On a Roll

Last year it all seemed so difficult - everything felt difficult and my fishing reflected this. But I've come to terms with a few issues not least my inability to leap great buildings with a mighty bound or to walk half a mile without hurting. My new found positivity has reflected in my fishing - so far - and when you are on a roll it all feels just so easy.

I snuck out on a warm day to stalk the lake. On the approach track I found a young lady sat in her car and wound down the window just to check she was alright. She was delighted with her first close up sighting of a kingfisher and we chatted 'birds' for a while. I could not place the accent but she said she was from Sweden and then told me she was an au pair. "Wow, a Swedish au pair" I exclaimed, "are the rumours true". She blushed and I didn't press the issue.

Arriving at the area I intended to fish I found coloured water where the early morning feed had taken place but all the fish I saw were dozing in areas where there was no hope of getting to them without youth, agility and a reckless disregard for one's safety... and I fail on all counts. I baited a couple of spots but nothing settled on the feed, they were all just snoozing.

I arrived at a spot that's worth a few hours and put a bait out. I then sat back and finished my copy of 'Little Grey Men' by BB. Having read the entire book whilst sat in deep woodland with its rustling accompaniment from the undergrowth, it is easy to immerse one's self into the tale especially here where the bank has little caves beneath the tree roots, idea properties for the little people. As I put the finished book down a couple of squirrels noisily chased each other around a tree making me smile.

I had a doze and dreamed of alternate endings to meeting my the au pair. I needed a coffee to get me going again. It was around the time when the fish would normally move into the area and a couple of loud crashes indicated they were on cue. The reel screamed its alarm and I was up and into action.

My old Hardy rod took on its battle curve and the line ticked off the old Cardinal reel, a very lively fish headed for lily beds and tree roots with alarming pace, I waded up to my knees in the silty margins to get a better angle on it and, after an arm aching tussle, I netted a beautiful linear carp. At last I have one of the pretty fish.

It was a bull headed brute that went 25.14 - like I said, when you are on a roll....

That was enough. I could have moved to another likely spot but I was sated and I strolled with squelchy footsteps back to the car.

Ups and Downs

Two days coming, two days there and two days going, that's how colds used to be described. What was it my Gran would say? Treat a cold and it'll last a week, leave it untreated and it'll last seven days. So when did all that stop?

I've been under the weather - did you guess? I was talking to Neil about the above and was saying that nobody has 'colds' any more, we all have viruses and they seem to be getting worse. He said it sounded like the ramblings of a mad man but when I went to the doctor (as I was actually wheezing, something I've never done), he said "Nothing I can do, just get over it...... It'll take three to four weeks" How long? Give me an old fashion cold any day.

All this waffling goes some way to explain my late return to the lake after my recent success, in short I've been like a caged bear with a sore head that's just stubbed his toe.

Not really up to a day wandering around the Redditch Tackle Fair I decided I may as well lay about and moan next to the lake as at home. Setting up was exhausting and I had a very early night with just an abortive bream pull before dark. Come dawn and I was woken by the bird's fanfare to the day but again, I soon drifted off again. Then, at 6:20 a single bleep had me sat looking out of the open door as I scrambled to put my shoes on. I watched the indicator gently rise and keep going, the line trickled out at a very leisurely pace and as I put my hand over the spool and tightened to what I felt must surely be a bream but no, the rod relayed messages of weight and the battle was on.

Once more the fight was a dour affair until it saw the net but I never felt the issue was in any doubt and soon another lump settled in the mesh. I did a quick weigh and realised that the fish was rather familiar to me, it was one that I caught on my last visit. This in itself is not totally unknown but Neil had fished this swim a couple of days before (which is why I was so eager to get in it) and had taken a couple of twenty pounders, one of which he had taken on his previous visit. So we can probably deduce that there's a shoal of fish moving around together that Neil encourages to feed, catches a fine but smaller fish or two then hands over to his dad to take a lump. Am I complaining? Am I buggery.

I only took a quick snap on the mat for two reasons, first it woke up and put up far more of a scrap on the bank than it ever did in the water and second, I'd taken a picture of it two weeks ago. It was only after it went back did I realise that when I'd pictured it last time it was also just a snap on the mat. Hey ho, I'll just have to catch it again.

