Saturday, 27 August 2016

Stirring up a hornets nest





It was a late and humid evening as I made my way toward the river, sheep calling out in earnest, lambs stood, staring quizzically at the quiet soul whom passed them by, some roughly nudging their mothers undercarriage in search of milk and a sense of security. After a recent trip without reward I felt more focused and with a mindset which I have not had in a while, something had changed, another part of me had awoken as if dormant for so much time, a primeval instinct, an incessant urge to reconnect with the waterway that many years ago had a guiding hand in germinating my love for flowing water.


The river was low, her watery blouse parched, revealing inner charms, snags reaching out to any  angler that might be foolhardy enough to wet a line near them, the evening air was thick with the heady aroma of Balsam merged with that sweet smell you only seem to find by the riverbank, a couple of lusty breaths were savoured, boy did it feel great to be out again! As I settled in my swim owls could already be heard and sure enough a Barn Owl appeared on the opposite bank, swooping low before disappearing over the hedges.

A frugal helping of bird seed was followed by no more than four free offerings, less always being more, patience and observation the real key, as well as knowledge that the water witch can flatter to deceive an angler. As light fades an anglers hope increases, but it is a hope that is tempered with the seasons of fishing and understanding he has accrued, with it the ever changing moody embrace of this waterway.

I sat listening to the night sounds, each one telling a different story, the light crunch along the path behind me told me that a deer was nearby and sure enough this was followed by the startled bark as  it picked up my scent, in the distance a shrill cry could be heard and one that never fails to make the hairs on the back of the neck stand on end, dogs cried out in reply to this lustful vixen as its howls faded away as if carried on the light breeze.

I must have nodded off momentarily, my head jerking forward as I looked toward the isotope "crackle" came the reply, the centre pin was startled into action and suddenly clattering off.
A feeling of surging energy was met by the most nightmarish sound of carbon breaking near the reel seat, I looked down dumbfounded, bewildered and more than a little miffed, "why would you break on me now of all times!" Followed by less than eloquent words which tumbled from my lips "fuck it!" I snarled.
A weld was fashioned from rod and hand, eventually the scrap with the occupant at the other end of rod and line was renewed, each lunge gradually weakening my belief that this fish would see the confines of the landing net, after what felt an age and what will probably result in my premature baldness, the most gloriously conditioned barbel was sat in the net.

I felt emotionally spent and sat staring with a mixture of loathing and disgust at the Wychwood Extremis rod that had decided to give up the ghost on me, not once had it been mistreated in the nine or so years of having owned it, in reality I was more annoyed because I loved playing fish on this particular rod.

Having recovered composure, I set about making ready my camera,light and remote control for a photo or two. Having switched the camera light on a whirring sound could be heard, something akin to an Apache helicopter, the sound increased and was joined by three more, Looking at my camera light I could see a rather angry hornet, repeatedly trying to sting this and the camera flash, I didn't need a second invitation to move as rapidly as possible, lifting the fish back into the net and moving out of the swim, resting her in an area without aerial bombardment from what are wasps on steroids.

Heading back to the swim it was obvious that they were now incensed, grabbing my rod rest I took a swipe at the two on the camera knocking them both off and in doing so provoking the wrath of both as they took it in turns to swoop at me, thankfully both swipes with the rod rest proved fruitful and connected with that meaty sound you might expect to hear when timing a well placed shot with a cricket bat. I doused the light, hurriedly grabbed my gear and beat a hasty retreat. 


Thankfully this fish went a very long way to compensating for the faulty rod and the hornet squadron. She was thick set, fighting fit and had a glorious colour and tone to her, I went home a happy angler but not without a few more choice words for the rod, which I scolded like a parent chastising a naughty child.

Tuesday, 16 August 2016

Thursday, 4 August 2016

A Vlog Selection


I must admit I have not been keeping up with my blog entries since the start of the season, this is because I have been focusing on filming more videos, which I really do enjoy making. However due to this, my written side which I dearly love has taken a bit of a hit. So for the time being I thought I would share a few of the current videos from this season with you chaps.








Monday, 6 June 2016

Farmoor Than I Expected




I am not much of a fly fisherman, in fact the last time I attempted to fly fish would have been around the age of 13 whilst on holiday in France, fishing a small lake and managing to catch a couple of rainbows via a mixture of flapping, yet I seem to remember it with somewhat more rose tinted glasses.

