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.

Merry Christmas

 

According to Morrisons, Christmas is upon us. The fact that your Advert Calendar chocolate is likely to melt means nothing, and the gigantic commerce monster keeps rolling forward, sucking the last few pennies from our pockets.

Back on planet earth, I've had a trip or two on the River Lugg. A pretty river, especially when the effluent from sewage plants and the run-off from the fruit and veg trade is missing. It's always been a challenging water, but hard-earned fish are bigger rewards.

On my first trip, I managed a three-pound chub from under the rod tip after some cunning feeding. A single chub is a good session; anything more is bragging material.

I would have fished a couple of evenings ago but, like a complete idiot, I got there without my rod or landing net. I do this checklist before every trip: 'rods, reels, nets, bait, odds and sods', and it has been enough to jog the brain into travelling suitably equipped bar the occasional bait left in the fridge, or my sandwiches. I was mentally doing my list whilst looking at said rod and net as it leant against a wheelie bin outside the house. It's an age thing, but I am aware of it - now.

On my way home, cursing at another fight through rush-hour traffic, but expecting to meet Mrs Burr coming the other way on a rescue mission, she rang me. Can't meet you, hook in finger, can't get it out, was the gist of the message, minus language and threats to my nether regions. Gulp!

I found her leaning against said bin; the rod was there and so was the hook, well and truly stuck into a finger. Somewhere between whispering sweet nothings to each other on my departure and my arriving back home, my dear ladies' sense of humour had vanished. Merely touching the still attached boilie brought a scream of pain; ask anybody in Herefordshire, I'm sure they all heard it. Now Nicky is a very tough person. I've seen her with kidney stones, surgery, pneumonia, broken bones, and of course, she sees me naked. This girl has grit and would put many men to shame, but she insisted on a trip to A&E

All of humanity is laid bare in hospital, and A&E is somewhere that all comers are welcome to rub painful shoulders. It was in said waiting area that I once heard a large Traveller Girl loudly announce, "I've got three kids, and I know all their names of their fathers' - even their last ones". I never did see who the comment was aimed at, but she seemed very proud. So, I wasn't so much shocked by the information given by the gentleman at the next window as we booked in, but I was curious. "What have you come in for?" asked the stout lady with fingers on her keyboard. " I was using a power drill", he began, "and I slipped. It got caught in my trousers and has done damage to my penis and testicles". The receptionist didn't bat an eyelid; I, however, crossed my legs, bit my lip and moved away, stifling my laughter.

I have a morbid sense of humour, and when working, regularly visited hospitals. I've heard many, many stories, but this was a new one. I do hope he is comfortable and making a full recovery.

We left a couple of hours later, Nicky laden with penicillin, antibiotics, a large plaster on the affected digit and a painful mark where the tetanus jab was done. So that was my fishing done for.

Last night I returned to the same swim and baited quite heavily over two hours before lowering a little boilie in its midst. I sat back and was soon visited by a dog show reject. It just appeared next to me, came around the other side, put his paws on my lap and stuck his tongue so deep into my ear that it cleaned the one on the other side. He also fell in love with my leg, but he was a great character and I would happily have taken him home. His owner wouldn't have put up with that; he's bigger than me too. But he stayed for a chat and we got along really well. 

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder

Before he left, my rod dipped a little and a few inches of line left the reel. I decided to leave it as I am sure it was just a little chub. Later, it did it again; this time I tightened, but into nothing. On retrieving, I snagged a root and lost my end tackle. It was getting dark, so I plodded back to the car and logged a blank.

I may not fish for a day or two, what with the Christmas shopping to do, but if the rivers rise after the storms, I may don my reindeer hat and see you on the banks somewhere.

Roasting

 

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. 

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. 

Heaven

It’s always appropriate to bring home a souvenir from your holiday. I thought long and hard, and came up with the following.

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!

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. 

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.

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.

I'm looking for a new blog title....

...preferably something that rhymes with blanker. Suggestions on a postcard to...

 I am amazed at how often I dream about fishing. I reckon my thoughts have drifted to the unknown waters of my imagination during nearly every night since my last trip, and a good many before. The obsession with all things fishing is a powerful curse. Incidentally, I didn't once catch a dream fish. Torture even during my most peaceful hours.

A break in the awful weather and yet another chest infection, and I sneaked onto one of the lakes I have available. I blanked. I retreated into another impatient abstinence and planned. Then I had yet another chest infection. My last visit to the pharmacy saw me carry my month's supply home in a carrier bag. A Carrier Bag! Good grief. Then Nicky caught the local virus that was doing the rounds, and another two weeks plus were spent being nursemaid whilst taking more debilitating antibiotics.

