August, who needs it?

August is a funny old month isn't it. As a kid August was the peak of the year, we had the whole month off school and I could indulge myself by roaming the fields, playing football or preferably fishing. It was the height of my summer and I looked forward to August more than any other month. This continued into adulthood and it became the time for family holidays to the seaside. But nowadays August has a very different feel to it.

For a start, far from being the pinnacle of summer, August denotes its end. Just today I felt a coolness in the air that had a whiff of autumn about it. For me Summer is May, June and July albeit this year a very wet one, August is the start of the slippery slope toward winter. The summer birds have largely flown back toward their winter homes. I saw a couple of swifts the other day, they are stragglers and I hope they catch up with the throng that departed a month ago. The sand martins left early this year and the house martins were not long behind, its just the swallows that remain for a little longer before the air seems a duller place without our aerobatic visitors. Not only are the hedgerows quieter due to the loss of the warm weather visitors but the winter crowd have yet to arrive so, all in all, a dull period for bird lovers.

The fishing is usually pretty dull now too. By August my misanthropic tendencies are usually on full beam and I am fed up with all other anglers and their antics but, to be honest, I've not met that many this year what with being mobility inhibited so I'm not quite as bad. But the river does seem crowded in the summer and that situation continues into October nowadays. There is little solace on the lake as August is a a notoriously difficult month to fish for carp. On a recent trip I saw nothing moving at all so reverted to float fishing with little bits of bread on a size 16 and caught a bunch of roach. It was fun for a couple of hours but I was trying for a crucian carp and although I had little bubbles in the swim, tiny dips on the float and a nice fish roll almost on top of my float, I failed.

I notice that my fellow bloggers are keeping quiet at the moment, maybe they too are either finding the fishing hard or perhaps they are sitting on a sea front somewhere, trousers rolled up, knotted hanky on the head and dribbling ice cream down their string vests.

I've become more interested in the 'traditional angling' set up and see it as a perfect place to be at this time. I've been unable to fish 'flat out' this season and let's face it, the weather has been bloody awful making it a continuous round of high water tactics which I find boring. So, the idea of fishing old school methods and having a more casual view of results has been a welcome venture and one that will keep me happy for a while. Yes, I'll be on the lake soon with three carbon rods and all the electronics ready to pounce on the unwary fish but I'll also spend time stalking and trying to get my cane bent. I even visited a sale room today and left a bid on a couple more cane rods just for good measure - fingers crossed, but Nicky wouldn't let me bid on the stuffed pelican or the elephant's foot.

Roll on September.

A kid in a sweet shop

Ever walked around an antique shop or car boot sale and come across an old fishing rod or book? Do you like cased fish and find yourself absorbed by them? Does browsing through old tackle give you a deep inner glow of satisfaction? Answer "Yes" to any of the above and boy, have I got a place for you.

The Fisherman's Emporium, located just outside of Evesham (http://fishermansemporium.co.uk/) is a little piece of heaven for any fisherman with a sense of history or just pure wonderment at the sight of so many cased beauties. There really is nowhere else like it that I have ever come across. I knew I'd enjoy looking around but it exceeded my expectations many fold.

I've been a lover of anything stuffed and cased since I was a child and discovered the glass dome filled with exotic, colourful birds in my grand parent's loft. There were other birds albeit not behind glass but I loved the opportunity to examine them up close without them flying away. The museum in Taunton had an impressive collection of stuffed birds and, as a child I used to be a regular visitor just to gaze at them. So, having dozens of fish, birds and a few mammals to peruse at the Emporium would have been enough. There was everything from gudgeon up to a 40lb carp (found dead not taken as a trophy) as well as a very early example of taxidermy a pike's head, a record roach .... I could go on.

Then there were the books, hundreds of them in excellent condition and all pleading to be bought. This really is a serious collection and if you are looking for a title I can recommend giving John Farey, the proprietor, a call.

I had a 'play' with a few of his cane rods too, each one mint and still sensibly priced but the old cane landing nets were quite steep. The only tackle he doesn't deal in are reels and lures but they have their own market.