Despite this minuscule foray into fly fishing, it never really grasped me in the same way as other areas of our pastime. Fast forwarding twenty four years and via facebook I met Ian, a very capable fly fisher, someone whom also shared my love for coarse fishing and after a trip chub fishing at the end of last season he suggested about learning to fly fish and that it would be a good way to perhaps extend the season on flowing water.

A month later he brought round one of his rods and we headed off for the local recreation ground in an attempt to teach me how to cast. He spent a good five hours, with the patience of a saint I might add in showing me the ropes, going through what I did wrong with each cast and progressing to asking me what I thought that I was doing wrong. I must say the feeling of achievement when I did make a half decent stab at casting was very nice, however more often than not my wrist was wagging like the tail of an overexcited Jack Russell. Ian kindly left the rod with me to practice with and the next couple of weekends I did attempt a few hours of field casting, although that said it is never the same as having someone experienced by your side to spectate and correct your errors.

One of the following days Ian called me up and kindly suggested we go down to his bit of river for a couple of hours to see if there were any Mayfly showing and perhaps have a cast or two.
It was a warm afternoon and there was not a great hatch on the river, despite this Ian did hook into a couple of fish which were acting rather finicky and then offered me to have a cast. Having watched him cast along this narrow area of river, the thoughts of doing the same I guess you could say filled me with quite a bit of apprehension and I decided on this occasion to just watch Ian and how he approached swims and tackled the variable amounts of drag in each one,which in itself was very interesting.
On the way back to the car he said  "next time it will be your turn!", a mixture of a weak smile and "yes" tumbled from my lips in a rather hesitant manner.


As we headed well into May we were back on the river and in the company of a better hatch of Mayfly, despite this the fish were once again being very selective, however Ian did get to grips with a few fish, a mixture of wild brownies and the odd rainbow.


It was tricky going and I would have to say that his willing accomplice was not helping matters with a mixture of fluffed casts that at the most fortunate were landing heavily on the water and putting fish down and at worst finding the fly attaching itself to the fencing behind us. I must admit I was pretty self concious by my lack of casting ability and trying to put what I had learnt on the recreation fields into actual practice on flowing water was another game altogether. After a quite a few failed attempts which included missing a fish on one of the wider bends and profusely apologising for putting a few too many knots into Ian's leader, it was time to head home.

As we made our way back to the car he suggested that it might be an idea to head to Farmoor and try a day out on the boat so that I might get to grips with playing the fish as well as casting on somewhere that is more open.
 

The following Friday we met up at Farmoor, it was cloudy with a light breeze, Ian was confident that the conditions were pretty good and that we would pick up a few fish. A quick unpacking of the tackle and we were soon making our way out on the boat toward one of the water towers.


After mooring up adjacent to this tower it was soon evident that there were quite a few trout rising at regular intervals, Ian mentioned that we were in 80 feet of water and that the fish would put up a good scrap. My first couple of casts were less than stellar, resulting in a fair amount of slack line and not the greatest distance. Ian offered his critique regarding my casting which was very useful and helped a lot, however putting it into practice was once again proving irregular to say the least.

It wasn't long before Ian was playing his first fish of the day and as he slipped the net under it I was suddenly into a cracking fight "two fish at once Mark!" exclaimed Ian. Sadly not long after this mine shed the hook and the line fell limp. I was a little downhearted but at the same time excited to have had my first taste of a Farmoor fish and get a feeling for how well they fight.

Ian with a nicely conditioned Rainbow

After this we chopped and changed between dry fly and nymphs and I conspired to miss a very nice take as a fish surfaced and slurped in one of the flies.

Throughout the day Ian talked about different fly patterns and retrieves as well as casting and I spent a good amount of time absorbing the wealth of information he was willing to share. It was during one his tips regarding my retrieve speed that I had my second bite at the apple, this time I kept a better angle and control. To say they give you a good work out in the deep water is quite the understatement.

Happy days!

Turning to Ian I thanked him for the advice regarding the retrieve as I was sure that this had helped induce a positive take, after a couple of cheerful handshakes we decided to have a cup of coffee and reflect upon how proceedings were going. What I found most helpful was being able to just sit at times and watch Ian cast and retrieve, you can learn always learn a lot by doing so and this helped a great deal.

The master in action

I mentioned to Ian "if I could cast a fly to 25% of your ability I would be over the moon" his reply was concise, "Well I have been fly fishing for over forty years Mark, it will come with practice".