At last, the wind changed back to a westerly, and my mood lightened. I visited a pool with perch potential with my lad, Neil. He fluked a 2.2 perch on a prawn tail. I relieved him of many prawns and fished sections tipped with worm, confident of putting him to shame. I had an eel and a perch - see picture.

Next on the list was a small tench lake I had rejoined after a couple of tortured seasons a few years ago. Just over an acre in size, weedy, lots of lilies, and apparently, plenty of tench. I have previously taken just one of the inhabitants that weighed less than the amount of tooth enamel I ground off. 

I walked around it, sat and watched it, talked to some new members, sharp, good anglers all, each one biteless. The most steadfast of which had already notched up over 100 hours of thoughtful angling all for nowt.

I first fished it just before the sky caught fire. I blanked - let's get that out of the way. But I had tench bubbling in my swim, and that's encouraging. No need to become suicidal after one visit. This morning I returned. The lake felt full of that spring atmosphere, with plenty of birds, butterflies and something that bit my leg, most likely a horse fly. I have noticed a lot of painted lady butterflies; they must have hitched a lift on the Southerly winds. Anyway, back to the blanking.

Spot the static float

This pool has been stocked - twice - with crucians. I've seen them turning in the water, heard them flipping in the lilies as they spawn, and have been frustrated as you like with their bubbling and flaunting around your float that remains motionless. It's an enigma wrapped in a quandary. The tench won't eat bread or maggots, unless they are red, yet have been caught on boilies and pellets. No crucian has ever been landed, and the first stocking was 7 years ago. 

I'll be honest, as much as I want some tench action, I am really getting an itch from the crucians. I've ordered various baits, feeds and may even buy a pole to get my presentation just so. All this despite already offering a 4mm pellet that's been critically balanced with a bit of 6mm pop-up. I can tell you that was not without incident, what with stiff fingers, glue and all. 

Fiddly and ineffective.

I am at the start of a project and am determined to stick to it. The new season is almost upon us, but the rivers take a while to get up to speed and should the heat hang about like last year, they will be crap anyway.

Whilst talking about the weather, why do those simpering idiots who report the weather on our TV sets constantly apologise about rain, then announce a new record temperature like we've won an Olympic Gold. Never mind claiming kudos for our scary climate disruption or the odd shower that may ruin a picnic in the home counties, this stuff is threatening our planet and the lives of everything on it. Bloody tossers.

Where was I?

Oh yes. Be patient, I may be away again for a while, but I may just unlock an incredibly challenging little pool.

First Trip Of The Year

 What a bloody awful winter. However, come the first of March, and I've seen Celendine on the riverbank, whilst the frogs and toads have spawned in my pond. It's time to abandon the Ark building project and start digging the nuclear bunker.

Hey ho, we move forward and hope for the best. Personally, I am looking forward to some summer tench fishing, but there's no way I could go any longer without wetting a line. This afternoon, I trundled down to the Wye and found just one other car on the fishery. At least they've not been pressured. 

I have to admit to feeling under the weather. Two and a half months of avoiding cold and rain will do that to you. My gear felt heavy despite much of it being left at home. I soon discovered that my landing net spreader block had also missed muster, and that posed the potential problem of netting anything hooked. 

I slumped into a good-looking crease swim and cast a PVA bag with a few pellets and bits of meat into the flow. I soon snagged and had to tie a new rig. Of course, the heavens opened, and I struggled with wet glasses, stiff hands and a large dose of intolerance. When, at last, I had cast again, the rain immediately stopped. As did my confidence, as I had chosen on a very snaggy spot.

I was thinking about giving up, but forced myself to move up to another place where the nearside current was behaving itself. I cobbled a rig together and wrapped some cheese around a bit of rubber tied to a hair. It was all very Micky Mouse. I really was as rusty as the railings on the Titanic. Anyway, out went my gear, I sat back and decided to write my diary. I was surprised to find several of my autumn trips hadn't been recorded. I filled the gap with brevity and felt bad about my lapse in dedication. I was interrupted by a knock on the rod and reached for the handle. As I did so, the rod jammed over as a lively fish bolted downstream. I lifted into fresh air. I suppose I didn't deserve a fish whilst fishing like a plonker.

I made my way back home and pondered on the day. It did me good to get out, and I shall be fishing again soon, weather permitting. It would be nice to land something.

Zander Update

I've got an itch that I cannot quite scratch. Sitting between two anglers who caught zander and failing is a hard pill to swallow. 

