A weclome distraction

It is only seven days till the rivers open and whilst I have spent some of the closed season looking at new bits of rivers which I have joined, I have also been enjoying a spot of carp fishing, far away from any crowds, surrounded only by natures harmony.

There is something to be said about lakes that have atmosphere, not all are blessed with it and some can be quite lacking in character, almost soulless. This venue ticks all my boxes, wooded mangrove islands, bays and a plethora of underwater features to place a bait to, the fish are in perfect condition, no damaged mouths to be found, consisting of quite a few Dinkelsbuehl breed, along with tench, perch and rudd, a nice mixture.

My last couple of trips have been in the shape of late evening to early morning sessions, getting down at dusk and usually settling into a swim as the Nightjar begins to call out in earnest. Keeping clutter to a minimum, a couple of four piece stalker rods, small baitrunners all which fit neatly into a compact holdall and along with a small but strong seat that has supported the weight of my derrière rather well over the years, not without a creak or two though.


It was a cool evening despite it being summertime and in the darkness the tell-tale sounds of clooping could be heard near some inaccessible margins, followed by a crash, the ripples eventually caressing my rod tips. The wildlife night shift had begun, deer running along the path, edging slowly closer and closer to my swim in hope of a drink, before realising that this particular spot was taken and running off into the darkness barking in shock, we both jumped believe me. Badgers could be heard tumbling about in the thicket behind me having what sounded like a domestic squabble, I was smiling contented to be in their company, ensconced in this little piece of heaven.

At around 1am my right rod let out a single tone run and I was soon playing a picture perfect mirror of 9lb.

It was soon slipped back and sped off like an angry teenager, I was rather happy as I was also using this trip to test out some baits from West country baits, namely their Lh1 boilies and barbel slick sense range which I also plan to put to use on the rivers once they open.

I know this might seem like a shameless plug and one which most anglers may have heard ad infinitum, but Shaun Hodges who is the main chap behind the company, knows a fair bit regarding bait having been involved with developing most if not all of the Hinders bait range during his time working for them. That on its own is very re-assuring and unlike some bait companies without any credentials that appear overnight and purport to be the best thing since sliced bread, anyway I have digressed somewhat.


Time ticked by far too fast and as the faintest hint of morning was appearing, my left hand rod fished  to a marginal gully let out a single bleep, the bright green led of the delkim reflecting off the water, a prelude to what was to become a bit of a scrap from a lively scamp that had a rather large paddle which it put to good use.

As dawn broke the Tufted ducks landed and they kindly spared me an exhibition of  their normally overenthusiastic bait diving.

"I think the baits are right here, lets do some diving!"

Now there are a few nice tench in this lake, dare I say they would certainly break my pb and it was going through my mind at the time that it was the perfect morning, the water was bath temperature with a nice mist rising from it and a light ripple in the morning breeze. What happened next was all in the blink of an eye, line melting from the spool and rod lifting upward as the fish came up across a gravel bar, as I tried to apply side strain the back of a portly, dark fish appeared. The sudden surfacing threw me off kilter and it did not take long to decide what it planned to do as it powered back down and headed toward some snags, alas it was having none of it and it cut me off on a gravel bar.

I kept mulling over thoughts of the raw power and the chance it could have been a good tench kept popping up in my head, I kept pushing them back, admittedly I was using a pair of carp rods and to some that might not count, but that did not make me feel any the better I can tell you that right now...

By now I had packed one rod up, its lone companion was still waiting for the chance of one more fish and it kindly obliged with a terrific scrap from a  pretty looking mirror (10lb), its middle scales looking akin to a sliced chestnut mushroom. I made my way home in a chipper mood.

These trips were fuelling me with a feeling I have lacked somewhat for still waters over recent years and I looked forward to another trip the following week. This was to be a later start and I had not set up till darkness had fallen. It was a cool night the and sky was crystal clear, the full moon was radiant as if someone had forgotten to turn the lights off. Conditions were perfect for hunters and it was not long before owls could be heard calling out to one and other, a stag called out into the night, its gruff bark filling the peaceful backdrop with a lonely ambience.

On this particular occasion I had taken my jetboil stove with me as you cannot beat a fresh cup of tea and it was not long after the first cup that I slipped a net under the first fish of the night, a small angry mirror which looked a double but scales said otherwise, a few thankful words were said and asked to send some of its older relatives my way.