I was set for a day of rest but a slight emergency at home had me packing up and returning. Emergency duly sorted I went to take Harvey for a walk but he did not want to go in fact he hadn't even acknowledged my return. Poor old Harv he's been really under the weather for a couple of months and has recently been off his food and his gums have become ever more pale showing all the signs of cancer. Just like Buddy we had all the blood tests done and they all came back okay and just like Buddy, a couple of weeks later and he'd had enough. This evening we had Harvey put to sleep as the vet agreed it was the only option.

We only had Harvey for two years yet it feels like so much longer, he was such a character, loved by many in the village he literally did, on a few occasions, stop the traffic as people pulled over just to come and say hello. He will be deeply missed.

Dawn Chorus

There are still those that give a "Harrumph" at the mention of fishing during the old Close Season indeed, for a while, I was one of them. That was until I discovered two things, the first being my renewed desire to catch carp.

It is that pursuit that has brought me via a twisting path to my present syndicate lake. A venue that I value as high as any fishery I've ever visited and where I have realised my dream to catch a UK thirty pounder. That the fish are fast growing and relatively young is a negative, I'd much rather be chasing old Leney's but there's only so many 'old' fish to go around and amongst the newer fish here some old codgers do still swim. I just look at it that you can only fish for what is out there and I do just that.

My second reason for enjoying being lakeside in the Spring is simply the Dawn Chorus. I've heard countless choruses over the years, shift work will do that for you but to be woken at dawn by this magnificent display is surely one of the greatest free shows available. Those that venture out on those mid-June days have missed the very best of it and it is well worth making the effort to witness the event in late April or May.

At just after 5am I heard the first stir of a thrush not four feet from me.  Sounding like a broody hen I'd listened to its little clucks and chirrs during the night. I could not find a nest so assume it was merely perched on the lower holly branches with its mate but come the dawn he cleared his throat and let fly. As his repeated calls grew so his assent of the tree continued until he was on his favourite perch, the spot where he had sung all evening and the world was told of his very existence. This sparked a wave reaction and within a few minutes every song bird in the wood was competing to declare their territory and their amour. I lay in my bivvy listening, trying to identify the individual protagonists the flowing chorus was disturbed by a rude interruption - a man made sound - my bite alarm!

Throwing back the sleeping bag and trying blindly to put the old routine in place I found myself with size 18 feet attempting to put on size 6 shoes. The pure panic of a 'bivvy take' is electrifying and one of the most exciting events in fishing, it certainly gets the juices flowing at such an ungodly hour.

As I flew through the already unzipped door of my shelter I was aware of a back note to the warble of the Delkim. There was a grating zzzzz, zzzzzz as my eighty year old Hodder centre pin reluctantly yielded line to a running fish. It was attached to a rod of unknown origin but which doubtless began life as a salmon spinning rod. At eight feet long, beautifully put together and with a very pleasing action, this was the first fish I have contacted on it. I instantly lodged it as a favourite and a definite 'keeper'. The bend was not too dramatic and the fish merely plodded out into open water where it allowed me to steer it at will. I was beginning to suspect an enormous bream had fooled me but a sudden change of direction and a deliberate run left me in no doubt that I was in contact with my chosen species.

The battle continued for several minutes in the grey light of dawn. I allowed myself a little look around as the world slowly woke around me and the glass still lake rocked when the bulk of the fish altered course. I had to steel myself as I was already wondering how big it might be, "Get it in the net first" I chided myself, "Remember Neil lost two at the net the other day, it ain't over till the net's lifted".

A broad back rose next to me, I dared to keep it coming up and lifted its head from the water, the fish lolled onto its side and I slipped it into my big net - then I breathed an enormous sigh.

Fully awake I went into auto pilot and leaving the fish in the secured net, set about preparing the unhooking mat, weigh sling, scales etc. All that done I stood and took in the scene for a moment noting that the birds were still singing and my actions were all but ignored by every other creature on the planet. I embraced the solitude then went to meet my latest guest.

It was a fat brute of a carp weighing 28lbs 9oz. Not the best looking fish in the world but it would do me. Oddly, Neil and I fish here together and to date have enjoyed a similar catch rate. All bar one or two of his fish have had really nice scale patterns yet all bar the same number of mine have been near leathers and, let's face it, unattractive. There's no explaining it of course, its just one of those things.

