Just One Cast

The 16th just hasn't been the same for me since I began Spring carp fishing. That, plus the Wye rarely starts with much gusto. Gone are the days of planning, anticipation, a sleepless night beforehand, followed by disappointment. Well, usually.

I rarely get on the river until July, but as the fish have spawned and there's been a spate which is now running off with two feet on, I thought it may be worth a trip. Then my cocky son sent me an image of a chub he'd had with his first cast of the season. Sod it, I'll go and have a look.

Parking away from the visiting hordes and tip-toeing around the sheep and thistles, I found a smooth run that looked perfect for a chub or three. I lobbed a few pellets into the flow and returned to my car to sort my gear. I only had the basics as I wanted to travel light and to keep everything simple. I left my usual barbel rod alone and put the reel on a 1lb test, eleven-foot rod along with a line of about six pounds breaking strain. The business end consisted of a size 10 hook, two bits of pellet glued onto a hair, and this was wrapped in some strong Cheddar cheese. The weight was an SSG attached to the tail of the swivel knot so it would release with less chance of a break should I get snagged. This was then wrapped with plasticine substitute.

Before the cheese was added.

At my chosen swim, I added a few more pellets and bits of cheese, cast, and sat carefully on a thistle-strewn bank. My bait seemed to come too close to the bank, but I figured that's where the free stuff would have gone and hey, what if I do get one first cast and show the young pup he's not so smart.

I felt a pluck, then another. Steady now, that was probably small stuff. Don't screw it up, patience and all that. Then the line straightened and pulled across my finger - I was in. It fought quite well and did the usual dive for the undergrowth, but soon succumbed, and there was my own chub first cast. It was long but lean, obviously a few weeks of rest are needed before the chub are ready to face the anglers. Nobody gives a toss and will carry on regardless, but I do, and I'll not be bothering them until next month.

So, I did fish opening day for about three to four minutes, then I went home. I rang the Boy to rub his nose in it, which he took on the chin. He was on his way back to his river armed with a new rod that had arrived during the day. Later, I had a message telling me he'd had another chub with the first cast of that rod. 

I know when I am beat.

Learning the Canal.

Wednesday

My lad was fishing his new syndicate water for the first time. I was not jealous, I had after all, declined a ticket there myself. But, I did envy the journey, the taking on of a couple of lakes and finding the route to success. I have to admit that my days of session fishing and hoisting big carp are behind me. I shun too, the rules of some modern waters. The lake I fished for so long was a syndicate of no more than a dozen anglers, and rules were all common sense. Not being able to cast beyond imaginary bounds, you can use a baitboat here but not there, and especially, only the bailiffs can fish these swims because lost tackle had been found on the bottom. Those snags were removed and - oh yes - the weekly top-up bait for the fish is deposited there. Those 'bailiffs' had a merry old time whilst Burr juior struggled. No, not for me thank you. 

 But I wanted to fish and revisited the Brecon to Monmouthshire canal at Brecon. It was a hurried departure, and a short session. I failed to take any bread or maggots, but instead I finely chopped some Bacon Grill and took a few pellets too. 

Dace were visible on the surface as I walked to my intended area. They seem very much at home despite the lack of flow, but I was after roach, or chub, and maybe the bream that have been in the vicinity. I settled near some overhanging trees, which would hopefully house some better fish. I soon had a bait in the water.

A gusty breeze ran down the canal, giving the impression of a current. I put some free samples into the nearside and confirmed the lack of flow as they dropped the 2-3 feet to the bottom. A few boats, several groups of ducks and the annoying wind all made float fishing uncomfortable. And, I was biteless. I let my float settle under the rod top and had a ponder. It was the perfect place for a pole, but I can't use them anymore.

As I watched the world go by, I fended off numerous inquisitive dogs, each searching for the source of the meaty smell, and chatted with locals and visitors alike. I was quite content until my float shot under and I lifted into nothing. This happened again as I spoke to a lady from Halifax. This time I got to the rod but was quickly broken off at the hooklink by a rapidly departing fish. The lady apologised and blamed herself. I calmed her and admitted to my own inabilities; she left smiling.

