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 I am amazed at how often I dream about fishing. I reckon my thoughts have drifted to the unknown waters of my imagination during nearly every night since my last trip, and a good many before. The obsession with all things fishing is a powerful curse. Incidentally, I didn't once catch a dream fish. Torture even during my most peaceful hours.

A break in the awful weather and yet another chest infection, and I sneaked onto one of the lakes I have available. I blanked. I retreated into another impatient abstinence and planned. Then I had yet another chest infection. My last visit to the pharmacy saw me carry my month's supply home in a carrier bag. A Carrier Bag! Good grief. Then Nicky caught the local virus that was doing the rounds, and another two weeks plus were spent being nursemaid whilst taking more debilitating antibiotics.

At last, the wind changed back to a westerly, and my mood lightened. I visited a pool with perch potential with my lad, Neil. He fluked a 2.2 perch on a prawn tail. I relieved him of many prawns and fished sections tipped with worm, confident of putting him to shame. I had an eel and a perch - see picture.

Next on the list was a small tench lake I had rejoined after a couple of tortured seasons a few years ago. Just over an acre in size, weedy, lots of lilies, and apparently, plenty of tench. I have previously taken just one of the inhabitants that weighed less than the amount of tooth enamel I ground off. 

I walked around it, sat and watched it, talked to some new members, sharp, good anglers all, each one biteless. The most steadfast of which had already notched up over 100 hours of thoughtful angling all for nowt.

I first fished it just before the sky caught fire. I blanked - let's get that out of the way. But I had tench bubbling in my swim, and that's encouraging. No need to become suicidal after one visit. This morning I returned. The lake felt full of that spring atmosphere, with plenty of birds, butterflies and something that bit my leg, most likely a horse fly. I have noticed a lot of painted lady butterflies; they must have hitched a lift on the Southerly winds. Anyway, back to the blanking.

Spot the static float

This pool has been stocked - twice - with crucians. I've seen them turning in the water, heard them flipping in the lilies as they spawn, and have been frustrated as you like with their bubbling and flaunting around your float that remains motionless. It's an enigma wrapped in a quandary. The tench won't eat bread or maggots, unless they are red, yet have been caught on boilies and pellets. No crucian has ever been landed, and the first stocking was 7 years ago. 

I'll be honest, as much as I want some tench action, I am really getting an itch from the crucians. I've ordered various baits, feeds and may even buy a pole to get my presentation just so. All this despite already offering a 4mm pellet that's been critically balanced with a bit of 6mm pop-up. I can tell you that was not without incident, what with stiff fingers, glue and all. 

Fiddly and ineffective.

I am at the start of a project and am determined to stick to it. The new season is almost upon us, but the rivers take a while to get up to speed and should the heat hang about like last year, they will be crap anyway.

Whilst talking about the weather, why do those simpering idiots who report the weather on our TV sets constantly apologise about rain, then announce a new record temperature like we've won an Olympic Gold. Never mind claiming kudos for our scary climate disruption or the odd shower that may ruin a picnic in the home counties, this stuff is threatening our planet and the lives of everything on it. Bloody tossers.

Where was I?

Oh yes. Be patient, I may be away again for a while, but I may just unlock an incredibly challenging little pool.

First Trip Of The Year

 What a bloody awful winter. However, come the first of March, and I've seen Celendine on the riverbank, whilst the frogs and toads have spawned in my pond. It's time to abandon the Ark building project and start digging the nuclear bunker.

Hey ho, we move forward and hope for the best. Personally, I am looking forward to some summer tench fishing, but there's no way I could go any longer without wetting a line. This afternoon, I trundled down to the Wye and found just one other car on the fishery. At least they've not been pressured. 

I have to admit to feeling under the weather. Two and a half months of avoiding cold and rain will do that to you. My gear felt heavy despite much of it being left at home. I soon discovered that my landing net spreader block had also missed muster, and that posed the potential problem of netting anything hooked. 

I slumped into a good-looking crease swim and cast a PVA bag with a few pellets and bits of meat into the flow. I soon snagged and had to tie a new rig. Of course, the heavens opened, and I struggled with wet glasses, stiff hands and a large dose of intolerance. When, at last, I had cast again, the rain immediately stopped. As did my confidence, as I had chosen on a very snaggy spot.

I was thinking about giving up, but forced myself to move up to another place where the nearside current was behaving itself. I cobbled a rig together and wrapped some cheese around a bit of rubber tied to a hair. It was all very Micky Mouse. I really was as rusty as the railings on the Titanic. Anyway, out went my gear, I sat back and decided to write my diary. I was surprised to find several of my autumn trips hadn't been recorded. I filled the gap with brevity and felt bad about my lapse in dedication. I was interrupted by a knock on the rod and reached for the handle. As I did so, the rod jammed over as a lively fish bolted downstream. I lifted into fresh air. I suppose I didn't deserve a fish whilst fishing like a plonker.

