Scant Success

 What a peculiar season this has been. I fantasise about rain-filled lakes and rivers and feeding fish. I also dream of easy access and no long walks or precipices. So far, my dreams and wishes have gone unanswered. Not to worry, I'm sure I'm not alone.

We had a week in Somerset, dog-sitting for friends and generally slobbing about. That their house sits right on the edge of Sedgemoor is a huge bonus. We both love the flatlands even though they were far from wet, which would be the norm. The atmosphere remains, and we spent a lot of time mooching around the villages and bird reserves.  

The wonderful Barney with his precious teddy

I, of course, had sneaked a mountain of tackle into the car, and fully intended to use it. Looking closer at the drains cooled my enthusiasm. The weed growth this year has been unprecedented, and vast lengths of water contain few clear spots in which to cast. I searched areas I know well and a few I've rarely trodden; I was heading for yet another session at Greylake. Don't get me wrong, the sluice at Greylake must rate highly in my favourite swims, but it's just treading over old ground. But where offers a better chance?

I found a place last year that has been rattling around in my brain. I dropped by and chatted with the lone angler. It's always a good idea to test a venue on a Sunday when others are fishing; I'm glad I did. The section has the only fishable water for miles, and it's only big enough for two, maybe three anglers. The guy I spoke to seemed to be doing things quite well, yet he'd had nothing bigger than a half-pound perch. I wanted a chance of a tench or at least a bream or two; I moved on.

Come the day I chose to fish, I headed towards Greylake and was almost there when ping! I remembered a place on the South Drain that I had forgotten about. I whizzed over the KSD and headed over Sedgemoor's bumpy roads on a drive that resembled a day at Alton Towers. I recalled a day, many moons ago, when my Rover patrol car actually flew, 'caught air' in modern parlance, as I headed towards a serious incident. Flying is fun in a car; the landing is less forgiving, and fishtailing along a country road impresses nobody.

I digress. I arrived at my dream swim only to find it, and the drain, as far as I could see in both directions, was like a bowling pitch with pond weed covering the surface. Bugger.

Back I went to Greylake. As I shuffled down to the swim, another chap arrived behind me with eyes rolling in frustration as 'his' swim had been taken. He could have had it. I fished hard and caught only rudd, with the odd roach and tiny perch showing. The wind built up, and I became restless, especially as the cranes had stopped calling from the dense sedges downstream, and the Cetti's warbler in the bushes behind me was having its siesta.

The fishing can wait.

I walked by the Tone, and it is dying on its ass. The fish seem very thin on the ground; weeds are growing everywhere, and the main 'customers' being catered for are canoeists and those board things that people have grown so fond of. 

I also found a dumping ground for buckets. It's all very miserable. I find myself wanting the world to stand still for a decade or two, sod progress, let's just chill.

Back on home water and I had a couple of slim chub one evening. My lad managed to drop his phone into the fast depths of the Wye, which put his life on hold for a while, and we haven't fished together for a while. He did manage a barbel and a few chub from the Lugg one evening. He strongly suggested that I visit that swim yesterday, but I wanted a Wye barbel and certainly didn't want anything with his hookmark in its mouth.

Where's my belly gone?

Off I went, delayed by way too many interruptions whilst sorting my kit. As I approached the river so I saw that the level had dropped a little. I changed my mind about which beat to head for and U-turned, stopping in a spot that had appealed earlier in the Summer. One look put me off; the clock was ticking. Do I go back to Plan A or roll the dice again? I stayed on the same beat and went to a swim that fishes best in half-flood conditions. Oh well, it's worth a go.

I soon had a very lively barbel, just a shoalie that looks small in my big net, but it was a weight off my shoulders. A small chub came just as the day was sliding into night. I sat mesmerised as the bats and owls replaced the daytime calls and movements overhead. A half moon shone, not my favourite phase of its monthly show. I rarely catch barbel in the lead-up to a full moon, but the spectacle is always worthwhile.