Welsh Wildies and things that creep and crawl

Friday afternoon saw me trusting my sanity to the whims of a Sat Nav as it demonstrated its sense of humour by picking the twistiest route imaginable through the badlands to a field near some unpronounceable hamlet.  A couple of sheep greeted me, no comments necessary, but across the field I found the wagons encircled in a defensive formation in case of native attacks. It was the gathering of the Traditional Fishing Forum members intent on bothering the wild carp that inhabit a couple of lakes.

Welsh Wales

As the group assembled there were many introductions and names put to faces. I love this sort of gathering as forum chat to pseudonyms is much better when you have a personality to associate with them, (well, usually). There was much eating of burgers, sausages and chicken as the notion of our 'five a day' was left far behind - unless alcohol counts in which case most of us managed it. 'Loop', okay, Paul did the cooking - well he is a chef, and a great job of it he did too with no pink sausages or blackened, solid burgers at all. Most unlike my barbecues.

Some of the Gathering

We sat beneath a clear sky chatting whilst watching satellites and shooting stars.

At some ungodly hour Stu did his cockerel impression and stirred the camp. He really is a great cock. With much coughing, farting and scratching we drank life infusing coffee and were ready to go when, at 7.15 Stu started making bloody toast. He really is a great......

Sparrow's Fart

We split up into two groups, one quartet going to Pant y llyn the rest of us to Llyn Gwyn which was very picturesque if a tad breezy and quite chilled. It would look much better had the powers that be not erected four of the biggest wooden platforms I have ever seen, you could park your car on them. In a water where the fish come right to the edge in its clear waters, why are they necessary? I refused to fish from one and began my assault.

It was tough going. There is a shallow bay set  aside for carp angling whilst the rest of the sixteen acres is for the fluff flingers. The wind was gusting across the shallows severely cooling them whilst any fish following the wind was hundreds of yards away - a challenging cast with a cane rod.

I laid on with a selection of baits, corn, meat, beans of various sorts, but never felt I had fish in front of me bar an 'S' shaped, emaciated rainbow trout that hoovered the margins. To my left was the edge of the permitted zone. Stu fished there and cast along the margins into the trout area (the cad) and intercepted patrolling fish heading my way. He caught a few one even waking him from a nap. Meanwhile Nigel tussled a couple out of some lilies.

I went over to a lead and cast to the island and anywhere I saw movement, all to no avail so I had a doze. It was then time for a spot of lunch which was nicely enhanced by the other Nigel's catch of four trout taken earlier on the fly. They were hot smoked and very nice they were too.

I moved to the edge of a large bed of some sort of floating plant that has formed an impenetrable mat on the surface. I would never get a fish out were it to find shelter amongst the stems but figured I give anything a heave ho in the opposite direction if I had a take. I fed a trickle of floaters along the outside edge and fished a bait beneath their path. Again nothing worked until I blagged a couple of slices of bread and I began to get bites. I missed one good pull which saw my hook being retrieved from the bracken behind me, then I hooked something small that flapped about on the surface until the hook fell out. I think it was a trout.

I was getting desperate, I was feeling quite uncomfortable but didn't want to blank. I was holding the rod and touch legering. I had a determined pull and hit a fish that went from swirling on the surface in front of me to doing the same twenty yards away in about a tenth of a second. Those fish are turbo charged and mental.

It was only a little one but at least it was a job done. I knew I'd over done it so I packed and, after stopping by the camp to take down my bivvy and saying goodbye to the rest of the group, I was home by late evening.

Are there wildies in Llyn Gwyn? Without an autopsy report on one its hard to say but I did detect a distinct hump on the shoulder of my fish and some of the others were the same indicating that they were King Carp yet one caught by Stu that I photographed looks very like a true wildie. The fact is that if you stock any carp into an upland, clear water you will get lean, dark coloured fish that look very 'wild' in nature. There may well have been true wildies here in the past but I reckon that we were fishing for feral carp which is probably as close as you can expect in the UK.

I've only seen pictures of Pant Y Llyn fish which do look more genuine but as they share a lake with a vast amount of chub it begs the question, how did they get there? If the chub illegally were stocked it puts suspicion on the carp stock too and if they were naturally seeded the surly the carp could be also.

Who cares, the look pretty much like and certainly fight like wildies and, with a great bunch of mates it was a very good trip.

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I think most of us would like to think they have a degree of animal magnetism. Of course, in reality we rarely do but I think I may be developing something along those lines - insect magnetism.

