THERE was an interesting clash of culture, class and cash on the banks of Beggarsdale Beck last week. Perhaps the pigeons are coming home to roost at The Old Vicarage.

The trout season has opened, you see, and Owd Tom was out as usual, casting an ancient greenheart rod kept together with more binding tape than wood.

Despite his ancient tackle, Tom is a canny angler who has fished the beck since he was in nappies. He already had two plump brownies in his wicker creel as he was approaching the junction with the River Beggar.

Now where the beck runs into the river, there is a deep pool which is one of the best lies in the Dale. There was a hatch of pale yellow olives underway and the trout were rising like kites in a high wind.

Tom stopped, licked his lips, and frowned. For generations, locals have been allowed to fish this pool, the piscatorial rights to which were purchased by some wealthy Vicar back in the 19th Century.

But when Bertie Bartram-Barker bought the vicarage last year, he immediately banned everyone from using "his" stretch. Then he began to fish it with bait, which is how he earned his new name, Maggots Money-Grubber.

As Tom's fly swept to the tail of the beck, it was taken by a powerful cock fish which dived straight out into the main river. Then Tom heard a strained "Good afternoon."

Fighting his fish and grinding his ancient reel, Tom looked up into the face of Maggots, who was standing there with posh spinning rod and bait tin.

"Mornin'," replied Tom, fighting to reel his trout back into the beck. "If tha's goin' ta say that yon fish is yourn, ye should know that it took me fly in t'beck 'ere. And we 'ave t' rights on t'beck so dunna start tha moanin'."

"Quite so," Maggots in that strange accent of his, half old West Riding, half BBC announcer. "I'll just stand here and watch you land it."

Tom was so surprised that he let his line go slack. The trout leapt into the air, spat out the fly, and - Tom was to swear later - cocked a snoot at him.

When the distinct blue tinge had faded from the surrounding air, Tom lit his ghastly pipe and looked at Maggots with deep suspicion: "Ah thought tha wus abaht to accuse me o' poachin'."

Maggots shuffled his feet, then said guiltily: "I might have been a bit hasty last year. You can fish this stretch of the river any time you like."

"That's reet gentlemanly of tha," said Tom cautiously. "But what's innit for thee?"

Maggots coughed: "Well, for starters, I thought you might teach me this flying fishing lark..."

"An' for seconds?"

Another cough: "I was hoping you might ask the locals to stop calling us Mr and Mrs Maggots. My wife doesn't like it."

Tom almost bit through his pipe stem to stop himself chuckling. Is there a chance that, in wanting to play the country gentlemen, Bertie Bartram-Barker might eventually become one? Only time will tell...

(The Curmudgeon is a satirical column based on a fictitious character in a mythical village).

Converted for the new archive on 30 June 2000. Some images and formatting may have been lost in the conversion.