Did I mention the art? Original Bernard Venables, Chris Turnbull and Gaz Farnham to name a few as well as plenty of old pictures that I'm not keen on but which trade for big money.

I suppose we spent a couple of hours mooching around and chatting with John an affable Essex lad who has been trading for just over four months or so. To be honest, there's so much stuff there I reckon he could charge an admission fee never mind selling anything. If you have any interest in fish or fishing this is definitely a place to save up your pennies and pay a visit.

I wasn't intending to buy anything but it was inevitable that something would come home with me, to this end we took Nicky's two-seater as there's no room for a stuffed fish in the boot but we did manage to squeeze a picture in and it will find pride of place on my wall very soon, a self portrait by Bernard Venables.

Perseid

Was it really five years ago? Yes, I've checked my diary, I actually thought it was three years but five! Neil and I had been given permission to fish a private section of the Teme for the weekend and, as we sat outside of our bivvies we watched the greatest free show on (or from) Earth - Perseid, the biggest meteor shower of the year.

We had looked out for this phenomenon many times but, being England, it was usually cloudy yet here, on this cloudless night the display was fantastic. A bottle was produced and we shared a moment that will live with us for ever. Pity the fishing didn't match it :-)

And yesterday was the peak of this year's astral show but I failed to spot a single shooting star. Not that I fished into dark, I merely flicked a bait around a swirling pool for an hour or so beneath a sky that gave a portent of the heavy rain that would follow. A beautiful sky with broken cloud that looked like the scaly flank of a mighty dragon that flew into the sun. It was a time to touch leger and crane my neck to absorb the moment. Yes, I was twice disturbed, once by a barbel and again by a chub but it really didn't matter, it was all about the atmosphere.

The BEAST

Let me introduce you to The Beast

Possibly the worst centre pin that money can buy and barely worth the £10 invested by Paul Whiteing of the ABF but it has been given an identity and today I had my 'go'.

In short, Paul has taken a barbel on the reel - an 11.08 from the Trent - and then passed the reel on to the next person who caught one and so on. The reel is steadily passing its way through members and non members and a record is being kept of the fish caught. Each person that catches a fish makes a donation to charity to mark the event, good eh?

Now, when I heard about The Challenge I was eager to have my go and when last Saturday I was handed a fancy box containing the Beast I was genuinely excited. I see it as a little piece of angling history in the making, we are in the early stages but the challenge could continue infinitum well, at least until the Beast succumbs to the wear and tear of contact with our hardest river fighter. Be it ego, enthusiasm or just entering into the spirit of the challenge, I wanted a memorable fish, one that will stand out on the list. I started to plot my encounter.

All day the sky was leaden, a grey, ominous sheet that creates a special mood. Looking at the box that holds the Beast against the slate back drop of the stormy sky it brought to mind Hammer Horror movies and boney hands appearing out of creaking coffin lids. Something abut the day started my internal monologue rattling off superlatives and metaphors, today just had to be the day.

I had a physio appointment and as the sadist did her stuff so the skies opened and the rain poured. I followed the storm north as I returned home, had a quick meal and gathered my tackle. As I left for the river the clouds had cleared and a blue sky accompanied me on my journey. I was almost disappointed as I had enjoyed the drama in the sky of earlier but, as I set up my gear the threat of rain was upon me and I thought I was about to get wet.

I saw a big barbel the other day as it intercepted a sinking pellet in the way that the chub do in this swim. They are canny fish and not easily fooled but I felt that such a fish was a prime target for the challenge and set about its downfall. My long hooklink was 'nailed' to the river bed with rig putty, a plasticine backlead ensured everything would sit right. I mounted a 15mm Blood, Fish and Orange boilie on the hair and tied two four boilie stringers on, one on the hook the other on the lead. With a gentle swing with my cane rod I lowered the gear into the perfect position and settled the rod down. It was 6.32pm.