By now the moon was directly in front of me and the lake was eerily calm, one more fish had  followed its friend to the net, yet despite this it had been rather still and there had been no signs of spawning activity on the lake either.


At 3am my left rod tore off along a deep margin and I was soon playing what felt a better fish, after a nice scrap there was a rather short, plump female sat in the net and it looked a good mid double, at least 15lb was my guesstimate. She had quite a distended belly, in fact it could have matched mine on a lesser scale and she was in perfect condition with a set of proud barbules, weighing less than I had estimated.

12.8

Morning broke and along with it a very rich dawn chorus filled the air, I had the feeling of contentment and timelessness. Although in reality it was not long before I had to be packing up.
All of the fish had fallen to my left rod during the night, the right rod which was placed on a gravel bar further out had remained quiet, a look at my watch told me I had forty minutes left and fifteen of which were allotted to packing up, enough time for a morning brew and maybe one last fish.

The stove was starting to steam as the right rod woke up, line zipping off the reel, thud followed by that slack feeling of a hook pull, sure enough the hook was partially burred, "hard lipped" did spring to mind! Compensation in the shape of a steaming cup of tea was soon to hand, I sat absorbing the gloriously sunny morning, part of me partially lost to this place, immersed in its aura, the other half being drawn ever closer to the heartbeat of running water.

Last two trips - Seasons end

A bit late to the end of season party compared to some of you other bloggers, but better late than never, at least I think so.

The end of the season would soon be upon me, where does the time go?  Needless to say that the weather was on the turn and there was without doubt a hint of spring in the air and I an itch that needed scratching. I'll admit now that I can be a bit stubborn with trying new things sometimes and lure fishing has fallen under this category, but a few weeks prior I decided to spend a frugal amount on some Sports direct jigs, total cost £7 for 110 haribo coloured lures and apart from the hooks needing a little sharpening it didn't look such a bad purchase.


Fast forward to a rather sunny day and I quite fancied a foray for perch or pike. The compact exage rod was grabbed along with a selection of jigs and I was soon trying a few swims. Various speeds of retrieve were interspersed with twitching and lifting the rod tip up and back down slightly, although I have to say I think the hardest thing for me was getting use to the retrieve.

It was not until I tried one of the lower beats of this river that I had my first hit, slowly retrieving the jig along a deeper margin until it was more or less parallel with my feet, an eager jack pounced on it and headed off downstream.

1-0 to the fluro orange jig

Later in the day I decided to head back upstream and try my luck at a sumptuous looking slack that I had tried earlier, It looked too good not to produce. Two casts later and there was an explosive eruption from the sunken tree on the opposite bank as a pike came sprinting out from cover,  mouth agape and lunging into the jig with gusto. This was a better fish and sprinted downstream on a couple of energetic runs, the little rod more than ample to cope with it, resulting in a nicely marked esox just over 7lb.

7.1

By now I was slowly getting into a modicum of rhythm and beginners luck, well something was working at least and that little voice in my head was starting to chirp away, asking why I didn't lure fish more and this was one example where talking to yourself does not always give you the right answers as there was no way I could deny that I was enjoying this.

On the way upstream I passed by another angler who had set up for a spot of chub fishing, he was rather hopeful that he would get his line tugged. I decided to give a couple more spots a few casts before heading home, it was at this precise moment I realised that I had not changed jigs during this trip, although I had lost one on a bush on the opposite bank earlier on and this gave me good opportunity to try something different, however I still foraged about and replaced it with an identical jig, I felt that if it is not broken don't fix it.

The final spot produced a rattling bite, just as I slowed down the retrieve and could feel the lure clipping the riverbed lightly. A perch was the reward, not a monster, but a finely marked fish that was in perfect condition.

I don't normally do final thoughts regarding a style of fishing, but such was my enjoyment throughout this trip that it has left me wishing that I had done a lot more in the past. Granted this trip like one Swallow does not make a summer, but goodness it was an adrenaline rush to see the fish hit the lure and I certainly won't be denying myself this enjoyment in the future.





The final day of the season had me pondering where to head and if I should perhaps head out again with the lures, but try as I might I could not tear myself away from the urge to end the season doing some link legering for chub.