Off came the hooklink and I went to 4lb straight through. The next bite was hit and a scrappy little chub landed. Despite a couple more aborted takes, that was all the action. I did though, plan another venture when I would fish right in amongst the foliage. I also noted that the chub seemed to be coming from under my feet where there's an undercut under the concrete wall, my own journey was taking form.

As the season goes, I've had a sort of pb silver bream, a definite pb crucian and now, a pb canal chub. All small beer but I take some comfort that my laid back approach is interesting and keeping me on my toes.

I also caught a duckling. Not a pb as have landed and released many mallards, swans, gulls, moorhens, coots, and a robin. But this little fella wouldn't give up and did its deepest dive at my meat bait and got the hook lodged in the edge of its beak. No harm done.

........................................................................................

Friday

Growing up, canals meant delicate fishing, light gear and usually, small fish. Yes, one could rake a ton of weed and sit it out for tench or bream, but my efforts left me with a solitary fish per trip. I'm happy to swap a netful of tiny roach and rudd for a nice tench, but I never found consistency. Take the Welsh canal for example. I rarely see anybody fishing other than those with lure gear chasing perch. The few that target the silver fish have been, shall we say, low in talent and content with a repetitive and pretty useless approach. 

I knew I could go my own way and I felt the need to return and prove that I could manage a better fish. This time I took a 1lb TC rod, some bread and the remains of the meat.

Instead of fishing 'upstream' of the trees and hoping to draw fish out, I was going to knock on their front door. I tied a size 10 hook to a 4lb line, added a swan shot 15" up the line and was ready. Out went a couple of small balls of blitzed bread and a few chunks of meat. 

First cast landed on the spot in between the overhanging branches. A slight grin of satisfaction sat on my face as I sat back and took up the slack. Soon after, 'Was that a pull?' I leaned forward, felt everything tighten and hooked into a solid weight. It was less than a minute after casting, and a bream twisted and turned, then did a strange thing: it ran and put up a fight. It kicked a lot and I made a bit of a pig's ear of it, but into the net it went.  

Soon after I had recast, I hit a very fast bite, and a running fish came adrift. The chub in here seem to have a trout-like ability to accelerate. I will land a bigger one soon. 

I cast again, but this time with meat on the hook. Another bite, and subsequently I landed an eel of about a pound. It had a huge mouth and was evidently predatory. 

After this frantic start, the swim quietened down. My free offerings close in were again disappearing but I didn't get any bites. I tried down the towpath a bit, hoping for some instant action. Alas, none came.

A point semi-proved, new ideas buzzing around my head, and another brief visit logged. Quite how often I'll be visiting the canal after the rivers open, I do not know. But I have plenty of ideas for the future. I must also add that, as one who shuns contact with most people whilst fishing, especially the non-angling ones, I thoroughly enjoyed chatting with so many lovely folk and sharing a little moment of their lives. This is what I want from my fishing - contentment.