I made my way back home and pondered on the day. It did me good to get out, and I shall be fishing again soon, weather permitting. It would be nice to land something.

Zander Update

I've got an itch that I cannot quite scratch. Sitting between two anglers who caught zander and failing is a hard pill to swallow. 

I've kept my eye on the weather and applied much thought to the cause. Yesterday was to be the day. I'd sorted through the freezer for some fresher bait and had pondered an approach with less resistance to the taking fish.

I collected Neil, threw him the keys, and he drove me to Gloucester. We headed for the spot that produced last time, and Neil allowed me to steal his swim. I'm rarely happy when taking the goer swim. I prefer to do all of the work, but this choice was logical as it gave access to many features. I set about sorting a couple of new hooklinks, size 2 circle hooks to a supple braided link. There are few pike in the canal when compared to the zander, it just felt worth the risk of a bite-off.

Out went rod one, and I set about sorting number two. I became distracted by a large fish rolling just beyond a boat between the Boy and me. It swirled again, and the penny dropped. By the time I got to Neil, he was looking for his scales as the fish rested in his landing net. I called him a few unfatherly names and peeked into the mesh, "PB there I reckon". Considering this was only his second zander, it was a good step up the weight ladder, and the scales showed a healthy 8lb 2oz. More insults and a swathe of photos later, and I returned to get my second rod out.

I was happy for Neil. There is no animosity between us, and he has become a very competent angler. There's no time for jealousy as we fish as a team. But his 'luck' is getting ever stronger as I seem to have lost that vital edge to my own fishing. I sat, poised over my rods, a section of lamprey on one, and a several-times-refrozen little roach on the other, that having been Neil's successful bait. 

A little later, I had a flying run on the roach rod. The line was pouring out, and the strike/tightening seemed a mere formality. I hit fresh air. Not even a mark on the bait. And that was that. One twitch was all that followed. It got cold. 

Neil popped his head around the corner to show me that he can also catch small zander. He put it back and rolled up again with, "Ever caught a zander on a centre pin?" He'd put a rod out virtually under his feet. and had an almost immediate take. I told him to be careful not to trip over his halo.

So endeth Trip 2, and I'm even more determined to catch something bigger than my ancient pb of 4lb 9oz. It can't be too difficult - can it? I shall be back, but probably when the weather is a little milder.

8.02 

The Predicted Zander

Monday the 1st. The weather was not as bad as expected; the rain passed through, and it was mild. Perfect fishing conditions. However, I stayed away from the rising river as I'm still smarting from my last visit that saw me stuck on a muddy slope for the evening..... and for most of the next day. I told Nicky that I needed a 4x4 but, to maintain marital harmony, I chose a shitty front-wheel drive Hyundai. That will soon change.

On Tuesday, I awoke to find a message from Mark on my phone. He'd dreamt that he caught a small zander and a pike. Being as Zander were our target, I hoped it was an omen, and the fact that he'd caught them from a tiny, dirty stream was just his brain screwing with him.

So, there I was, yesterday morning, squinting through the low sun that bored into my retinas as I drove towards Gloucester. I had almost reached Neil's place in Hereford, intending to save him the fuel money, when the phone rang. My maggots were still in the fridge - bugger! Back I went, Neil drove himself, and later than intended, we met up with Mark at the pub car park. 

The choice of where to fish was obvious as a barge turning area was just a short walk away. Plenty of features, shelter from the boats and a provenance for good fishing. Mark slipped in between a couple of moored boats, Neil went around the bay and fished a corner spot that gave him great scope, and I was on the corner opposite him. 

I tackled up with float gear, plumbed around a bit and found a perfect ledge. I baited with maggots and fed them along with some blitzed bread, hoping to bring in more small fish and also attract some predators to the banquet. Right from the off it was a bite a chuck. A small roach that suited my bait needs, cut into two and two zander rods were soon out. The roach kept coming, including a proper one of 12oz or maybe a tad more. Dr Redfin was on hand and judged it slightly bigger, it really didn't matter. I also had a perch and a ruffe, which are fast becoming my favourite small species. Move over gudgeon, the ruffe are moving up. 

I was getting bites, and despite the bright conditions, Neil had a couple of abortive takes on his zander rods. The mood was positive and I relaxed into the canal atmosphere of friendly dogs and shapely joggers. Then it rained.

Mark and I were chatting in his swim when his wobbling rod, left as a sleeper-rod, began 'wobbling'. I drew Mark's attention to the fact and he landed a small zander. Job done. He followed up a bit later with a screaming run on a dead roach. It was obviously a pike and it certainly fought harder than his first fish. 

