Something you’d really like…
… but would never buy for yourself. That, says Roger Field, is the essence of the perfect Christmas gift – and the auction house the perfect place to find it
HO, HO, HO. It’s Christmas. And it is semiincumbent on me to be jolly. I certainly don’t feel jolly as I write this, with the nights drawing in, fishing season over and no imminent shooting dates in my diary. But upbeat on your behalf I will be. Many moons ago, some wise columnist wrote that the perfect present is something that you would really like to have but would not buy for yourself. I like that definition. Of course, giving is also said to be far better than receiving, but to hell with that: I’m looking forward to unwrapping a joint birthday and Christmas present that my daughter has snaffled for me.
Back in the early autumn, I was passing Robjent’s in Stockbridge (fishing kit suppliers extraordinaire, as many of you will know) and, having stocked up on its ‘finest’ flies – especially its Robjent’s Daddy, unlike any Daddy on the water, but the trout don’t seem to have twigged that – spotted a ‘Sale’ sign. Now, a ‘Sale’ sign in a fishing emporium invariably triggers a lunge motion in me much akin to a juicy fly across the nose of a hungry trout. And, this summer, I’ve been developing an incurable need to buy a small brook rod, ably encouraged by my mate, Dan, who insists on lending me his when we fish the Upper Test or Dever, where, wind permitting, small, delicate rods are often preferable to my ‘normal’ Orvis 9ft, 5wt (an otherwise brilliant omni-rod). And there in the sale rack was a little 7ft 6in, Airflo, 3/4wt. It had my name written all over it and a £100 price tag that wouldn’t leave me feeling guilty, especially having spent almost that on flies. Moreover, I just happened to have a light, decades old, Rimfly reel in my car. So £100 it really was and not the start of buying all the kit to go with it. “I’m sure it’s guaranteed,” the smiling salesman said foolishly as he handed it to me. Foolishly because, trying out my dinky new rod that afternoon on the Lower Test, I hooked into something so aggressive that the Rimfly couldn’t cope and it smashed my line. The same happened on my next trip whilst, in the meantime, I caught nothing else on it. “I’m taking the Airflo back, as it clearly doesn’t work,” I announced to Dan. “That should be covered by the guarantee.” Fortunately, there was then a late-evening hatch and I banked four in quick succession, but my clearly under-gunned reel was bugging me…
“And what has this to do with auctions?” I hear you ask. The answer is this. An Angling Auctions sale was approaching on 2 October. It was bound to include an upgrade reel for my now ‘working’ brook rod – and plenty of other modern, mouth-watering kit besides, all of which it did. And they should cost (far) less than
Auctions can be the crucibles of broken dreams
buying new. That, after all, is the point of auctions. And then I spotted an Airflo reel, matched to my rod, in an ‘end of season’ internet sale. “Simples,” as those blasted TV meerkats say. “A bird in the hand…” and all that. My daughter grabbed it: “Last one left!” Phew. Which was lucky, because the modern kit in that auction went semigangbusters and I’d have ended up reelless. Auctions can often be the crucibles of broken dreams, as we frequent underbidders know only too well. Instead, I cannot wait to get my hands on my Christmas reel. It will have me dreaming of next spring.
There were all sorts of other ‘I’d love one of those but would never buy it for myself’ treasures on offer. How about startling your friends on the bank with a ‘scarce’, circular, Asprey London, silver-plated ‘mayfly box’, made about 1950? It had a gilt interior with five large fly compartments, complete with four Hardy mayfly patterns. A non-fishing partner could pop this shiny bauble in their beloved’s Christmas stocking and almost guarantee to get rid of them come May. Yours for a just under top estimate £380. Or, for a full season of blessed peace and quiet at home, although definitely one for under the tree, a ‘Fine Hardy unique salmon reservoir’ – such a satisfying word, ‘reservoir’, for a fly holder – made of mahogany in 1910. It had 10 drawers with a wonderful selection of trout, sea-trout and salmon flies in each. Little wonder it rose to a mid-estimate £3,400. Or, for the more financially challenged, a still highly desirable Brooks of Birmingham, oak fly ‘chest’, once the property of ‘William Mitchell, Laird of Cairnton, River Dee 1947-1995’. This, too, was well stocked with, mainly, salmon flies. However, not half as snazzy a container as the Hardy reservoir, it fetched a just over bottom estimate £520. I’d have loved to have unwrapped that.