Striking Gold

There's been very little rhythm in my year so far. I'm still not fishing to a plan, or indeed want to, but now, having transport again I can spread my wings. Of course, fishing afar means early starts or expensive overnight lodgings. It's never easy is it? I groaned out of bed, fell into the car and dodged the deer on the lane into town. I met up with Neil who was going to sit it out and fish for carp. I was chasing the crucian carp and meeting up with an old mate, Keith, for a bit of a natter. Dropping into a swim on my favourite bank, the water looked quite calm and fish were showing often. Lot's of small ones, of course, but a few carp jumped, swirled and cruised. Neil was setting up his house in short order. The sun was bright and I sheltered in the shadow of a small tree. I introduced bait close to the sedges on either side of my position and began with blitzed bread and small bits of flake. The rudd responded immediately, taking a few from one side then switching to the other. Both fished similarly, it was almost a bite a chuck and a procession of the little beauties came to hand. Next door Keith was doing likewise but he had a couple of nice roach on prawns. I changed bait. I had half a tin of bacon grill with me, fresh out of the freezer. It looked pretty awful but I chopped it into tiny cubes and put some, along with some tiny pellets, into the swim. It still produced rudd. In fact, leaving the bait in the water almost anywhere, would produce yet another rudd. It must be paved with them As midday approached, so my float stabbed under with no preliminaries, I struck. My light rod hooped over and the jagged fight told me that I had hit my target. It never ceases to amaze me just how hard crucioans fight, and by the time I had this one in the folds of the net, I had a little audience of dog walker behind me. I knew at once that it was my PB. The scales confirmed it at two pounds exactly.

I sat back and relaxed. I had taken a while to break the two pound mark, if sitting on that number is indeed breaking it? This was a fish that had not come easily yet, here I was, casually catching bits and my goal was achieved. Keith hooked and lost a crucian and was not best pleased. He also caught a tree a couple of times, just to see if his hooks worked.

I kept at it. It was much hotter now and I had lost my shade. At about 12.30 I had another unmissable bite and landed a second crucian of 1lb 12oz. I went through the motions, chatted with Keith, went to see the boy, he'd had a couple of doubles. Then, faced the two hour drive around the Midlands to home. It can't be bad can it? Two trips, the first gave me some confirmed silver bream and therefore a low pb, then a pb crucian. For somebody trying to get into the swing of his early season, I'm on a roll. I appologise for the lack of paragraphs in the above text, I've tried but cannot fix it.

A Place in Time - Barbel Fishing in Extremadura

                                           The business end of a female Comizo Barbel

 A few months ago, my old mate Tony Rocca wrote an excellent book about his exploits in the Extremadura area of Spain. He has been visiting there for fifteen years, usually in the company of the Ninja Barbeller, Ian Hobkirk. Plenty of others have joined him and stopped over in his flat, nestling between the terraced buildings of the village of Medallin. I've fished there twice before but not for a few years. So, when I read his book, I was motivated to have another go. 

                                        A Tony with 20.04 caught earlier this year

 Enter Mark Everard, best known as Dr Redfin. I spoke to him and the subject came up, he was especially excited when I told him that Tony and his mates had all had 20lb + fish. Tony said we could join him and plans were made. These were almost put on hold when the area was deluged by mountainous floods. However, the rain stopped a few days before departure and Tone said "Be Rayt". Apparently, that’s Northern talk for, 'We'll be fine, everything will come up roses'. 

 The river was high, brown and angry on arrival but on day one, Tony and Mark had two or three each. I sat in the 'easy' ie shorter casting swim and blanked my arse off. It was a huge pool fed by a turbulent flume that left a long crease. How come I couldn’t find a fish?

Tony lands one and Mark poses with a carp

 

 Next day, we went looking for some sensible water and the Gypsies (Andalusian barbel), that thrive in a massive reservoir. On arrival, the scene shocked Tony as the levels were up by many feet and submerged the bankside foliage. I fished a little point and saw one or two half-decent fish roll but none of us had a bite. I sat feeding Gibel carp in the margins. If you don't know, this invasive species it comes from the far east and makes an easy but hard-fighting fish loved by match anglers. Professor Mark hates them as they hybridise with most carp and do passable impressions of Crucians that cause a lot of false claims for that hallowed species. I caught a couple just by leaving my hookful of maggots in the margin for a minute or so. It was nice to feel a fish but a very hollow result. 

                                                           The dam at the reservoir

 Just before we left, Mark dropped into my swim and also caught one to avoid his blank. Unbelievably, he later said, "I was so pleased to catch that Gibel". Words I doubt he had ever before uttered or indeed will again. 