It was a nice morning but the wind was rather keen to gnaw at my rotund figure, though that was my own fault for not wearing more than a couple of layers. I had decided to take some liquidised bread mixed with a good helping of Parmesan cheese powder, this had been purchased at a reduced price a good few years ago (2008) and is perfect to add a spot of scent trail to the mix, along with this I had krill cheese paste, bread, worms and a pint of maggots for hook baits.

I decided that I would try quite a few swims on worm for instant bites and in the other swims opt to bait with the Parmesan bread mix, fishing these swims in rotation. The first area looked good for a fish or two and had numerous debris strewn features, ranging from sunken branches to an uprooted tree which had created a nice hole off of the main current.

It didn't disappoint and a rattling bite was soon forthcoming from a young, clean looking chevin.

I decided to have another cast, this time tighter to the opposite bank, the water running smoothly here or least that is what I thought, on the retrieve I found that I was snagged solidly and had to slowly pull for a break and if there is one thing I absolutely loathe it is losing ssg shot, especially given how costly it is and how few you get per tub, I sat muttering about this to myself as I set up another link.

Moving downstream I came to a spot where graveled shallows gave way to a deeper depression and I decided to take off one ssg to allow the bait to trundle through the swim more naturally. On the second cast as the worm bobbed underneath the opposite bank and into the deeper water I received a thumping bite.

This felt a better stamp of chevin as it stayed low using the current to its advantage and gave a good account of itself. A portly, brass coloured fish with a glossy sheen to it. The chevins were clearly on the feed, although in some swims it was a case of one bite at the apple and then move on.

4.8

I found myself tempted by a swim I have not tried before, although I do question why not considering the amount of features which included a nice slack. This was one of a handful of swims that I had baited with liquidised bread and this can be a bit of a gamble, as sometimes it does spook fish that you might have taken by just dropping into a swim and fishing opportunistically with a single bait. Thirty minutes later and I was wondering if this was the case as worm and cheese paste remained untouched.

The current on the opposite bank was fast moving, not particularly deep but well oxygenated. However I had baited the areas that had extra depth. I wondered if perhaps a fish had visited the area I had baited earlier, fed and moved off or out of the slack water. With this in mind I tried a few trundles into the faster flow, this time the quiver tip bounced abruptly, almost like one of those wary bites where you don't expect to get another, this was not to be the case as the line went slack as the fish picked up the bait and moved toward me.


On setting the hook I was connected to a chub that was convinced it was a distant relative to trout as it attempted to tail walk multiple times. It was obvious this fish had been enjoying the smorgasbord that I had baited with, as once it was on the unhooking mat liquidised bread poured from its thick set mouth.

4.6

As darkness began to set in I moved to a new swim, one with bushes either side of the opposite margin, a juicey worm was soon placed between them and whilst waiting to see if this swim might have someone at home I was drawn to thoughts of how quickly this season had sped by and I recounted the enjoyable trips, chuckling about the mishaps that had happened along the way.

By now the wind was easing a little and I could just make out the silhouette of a fox on the opposite bank as it padded its way through the field when the rod thudded twice before springing back into position.

What was to follow was moments of multiple madness, bites coming at regular intervals and it was evident that I had found a shoal of fish that were grouped up around these bushes and willing to feed very confidently, most of these falling to worm with the exception of the 3.12, which took a liking to the krill cheese paste.

3lb

3.12

4.1

The bites were slowly drying up and my eyes had started to fatigue a little, I did consider a move to another swim, but instead of doing this I decided to drop a little bit more Parmesan bread in and rest the swim for thirty minutes, giving me some time to rest my eyes and have a drink, I must admit I was feeling really happy with how the fishing trip was going. A quick look at my watch showed it had gone 10pm, the bait had been in the water for twenty minutes when I received the most delicate of plucks, followed by a real tip rattler, this seemed a very edgy bite,  no surprise given that I had taken a few fish from this swim.

The worm proved too tempting as the rod lurched forward and I was instantly connected to what felt a larger fish, head down, bullish and making a powerful dash for the sanctuary of the bushes, I had no intention of giving any quarter and allowed the rod tip to soak up as much of these sprints as possible whilst slowly coaxing the fish toward me. Once in the net I could see the broad flank of one of the bigger, bush swim inhabitants. 

5.10

By now it was pushing on for 11pm and I fancied wetting a line in one last swim, the kind that if you didn't know it was there you might easily pass it by and with just enough room for one rod, it was not so much of a cast as a underarm lowering that was needed to position the bait on the marginal gravel gully.