I spent the day keeping low and quiet. I did not expect daytime action at this time of the year but I wanted to blend into the surroundings so that any cruising fish may not notice me. I had many songbirds land within a few feet of me as I read and dozed indeed one blackbird flew directly at me to a point where I flinched and he put the last minute brakes on.

Dusk settled, the thrush had not long left his high perch and the bats had taken over the sky. Despite the chilly breeze that had been blowing earlier it felt mild and calm. Once again a strident blast of noise and a flashing LED had me scurrying forward to my rods. This time it was a refurbished Hardy LRH that took on the fighting curve whilst the ABU Cardinal's clutch begrudgingly allowed line to flow. Again there were no fireworks in the early stages of the fight, I figure the fish are still cold and sleepy as fish hooked in the summer here tend to rip your arm off at the shoulder. I was again uncertain of it's weight but was satisfied it was around the twenty mark. I had it coming in nicely and dipped the net to greet it when it went through a belligerent stage of wanting to do the opposite of my suggestions. There followed some heave ho and the rod, which again was landing its first fish for me, performed with aplomb and, at last, the net was lifted. I had a peak at the fish and smiled, another whopper.

It was almost dark so I just took a couple of shots on the mat rather than faff about with self takes or sacking the fish. I put a number on it at 28.15 and slipped it back for another day.

I slept soundly until the dawn when the birds once again began their routine and I drifted back to sleep to nature's musical accompaniment.

Jeremy Idiot Wade

TV's crap isn't it. We've never had so many channels and so little to watch, if it wasn't for cartoons and Internet porn I don't know how we'd spend our evenings. Be honest, what is there worth watching on the box? Celebrity this, cooking that, no talent karaoke, poorly acted soaps, the list goes on and on. Its TV made by idiots for idiots.

Which brings me nicely to Jeremy Idiot Wade. I put my hands up, I was an idiot to have watched it, a mistake I shan't make again but I haven't watched any of his tosh for quite a while now but, with the dearth of anything to watch of late, when I saw it listed I pressed record on the planner. Oh how I wish I hadn't. 

Come on then, name a dangerous fish....... yes, a shark is pretty dangerous but they've been swimming around since before the dinosaur so we should all be aware of their potential. Piranha will make a mess of your outer layer should you pop into their home territory and bleed but again, I'm pretty sure we are all familiar with the risk. The first human to meet an electric eel was in for a shock (pun painfully intended), and when TV animal botherers mess about with stingrays it can only end badly but other than that there are very few fish that pose a threat unless some clumsy angler gets it wrong. So, with all of the genuine risks dealt with and a host of innocent fish slandered by this jumped up, self made 'danger hunter', what has come in for his hyperbole this week? The Sea Lamprey. The bloody Sea Lamprey!

I have never seen the like, wide eyed Jeremy interviewing a 'survivor' who'd had a lamprey latch on to him. "It was fast and aggressive", said the man who oddly had no scars to show. Me, I'd love a lamprey scar to show off, how cool would that be, almost unique and if one does ever latch on to you here's a tip, hold it behind the head and gently pull it off, its a lamprey not a badger. Incidentally most fish can swim faster than a human and I think that 'aggressive' is perhaps an inappropriate word for what is a parasite rather than a predator. The alleged incident occurred on a lake in the States where, due to its geography, the lamprey numbers have grown to an imbalance and their numbers are vast. How have the authorities dealt with this situation? They have created traps so that returning lamprey are caught and dispatched. This slaughter passed without further comment from J I W.

Being hands on Jeremy had to get up close and personal with a live specimen. This is "Jeremy Wade fisherman, biologist"...... and idiot who makes lots of money by demonising fish. He entered the man made trap or as he put it 'descended into the concrete cave full of serpentine. slimy vampires' - give me strength, and we were given close ups of his curled lips and scrunched face as he oohed, urghed and blahhed at the sight and feel of the 'snakelike' bodies. Err, hang on, didn't J I W once cover his trousers with meat so that he could encourage large numbers of eels to surround him in a New Zealand river? Not too shy of the slimy or the serpentine then, nor when he fished for Snakeheads which really are quite serpentine. Do you suppose he was just doing this for effect?