                                                                                            A pesky Gibel

 I have to add a word about the birdlife there. Tony had his 'Merlin' song identifier on and recorded Serin, Iberian chiffchaff, quail, three types of thrush, black wheatear, bee-eaters, warblers and finches .... the list went on and on. I even had 14 Great Created Grebes in front of me. The birds everywhere were a constant distraction with Vulchers, Booted and Short Toed eagles, countless Storks along with quite a few Glossy Ibis and Hoopoe. You could never float fish.

Day three saw us back at the long crease with me sat in the middle. At last, I opened my account. The fish were easier to find as the levels were noticeably dropping. Tony had 4 or 5 along with a few hard-fighting common carp. Mark did likewise, including a ten pound barbel. I got off the mark with a pair of small barbel. The first was dropped straight back by Mark so, no picture. And a little one of 3-4lb. It was good to be on the score sheet.

                                                                                At last

I never worried about the lack of fish, I stuck at it and plodded along knowing that my turn would come. There’s no point in changing anything when everybody was fishing the same way, it’s just something that happens sometimes. Nicky told me I had a good ‘un coming too, or was she just using psychology? Yes, that’s what I thought.

That evening we hit the bar again and Mark and I shared fish and chips Spanish style. The plate of chips dwarfed the fish, and we nearly burst.

With just two fishing days left, we headed to a new spot. This was after our morning visit to another bar for two feet of toast and coffee. The toast was half a baguette, split then toasted with jam, cheese, ham, butter….. We settled for butter and strong coffee.

The bar was always full in the morning, alive with excited chatter; everybody seemed to know each other. The conversation was rapid with little laughter coming through but everybody was charming and seemed happy in their tight community. I felt very comfortable there and quite envied the village life that Tony enjoys on his frequent visits. I did however, upset the owners wife when I mistakenly visited the ladies instead of the gents. No harm was done and my charm offensive got me away undamaged.

                                                                     Beer and Tapas - joy!

The new swim had deep water with a decent flow coming from the shallows above. It has a history of ‘Big Girls’ at this time of year but we continued to catch mainly males complete with spawning tubercles. I had three fish between one and three pm. All of them gave me a slack line bite as they lifted my bait then plodded towards me, not the usual screamer associated with barbel. The biggest fish was a female but ‘only’ 11.8 which made me very happy. They really do put up a scrap, staying deep and nodding their head until they come up in the water and shoot off in violent bursts of speed. My knackered shoulders ached from the playing as well as the casting.

Tone again had a barbel, this one had a lot of short-head about it but, as there are five species of barbel sharing a river and spawning grounds, finding a mint example is often difficult. We just accepted them as barbel and got on with it. 

Mark worked hard in his swim that needed a long chuck. He went biteless and was a little irked. 

Next day we swapped around and Mark had ‘my’ swim. I went down into Tony’s and Tone took the ‘dead spot’. He didn’t get a barbel from what is usually a good swim, just landing a couple of small catfish - which he dislikes and refuses to touch. Mark had three including another ‘ten’ and I had two of 8 and 9lbs. The sun was hot and relentless, I even put a brolly up. I was sorry to miss seeing a Mongoose running along the far bank and had to put up with a steady stream of bee-eaters arriving from Africa and a constant accompaniment of Cettis warblers that infest the area. 

 Our last trip along the bumpy track to the road was tinged with disappointment but we had all worked hard and had each caught fish to over ten pounds. Maybe Mark and I will get the timing better next time and find one of those amazing Big Girls - that is a dream but could yet happen.

Tony’s book is available by contacting Tony on lazytombstone1884@gmail.com

Catching Small Perch The Expensive Way

As you may have experienced, we've had a drop of rain of late. Around me, inland seas appeared including the proposed site of a new housing project. Will they never learn? Anyway, river fishing is suited only for those anglers with the idiocy of youth or gills. I used to battle these conditions but the thought of trying to escape from fast water becomes more vivid with experience.