Meanwhile, the small fish had completely switched off. I couldn't buy a bit anywhere in my swim. I was getting sharp runs but nothing that hung on. Thinking back, Marks' both had come on rigs with none or very little weight on them whereas mine had a little lead but was it too much?

Dusk came. Earlier in the day, Mark had quipped that we 'had them surrounded', to which I added, 'We attack at dusk'. My baits though, were left completely untouched but, through the gloom, I saw Neil stand and adopt a fighting position. Quickly, I was at his side as he netted a 6lb zander. He was over the moon, as was I. That it was better than my PB, I forgive him. He had stuck it out on a frustrating day and was rewarded with his first zander - brilliant.

We had a bite at the pub then, I drove home, squinting my eyes through fog and mist. 

It only occurred to me, and indeed Mark, this morning that his dream had come true - for him. Strange.

At Last, Some Fish

Following on from my enforced hiatus from rod dangling and the ensuing blank, I have made two trips to the River Lugg during the last few hours of daylight. I have been surprised at how quickly I have regained some stamina; proof were it needed that the cure is sometimes worse than the ailment, and pills that make you wobbly are best avoided. Hmm, that's the opposite of Viagra, isn't it? I digress.

On my first trip, old spangle nuts (the Boy) sent me a text as I approached my first swim. He suggested that I cast to the farthest reaches of the pool, where the deep water holds barbel. I had brought a one-pound test rod and a centre pin. Apart from close work on the float, I haven't cast with a pin for about a year, so that was a bit of a downer. I searched with worms and cheese around, but it was dead. Even the small chub that harried the minnows were reluctant to engage. 

The light was fading, so I visited a favoured spot. I fended off a queue of sniffing dogs, each hellbent on locating my Red Leicester cheese, and smiled politely at their owners, especially the female ones. 

I offered freebies to the water gods and weighted my rig down with just enough lead to allow it to trundle out of the main current and settle alongside the nearside margin, hopefully just short of the snags. 

With the Wye and Lugg in mind, and the lack of level swims and my inability to balance on tiny ledges like some mountain goat, I made a purchase a while back. It's a four-metre landing net handle, and yes, it is just about right even in low water conditions. I positioned it near my baited area, but fished farther upstream, where I quietly flopped into my fishing chair with a loud sigh/grunt.

My line lay over a lot of long grass, which I didn't like. I repositioned so that I had an unhindered path to the bait. It didn't take long. A gentle nod followed by a lunge and a chub was head-shaking and looking for cover. I was at my net in no time and brought the fish close enough to enmesh it. Funny thing is, a bloody great net pole, the net, and the resistance of water combine to make manoeuvring it quite difficult. I flopped the net head into the margin, pulled the fish over it and grabbed the handle. Job done? Not quite. Lifting three pounds+ of fish, and something to do with fulcrums that I have long forgotten, added to the extra weight of it all tangling in some grass and weeds. Well, thank goodness it was only a modest fish. 

Job done, I had caught something at last.

A few days later, we were back. Neil was trying to find some perch or pike with small dead roach. I did so too, for a while, but reverted to the cheese and worms. It was great to be sitting together, chopsing about the world and all the crap two anglers natter about. Nothing happened except Neil lightened his and my float box by a couple of treasures.

As the sun began to drop behind a hill, I moved to a swim that I'd fed the last time I was here, but didn't get around to fishing. It was similar to the one that had produced before and an exact copy in approach and subsequent result followed. I made landing it slightly easier by sitting on the edge of the bank. Getting up again was an indignant affair, but a fish is a fish and I was content.

This was my last trip as a sexagenarian; my demise into old age will be displayed in these pages.

Summer Missed

 Like sand through my fingers, the summer drifted into autumn whilst I watched, inactive. 

My last trip was on August 21st, a short evening visit to the Wye, searching for an oxygenated bit of flow where the 'gorilla snot' weed was bearable. I found such a spot, but it had been fished all day. That angler was leaving, and I did not fancy another trek or balancing on a crumbling ledge. I gave it two or three hours, but it soon felt like a vain effort. I blanked.

My few Wye forays had all been a struggle. Low conditions and enthusiasm, just a few chub here and there. I looked forward to some rain, low atmospheric pressure and some barbel. I yearned also for the first week of October and a long-planned Tuna trip. There was much to be excited about. Then, the rug was pulled from beneath me when my chest kicked off again, and another deep infection took root. The coughing I can live with, but the horse pill antibiotics knock the crap out of me. No matter, come early September and I'll be back.

There followed two more conditions of crap health, adding up to five weeks out of seven on antibiotics. I was wrecked. 