Mrs B constantly reminds me that such programs are 'just entertainment' and maybe that is all it is but, what if somebody made a series of programs about how 'dangerous' our birds are and how they should be reviled? He'd be attacked in the streets by middle England who love their feathered friends. Well I happen to like fish and the Sea Lamprey is a special visitor to my local river where the males work together to excavate a 'nest' up to six feet wide and a foot or more deep into which the female joins them to continue the race, a race that is inexorably in decline. Once they have mated they are carried exhausted downstream to their inevitable death. They are docile and beautiful and no harm to man beast or fish whilst out of the sea but according to J I W they should be greeted by large groups of villagers carrying burning torches, pitchforks and clubs who would dispatch each and every one of them less they be attacked in their beds.

Jeremy Wade has become a mouth piece in the fishing world, he is famous across the world for this tosh and had brought the reputations of our fish into disrepute to a degree where the unquestioning public who believe everything on the telly is real will be too frightened to walk beside a trickle of water in case they are dragged into the depths by a gang of angry roach. A fish as ancient and unique as the lamprey deserves much, much more than being reviled for a few shillings by an idiot.

Ooh scary - not!

End Of Season Round Up

About ten years ago I set myself a little end of season challenge to get a photograph of a barbel next to a clump of daffodils. I have somewhere a picture of a chub and primroses but my end of season barbelling has found the two items on my subject list hard to join. I can find flowers and many more this year than last when Spring was so reluctant to arrive, the barbel however, have been getting more and more difficult as the years progress. The quest continues.

In fact any fish has been my challenge this year. I had a couple of days when short afternoon to dusk sessions brought nothing, not even the merest tremble on the rod. Talking to Tim, who'd been fishing all week, my blanks coincided with days when he was fishless even though he had caught on the days either side. Was it my misfortune or had my cursed bad luck affected the entire river?

I tried again and settled into a spot that has brought me a few chub in the past. I trickled cheese paste and a few broken boilies along a crease then wrapped a veneer of paste around a small boilie and sat back to wait for any hint that a fish may be present. I even fished with a bobbin for added sensitivity, my improvised paste bite indicator wouldn't quite sit still so I leaned a dead stalk across it and everything sat just so - now all I needed was a fish.

The bite came when my resolve had weakened and I was chatting on the phone. The bobbin shook, then lifted smoothly toward the butt ring. I grabbed the rod and lifted, there was no snatch in my movement and no feeling of weight as the rod raised, just a bit of a pull then nothing. I wound in a broken line above the hooklink, it was like striking against a razor blade. I was crest fallen.

I set up again and concentrated hard as dusk approached, it just had to happen again.

The bobbin twitched then shook as did the rod tip. I lifted the rod, removed the bobbin and held the line..... it tightened in against my fingers and I struck. In the gloom I could see my Floatcaster bending against a force as yet unseen and I felt a satisfactory as a fish headed for some tree roots. It the came toward me steadily but the silver flash I picked up in the moonlight was deep, was this a big old chub? Then it started to lift in the water and came in way too easily, I laughed out loud (perhaps slightly manic) as I netted a bloody bream. It smell instantly took me to those cold nights by the lake when my sleep is disturbed not by fat carp but by slimy bream. I went home, thankful to have avoided a total blank but still unfulfilled.

I had plans to fish the last two days with Neil and, as the river was dropping down to almost summer level and the days were very bright, I bought a load of maggots.

The 13th was spent drowning those maggots in a swim that I really did have high hopes for. It let me down as neither of us had so much as a nibbled maggot. Mind you, it wasn't the longest or best I've fished. I felt tired and ached so at three-ish I had a strong coffee and a pain killer to 'keep me going'. I then sat back in my chair and slept soundly for a hour. On waking I felt awful and went home.

The last day was upon us and we set off for another afternoon session on a booked beat to allow us our choice of swims and some peace and quiet from the screaming hoards of female groupies that follow me everywhere. I'd even baited the swims for a few days but I have to say that I was still lacking in confidence whereas Neil was ten times worse having had a similar run of results to mine.

On my first retrieve I found a salmon parr attached to my hook. Not exactly a red letter capture but I called down to Neil that 'I had avoided the blank', which brought a series of guttural responses wafting back upstream. After that nothing much happened bar a couple of interesting and quite large insects landing on me (must look them up).  We had a quick conference call and debated the possibility of a move and if so, where the hell to? I said I'd have a coffee and a think.

