About two hours ago, a tiny dribble of rain drifted across Ludlow. It instantly freshened the air; the droplets covered the entire ground surface, it was almost rain. A man hurried past me, his jacket rucked up around his ears as he grimaced against the horror of moisture, looking like a man badly dressed in a blizzard. Why, had he forgotten what weather was?
An hour later, I was driving through a storm that left running water on the roads, and misted up my windscreen. It's back! I have really missed the rain. I feel so sorry for every living creature that has struggled this summer, and feel dread for what lies ahead for our doomed planet.
No, this isn't my summer weather report. But it has affected all of us in one way or another.
I've never had a holiday ruined by hot weather. Washouts? Oh yes, plenty of them, but arriving at your vacation retreat in 38C is too hot for me. The fact that it rose the next day and hung around in the thirties for most of the time was fine for sunbathing lunatics, but I don't do that. I want to explore, to check out the wildlife and use some of the vast amount of fishing gear that made my car's suspension groan on the long drive. In the heat, I am the dropped ice cream that slowly melts and oozes along the pavement, of no use to anything except hungry insects.
We did explore a few bits of river and a fascinating stairway of locks on a canal, each with a large lake to maintain water supply, and each looking as fishy as you could ever wish for. A two or three-acre pool there was fair heaving with tench bubbles from deep beneath the thickest growth of hornwort imaginable. I reckoned I could get a bait to the bottom there, but bringing a decent fish up through them? Not a chance. Add to the malaise the fact that there was no shade to speak of, and enough hungry airborne bugs to dissuade all but those wearing armour.
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| There were five or six of these pools, each worth exploring. One day, perhaps? |
An evening surrounded by noisy frogs on the local river proved quite biteless. We gave up trying, restowed the gear and spent our time with the family, trying to entertain the boys, and in my case, hogging the hammock situated beneath a shady Oak tree and out of earshot of the squabbles.
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| Heaven |
It’s always appropriate to bring home a souvenir from your holiday. I thought long and hard, and came up with the following.
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| It was that hot. |
And so ended the hols. We all enjoyed it really, but my need to fish saw me glad to get home. However the River Wye is at a record low, and I just can’t bring myself to chase struggling fish. Likewise, the stillwaters available to me are all shrinking to a desperate level. After much planning, I opted for the Gloucester canal.
It took until yesterday when I met up with my old mates Chris and Mark, and we strolled across the barren field to the edge of the widest lake in the area. It’s about 30 yards long, and quite deep in the middle. As per usual, I had overthought the planning. I stuck to my 11’ float rod as I could always rig a sliding float to overcome the depth if I wanted to fish beyond the shelf. I also had a short quiver tip rod with me, and resisted the extra burden of a 12’ quiver and a 13 or 14’ float rod - like a sensible bloke would. Whilst setting up, I was filled with regret and angst. I knew I had blown it before I’d started. Mark immediately set about getting some feed out and rigging appropriate gear to fish it. “There’s bubbles in my swim already”, he announced. “That’ll be bream”, I said, " There’s not many tench in here.” I really should know better. His rod was bent and his ‘bream’ was putting up a surprising resistance. Yes, it was a 4lb 12oz tench. I wasn’t even fishing yet!
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| There's not many tench around here..... |
My first action was a duckling that chased my bread bait and dived to snap at it. I didn’t weigh it, and the size 16 barbless was easily removed from its beak.
Meanwhile, Chris had returned to his nearby house and looked perplexed; he was certain he had coarse tackle, but he just couldn’t recall where he had put it. Age eh? He was soon fishing with borrowed gear and immediately getting a constant stream of rudd up to about 8 or 10 ounces.
Mark had moved into bream gear, and his tally of fish showed no sign of slowing. I was fishless.
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| The fish just kept coming - for Mark |
My quiver approach was stifled by the dense week. I had bites, lots of them, but they didn’t register on my 1oz tip, even when I was holding the line. I decided that, as I wasn’t going to get anything decent, I settled down to catch some rudd. I caught a bleak - ouch! But I got amongst them and eventually had to use my landing net. There really are a lot of fish in the canal.
The wind increased to a point where I was casting like a pillock. I opted to change to a heavier float and set about doing so. Every hooklink I either removed from my line or the packet of replacements was placed on my tackle box ready to go onto the line. They each disappeared. The increasing wind was seeking them out, and like baby spiders, they parachuted off to live their lives elsewhere. I was grinding my teeth by this time.
At last, I had a heavy float rig all set up and ready to go - then the wind dropped.
Hey ho. I’ve got that trip out of my system, and my sights are set on an evening on the Lugg with Neil. His recent trip there was cut short when he was reaching back through a barbed wire fence for an item of tackle, and a barbel took a fancy to his bait. He swung around, grabbed the rod and felt immediate pain, partly due to losing fish, but mainly to a large gash on his forearm. A trip to A&E and 5 stitches later, he is still irked - by the lost fish.
He’s like his dad, that one.