The river had been extremely generous during this trip and each swim had increased my excitement and expectancy, which was in itself unusual as although I am very optimistic when angling I always set out with a low expectation and like to take something from each trip that is enjoyable or can be used positively in future trips.

During this period I was drawn into deep thoughts about the new friends I had made this season thanks to angling and also those whom I had parted company with due to their lack of integrity. Thoughts of the latter hurt a great deal as we had spent some great trips together which we had both enjoyed, I had shown them swims, shared locations and techniques which apparently meant very little other than them using any venue info as a bartering tool with a well known angler who shall remain nameless, this amongst other issues that came to light unfortunately damaged our friendship.I guess you could allow one or two sour experiences to easily skew your view on friendship, but why let one or two bad experiences ruin the chance of other friendships from flourishing?  Although the cynic in me says that is a lot easier to type than it is to do.


I was brought back from chewing the cud by two very light plucks to the tip, followed by it sweeping round, I was met by what at first felt like a chub as it swam toward me, but the pace soon quickened and if this was a chevin it was most definitely on steroids. Off it surged downstream, the clutch on the little reel clicking away manically whilst I tried to cup the spool every few seconds and halt this fish from making for a snag downstream. Thankfully it decided to change direction and I made the most of this opportunity to gain some control and after more than one attempt slip the net under it.

8lb

A healthy boris was my reward, probably one of the best looking barbel I have ever caught for looks and colour, the paddle on it had certainly put me to the sword and nearly got the better.

This was to be final fish of the trip and as I waited for mum to come and pick me up it was with a  thankful gaze fixed on the river and a mind that was filled with evocative emotions, as final days go I could safely say that I was well and truly sated.

Brassy brace

Saturday lunchtime saw me heading out for a spot of chub hunting on a new reach of river.

I guess you could say I am a bit focused on them at the moment, admittedly I have a very good choice of rivers in my locality when it comes to the species, although some are more overlooked than others, waterways which are verging on almost neglected or ignored altogether and where a bit of homework can lead to some fruitful fishing.


It was a blustery day, but more mild than it has been of recent and without doubt a hint of springtime judging by the bird life activity, there were woodpeckers dotted about in pairs, the sound of them merrily hammering away at trees reverberated around me and at one point I had a Sparrowhawk land on a bough next to me, we shared an impromptu stare, his with a touch of disregard almost looking through me, before swiftly vanishing upstream. I tried to reach for the camera which I always have ready for a wildlife shot but alas it did not hang around. Not too long after this a Male Roe deer and his female companion sauntered into view, they looked content as they picked their way through the grass and had a good feed, she even stopped to poke her tongue out (that is what I like to think).

I had opted for a spot of link legering, chopping and changing between lob worm and a cheese paste recipe that has been catching me a few fish, a mixture of mature cheddar, blue cheese garlic and krill. Three perch later and I decided to make a change to the paste, a healthy piece was squeezed on to a size 8 hook and the bare minimum of free offerings placed downstream, sometimes less really is more and the scent trail this paste leaks off is akin to fermented shrimp combined with a pair of smelly socks!

Late in the afternoon as the drizzle set in I received a confident bite, the tip thudding round, this fish was rather bullish as it headed off toward a sunken branch on the opposite bank, a bit of coaxing and it was eventually back in the swim and ready for the net, a fine fish, long and chunky (5.1).

I pondered my options, I did not wish to release this fish back into the swim lest I spook any other chevin, so decided instead to keep it in the landing net and see if any others would be forthcoming. Twenty minutes later and that question was answered with another confident bite, this fish nearly had me in a snag, the line grating as I tried to stop it from making a headfirst dive into the undercut bank which had a few too many sunken snags for my liking. Sure enough it was a chunky fish, weighing a pleasing 5.10.

A brace of 5's (5.1 held and 5.10 resting on the mat)

Despite a few more inquisitive rattles no more fish were forthcoming and as daylight faded the blustery wind was soon accompanied by heavier rain, this was my cue to head off home. It had been a fine afternoon, the wildlife alone would have been reward enough, but this brassy brace was the perfect way to cap what had been a most enjoyable fishing trip.

perch-plexed - Dying light fix

Red fins and stripey black markings, angry dorsals and flaring gill plates, the subtle plucks as they tentatively pull the quiver tip round and bold tussle they give, dorsal raised like a freshwater marlin, I don't think there is a finer species that reside in our waterways and I do like a spot of perch fishing for all of these reasons.


