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