With my drink still too hot to consume I noticed Neil wandering toward me with all of his kit, he'd made the decision for us. We chatted whilst my drink cooled when I was aware of a sound, a summer sound that I'd almost forgotten existed, it was my baitrunner! I connected with the fish that ran and ran down the current and pulled well above it's weight. Eventually it slipped over the net and was duly unhooked, photographed and returned. At only five pounds or so it was nothing special but, as the photo shows, the relief was palpable. Unusually the fish had evidently received an injury on it's tail at some stage and, as it healed, it seems to be growing part of a new tale lobe.

Neil joined me and we fished together as hard as possible but, as the cold wind git stronger and the light failed, it was telling us that it was time to forget the river and to think about those big carp in the lake. We humped the gear back to the car and drove off without so much as a last look. Its been a very poor season for me and I still haven't got that bloody picture.

The fly is a Dinocras cephalotes. A female stonefly and one of the bigger members of the 34 stoneflies to inhabit the UK.

Customer Services

As a lad growing up in the sixties I was an avid Beano reader which may not come as too much of a surprise. But my brother read something called 2000AD which arrived with his Look and Learn - he went to Grammar School whilst I languished in a Secondary Modern. '2000AD', the very thought of seeing a new century filled me with excitement and the thought that one day I may be there to see the future in all its glory. Of course the future portrayed in the comic was Judge Dredd orientated and involved men in hugging body suits with peculiar helmets.

The future was always dangled as the 'great tomorrow' as a post war world learned to cope with the challenges of rebuilding a society and infrastructure and along with it my parents generation eventually came to discover a thing called 'disposable income', something that was sadly lacking for a long while in our household. But there was always tomorrow demonstrated by Tomorrow's World, one of my favourite BBC programmes for years as Raymond Baxter and later the alluring Judith Hann, described what was just around the corner for us. Of course, back in those days whilst watching a black and white picture, the thought of witnessing a rocket launch, micro wave or laser beam was about as likely as having your own private telephone in your pocket - implausible.

Those were the days of steam railways where station staff were courteous and helpful, where food was served in paper bags and tasted good especially when cooked by mum, where we played for hours on end often miles from home but always turned up at tea time where there was never any worry about not having seen you for over five minutes. It was a time when even criminals had a code of practice.

But the past is just that, its gone forever. We are left with the present and the future and the future cannot be predicted. No man, with the notable exception of Leonardo de Vinci, has ever foreseen the future and what man has for itself just around the corner. This is possibly best demonstrated by the advent of the computer, the greatest minds in science, literature, TV and Film all failed to predict the keyboard, just watch an old Star Trek where they pilot a highly complex space vessel with a few toggle switches. No, we do not predict well and when each new discovery becomes the norm we are constantly surprised when it all goes awry, which is why Internet crime has caught so many of us out.

Yes, I've been 'hacked' again. only this time its not just an Email issue, if only. It my own stupid fault, a momentary lapse, an email apparently from my new bank after I'd spent an abnormally long time online, having to re-log in on a couple of occasions. It seemed quite reasonable to receive a message about abnormal account activity and I made the fatal slip of clicking on the link within the message. Dear reader never, NEVER click on a link in an email from a bank.

I am usually Mr Suspicious about my emails and the like but due to feeling stressed and hassled I had made the slip and that was that. The next day I had no phone signal so took my phone to the shop as my neighbour, also on Vodafone, had one so it wasn't an aerial issue. Whilst in town I found my bank card had been blocked and slowly the picture came into view. Some charmless bastard had contacted Vodafone and re- simmed my phone whilst reporting a fault on my landline and diverting my calls to their mobile. They then accessed my bank and removed a five figure sum of cash which, when the bank sent out a text and email querying it, they obviously responded without my knowledge and I was missing a few pounds short of ten grand!

I write this to hopefully keep you all on your toes because although the bank have put the money back into my account, I have lost three days of my life trying to get back to where I was at the start of the week. The problem comes when I rang BT Internet, my service provider. Its like running blindfold through a maze with a tar pit around each corner. First you have to negotiate a 'robot' switchboard that won't understand your spoken request and when you mention, "Hacked, Fraud, Help!" it sends you to a prerecorded message about forwarding the offending email to www........com, then hangs up.