What to do? I had been pondering a new direction for my limited talents and, that multi-species trip out of Poole left an indelible mark on me. I began following the blogs of LRF (Light Rock Fishing) anglers and their pursuit of numerous species where even a tiny fish can be celebrated. There was though, a repetitive list of contributors who'd spent a fortune on their gear and were publishing pictures of minuscule perch. The occasional lump appealed to me and I dipped my toe into this new world. Rods, reels, and hundreds of little lures were purchased and I waited for my chance to give it a go

. 

Yay! First cast.

A three-acre, shallow estate lake was my chosen venue and on a cool afternoon, I made my first cast. Guess what? I landed a diminutive perch. I was overjoyed as I had succeeded - sort of. I made my way around much of the lake and landed a couple more small fish whilst watching the resident carp rolling, splashing and throwing up bubbles as they fed fervently in the twilight. I had enjoyed the session but the thought that a different approach could have presented me with a fine common carp irked me.

This has been my problem for quite a while now. Do I go for one method/species or do I fill the car with enough kit to equip half a dozen anglers to cover whatever the conditions throw at us? I rarely travel light but, pondering species and methods distracts me. I recall with some joy the three or four years I spent fly fishing and the lack of tackle I took with me. My belt and braces mentality and being overloaded with gear have been a literal pain in the neck.

We had a week in Cornwall and took some LRF gear to pass the time but the weather, dropping a heavy weight on my foot, and our neurotic dog caused us to return early. My one short session was a blank.

Frustration and research saw Neil and I heading for the Brecon & Monmouthshire canal. We worked hard for a couple of hours without so much as a tug or a sighting of a fish. I managed to lose my hook in a tree and pondered whether or not to set up again. I did and, instead of a piece of plastic, I impaled a redworm to the hook. As I turned to face the canal again, I spotted some movement on the surface. Probably small roach or similar but activity and that's exactly what the predators will home in on.

I cast beyond the movement and twitched the bait back. I had a take! Just a little judder through the sensitive rod but, despite a pause, I missed it. Back out again and in the same spot, another pull. I twitched the worm and felt more interest, this time I left it to lie. Soon the line began to tighten and I was into a 'decent' fish that was bigger than the tiddlers I had last time out. I was genuinely thrilled to land a fish of a pound or so.

Neil joined me and had a smaller one on his lure whilst I managed one last fish again on worm.

Small beer but I was fishing in calm water from an even bank and not too far from the car - result!

So, there you have it. Expensive (so far) but hopefully, it will be well worth it.

Something Different

Steaming out of Poole Harbour onboard a boat full of blokes, most of which I had never met, I was full of anticipation and excitement. The trip had not started well as the journey South had entailed a lengthy diversion and driving through some torrential rain. The car park was the first hurdle of the new day as the payment had to be made by phone app. I'm no luddite but this one had me scratching lumps out of my hair. What app needs your date of birth but only allows you to count back down on a calendar at a week at a time? By the time I had sorted payment I was the only one left in the carpark, I grabbed my stuff and hurried to the jetty. I was later to realise that my hat and many other essentials were still in the boot as the land slipped away behind us, on top of that, my late boarding put me in the crappiest part of the boat to fish from - bugger.

As those around me sorted their kit, it became quite clear that most of the rigs I had pre-tied were inappropriate but sod it, they'll have to do. I began to concentrate on the job in hand as fish after fish started to come aboard..... to everybody else. A run of Scad passed me by, then the Pout showed up. I did eventually get amongst those but, by the time I got into the swing of things, several other species had come over the side. Ballan Wrasse, Goldsinny Wrasse. a Baillons Wrasse (those last two were new to me and I wished I'd had them), then Mark Everard, the trip organiser, had a splendid Corkwing Wrasse. Jack Perks was with us and he had the greenet Ballan Wrasse I have ever seen, it was going well.