I've kept my eye on the weather and applied much thought to the cause. Yesterday was to be the day. I'd sorted through the freezer for some fresher bait and had pondered an approach with less resistance to the taking fish.

I collected Neil, threw him the keys, and he drove me to Gloucester. We headed for the spot that produced last time, and Neil allowed me to steal his swim. I'm rarely happy when taking the goer swim. I prefer to do all of the work, but this choice was logical as it gave access to many features. I set about sorting a couple of new hooklinks, size 2 circle hooks to a supple braided link. There are few pike in the canal when compared to the zander, it just felt worth the risk of a bite-off.

Out went rod one, and I set about sorting number two. I became distracted by a large fish rolling just beyond a boat between the Boy and me. It swirled again, and the penny dropped. By the time I got to Neil, he was looking for his scales as the fish rested in his landing net. I called him a few unfatherly names and peeked into the mesh, "PB there I reckon". Considering this was only his second zander, it was a good step up the weight ladder, and the scales showed a healthy 8lb 2oz. More insults and a swathe of photos later, and I returned to get my second rod out.

I was happy for Neil. There is no animosity between us, and he has become a very competent angler. There's no time for jealousy as we fish as a team. But his 'luck' is getting ever stronger as I seem to have lost that vital edge to my own fishing. I sat, poised over my rods, a section of lamprey on one, and a several-times-refrozen little roach on the other, that having been Neil's successful bait. 

A little later, I had a flying run on the roach rod. The line was pouring out, and the strike/tightening seemed a mere formality. I hit fresh air. Not even a mark on the bait. And that was that. One twitch was all that followed. It got cold. 

Neil popped his head around the corner to show me that he can also catch small zander. He put it back and rolled up again with, "Ever caught a zander on a centre pin?" He'd put a rod out virtually under his feet. and had an almost immediate take. I told him to be careful not to trip over his halo.

So endeth Trip 2, and I'm even more determined to catch something bigger than my ancient pb of 4lb 9oz. It can't be too difficult - can it? I shall be back, but probably when the weather is a little milder.

8.02 

The Predicted Zander

Monday the 1st. The weather was not as bad as expected; the rain passed through, and it was mild. Perfect fishing conditions. However, I stayed away from the rising river as I'm still smarting from my last visit that saw me stuck on a muddy slope for the evening..... and for most of the next day. I told Nicky that I needed a 4x4 but, to maintain marital harmony, I chose a shitty front-wheel drive Hyundai. That will soon change.

On Tuesday, I awoke to find a message from Mark on my phone. He'd dreamt that he caught a small zander and a pike. Being as Zander were our target, I hoped it was an omen, and the fact that he'd caught them from a tiny, dirty stream was just his brain screwing with him.

So, there I was, yesterday morning, squinting through the low sun that bored into my retinas as I drove towards Gloucester. I had almost reached Neil's place in Hereford, intending to save him the fuel money, when the phone rang. My maggots were still in the fridge - bugger! Back I went, Neil drove himself, and later than intended, we met up with Mark at the pub car park. 

The choice of where to fish was obvious as a barge turning area was just a short walk away. Plenty of features, shelter from the boats and a provenance for good fishing. Mark slipped in between a couple of moored boats, Neil went around the bay and fished a corner spot that gave him great scope, and I was on the corner opposite him. 

I tackled up with float gear, plumbed around a bit and found a perfect ledge. I baited with maggots and fed them along with some blitzed bread, hoping to bring in more small fish and also attract some predators to the banquet. Right from the off it was a bite a chuck. A small roach that suited my bait needs, cut into two and two zander rods were soon out. The roach kept coming, including a proper one of 12oz or maybe a tad more. Dr Redfin was on hand and judged it slightly bigger, it really didn't matter. I also had a perch and a ruffe, which are fast becoming my favourite small species. Move over gudgeon, the ruffe are moving up. 

I was getting bites, and despite the bright conditions, Neil had a couple of abortive takes on his zander rods. The mood was positive and I relaxed into the canal atmosphere of friendly dogs and shapely joggers. Then it rained.

Mark and I were chatting in his swim when his wobbling rod, left as a sleeper-rod, began 'wobbling'. I drew Mark's attention to the fact and he landed a small zander. Job done. He followed up a bit later with a screaming run on a dead roach. It was obviously a pike and it certainly fought harder than his first fish. 

Meanwhile, the small fish had completely switched off. I couldn't buy a bit anywhere in my swim. I was getting sharp runs but nothing that hung on. Thinking back, Marks' both had come on rigs with none or very little weight on them whereas mine had a little lead but was it too much?