There is something to be said about a good teacher, critique without being overly critical, patience and understanding a virtue, thankfully for this wannabe fly fisher Ian has these qualities in spades.

After mulling a few things over and finding the fishing had fallen silent, Ian decided it would be best if we set the drogue and did some drifting so as to cover a larger amount of water and see if we could run into any seams of fish, before doing so we changed to buzzers and a boobie as the point fly.

On our first drift through Ian latched into a very aggressive fish "I bet that has taken the buzzer" he said excitedly. After a lengthy tussle an angry rainbow broke the surface before speeding off on another long distance dash. After a multitude of hectic runs it was finally ready for the net, a fine looking, chunky fish and sure enough it had taken the buzzer.


A couple of hours had past and by this time I think we had lost about three fish between us and Ian had taken his tally to double figures, we were slowly drifting back toward a couple of the observatory buildings, whilst Ian informed me to keep in touch with the flies and  perhaps speed up the retrieve due to the shallower water. This certainly did the trick and I was connected to a feisty fish that swept in toward the boat, before vanishing under the hull and appearing the other side, turning to Ian I said "I now know what you mean when you say they scrap well here!".

Wrist aching action

By now the cloud was breaking up,blue skies and evening sunshine were beginning to dominate, so we decided to head back out a little way and have one last drift through before calling it a day.

You could see that the activity was falling away a little due to the bright conditions, but we were both keen to have one last fish and as we drifted our way toward the water tower I had the most faintest of plucks as I steadily retrieved the fly and just as Ian suggested it would soon be time to start heading back to the landing stage I had a real thud, lifting into a rather speedy fish which took off as if it was being chased by demons, the pace was utterly manic and it felt a more solid fish.

After one heck of a scrap, by which time my mouth was suitably dry, my reward was sat in the net and looking a tad miffed.


My best of the day taken on the boobie

After this fish we headed for shore, it had been a very enjoyable day spent together, we had shared some good humour and a few fish that seemed as if they were on steroids, Ian had given me an insight into what he enjoys so much and I learnt a lot from him, although it is barely skimming the surface of what is a new discipline for myself. We said our goodbyes and headed home, one things for sure I slept well that evening.

Thursday, 7 April 2016

A look back at the 2015/2016 season




I was going to post a written review of last season, however I thought that I would put together a montage video of some of the fishing trips from it instead, some also with friends.
Many of the clips are from trips where I didn't make a complete vlog.I would like to extend a big thank you to all of you blog regulars whom visit here and take time to read my musings and fishing tales.

Tuesday, 5 April 2016

Madfred Angling "le Mag"




Just a little up date for those of you whom visit my blog, you may or may not be aware that for quite a while now I have been writing for a friends online magazine, the latest edition is available to read and download by clicking the following link: Madfred Angling - Le Mag.

Fred has been editing and publishing this e-zine at regular intervals for quite some time and the feedback from the French angling community has been very positive, with each issue of the magazine being well received. Le Mag itself is quite different to your normal fishing publications. There is an even balance being reached between articles which contain some product placement and articles where the focus is on the atmosphere enjoyment and complete journey us anglers take during our trips, which is something I do find very refreshing.


If there are any other british angling bloggers out there whom would wish to submit their stories, please do not hesitate to get in contact with Fred via Facebook as he is always looking for people whom are willing to do so. All articles are translated by him to French so you need not be fluent in the language to supply an article.



Monday, 29 February 2016

Catching up - Friendly Ensemble




Well not long to go now till the end of the river season and more is the pity, as much as I enjoy the refreshed vigour and groundwork that a new season brings, it is always with a serious touch of melancholy when moving toward the close of play.


A few weeks ago plans were put in place with a couple of friends that I had made during the youtube social match and they were to journey down from Bridgnorth to spend a day hunting along the Loddon and its sister the Blackwater in hope of a first chub or barbel from either of these waterways.


Meeting up with Robert and Richard we were greeted by very blustery yet mild conditions, both rivers carrying a reasonable amount of water along with tinge of colour, conditions looked good for them and I was hopeful that they might find the rivers in forthcoming moods (famous last words). After showing them around the venue and pointing out some of the better spots, we were soon fishing, Robert and Richard starting upstream, with myself further down, we agreed a meeting point for a lunchtime breather and chance to gather our thoughts on how the day was going.