My Pout numbers increased and a heavier pull gave me a small Ballan. It was time for a move and a go for some plaice. I had an instant responce on my rag and prawn combo bait but, try as I may it would not develop into a proper pull. In the past I have fished the North Somerset waters where massive leads are required and bulky baits needed to retain some scent in the fast tides, bites there are unmissable but here was more akin to quiver tipping for roach and bream.

We stopped at a Bream area and suddenly it all fell into place. I had half a dozen beautiful Bream, a fish I have always wanted to catch. I did foul hook a tiddler many years ago but that was the real deal. A further move or two and I had a couple of Tub Gurnard and three Plaice, a new species for me. I was very content if a little tired from standing most of the day.

Mark and one other chap had taken 8 species each and our boat accounted for 13 different species in all. The sister boat that shadowed us throughout, also had a good day including an Allis Shad. For me there were several high points and seeing two of Mark's pout surface with Cuttlefish hanging on to them was awesome. But why just his? I tell you, he's a fish conjourer. Another chap has a Squid grab his feathers. It was a handful to untangle and it 'inked' copiously. Waiting for the ink to run out, I leant a hand and teased the hooks from amongst its tenticles, at one point it was holding my finger with its little suckers, that was the best moment of the day.

The day ended at the pub - of course, and Mark handed out some silly prizes. One guy (Martin) had asked on the round-robin email for advice on avoiding sea sickness. I proffered what help I could and we swapped a few messages on the subject, I dubbed him 'Barfin Martin' which caught on but awarded him a special prize for keeping a hold of his breakfast despite feeling queezy when holding a glass of water. I used to go sea fishing with a bunch of mates on a regular basis, I miss the banter, the quiet competativeness and just experiencing seeing something spectacular appear from the depths, I don't think it will be too long before I do it again.

Going Back

I've previously blogged about my first fishing trip way back in 1964 and followed it up with a nostalgic visit some eight years or so ago. Fifty Not Out I have fished the old waters from time to time and always found the Weir to be full of dace, roach and nowadays chub. Trotting maggots in the outflow guaranteed plenty of bites and lots of fish swung up over the fence and into your hand. Anything bigger was 'walked' along to a lower point where it could be netted. It was like fish soup.

This month, I passed my 60th anniversary, six decades of dangling baits in the hope of that feeling through the rod as a fish twists, turns or runs. It has rarely been as easy as snatching fish from the weir but it has always been engaging and entertaining.  There is though an old adage that is often used about fishing spots 'Never go back'. 

I have returned to the scene of past glories and found them destroyed by age, 'progress' or the apparent needs of the matchmen or carp chasers. It is always disappointing but a heavy sigh and a shrug of the shoulders is usually enough to assuage the soul. But not today. 

Let me explain the thrill of the weir to a young lad who grew up and took his own child to catch the magic of its atmosphere. The main weir outflow ran parallel to the bridge and fish could always be seen attacking loose feed or your hookbait. This flow met the lesser outflows whose clear waters ran over clean gravel that harboured trout and grayling. Then the entire force of the currents joined to go obliquely across the pool to where the gravel settled and formed a bank, the perfect roach area. You could catch almost anywhere, but a favourite method as autumn approached was to long-trot silkweed under a bulky float. The float would be dragged under by roach and even dace, it was thrilling and this young man caught a roach just a couple of ounces shy of two pounds using this method. Chub became more prolific over the years but, by roaming downstream a few hundred yards roach could be caught in good numbers.

The white water from the outlet used to push fast water across the pool

To mark my anniversary I decided to fish the weir one more time. I made a considered decision to avoid using maggots. Minnows were cherished when I was young but nowadays, although I do love a minnow, I know that they would only attract small fish. After all, with so many fish available, why waste time on tiddlers, an indication of how my angling developed during my life.

Looking off the high fishing point of the bridge I was immediately aware of how shallow it all looked and the abundance of weed that was growing there now. The main current now dribbled back against the weir sill and seemed devoid of life. The other outflows were too shallow for anything but tiddlers and were again uninhabited. A stronger flow was coming from the far end of the weir but, after a few feet was diverted by a bank of stones and ran across the main pool looking fishless. The banks, despite it being school holidays, were devoid of anglers.

