Atmosphere

 I nipped down to the river on the 16th. A quick evening visit to catch a chub to whet the appetite for the coming season, and more importantly, to see if my fat, crumbling body will tolerate the banks of our most alluring river. 

I blanked, and I had difficulty finding a comfortable spot. Not a great start.

A distant balloon

There's more to fishing than just drowning maggots. We become aligned with a level of awareness of the weather, atmospheric pressure, and, of course, the memories of previous encounters. On countless occasions, I have dropped whatever I have planned and rushed to a river, always a river, and fished, confident of success. I've even explained my erratic behaviour to Nicky with a "There's a big one waiting for me", and have come back with tales of double-figure barbel.  

Yesterday, the Wye got under my skin, and I felt compelled to go again. There is a swim that has long been a summer favourite of mine. It's a place where the wide sky entertains with fabulous cloud patterns and quite glorious sunsets. As the light fails, the creatures of the river become more animated: birds, insects, the occasional fox or badger, and the fish apparently, jump and roll for joy. It has an atmosphere that is quite intoxicating and one I haven't sampled for far too long. I needed a fix.

When I reached the first gate, I had a sudden epiphany and headed to a different spot. I cannot explain my change of mind; it just does that sometimes and I am drawn elsewhere. I settled into a swim with an equally sumptuous view, but where I have rarely had much success. No matter, I got to it, put a couple of rods out and enjoyed the ever-changing sky, the song of the reed buntings, and watched a distant hot-air balloon. I was very content.

After an hour or so, I checked both baits, and they were both missing. Having thrown my gear together, I had left enough behind that meant I was banding boilies, never a great idea, especially when those lock-picking chub are around. I recast the left rod with a PVA bag and half boilie, then sat faffing about trying to get a bait to sit on my hook without it pinging off and making me grind my teeth even harder. I was losing my buzz, I was here for peace and harmony, not this.... Hang on, my left rod is nodding.

I lifted into a throbbing weight. The strong head shaking suggested a chub, but the line was dragging against a snag of some sort. It felt like a sunken line, but I was gaining my own line and kept at it. Eventually, the snag released its grip, and it was just the fish, which was showing signs of getting heavier. A deep, line stripping run proved it was a barbel, and it battled on with the usual dogged determination they display, and that I have missed for too long. As it flashed and rolled before having that 'just one more' charge toward the deeps, it occurred to me that I have only had one barbel in the last two seasons. I won't drip on about the reasons, but I was glad to be back. Muscle memory did the rest, and it eventually slid into the net.

It was just after 9pm, and I hadn't yet witnessed the final act of the show when the sun sets and the river comes alive. I was, however, satisfied. I slowly packed my gear, wrote my diary, then trudged back to the car. I paused at the gate and took a shot or two of the vista, aware that I will be called back very soon.

Sunshine on a rainy day

 It's a venue I like to fish at least once a year. A Warwickshire reservoir that holds many carp, but also crucian carp, and I like crucian carp a lot. I arranged the trip with Mark Everard. His diary is a mess of meetings, travelling, and fishing. He needs to live in a world with 40 hour days and fifteen day weeks. My diary is a collection of blank pages with the odd reminder that I need to cast my car to the feeding frenzy of a garage again, and a few tear spots when I imagine the bill.

The day approached, and the weather changed. If we were NASA, we'd have rearranged the launch time, but fishermen are a hardy/stupid lot, so we went ahead. At the hotel, Mark scoured over his 'weather modelling' apps. I glanced at a forecast. No matter who you looked at, it was going to piss down early on then brighten. Our 'Sparrow's fart' start was abandoned, and a buffet breakfast was paid for. That's more like it.

We walked a long way, laden with several approach options piled high on my back, and settled in some sheltered water. The heavens opened as I put my shelter up. None of the pontoons caters for anything that isn't built around a central pole. Mine is a lightweight brolly with side flaps, storm poles and pegs, again, not conducive to wooden pontoons. I settled under a tree next to the platform. 

The worst of the rain passed, but was quick to return if I dared venture onto the platform to fish more comfortably. A light 'lift float' using a float that was gifted to me last year, and is superb. I also put out a method feeder, but didn't get a touch in it all day.

Sport was slow, a roach or two to me, and Elmer Fudd next door, accurately trickling feed right next to the reeds, was catching more readily. I like to frequently change my baits when fishing for crucians as they seem to switch on and off your offerings at a whim. I had a small tin of corn and peas, something I wanted to try on my tench venue. After a lull, I popped a pea on a size 14 and sat back more in hope than expectation. I've never baited with a pea before, but they must be edible for fish, right? 

Huwoh Wabbit

Down went the float and off went a carp like I had set light to its tail. My 11' float rod was hooped over but I did start to get some control over it. Mark arrived, saying something about a "Pesky Wabbit", and before he could get the net to it, one last dive into the roots under the bank saw my rod bounce straight again. "Bloody mud pigs", muttered my esteemed colleague. I decided it was time to move.