Stopping in a couple of swims to leave some liquidised bread I headed to a debris strewn area of the river, in hope that a willing chevin might be lurking, chopping and changing between worm cheese paste and bread as I went. Alas aside from a resident pike that looked in a fairly keen mood to harass small fry and an unwelcome mink which cruised by rather nonchalantly, it was most quiet and I was starting to think that both rivers were going to throw one of their well known sombre moods.

Further downstream I found out that Robert had lost a chub which he had hooked under a tree, in a swim that was peppered with mink paw prints, moving on from this swim he mentioned to me that he had spotted a good chub that he had spooked in the shallows, one which had been feasting on some of the liquidised bread that I had left there. If anything It was becoming apparent that both waterways were in the mood to give all three of us a good lesson in curve balls. From my own point of view when having guests down, especially ones whom have made bit of a journey it is always with a sense of tension and hope that the rivers will show a kind face and welcoming hand.

During late afternoon Richard and Robert fancied a change to barbel tactics, their plan being to fish into evening time before heading home, I had pointed out a few of the good swims of which there are plenty along this river, however when she is in a sullen mood it can make not a jot of difference.

Robert set up in a fairly confined swim and fished just on to the marginal drop off, lowering his boilie and paste offering under some tired looking trees, meanwhile downstream of myself Richard had been getting some enquiries on cheese paste before finally making a change to boilie. An hour had passed when Richard walked down to inform us that he had a chub in the net and there was an almost audible sense of relief.

Richard's first Loddon chub 4lb

Richard was very happy to have caught his first Loddon chub and given the mood the river was in I was relieved somewhat and buoyed by this fish, hopeful that a whiskered friend would not be far behind for either of the guys.

Sadly it was not to be the case and as the wind increased during late evening the chaps decided to call it a day and head home. Despite how the days fishing had been it was evident that they had thoroughly enjoyed themselves fishing a couple of new waterways and were chatting enthusiastically about coming back down to my neck of the woods (next season guys!)





A few days later and around lunchtime I found myself heading to one of my Thames tributaries in search of a few of its larger chevin, keeping things simple using what nature provides, in this case lob worms and ok I admit my less than natural blue krill cheese paste mixture.



The weather was pleasant but the wind one of those that nags at an angler, turning knuckles and digits into cumbersome appendages. Starting off on a nice glide with link legered lob worms and a little but often spray of maggots, I was soon receiving the odd sharp tap, almost dace like and a few strikes later I was still none the wiser. Another roll through the swim was called for, this time I allowed the bait to settle under a fallen tree on the opposite bank, surely a chevin had to be at home?

The quiver plucked a few times, this a more delicate bite but a confident one and after getting a boot full of river water I was soon netting a perfectly conditioned chub.

A perfectly conditioned small river chub (3.1)

As I gradually made my way along the river, dropping into every likely hidey hole it was evident that the wind was going to be in menacing form, strong gusts were now coming along at regular intervals and knocking the little feeder rod off its perch on multiple occasions, conditions were to prove tricky and bites were soon to be at a premium as I shifted between baits and swims to no avail. It's a funny game at times as an early fish can be the falsest of dawns, this was to be very much that scenario.

By late afternoon my cheeks were beaming from a solid wind beating and I was being treated to a beautiful winter sunset, the sky a mixture of golden orange meets fiery reds, It was at this point that I noticed a small, rubber duck looking most sulky in the muddy margins, those of you will remember my meetings with such ducks on this waterway in the past and on occasion providing me with divine providence (well that is how I like to see it!).

A good omen

Picking the little chap up, sharing a smile tinged with reminiscence I looked at the swim I had found him in, plenty of coverage but with room for a bait to be cast or rolled under. So after perching him on a fence post and thanking him for stopping this angler in his tracks, a good helping of cheese paste was soon working its way under a multitude of flotsam, which included fallen trees, the odd plank and even a fire extinguisher.


Despite the wind hardly aiding bite detection, when it came there was no mistaking it, that typical smash and grab of a large chub, followed by the thud and sprint, rod tip under the water as it tried to run me into the nearby snags. A broad head finally broke the surface, the embers of winter sun glinting off the back of a extremely well built chevin, a couple more mad dashes and she was mine to admire.

A very thick set chevin and possible 6 in the making (5.06)

Windblown and very contented would be a good way to sum this trip up, a friendly duck had once again shown the way, needless to say it made the journey back home with me and is now sat clean and happy next to the computer, the only thing I cannot quite work out is why it does not seem to be very fond of bread and honks when I give it a squeeze.