Dusk came. Earlier in the day, Mark had quipped that we 'had them surrounded', to which I added, 'We attack at dusk'. My baits though, were left completely untouched but, through the gloom, I saw Neil stand and adopt a fighting position. Quickly, I was at his side as he netted a 6lb zander. He was over the moon, as was I. That it was better than my PB, I forgive him. He had stuck it out on a frustrating day and was rewarded with his first zander - brilliant.

We had a bite at the pub then, I drove home, squinting my eyes through fog and mist. 

It only occurred to me, and indeed Mark, this morning that his dream had come true - for him. Strange.

At Last, Some Fish

Following on from my enforced hiatus from rod dangling and the ensuing blank, I have made two trips to the River Lugg during the last few hours of daylight. I have been surprised at how quickly I have regained some stamina; proof were it needed that the cure is sometimes worse than the ailment, and pills that make you wobbly are best avoided. Hmm, that's the opposite of Viagra, isn't it? I digress.

On my first trip, old spangle nuts (the Boy) sent me a text as I approached my first swim. He suggested that I cast to the farthest reaches of the pool, where the deep water holds barbel. I had brought a one-pound test rod and a centre pin. Apart from close work on the float, I haven't cast with a pin for about a year, so that was a bit of a downer. I searched with worms and cheese around, but it was dead. Even the small chub that harried the minnows were reluctant to engage. 

The light was fading, so I visited a favoured spot. I fended off a queue of sniffing dogs, each hellbent on locating my Red Leicester cheese, and smiled politely at their owners, especially the female ones. 

I offered freebies to the water gods and weighted my rig down with just enough lead to allow it to trundle out of the main current and settle alongside the nearside margin, hopefully just short of the snags. 

With the Wye and Lugg in mind, and the lack of level swims and my inability to balance on tiny ledges like some mountain goat, I made a purchase a while back. It's a four-metre landing net handle, and yes, it is just about right even in low water conditions. I positioned it near my baited area, but fished farther upstream, where I quietly flopped into my fishing chair with a loud sigh/grunt.

My line lay over a lot of long grass, which I didn't like. I repositioned so that I had an unhindered path to the bait. It didn't take long. A gentle nod followed by a lunge and a chub was head-shaking and looking for cover. I was at my net in no time and brought the fish close enough to enmesh it. Funny thing is, a bloody great net pole, the net, and the resistance of water combine to make manoeuvring it quite difficult. I flopped the net head into the margin, pulled the fish over it and grabbed the handle. Job done? Not quite. Lifting three pounds+ of fish, and something to do with fulcrums that I have long forgotten, added to the extra weight of it all tangling in some grass and weeds. Well, thank goodness it was only a modest fish. 

Job done, I had caught something at last.

A few days later, we were back. Neil was trying to find some perch or pike with small dead roach. I did so too, for a while, but reverted to the cheese and worms. It was great to be sitting together, chopsing about the world and all the crap two anglers natter about. Nothing happened except Neil lightened his and my float box by a couple of treasures.

As the sun began to drop behind a hill, I moved to a swim that I'd fed the last time I was here, but didn't get around to fishing. It was similar to the one that had produced before and an exact copy in approach and subsequent result followed. I made landing it slightly easier by sitting on the edge of the bank. Getting up again was an indignant affair, but a fish is a fish and I was content.

This was my last trip as a sexagenarian; my demise into old age will be displayed in these pages.

Summer Missed

 Like sand through my fingers, the summer drifted into autumn whilst I watched, inactive. 

My last trip was on August 21st, a short evening visit to the Wye, searching for an oxygenated bit of flow where the 'gorilla snot' weed was bearable. I found such a spot, but it had been fished all day. That angler was leaving, and I did not fancy another trek or balancing on a crumbling ledge. I gave it two or three hours, but it soon felt like a vain effort. I blanked.

My few Wye forays had all been a struggle. Low conditions and enthusiasm, just a few chub here and there. I looked forward to some rain, low atmospheric pressure and some barbel. I yearned also for the first week of October and a long-planned Tuna trip. There was much to be excited about. Then, the rug was pulled from beneath me when my chest kicked off again, and another deep infection took root. The coughing I can live with, but the horse pill antibiotics knock the crap out of me. No matter, come early September and I'll be back.

There followed two more conditions of crap health, adding up to five weeks out of seven on antibiotics. I was wrecked. 

During this time, my lad, Neil, was spanking the Lugg. He's had a stack of chub and a few barbel to over eleven pounds, which, by the way, is an unclaimed record. I've envied his energy and passion, but I'm more than happy to see him doing it all his way and reaping the rewards from an often difficult river that never gives up its barbel easily.