The storm had left the clay river bank in a real mess and the ledge at the base of the bank was swimming in ankle deep mud, just standing upright was difficult and all of my movements had to be slow and deliberate. I lobbed a few pellets around the swim just upstream of my trap and watched the chub greedily take them before they reached bottom. Past experience has shown that this usually brings the barbel out and they are generally easier to dupe especially with the rig I had in place. The rod twitched.

I picked it up and waited. It had been either a line bite or a chub had lifted the bait and spooked, either way, I was tense and full of expectation - then I felt the weight of a taking fish and struck! It was 6.42pm.

The barbel screamed out into midstream, I let it go as there are no snags there but it then turned and headed downstream with a force I have rarely felt from a fish, it just felt 'angry' as it bored deep and long. I hung on grimly watching my precious rod bend through to the butt, so far in fact that the reel became detached! I turned it and it swam past me toward an upstream snag but I knew I had the beating of her and just let the rod do its job and absorb the last lunges, she soon tired and came meekly to the net. I had done it, a Wye double on the Beast and, incidentally, my first on a cane rod. I felt elated.

                                   

Slipping about in the quagmire I managed to weigh and photograph my prize, 10.13 and in very nice condition with no other hook marks, a very satisfying capture.

With the fish back in her domain I struggled up the bank and took stock, I was caked in mud up past my ankles and my trousers and shirt looked like I'd just played a game of rugby. The rod, reel and camera were all in need of a good clean along with the unhooking mat, landing net etc. Could I summon the effort to do all of that and find another swim? Could I heck, ten minutes in the right spot is all it takes, I'd had my sport - and some, so I packed and went home.

After a dab with a damp cloth I returned the Beast to its box secure in the knowledge that many other will enjoy their own personal encounter.

                               

Line

Had a session on the Wye down at Bishopswood at the weekend, it was the Wye Fish-In with the ABF (Association of Barbel Fishers) and a group of us met to raise a few shillings for charity. Typical of this sort of do the fishing was secondary to the overall event so none of us was too bothered by the extremely hot, bright conditions. We were a tad miffed at the actions of some of the canoeists that streamed past during the day, quite why adults, when placed on water, should act like children I don't know. I resorted to bouncing a pellet around the swim and had three chub whilst those either side of me had barbel, funny that but hey, I was chub fishing anyway ............... honest :-)

Having to drive home that evening I avoided the rather thirsty side of the get together but it was good to meet up with some good mates and to put faces to some names of group members.

On Monday I intended to fish all day but really couldn't summon the energy. I went instead during late afternoon and opted to try a pool that has been all but unfishable this season due to the high water. Conditions were just about perfect but I had to go back to the car for a fixed spool reel as it was a mighty chuck to the hot spot and my Wallis Cast falls way short with the pin. As I set my gear up I noticed that the line from the reel spool had come away from the clip and that there were a few yards 'missing'. I started to wind them back expecting it to stretch back from whence I came however, the line came from the direction of the river, then over a grassy bank and eventually pointed to a certain hairy mutt called Harvey. I wound down to him and sorted the mess out. There was line wrapped around three of his legs and he seemed totally oblivious. I know you shouldn't compare but Buddy would stop and step over his lead if it got under his leg and any line wrapped around him would see him stop dead and wait for me to free him, Harvey however, with his thick curly haired legs............... well, it took a while.

I eventually made a cast at about 5.30, sat back and almost immediately everything felt heavy, I tightened to a running fish and landed a lovely mint barbel of about 6lbs. A good start.

The next cast saw me hooked into a snag which turned out to be a length of mono stuck fast at the upstream end and stretching into the pool. It was festooned with twigs and, as I tried to handline my gear in, claimed my end tackle. I sat and quietly mumbled a curse or two as I re-tackled.

My next cast settled and I thought about making a phone call to a mate to check on his progress but the clutch whined and I was straight into a second fish, this one ran hard and I could do nothing with it until it came off! I wound in but found I was again enmeshed with the length of line I'd previously hooked. This time, when I had it within a few yards of the bank, I waded out (alas I wasn't wearing waders) and pulled as much of it as I could but still left too much of it behind.

Tying a new hook I decided to return in a day or two with appropriate gear and footwear and remove the rest.