Six days later and I had offered Tom a trip to a waterway he was yet to wet a line on and an area that I had done an impromptu bit of reconnaissance, during that bit of groundwork I had spotted some plump roach that were possibly around the 1lb mark and of course a few trout bodyguards, it stood to reason that there had to be a few chub to be tempted too.


It was a brilliantly sunny morning as we set off down the river and this particular waterway was carrying a nice amount of colour to it, nothing too heavy just a smidgen. Reaching the top end of the beat we found a quaint pool, the river running under a bridge, its current increasing in pace before breaking into a section with a nice amount of coverage, with only room for one person I suggested to Tom that we started here and it was not long before his bread offering was gobbled down by a hungry brownie. As we moved downstream we both noticed how fast the colour was dropping out of the river and sure enough within an hour it was more or less crystal clear.

Downstream of Tom I had found a nice looking run, fast paced with lots of cover, a lob worm was cast towards a sunken tree and a few minutes later after some tentative plucks I thought I had connected with our first chub of the day, instead the flash of silver soon morphed into dappled markings as a greedy little pike had taken a liking to my worm offering and was putting me to the sword as it sprinted into the main flow, little did we know that this was to be a running theme with everything but chub taking a liking to our hook baits.

A toothy touch, but not the species we sought

As we worked our way downstream we came to an area where the river widened to a double bend this looked spot on, Tom missing a bite early on before connecting with a beautifully marked, slim Jim of a perch, we both remarked about how this fish looked underweight for its length, looking as if it needed a hearty minnow dinner or ten to fill it out.


As the afternoon sped by there was an odd quiet, despite many swims having superb fish holding features it seemed as if no one was at home. Meanwhile I had Settled in a narrow swim downstream of Tom, glimpsing back upstream I could see his rod was hooped over, this was followed by the parting of hook and line, as he made his way toward me it was done with a combination of hitting himself on the head with his cap repeatedly and high adrenaline chatter of "I have just lost the most golden chub Mark, it was gold as f*%*!"


After a quick chat about what might have been, Tom was soon back at his swim trying to tempt another chance. Half an hour later Tom was walking back to me, I figured that he might have got his string well pulled and have our third coarse fish of the trip and with any luck a chunky chub.
However this was not to be the case as I soon found out that he had hooked the golden culprit once again, it was actually a stunningly marked brown trout and despite us both not being overly fond of catching out of season trout, we both agreed that it was simply too gorgeous not to take a quick photo and some footage of.

Tom with a perfectly conditioned brownie (3-14)



We fished on till around 6pm, but apart from one very sharp, almost wary bite to myself and a couple more knocks to Tom it was to be one of those trips where the chub went undetected leaving us with unfinished business and plenty of food for thought for next season.


After this trip we decided to strike whilst the iron was hot and as it was the weekend of my 37th Birthday (middle age beckons) we made plans to do some fishing on the Blackwater, perch and chub hunting being the order of the day.

Meeting at around 9am we were both chomping at the bit in anticipation of some perca and chevin chasing, the river looked spot on with a slight green touch of colour to it and steady pace. Heading upstream I pointed out a couple of swims to Tom and dropped in one below him, whilst he headed for a tired looking bush that overhung the river, this particular reach is a brilliant zone for a few chub, due to a combination of undercut bank and sinewy tree roots that allow those armed with either link leger or free lined baits access to what I would call prime features and it soon showed as Tom was connected to a feisty fish that punched well above its weight as it combined a mixture of sprints and burrowing runs before it was ready for the folds of the landing net.

Tom with his second largest Blackwater chevin (3-8)

After giving our spots another ten minutes we made the joint decision to move on, heading to an area of the river which can be a bit of a pike zone, but does usually produce a few chub, at the time we had planned to skip ahead of this swim but passing it by I just could not resist casting a lob worm into it.
Perhaps thirty seconds later and the quiver twitched a couple of times before a brilliant scrap ensued from a spirited chub.


We were both very happy to be off the mark and I feel this always allows you room to focus a little better. One thing I will say is that Tom and I have never lost sight of the enjoyment of catching fish no matter their size and that is something I have always felt we have had in common. After this fish I suggested it was worth another cast and that Tom should run his link leger under the sunken trees. Unfortunately on this particular occasion a greedy Esox turned up and soon took a liking to his bait and rig in one fell swoop.