A couple of my recent trips found me confronted by pike that were bullying the perch out of the area. Esox that were intent on snaffling up my worm hook bait and putting a bit of a bend in the quiver. It was fairly evident that no perch with an ounce of common sense would be seen hanging around whilst the crocs were on the feed and midway through the second outing a nagging doubt started to seed itself in my mind, partly due to having a mink pop its head up in the swim.

I thought things over slowly, were the pike dominating this area of the river? Had the perch fallen foul of  predation by mink or otter? Or maybe the fish had not fully moved into the area for spawning yet?

The last idea seemed a reasonably logical one, as did the first and I must admit that I have seen only mink on this waterway no otters as of yet. I decided to try a side channel, an area where small fry are normally harassed by perch. A light scattering of red maggot was placed over link ledgered lobs and I waited in earnest for any signs of activity, I was thankful it wasn't an overly bright afternoon, light levels were what I would call perfect with a healthy helping of cumulus.

As daylight gradually diminished there was no signs of activity, no plucks not even the faintest of twitches, my first thought was to stick it out, the other to move further afield and try a few other swims, the stay put and "all in or nothing" won out.

Daylight had almost retreated as I began to question my timing, swim selection and wondering if it would be wiser to leave targeting them till nearer the end of season, when I saw the tip move a fraction, the faintest nudge, followed by those guitar style, strumming plucks that seem synonymous with a finicky perch bite. Setting the hook there was a reassuring response, thump thump, followed by a proud dorsal breaking the surface. The perfect lime green flank and blood red fins slid over the net cord.

Last knockings 2lb perca

This solidly built perch had really left it till last knockings, but it was like a shot in the arm and my confidence was fully restored. Perhaps some of its parents will come knocking next time, who knows.

Mixing it up

My last few trips have seen me chopping and changing between species. Perch, pike and chub have  all featured. I am certainly not an angler whom targets pike a lot and that much is very evident on this blog and my vlogs, each season I promise myself to set time aside for said species. Don't get me wrong I do love them, but I get rather sidetracked and before you know it the season is over and promise fallen by the wayside. So a plan was made, a spot of static dead baiting on a diminutive waterway, one that is full of character and has some rather pretty predators.

It was a cold January morning, the breeze a tad chilly, a refreshing wake up call to the mind and soul even if body did not agree. The river level looked good if a bit coloured, I was soon setup and the first roach was cast across the narrow channel toward the opposite margin. Having had them in the freezer for over thirteen months I must admit they were not the freshest of fish but did seem to be holding together reasonably well.

An hour later the line pinged out of the drop back indicator and I was playing a lively, dappled scamp that bolted along the near margins, the first fish of 2015 .

The end result was a fish of 4lb 5oz and a nice way to start the new year. A short rest in the net and It soon sped off to tell any others that it might meet to avoid those less than glossy eyed roach. I can just see an image of two pike sat on the bottom, one checking an imaginary sell by date and claiming to its mate "I am telling you it has a touch of freezer frost!!"

It was an enjoyable day and I was kept company by Jenny Wren, whom kept returning and having a good chatter to me, for such small birds they are filled to the brim with hardy character.

 

Come late afternoon and not long before it was time to head off home to defrost I had a very confident take, I knew straight away that this was a better fish as it made a forceful sprint for the marginal snags, a quick bit of side strain was applied to halt its progress, the fish came instantly to the surface and proceeded to tail walk three times, it was a high adrenaline but short lived scrap. A lovely looking esox was my reward, not big by some anglers standards but for myself a personal best.

10.7

I was overjoyed and at the same time left questioning myself as to why I never allot a sensible portion of the fishing season to target this species.



Just prior to Christmas a neat parcel turned up and I pondered whether to leave unwrapping it till Christmas day, however curiosity got the better of me and the package was soon opened, inside were some very finely crafted floats, the glossy lacquered finishing and attention to detail was superb, I could not thank Philip enough for being so kind.

One float in particular really called out to me, an elegant avon with grey body and black whippings. I could already feel a sentimental friendship growing and if it could perhaps survive some snags, trees and a spot of dodgy wallace casting I was sure it would soon have a few tales to tell.