Having set up my tackle I watched four paddle borders gather in front of me. Not something I ever saw in the past but the middle classes do love spending their money, don't they?  Having waved them goodbye, they were later replaced by five more borders and a canoe. To be fair, they did hold off from entering my swim but, in the good old days, all canoeists were greeted with a hail of maggots right along the river. Oh well, times change.

I did see a couple of small trout idling in the current but they soon spooked from my shadow. I scattered a few small pellets and they sank to near the bottom where the minnows bothered them until they could be eaten. As I fed the area a few dace appeared but never really seemed very interested in my offerings. Little chub drifted in and out and a small shoal of dace gathered over some deeper water nearby but these too were gone as fast as they had arrived. 

I fished away from my shadow, tried pellets, some paste that was too soft and some hookable pellets that simply dripped off the hook. I have never had success with hookable pellets. I turned to sweetcorn and impaled a small grain on a size 16, this was presented as delicately as I could but the grain on the hook was never approached.  Where are all the fish? Why are the few I can see acting so indifferently? I felt certain that maggots would have taken something but I had made my decision.

Dispondent

By now I was disappointed, my dreams of reliving the past had been shattered but, ever hopeful, I opted to give the backwater a go. I must explain that the backwater was very different to the fast and clear waters below, they ran slow and deep but the roach fishing could be great fun. It also threw up dace, I once had one of ten ounces, and grayling, chub, even carp. It was more of a challenge but with plenty of places to fish, it always held an army of kids and grownups armed with rods and ambition. Now there is a large cafe and a boat club that prevent access to some of the best water. 

I settled on a familiar swim and put on a waggler. As I set to make my first cast so the wind came up and continued increasing until I left. I was also visited by the canoeists from the club but they were young, saw my disapproval and headed back upstream. I did however have a couple of bites on pellet but failed to contact either. I guess it just wasn't my day.

I finally revisited the weir bridge, it had not improved but I persisted for a while. A group of lads walked past me and one cheeky little begger asked, "What you fishing for - rats? There's nothing in there except rats.... and sticks". He added as he threw a stick into the water. And that summed the day up. Whereas there used to be countless eager youngsters catching or at least trying to catch often visible fish. Where there were grumpy adults each looking for solace by the waterside and harumphing at requests for bait and hooks, there was now nobody. 

I wandered down into the town alongside the river and whereas just a few years ago there were plenty of access places down the bank for the anglers to scrabble and fish, now there were just three and one of those was so overgrown as to be useless.

Maybe all the local anglers are more sensible than I and they waited for less bright and windy conditions. I know that very few kids would be allowed to roam and explore without a parent's eagle eyes upon them and all things considered, fishing is just not attracting people the way it once did. Some were playing football on the green, and a small group with a couple of rods between them did drown a small amount of maggots in a very short time before they left, doubtless to play on a gaming device. Oh yes, they left a plastic bag and drink bottle behind not eight yards from a bin.

Remember these?

I smiled at the elaborate play area where our children can frolic on brightly coloured climbing frames and things that make their senses tingle, all standing on softened flooring. In my day we had a slide, the Weir one being particularly high, black and intimidating but we greased it with candle wax and flew off the end. There was too a 'horse' that sat five or six of us and which threw everyone about as its copious weight gathered momentum. It was a wonder we had no fatalities but, for those that were unseated, a hard concrete ground broke their fall.

My local river, the Wye, is dying on its ass and despite the goodwill of many, it continues to fade. I have long been aware of its ill health and that of many others I have visited over the years but not the Tone. It never was a 'prime angling location' in the way of The Royalty, Throop or so many others but, it was 'my' home river and it kept producing each time I fished it over so many years. But I do now fear for its future and for the future of our hobby.