After a grumble about lost ssg shot and cheeky pike Tom was soon tackled up and we were making our way to an area where he had lost a good fish last season and probably a venue pb at that! I remember the moment with some chagrin, hearing this fish wallowing in the snags before the line parted company, it is one of those moments we always recall during our chats about small river chub hunting, in fact I think I still have the footage from my old head cam where we are talking about it being a good fish just before the line parted company, ever since this incident Tom has always approached this swim with an air of excitement and expectancy.


A couple of casts later and whilst alternating between bread and cheese paste Tom added three more chub to his tally, I duly did the honours with his camera.

Tom wearing his game face whilst a young chub (2-7) looks on in abject fear of this chevin chaser

Heading onward we chatted about how there seemed to be very little in the way of perch falling to any lob worm offerings, this despite the fact that water colour was more or less spot on for some of the better perch to have a mooch about, it was most odd to say the least. By now we had moved into a slacker area of the river, lots of near bank roots and undercuts, prime perch territory. Meanwhile Tom had gone ahead of me and was heading into an area which can be kind for most species, be that roach, chub or perch to name but a few. Back in my swim I was receiving delicate plucks which were followed by the lob worm offering being left untouched, this sections good for chub however I knew if this was a chevin then it would have probably found such a sumptuous offering hard to resist. A couple of pouchfuls of maggot were introduced upstream before another cast was made. Sure enough this time round the tip nodded with increased vigour and I was hooked into the first and what was to prove to be the only perch of the trip, a portly sergeant in the making and one that in future seasons may well attain its full ranking.

A nicely conditioned stripey (1-2)

We eventually came to a bend in the river and a swim that I usually call the "bermuda triangle" this due to the way that the chub in this particular spot have a habit of hitting your bait before surfacing in an all to snag ridden area, despite this it can be a very productive spot and one where it is not uncommon to have an instant bite or two and today was to be no different with Tom receiving interest straight away on bread flake. A quick change to lob worm and it all fell rather quiet, the last cast unfortunately rolling under a snag and lodging there firmly, in fact it was proving to be a fairly costly day on the link leger front, both myself and Tom using more than one tub of ssg's between us.

Upstream I had planned for revenge in a swim where I had previously lost what would have been a sizeable perch and easily a venue best when I had hooked a fish that I would have estimated at around 3lb, well I say hooked but at the time had no idea that I had actually hooked its three week old bullhead supper.... eventually amd just as the fish looked ready for the net the hook pulled and I was left with a rather smelly and unattractive bullhead as the booby prize! This also happened whilst during a trip with Tom and much like his large chevin which he had lost on this waterway this was easily one of the most wounding moments I have had. We both remember it clearly as if it happened yesterday, as I walked up to him cradling the most foul smelling bullhead whilst looking more sulky than a cat whom has been informed that there is no more milk in the fridge. I am sure he thought that I was a few sandwiches short of a picnic at the time, nowadays we always have a good laugh about it, but at the time I must admit that I was pretty inconsolable.

During our journey to our final swims Tom added another 2lb chevin to his rod along with a handful of chublets, meanwhile I had reached my waypoint and took my time to add a generous feed of maggot into the swim, slowly visualising how I would play the large perca should she still reside there, naturally each scenario concluded with me slipping the net under her. Half an hour later and I received a confident pluck followed by another, setting the hook I could have sworn that I was connected to a perch and that was when it happened, I was perhaps ten seconds into the scrap when the hook pulled, my face etched with a mixture of dejection and dismay, admittedly unlike that fateful day when I had got a glimpse of her I could not be certain it was a perch yet the brief battle had felt like it might have been.

Gathering my thoughts I rebaited the hook with a fresh lob worm, castimg toward the opposite bank and allowing the bait to roll under the flotsam. A few minutes later and a more confident bite graced my rod tip, a tussle of a different kind as a nicely proportioned chub made a good fist of trying to take me under the debris.

The final fish of the trip (3-4)

This was to be the last fish of our trip and it was an excursion that we had both enjoyed, dare I say that I feel it was one of our better trips and by that I do not mean in relation to fish that were caught, but the general feeling with how we clicked and enjoyed each others company, one thing was for certain we were both very tried by the end, but at the same time happy, if not only for such a good trip but also proof that time can indeed heal and some friendships can endure from both our perspectives.