I obviously did enough to stop fish from seeking its sanctuary as I had three more pristine shoalies before deciding that I shouldn't be greedy and packing up at 7pm. I think I could have caught a fish a chuck for quite some time but, like my last trip down on to my home stretch, such actions seem a bit greedy and ultimately prove nothing.


I'd like to think that more people would fish with a conscience but I'm afraid that there are few with this attitude. There was a large group fishing together on the stretch and they had managed very few fish between them but I didn't feel that I could point anyone to this swim as I know what would happen, it would be hammered for days, possibly weeks as its reputation gets passed from resident to resident and I don't want that to happen through me. Any competent angler would spot it from a mile off anyway.

Ups and Downs

Dry weather at last, great, that means I can get on to the field at the carp lake and maybe have a night or two after some carp! Then the temperature rose and I thought 'uh oh', I have a sneaky feeling the carp will be doing some summer lovin'.

But I went anyway just for a look around and with a few baits (mainly floaters) in my bag. I saw plenty of fish, loads of them in fact but, as I suspected they were somewhat preoccupied with procreation. I sat in the shade and flicked dog biscuits out onto the water and watched as he carp trailed around in procession and the bream drifted in mid-water. Then I heard a splash.

Closer investigation revealed a good fish eating the floaters. I fumbled with shaky hands to set up my rod and tie a hook and returned to the scene of the action - where it was all quiet. Over the next hour or so I had one or two fish lazily suck a morsel from the surface film and one scamp of a fish took quite a few as they drifted under an overhanging tree but, each time I introduced a baited hook they simply sank away or swam around it ignoring it with a blatant disregard.

So I took out my camera and took a few shots and some video.

A change of plan was needed and the arrival of a new cane rod was the only provocation I needed. A thought struck me. The second knot most of us learn to tie -after the Granny of course - is the bow. Sat on a step, tongue out in deep concentration as stubby fingers manoeuvre lace ends over and around until success! A loose bow is tied on your shoe only to come undone a few paces farther on and the process starts again. But its a beginning and us anglers certainly become adept at a wide range of magical twists and turns of thread or rope in order to secure our hooks, leads or boats, yet the bow will always have a significant place in our being. The bow becomes the string on a parcel, the ribbon on a gift, the final barrier of sensual clothing.... Untying a bow is like unlocking a chest, it reveals.

And so I fought through yards of parcel tape and staples to gain access to the rod tube and there it was - a rod bag secured by two bows. The first one, half way down and less interesting, was dispatched with little thought but the second, the bow that would reveal the rod that lay beneath, this was pulled seductively apart, the moment savoured and the hidden gem revealed. I was not to be disappointed, the rod, beautifully restored was assembled. In the hand it felt light, responsive, arrow straight and simply delightful - I needed to go fishing.

Nicky and Harvey decided to come too but we waited for the temperature to drop for all our sakes, no point in frying after all. So it was 7pm when I swung the first cast across and into the main flow. This was the swim in which I blanked last week but then the river was like cocoa and much wilder, this time it was just about right. I soon lobbed a second feeder full of damp pellets and crushed boilies onto the same spot, I like to get a bit of food in at the start. On the hair were three or four small pellets glued along its length, this subtle approach often out fishes the blatant large bait used by so many. I sat back, the evening air was warm but fresh, the scenery perfection and the mood optimistic. I decided to celebrate the moment with a photo of my new rod and moved it to a better angle for the shot but the butt fell off the rucksack it was leaning on and I wondered why until I saw the tip, it was pointing downstream and bending further by the moment. I quickly tightened into my first barbel just fifteen minutes after I had made the first cast.

The fight was an exciting affair as the fish hugged the bottom then used its fins against the fast current but I am pleased to say that the rod was more than capable and an eight pounder was duly landed. I sat back content with the world, I don't find the river in generous mood that often and a quick fish often signifies a long lull afterward but I was satisfied, I'd christened my rod, what more could I ask.