“But what about ze cheeeeldren?” I hear you demand – play along with the cheesy Mitteleuropean accent, as used in the finest vampire films. It eeez Christmas, after all. Well, there was something for them, too: a made in 1915 Parlour Game, ‘The Expert Angler’, which comprised four rods with hooks and line, and 39 bell-shaped wooden fish to cast at, each with a score under it. Fun for all the family at some long ago Christmas, when a game like this would have been the envy of all. However, in these benighted, interconnected days, you’ll probably be lucky to get your brutes off their Xboxes and mobiles for long enough to sample the turkey (if there are any this year, that is) much less play family games, which is doubtless why it sold for a lowly, mid-estimate £130.
That said, I’ll bet that even the most pampered young tyrant would go near berserk with delight to find under the tree this gem sold by Bonhams at its Goodwood Festival of Speed sale on 9 July. Top Gear magazine said it ‘might just be the greatest toy car ever built’ – a 70% scale, 230cc engined, ‘Gulf liveried’, Porsche 917 ‘as used’ by Steve Mcqueen in the 1970 film Le Mans (it’s capable of 28mph and adults can drive it, too, if they remove the child’s seat). Dammit, I’d love this. Whilst Sotheby’s offered and failed to sell a Le Mans film original 917K in the US on 12-14 August – the $16m to $18.5m estimate might have been off-putting, that and the fact that this car was number 22 (which
did actually race) whilst Mcqueen did his stunts in a different car – the child’s version had no such problems. It roared past its top £17,000 estimate to hit £24,000.
I’ve always liked Jaguar XK 150s. Why the 150 and not the more famous 120? Because, as a friend with one told me (doubtless wrongly), the cockpit is 150cm long and not 120cm – far better for long legs like mine – although the internet tells
I would hardly dare take it out of the garage lest a pigeon crapped on it or a demonic cyclist took exception
me the original XK was designated a 120 as it could hit 120mph. The important point is that they are almost affordable in that, much as I am in awe of those Porsche 917s, I would hardly dare take it out of the garage lest a pigeon crapped on it, let alone drive one lest some climate-change activist or demonic cyclist took exception to it. Bonhams had a 1959, 3.8 drophead coupe at its Goodwood sale, in top-notch working condition as a provable fortune has been lavished on it over many years – perhaps a good reason for buying a peanuts-to-maintain Ford Fiesta? It was something I’d really like and would never buy for myself; a snip at an under bottom estimate £75,000.
My long-haired far better half would love that, I thought as I inspected a small group of silver objects of ‘Polo interest’ at the 16 September John Nicholson’s sale. Best of them was a modern, silver candlestick made of three polo sticks that came together to form the candle holder. A decent size, too. The lot also included a 1909 silver snuff box – not one for her, I would have put it back into the next
auction – and a small silver photograph frame; a perfect present for another occasion, estimated at £80 to £120. “If only,” I thought, as we were only a few miles from Midhurst, the beating heart of polo. Sure enough, my top estimate bid was knocked clean out of the grounds and they sold for £160. Not exactly expensive, however, even at that price.
Family tradition is that I make the brandy butter on Christmas morning, whilst sucking hard at the champagne. This requires a bowl and wooden spoon. But how about raising the ante? Bonhams’ sale of the Andrew Crawforth Collection on 13 September included a number of fine old bronze pestles and mortars. Much more fun, I reckon, to use a mortar that is almost 400 years old, such as the one dated 1640 (one of three in the lot) that fetched a bottom estimate £400. The thought that, if mankind hasn’t fried itself into a frazzle by then, some descendant of mine might also make brandy butter with it one day far into the future would make me smile as I pour and pummel. That’s the thing about antiques. When we handle them we handle history. And we are but custodians of them for the future. Right. Decision made. ‘Medieval pestle and mortar’; top of my new ‘would amuse’ present list… Joyeux Noel!