The bank we settled on was much calmer now, and the rain was just a bad memory. Mark immediately set about upsetting the rudd community whilst I was catching roach. I was using Fjuka Squeez Ready pellets on the method, and even squeezed some around my bottom shot as the casting distance was minimal. It was a bite-a- chuck and great fun. Then Mark said something about a tench. "Are you in?" I asked, "Yes" came the minimalist reply. " Is it a tench?" I enquired, "No, it's a not tench".  I went to see for myself, and there he was with a cracking crucian in his landing net. I held the handle while Mark fumbled for scales and sling. "And awaaay" I said - implying that I had released his prize. His look was, for a second, a picture, and I think he may have said something rude. On the scales it went 2.06, which was enough to justify all of the effort. I was made up for him, you know, you have to encourage these youngsters, but I sorely wanted one myself. 

2lb 6oz

Mark had three more 'not-tench' over the next hour or so, all between 1.06 and 1.14. To add to my grief, he had scared his rudd friends my way, and I was getting all sorts of unmissable bites that I often missed. Eventually, I hit something that felt like a not tench. It played deep but unspectacularly, and I had my crucian. 1.12 of golden beauty, this was my sunshine, and even the real sun had peeped out from the clouds. That weight that we anglers carry, the anticipation versus the need for success, was lifted. When I soon landed a 1.13, a stunning fish in great condition, I was sated. After this, the swim died a bit, as they all do from time to time, and I knew that I'd had my crucian action for the day.

1.12

1.13

We packed up during rush hour, so with both of us facing long journeys home, we dropped into the nearby pub and dined on some delicious but heart-attack-inducing food. Fishing with Mark is always enjoyable, and this was no exception. We already have several other projects and maybe, just maybe, I'll catch more or even bigger fish than him. Well, we can all dream.

Some Fish

 Fed up with banging my head against a rock-hard venue, Neil and I visited Pandys' Puddle. It's a good size, classed as a commercial, but you have to work at it. No catching on bare hooks here.

I arrived during a heavy shower and circled the lake in my car, leering at a swim that appealed, but put off by the chap opposite who was fishing like a plonker. I briefly spoke to him and soon realised that he was lonely, so I had to make my excuses to avoid yet another "And I'll tell you something else...."

My swim had shallow water to the right, but was slightly deeper to the left once you cast thirty yards or so. I've previously seen plenty of carp showing in this area and deduced it's the edge of a central bowl that the fish circle during the day. I was proved correct.

I recently invested too much money on some 'Squeez Ready' Method Mix by Fjuka. It's a dry mix that holds as you squeeze it. I just wrapped a lead in it and put a short hooklength with a boilie and a small pop-up to balance the bait so that it just sank. With that one out, I faffed about trying to get organised. I was all over the place and felt the critical eye of my late angling friend, Bunny. He was so slow to set up and pack away his kit, something I may have ribbed him about once ot twice. There I was doing my best Bunny impression, but without a hot drink on the go.

I was further distracted when my rod flew into action. I tightened into a hard-running fish that put up a very good scrap, considering its size. Duly landed, with Neil sniggering at its appearance, I awarded it 10/10 for scale pattern and 2/10 for attractiveness. I've had carp that seem to be growing in stages, and this one looked like it took the short bus to and from school.

'The bells, the bells'

At least I hadn't blanked. Out went both rods, and I was, at long last, fishing. Then Neil turned up again, looking to borrow some forceps.  I went with him to his swim, and he lifted his landing net to reveal a nice perch. Whilst he started his dental work, I checked the fish's tail. Yup, there it was, that little nick in the upper lobe just like his last fish. It was the same fish - I did laugh. 

Back in my spot, the left rod roared off again. This one felt heavy as it bored deep across the lake one way, then another. I passed a commentary to Neil, who ambled around. The fish had secured itself in some nearside weeds to my left. As it lifted in the water, it revealed its flank, just as Neil was there to witness its lack of size. Okay, it may have been a double, but I wouldn't bet on it. But for a relatively small fish, it was solid muscle and had fought a mighty battle. I have landed carp to over 26lbs, and plenty of double-figure barbel on this rod that is rated at 1lb 6oz. test curve. This was right up there, scrap-wise.

Fighting well above its weight

I had my sandwich and a drink, then went to recover some tackle from my car. I heard an alarm. Hurrying back, I could see that the bobbin was slack and wound down to pick up the line. There was a resistance, albeit a comparatively small one. As it got nearer, I was puzzled what it might be, but I was not disappointed. A very tatty roach of 1lb 11oz was still a cracking fish, if only it had come to my lighter outfit, or better still, when I am float fishing. One last run brought a scappy little carp that had been impersonating a bream as it flapped about. I hit some branches as I attempted to handline it to be quickly unhooked. It came off, and my lead went into the canopy. 

Again, not pretty but memorable

Neil was suffering from a headache and the bureaucracy of the Passport Office. He was ready to call it a day, and my back was aching, so we left. 

So, this is how it feels when you catch a few. Yes, I could get used to this.

I'm looking for a new blog title....

...preferably something that rhymes with blanker. Suggestions on a postcard to...

 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.