A few days after my pike trip I decided to put the float and speedia to good use with three hours of lunchtime trotting. Grabbing the nearest landing net, tubs of maggot and worm, I was soon off to chance my arm for a fish or two and perhaps a float caught perca. On reaching the river it looked nice but was in reality far too coloured for perch, I was nonetheless game and trickled in a steady flow of maggots at a little and often pace.

I must say having not trotted for many years it was nice to get back into it, slowly but surely a rhythm was found and as I worked the float along the various currents I was fully immersed, mesmerized by each jostle and nudge. Two hours later I had managed to miss a couple of good bites, both fast affairs and it was apparent that I was rather rusty, the Grey wagtail that had kept me company much of the afternoon would have agreed in earnest.

By now the sun was out and despite its rather watered down appearance it was most pleasant, a brief break was taken to rest my eyes and warm myself with a shot of coffee. A glance at the watch told me a few more trots and I would have to be off home, on about the tenth run through the float buried solidly, I struck and the response was instant as a  healthy dogged sprint followed, if this was a perch it was a darn good one, but I could tell this scrap had the characteristics of a chevin, sure enough the water boiled as a broad, blunt head broke the surface.


As I slid the net under it I could see it was easily my largest float and pin caught chevin. The scales read a very pleasing 6.5, I could not resist a speedia and chub picture.

These off the cuff fishing trips always feel quite wholesome, perhaps due to just grabbing the basics and getting out. I had finally christened the speedia and thanks to Philip's very kind hearted gesture I had got back into trotting, I headed home most content.

Flu is company & freeze a crowd

The usual winter bugs abound and everyone in the family has had a dose of flu, it really has been the gift that has kept on giving!

Earlier in the month I had a chat with a chap whom I have come to know via the youtube bloggers match and we decided to arrange a day spent together on one of my local waterways, the plan being to rove about on a crisp morning and see if we could pick up a few fish into the bargain preferably some chub.

Early the following morning my father mentioned to me  " it's a really hard frost out there mate and should make for an interesting days fishing".

That's the thing though, some little rivers feed very well all year round for the angler that is prepared to root about in search of his quarry and the Blackwater is no exception.

Michael pulled up the drive at 9am, stopping in for a cup of tea and a slice of brioche courtesy of mum, we had a good chat for about half hour before heading off to the river. On reaching the waterway it was as I expected, running lower than the loddon and with a tinge of colour, spot on for a bit of chub worrying. It was a crisp day and we slowly made our way to the upstream reaches, taking time to stop, pointing out swims at frequent intervals. There are so many wonderful little swims dotted along this river, which range from long runs that are perfect for trotting, to those typical debris swims where broken branches lay sunken and covered in flotsam, perfect for rolling a bait under, the choice of where to wet a line is at times quite staggering and you can find yourself skipping swims in order to cram others in during the day's fishing.

Michael targeting some marginal eddies

Not long after setting up, a dog walker who had passed by half an hour earlier with what I must say was a fine pair of ear muffs, no that is not code, I really do mean ear muffs and a vibrant pink pair at that, stopped to ask if we had perhaps lost an item of tackle and produced a top section of what turned out to be Michael's  Daiwa float rod, we was very thankful as this could have been a rather dire start to the trip.

It was a slowish start and took a while before we began to receive a few raps and taps, the first couple of fish being scale perfect chublets, however it was apparent that some of the better chub certainly weren't reading the script yet.

Further upstream fishing a marginal undercut I received some very delicate plucks, certainly not the kind of bites I would normally associate with a chub and at one point I did wonder if it was a perch toying with the lobworm. A light strike and I was into a better stamp of fish which tried to find sanctuary under the flotsam on the opposite bank, Michael kindly did the honours with the netting and a quick picture.

Lean, quite hollow and most welcome, I was a happy chap, if not more so to show Michael a tiny glimpse of the fish that inhabit this river.

On the way back downstream we stopped off in a handful of swims, one of those being a lovely long glide with a marginal bay, a perfect swim for a spot of trotting too, although that said we were both link legering, here I decided to have a sit down next to Michael and watch him fish a bit, not long after the bait was in the water he received a suitably confident bite as the quiver tip lunged round, it soon became evident that he was connected to a much better fish which got its head down in a bullish manner and steamed off downstream taking line as it went, I was overjoyed and soon standing ready with net in hand, then it happened a sight no angler enjoys, a hook pull, words were muttered by both of us some of which  sounded like "bar stewards"  or rhymed with rolex.