Eventually I got through to India's finest. Now please believe me when I say I am not racist, I'm not - I hate nearly everybody so colour is not an issue. If I am being dealt with by someone who appears competent I don't care if they are green with gold hair, they'll do for me but when I tell someone why I want to gain access to my account which has been hacked and blocked and that they've taken an enormous amount of cash from my bank I don't want someone to tell me that they don't believe it as its hard enough to take one pound from your back never mind ten thousand. Did he think I was making it up? We then went through a lengthy security questioning which included "What is your BT account number?" I told him that I could not tell him as it is on my online details and that I cannot gain access to that account because somebody has hacked into it and changed the details. Obviously he didn't have that reply on his script and his head exploded. No, it didn't really. It was worse. We eventually got through the log in and he then said " So, good afternoon, what can I do for you today?" That was when my head exploded.

I was moved from pillar to post, I had added a secure password to my account along the way and was later asked by someone to divulge it in full. I refused, I was told that I only ever had to give a couple of random digits from it and had to be put through the the supervisor who fortunately had an IQ big enough to comprehend my situation, he passed me back to the muppet. On and on and on, two bloody hours to regain access to my account.

If any of you are considering signing up to BT Internet let me just say that whilst I have been their customer I have enjoyed good coverage with a decent modem but and it is a huge BUT, their customer support is appalling, the worst I have ever encountered. Their operatives are either undertrained or just purely moronic and I suggest, no implore you to leave them well alone because that jibbering wreck pulling lumps of hair out and screaming at a dead telephone - that could be you.

Rant over, next time I promise to talk about fishing.

The Thin Brown Line

That's the sum total of my fishing since mid January - a rolling tumbleweed. I have actually ventured to the waterside on a couple of occasions, one brief session involving a round trip just short of two hundred miles for less than two windswept, wet hours in which Neil's white blood corpuscle count dropped and a virus took over his body to the point where the return journey was essential. The other was a brief attempt to emulate King Canute as we fished with the water lapping the bank in a vein attempt to lure either a pike or a chub. Neither species obliged.

But looking at the river cameras, courtesy of the Wye and Usk Foundation, I see that there's a mere metre on up river which means that after all these weeks a strip of brown will be separating the green of the flooded fields from the dirty grey of the water. Yes folks, I can go fishing!

But I can't. I'm coughing death rattles and near comatose, stricken by that most dreadful of all ailments 'Terminal Manflu'. I doubt I'll see the weekend out.

Bloody typical, just when the river's manageable and the fish will doubtless be swimming open mouthed just waiting for any morsel that comes their way and I'm grounded. Bugger!

Hey ho, nothing I can do about it but sit back and wait till things improve. Time was I'd have dosed myself up and with a "I'm going out, I may be some time" comment to Nicky I'd heroically bow my head against the conditions and venture forth. Nowadays I have a little more sense and take the opportunity to work my way through the Norman Wisdom box set or make another float.

Did I mention floats? Oh yes, I've been creative - ish, and have put a few together. Its a good way of spending the winer hours, I just wish I was good at it. The actual floats will work, that's not really very challenging is it? A stick which is buoyant is after all a float, we just like to complicate the issue by making them look pretty and that's where I fall down. I have the artistic ability of a chimp with a bucket of whitewash and a broom which doesn't make for pristine floats with dead straight bands of colour but what the hell, once they've floated ten yards downstream who can tell the difference and the fish certainly don't give a toss.

A forum I'm on is full of eager and highly competent float makers, each one being a work of art often with feathers inlayed into the varnish and paint jobs that could be exhibited in a gallery. They make pleasant comments about mine but its a bit like driving a Lada to a super car convention, we took the same road and were basically alike in that we were all on four wheels and had a roof and windows to keep the rain off but the looks my car got were somehow different to theirs. But I can live with it.
I have made floats in the past but have now rediscovered the joy of making my own tackle. When I fly fished I started tying my own and pretty soon it felt wrong to use a shop fly. The same will doubtless be true about floats and, with a few exceptions, I'll be rolling my own from now on.

Hopefully I'll have a fish to report in the near future - should I make it through the next few days that is - cough, cough, groan!