A rare Lugg double

As for the tuna trip? Their first two days were blown off, but the third day, and the one I should have been on, produced five tuna between 100 and 450lbs. Alas, I was not up to it and missed the fun. The pictures and videos of the trip were mouth-watering, especially the enormous chaos of striking fish and birds as a shoal of hapless fish is torn into again and again. This maelstrom passed under the boat, and the occupants all got very wet. Hey ho, maybe one day. 

One day, one day.

Anyroadup, I went fishing yesterday. Neil acted as guide and nursemaid, and I sat in an old favourite swim for the last few hours of daylight, feeding hemp and pellets and a little bit of meat on the hook. A proven method to get a bite or two. I banked. Neil had a chub and nothing else moved. Do I care? No, it's my first day out and there's rain forecast next week. I have much catching up to do.

A Match Like No Other

Mark Everard described it as 'A Match Like No Other'. That sums it up. About twenty of us met at Devizes to fish the Kennet and Avon Canal at the Caen Hill Locks. If this is new to you, there are sixteen locks to take canal boats up and down the hill. If you wonder, that's a minimum of five hours of waiting for the water to rise, or fall, pass through the lock and head a hundred yards or so to the next. I suggest you take the bus.

It was a Prostate Cancer Awareness event . A few years ago, I was with Mark on the riverbank when he received a call from the doctor, suggesting he undergo a further check after his PSA blood test. PSA stands for Prostate-Specific Antigen, and it lets you have a reasonably accurate idea if there are any problems. It is much more accurate and a lot easier than a meeting with a doctor's middle finger.

Mark had no symptoms but was in deep trouble. His subsequent operation created a massive hill to climb, but he's back on form and showing the energy of your average mad professor. Soon after his diagnosis, another mate of mine, Nick Bubb, had a similar anti-symptomatic diagnosis after a long and twisting journey through the Health Service due to an ankle injury. He is also back to his 'usual' ways as he fills my Message Box with pictures that I cannot share here.

If you are over forty, male, and still alive, get yourself tested. It makes more sense than making excuses.

So, the gang had a choice of six 'ponds', the little reservoirs that feed the locks. Each is full of fish of many kinds. That then was the aim. A multi-species match with the most species being the winner. Unusually, hybrids counted as species, meaning that size wasn't everything. We trudged to our

chosen ponds. The Match was roving and ran on honesty - providing photographic proof or a reliable witness could back you up. 

I chose an attractive spot, checked the depths, tackled up, fed the nearside with maggot and the edge of the central channel with blitzed bread. I soon had a roach or two and a few perch from the nearside. I got into a rhythm and soon was taking fish regularly. I had a couple of bream, then a tench of 2-3 pounds. All good fun on such light tackle. My species list rose to five with a rudd and then six with a pretty rudd/roach hybrid. 

Hybrid roach/rudd

A few of the crew began wandering, and the news was pretty mixed. One thing for sure was that gudgeon, silver bream and ruffe had been caught. Tench were at a premium too, so I figured a few of the little ones would put me in with a shout. Hark at me. As a rule, I hate match fishing, but this was somehow different. I obviously have a competitive streak. Jack Perks appeared and dropped into the next spot. A minute later, he casually dropped a gudgeon back. I could have thrown my maggots at him.

I still think it should have counted

Despite feeling quite content and enjoying the fishing, I went for a walk and chatted to a few people. As I spoke to David, his float sank and he landed a Ruffe. We were both delighted to see one after so many years, but oh, how I wanted one.  I went back for my gear and settled in the pond with the ruffe in it.

I re-rigged to a very light float, lighter hooklink, smaller hook, and carefully set the bait to sit just tickling the bottom. Jack was on eight species. I just wanted a little fish or two, provided they were different. But, I caught perch after perch after bloody perch. Mixed with them were roach, one of which was bigger and dropped off due to my impatience. I really worked at it and eventually, Aroogah! Up came a diminutive ruffe. I was overjoyed, and those within earshot were free with congratulations, in a quite jealous way.

                             

Nine or ten species were collectively caught, the biggest a tench of over four pounds. Despite my protestations that a Zebra Mussel was a shell FISH, a plea unanimously turned down, I ended on seven species, sharing second place. The fish whisperer, Jack Perks, took top spot. It was a fun event, we all got prizes, albeit with almost zero value, but I think we are all hoping to be there for the next one.

Mark does the prize giving

If you have a spare shilling, you can donate it here

https://www.justgiving.com/page/mark-everard-fishing-26jul25