During this time, my lad, Neil, was spanking the Lugg. He's had a stack of chub and a few barbel to over eleven pounds, which, by the way, is an unclaimed record. I've envied his energy and passion, but I'm more than happy to see him doing it all his way and reaping the rewards from an often difficult river that never gives up its barbel easily.

A rare Lugg double

As for the tuna trip? Their first two days were blown off, but the third day, and the one I should have been on, produced five tuna between 100 and 450lbs. Alas, I was not up to it and missed the fun. The pictures and videos of the trip were mouth-watering, especially the enormous chaos of striking fish and birds as a shoal of hapless fish is torn into again and again. This maelstrom passed under the boat, and the occupants all got very wet. Hey ho, maybe one day. 

One day, one day.

Anyroadup, I went fishing yesterday. Neil acted as guide and nursemaid, and I sat in an old favourite swim for the last few hours of daylight, feeding hemp and pellets and a little bit of meat on the hook. A proven method to get a bite or two. I banked. Neil had a chub and nothing else moved. Do I care? No, it's my first day out and there's rain forecast next week. I have much catching up to do.

A Match Like No Other

Mark Everard described it as 'A Match Like No Other'. That sums it up. About twenty of us met at Devizes to fish the Kennet and Avon Canal at the Caen Hill Locks. If this is new to you, there are sixteen locks to take canal boats up and down the hill. If you wonder, that's a minimum of five hours of waiting for the water to rise, or fall, pass through the lock and head a hundred yards or so to the next. I suggest you take the bus.

It was a Prostate Cancer Awareness event . A few years ago, I was with Mark on the riverbank when he received a call from the doctor, suggesting he undergo a further check after his PSA blood test. PSA stands for Prostate-Specific Antigen, and it lets you have a reasonably accurate idea if there are any problems. It is much more accurate and a lot easier than a meeting with a doctor's middle finger.

Mark had no symptoms but was in deep trouble. His subsequent operation created a massive hill to climb, but he's back on form and showing the energy of your average mad professor. Soon after his diagnosis, another mate of mine, Nick Bubb, had a similar anti-symptomatic diagnosis after a long and twisting journey through the Health Service due to an ankle injury. He is also back to his 'usual' ways as he fills my Message Box with pictures that I cannot share here.

If you are over forty, male, and still alive, get yourself tested. It makes more sense than making excuses.

So, the gang had a choice of six 'ponds', the little reservoirs that feed the locks. Each is full of fish of many kinds. That then was the aim. A multi-species match with the most species being the winner. Unusually, hybrids counted as species, meaning that size wasn't everything. We trudged to our

chosen ponds. The Match was roving and ran on honesty - providing photographic proof or a reliable witness could back you up. 

I chose an attractive spot, checked the depths, tackled up, fed the nearside with maggot and the edge of the central channel with blitzed bread. I soon had a roach or two and a few perch from the nearside. I got into a rhythm and soon was taking fish regularly. I had a couple of bream, then a tench of 2-3 pounds. All good fun on such light tackle. My species list rose to five with a rudd and then six with a pretty rudd/roach hybrid. 

Hybrid roach/rudd

A few of the crew began wandering, and the news was pretty mixed. One thing for sure was that gudgeon, silver bream and ruffe had been caught. Tench were at a premium too, so I figured a few of the little ones would put me in with a shout. Hark at me. As a rule, I hate match fishing, but this was somehow different. I obviously have a competitive streak. Jack Perks appeared and dropped into the next spot. A minute later, he casually dropped a gudgeon back. I could have thrown my maggots at him.

I still think it should have counted

Despite feeling quite content and enjoying the fishing, I went for a walk and chatted to a few people. As I spoke to David, his float sank and he landed a Ruffe. We were both delighted to see one after so many years, but oh, how I wanted one.  I went back for my gear and settled in the pond with the ruffe in it.

I re-rigged to a very light float, lighter hooklink, smaller hook, and carefully set the bait to sit just tickling the bottom. Jack was on eight species. I just wanted a little fish or two, provided they were different. But, I caught perch after perch after bloody perch. Mixed with them were roach, one of which was bigger and dropped off due to my impatience. I really worked at it and eventually, Aroogah! Up came a diminutive ruffe. I was overjoyed, and those within earshot were free with congratulations, in a quite jealous way.

                             

Nine or ten species were collectively caught, the biggest a tench of over four pounds. Despite my protestations that a Zebra Mussel was a shell FISH, a plea unanimously turned down, I ended on seven species, sharing second place. The fish whisperer, Jack Perks, took top spot. It was a fun event, we all got prizes, albeit with almost zero value, but I think we are all hoping to be there for the next one.

Mark does the prize giving

If you have a spare shilling, you can donate it here

https://www.justgiving.com/page/mark-everard-fishing-26jul25