Well, over the next hour I had two more, the second capture being video'd by Nicky which is a first for me. These last two fish were like peas from a pod at about seven pounds something in weight, it didn't matter, they were great fun on the gear and, as I slipped the last one back to fight another day I felt totally sated and decided to pack up. This may seem strange to some of you especially those with the 'catch at any cost' attitude but I had taken my fill, anything else would have been greedy and would have felt disrespectful in a weird way, so we left.

Wood

My first memory is of seeing my fingers playing with the coloured beads that slid up and down on a metal pin in a panel on the side of my cot. Red, green, yellow and blue, each faded on the edges from the action of my fingers as well as those of my brother and sister before me and, quite probably of other children before my parents bought it. Conversely, when I  leave this world there shall be "hands and tears on wood" as I once wrote about a close friend's funeral, it is an ever present in our lives and deaths.

As a youngster I would 'play' at fishing in my back garden. Canes from the rows of beans were never satisfying as they would not bend properly and broke as soon as that fighting curve was achieved. No, it was hazel branches that made the best rods, pulled from the hedge and with string attached and a weighty piece of wood to act as the fish, Paddy and I would sit beyond the vegetable patch under the dead tree where the barn owl would sometimes perch and catch pretend roach, chub and maybe even a barbel just as Mr Crabtree did in that Holiest tome from the pen of Bernard Venables. Sometimes we dared to catch a specimen 2lb roach or 5lb chub never believing that it may one day come true.

My first rod was cane, cheap and very nasty and it put me off the stuff for a long time. I 'progressed' to solid fibre glass, surely one of the worst rod materials man has endured, then, because I couldn't afford a hollow glass rod with my savings, another cane rod which became the mainstay of my fishing life for several years.

Having afforded hollow glass rods I turned my back on cane and when carbon fibre became the norm I saw no reason to go back and that's how it stayed ......................... until I read the books and articles of Chris Yates.

If ever a man has influenced the lives of fishermen then Chris is right up there at the top. His beautiful prose about secret carp pools or hard fighting barbel im crystal rivers, all painted against the backdrop of bent cane and screeching centre pins, what man could fail to be moved. I yearned for the feel of cane once more.

It took a time and, having taken the plunge, a number of cane rods have come my way and I have learned to enjoy the feeling of one bucking in my hand as it attempts to straighten itself against the pull of the fish. It is a spiritual thing.

But I have found my rods lacking. Most cane rods are light in their test curve to anything comparable in carbon, who amongst us would contemplate barbel fishing with a 1lb test curve rod? Yet the traditional Avon style cane rod rarely exceeds that. My rods have been under-gunned on the Wye where the fish fight hard and long in a strong, fast river. I need to upgrade. And what of the carp? I want to take a twenty pound plus carp on a cane rod. The weight should be immaterial but it is a self imposed ambition and that is all that fishing is when you get down to it, a series of goals and ambitions that we set ourselves and, once achieved well, we just set another.

So, I now have a heavy Chapman 700 which will not fold and cede to the runs of a stout carp in a weedy estate lake and, should that fish be close to or beyond the immense thirty mark, well it will just roll up its sleeves and do the job. I am also negotiating (with a certain Mr Wood) the acquisition of a Chapman 550 with its pound and a half test curve, much better suited to the barbel and the occasional carp from clearer venues. Add to this Andy Sliwa has promised to return to the 'Lab' and conjure up another magic wand, as identical as possible to the one he made for Neil and that is something that I will have to wait for no matter how impatient I feel.

But I am not a Traditional Angler and nor am I about to go shopping for Edwardian garb and a bloody Kelly Kettle. Unlike many that enjoy the sensation of cane in their hand I have no compunction about fitting an old rod with a brand new reel either a pin or a fixed spool, and most of my rods are fairly new anyway. No, I'll carry on with a mixture of ancient and modern, cane and bait runners, cane and Delkims it matters not a jot to me.

I have the cane bug and am out to enjoy myself, tomorrow I shall head for the lake and a stab at my goal, then, if my new rod arrives in time, I'll be off to the river whilst still looking out for a rod or two to fill the gaps in my arsenal.

Anglers, hopeless romantics or gullible fools?  You decide.