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.