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.

Unclean

 Is it really July? Where has the time gone?

Talking of time, I'm approaching my 60th anniversary of using a rod and line. Where did that time go?

I left my blog licking my wounds from a rather trying session in France. It brought with it a realisation that I needed to reassess my fishing from top to bottom. Age, injuries and arthritis have all contributed and that happy little bunny that once hopped between swims and fisheries has gone forever. With it my ambitions have had to become realistic so, massive wild lakes abroad are a no-no and even the steep, high banks of the Wye or Teme are demanding a new respect. 

I've not been at my best for a long while. They have dubbed it the 'Hundred Day Cough'  which, along with the weather and my reluctance or inability to push myself, have all brought meagre results. However, I always aim to beat at least one personal best per season and I did that with my second serious trip. 

As PB's go it's a modest achievement as I am certain I have caught bigger bream in the past but haven't felt inclined to weigh just another six-pounder. I have learned that under rather than overestimating fish,  can work against me. So I put a fish on the scales and it went to 7lb 3oz or was it 4? It was a pound or so bigger than my official pb so who cares, it was a job done.

I've got into a routine of blank - catch - blank - catch - a low double carp on the next visit - blank - catch - a couple of chub from the Lugg, followed by a blank the other evening.

My heart hasn't really been in it. Catching bream can be fun but how often can you do it before it becomes tedium accompanied by a smelly net? They really are easy on this water, I'll go for them again but for now I turned to the carp that are a challenge. They only go to mid-twenties which I do feel are worthy however, there's something about the pace that I cannot put my finger on, it just doesn't float my boat.

The Lugg is a very noble challenge but, it does require a lot of walking and some terrible sheer banks. Add to this the coloured water from the fruit and veg cleaning and the inevitable raw sewage, well, no thanks. I found a swim last year where gravel gave you good visibility of the bottom and the numerous chub that hoovered up my pellets and hemp. On one occasion, they were joined by three nice barbel, a difficult target on the Lugg nowadays. I went back a few weeks ago and you can barely see the bottom but the visibility was just good enough to know that not a single fish entered the swim. Very grim.

Incidentally, whilst on the Lugg, my lad had three ahem, large ladies enter his swim, totally ignoring the chap fishing not ten yards away, and moved across him so that he had to reel in. Their conversation included, "Well, it must be clean if there's fish in here". This brought about a reply from Neil "Just make certain you wash your hands when you get home." Some people just don't get it, do they. 

If they'd seen what we've seen floating downstream.....

My tench lake is stuffed with weed plus the fish only seem to feed with any purpose if you arrive whilst the stars are still out. If the birds are singing, the fish have gone back to bed. I do not function after early starts anymore and night fishing for tench is overkill. I've lost interest there too.

What to do? Well, here comes the reason for the title. I need to fish but I need to be comfortable. I shall continue to look for suitable venues and, as the cooler weather approaches, I shall be targeting the zander on the Gloucester Canal for a very doable pb. In the meantime, I have taken the decision to fish Commercials in the form of the Docklow complex. My first look at Docklow was 24 years ago and I hated it, still do in many ways but, there are only so many fisheries around and this one has plenty of variety, easy access and, whatever water you fish, you still have to catch them. I've taken the grandbrats to a few commercials and have always enjoyed trying to make the best of a swim. I do not crave a 'fish a chuck' water and indeed, during my walk around most of the pools there today, I only saw one roach landed. So, I can target carp, tench, crucians or roach and work hard to avoid barbel as stillwater barbel don't count, and ide which should all be abroad - period.

Fishing there will make me feel 'unclean' as it goes against many of my principles but hey, we all have to cut our cloth accordingly - don't we?