrow, for the first time in 55 years, my father-in-law's fishing column won't appear in the paper.

For 5 decades, he never missed a week. He filed his copy by hand, by telephone, by fax and, more recently, by email.

More than two generations of fishermen would send him photos of their catch and in his weekly column he would trade stories of river currents and fish-breeding grounds, of tackle and bait.

I don't know how many editors he worked for, nor how many hands on the sports desk moved his copy.

What I do know is that his column was cut back, transformed, expanded and reinvented over the decades. Each time, my father-in-law would step up to the plate and adjust his copy and style accordingly.

He survived layoffs, cutbacks, retrenchment, remodelling and all the other redesigns the paper attempted to keep readers loyal.

He worked in newsrooms where bells rang and hardened yet devoted editors screeched out "copy", all the time the odour of hot metal and cigarette smoke soaking from every pore of the building.

When he began his column the paper was regarded as a serious, slightly left-of-centre, standalone Sunday paper. Like many other newspapers it moved towards the more "popular" topics.

Once the paper moved from typeset to computer, he filed from home, using the internet to transmit his copy instantly, along with the accompanying photo a keen angler had submitted. In the days of computer-based activities it seemed a throwback to days gone by. But his readers' letters proved that this most ancient of pastimes had a place in this changing world.

He knew how to tell a yarn. He'd learned his trade on a local paper in southern England, covering everything from courtroom hearings to late-night boxing matches in smoky halls in the depth of winter. Being a local reporter, he knew the punishment should he mistake a name in his report of a local wedding. The news editor's wrath was nothing compared to that of the mother of the bride, whose standing in the community could plummet as a result of such an error.

And as he scaled the corporate ladder and moved into management, he was at the heart of the launch of any number of titles and annuals. Yet he kept writing his column, even after he retired.

Whether they wanted 200 words or 500 words, he would produce uncluttered, fresh copy.

Through ailing health, he wrote his column. He talked occasionally of giving it up, but never did. I'd warned him against it. A sharp brain and a keen reporter's eye were his gift, and I wanted him to continue. Then, on Monday last week, he filed his copy by email and made the decision that it was time to call it a day. Just a few weeks after turning 88, he decided to give up writing his column.

On Saturday night, he died in his sleep. On Sunday, December 5, his last column appeared. He leaves much to aspire to: a remarkable devotion to his readers and his profession.

Among the papers he left behind was his obituary. He'd written it himself - who knows when, because he left a gap for his age to be added.

It was a perfect, 200 crisp words that will, as we say, slot straight on to the page.