Despite this Michael was suitably buoyed to have been connected to one of the larger fish and after some careful consideration decided to feed the swim and give it another try. Ten minutes later and the scenario replayed itself, another very unlucky hook pull and after this no more bites were forthcoming.


By now daylight had faded but the air temperature was milder if tempered by a gnawing breeze, so we made our way back downstream to some of the swims I knew had produced in the past and was dearly hoping that Michael might get another bite at the apple. A few handfuls of mashed bread and maggot were placed into one such swim and it was left to settle before a nice juicey lob worm was presented under the opposite margin, just out of reach of the main flow. About thirty minutes passed before the first inquisitive tap was forthcoming, followed by another rattle and shake, more knocks followed in a more aggressive fashion and Michael was soon connected to a rather determined chub that tried to head off upstream under the near margin, giving a great account of itself as it did so. A few moments later the net was slipped under it and there was some happy words shared between us.

4.10

This was a brilliant way to end the trip and as we made our way back to the car it was safe to say we were both a bit knackered but content.

Swollen rivers - It's all gravy

It was a very late afternoon in November, a gloomy day and rather waterlogged affair, each footstep accompanied by muddy slurps and the constant search for balance as I slid my way to the riverbank.

The river swollen, a multitude of currents, debris dancing back and forth as if possessed, forced to dance a savage ballet before disappearing downstream. Swims that were once visible are now submerged and almost unrecognizable save for the landmarks an angler stores at the back of his mind.

Every so often I stop to fixate upon the river and ruminate a while, in some swims this is more protracted than others, I begin to talk to myself, thought processes tumbling from my lips as I reason with choice, taking time to debate my options almost to the point of argument.

Further downstream I find the area I'm looking for, a bottleneck with numerous bits of debris clinging to a tired looking tree, the current weakened by one of natures natural barriers. I slowly take my time to settle in the swim and despite trying to be as silent as possible, I'm still a bit too bearish for my liking. Eventually I'm at peace, listening to the rush of water on a rising river in the darkness, as time passes my mind begins to fill with colourful thoughts of barbel snuggling up under the tree roots in front of me, I savour this thought, lingering on each vivid
detail, for those roots are where my bait is placed and along with it a modicum of hope.


Late evening the rain finally abates, clouds melting away to reveal a blue canvas dappled by numerous stars, my breath now visible, thick plumes rising up, every exhalation illuminated by the light of a lopsided moon. A warming is called for, a short rummage around and the pungent smell of  stewed coffee is wafting invitingly under my nose, I'm soon heated from the core outward.

An owl appears out of nowhere and attempts to land in the tree next to me, pulling up in close proximity above my head, we startle one and other, eventually settling in a tree on the opposite bank. It's safe to say our feathers are equally ruffled, it stays for a while, perhaps to look across enquiringly at the rotund intruder into its world and then vanishes, leaving only the sound of wing-beats in its wake.

By now the rod tip is rocking back and forth in slow agreement almost admitting that it has become something akin to a washing line, debris strewn along its length, another nod soon follows, but this one does not exhibit the same repetition, it lurches forward and springs back into position, my digits twitch uncontrollably, urging me to ready myself, my more verbal half muttering to remain calm and reign in the building adrenaline. The moments that follow all melt into one as the hook is set and that intense connection between angler and fish is made. Powerful runs follow, each one aided by the swollen waterway, I find myself trying to swallow, a few hasty gulps are taken but no saliva is forthcoming. I move further down the bank to gain a better angle, palpitations follow as vibrations from unseen obstacles travel along the rod length, a swirl mid-water reveals a good fish and all types of possible disaster scenarios begin toying with my mind.


After what feels like far too long she slips into the waiting net, my nervous energy is all but expended and I find myself fighting back a rising urge to retch. After much recuperation, needed more for this angler than the fish, I calm myself and peer into the net, it's an old friend, a visitor I had during summer and in fine fettle she looks too.

15.6 personal best

An autumn gift, admittedly a recapture, but such things are quite immaterial, for such is the joy that has been imparted from fish to angler, to see her once again in fighting fit health and up in weight was reward enough. One powerful sweep of the tail and she soon disappears into the murky depths, I smile contentedly wishing her a safe journey.

As I pack up the river is still rising, the colour becoming thicker and like something you might pour over a sunday roast, not to matter though for here it is all gravy.