We leave our toilet light on at night so that my aged and poorly sighted mother can find her way about. All summer long there has been an array of moths resting on the walls and ceiling as they recover from a night of circling a 100 watt bulb. I put a few out in a hope that they manage to do what they are supposed to do with their lives.

The other day I was having my early morning whizz into the bowl when a moth landed on my todger. This was a new experience which rapidly became exceptional when it crawled to the end (its not far), and appeared to be drinking my urine. Now this may be a common practice but one that chaos like to keep quiet about for fear of being pigeon holed as some sort of moth botherer but, for me, this was a first. The tale went down well with the gathering in Wales.

Then, as I chatted on the phone on the banks of Llyn Gwyn I became aware of something crawling up my trouser leg. I'm not one to panic and figured I'd deal with it after the call but, whatever it was, it had ambition and drive and was half way up my thigh when I decided enough was enough and I pinched it through my trousers. It squashed quite easily and left a sizeable squish mark on the material. I finished the call and gave the leg a good shake, nothing appeared. I dropped my trousers, there was nothing there. I even took off my boot in case it had fallen in but still, there was nothing there.

What was it? What was its intent? Had it been chatting with a certain moth and was after its own sample of my liquid? I'm not sure if I am comfortable with insect magnetism, is this how Spiderman started out?

Breaking Curfew

The trouble with being grown up is that we tend to do pretty much what we want and when forced to comply with somebody else's rules it rankles with us. If I want to stop drinking for a while then, in theory, I can. But have somebody tell you to stop and out comes the bottom lip and the brain comes up with a thousand reasons why you know better. I didn't fish for a month and was in a sort of in between area. It was 'suggested', albeit firmly, that I shouldn't fish and my body kind of told me it made sense. So I was able to endure my sabbatical in the main but at times it felt like cold turkey. 

With my last physio session out of the way and despite there being a distinct lack of improvement, I said 'Sod it' and went to a little pool for a nice steady few hours after crucian carp. Neil came too and we decided that once we'd had all the crucians we could manage we would retire to the big lake and catch a sack of big carp during the evening. What could possibly go wrong.

Crucians are great, they tease and annoy but when you get a hittable bite you are rewarded with a joyous creature to behold. Alas, neither of us quite got to stage three of that equation and got stuck on the 'tease and annoy' bit. 

Its a lovely pool and there were Crucians in my swim from the off. The little tell tale bubbles are a sure sign being quite unlike those emitted from the bream that hung out in deeper water. I could have moved the float up and tried for those but, I had made plans and stuck to them.

I soon changed to a lighter float and even then the movements were so slight it looked as though the float itself was gently breathing. I went down to a bit of a grain of corn and had a little roach then over to a tiny pinch of flake on an 18. Even with this I only caught roach and they too were biting with uncanny shyness. It was hardly relaxing and leaning forward in anticipation had made my neck seize up.

Okay, so plan A was a failure, there's always plan B to come. But the big lake had coloured by the recent rain and nothing at all moved. It has never produced to either of us in these conditions and quite frankly, it was a struggle neither of us fancied so we went home.

But I have another venture planned. I may grab an evening on the river in the mean time but the weekend is an organised trip with some fellow forum members from the Traditional Fishing group and we are heading into the badlands of Wales in search of true wild carp. Two venues are being fished Pant Y Lynn, a Wye and Usk controlled pool high up in the Brecon Beacons which was stocked centuries ago and Lyngwyn near Rhayader which is a sixteen acre trout lake but where an ancient strain of wild carp live and fishing is permitted for them from one bank. 

Wether there are actually any genuine wild carp left in the UK is a mute point. Kevin Clifford reckons not but that the carp we catch are more feral than wild. It matters not, they are about as wild as you can get in the UK and have a long heritage. They look like a wildie should look and apparently they fight like crazy. I'm really looking forward to it.

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The 'Bird Man' has been busy again. Nicky told me that something was 'fluttering' in the kitchen and after moving a pile of garden chair cushions (don't get me started as they drive me up the bloody wall), I found a young Siskin. Quite why it chose to fly into the kitchen in the first place is known only by itself but it was soon caught. I thought it was a good photo opportunity and snapped a quick picture of it in my hand. I could se it was out of focus but thought rather than stress the poor thing I'd take another as it left my hand. As you can see, not my finest photo's. I guess I'll just have to wait for another one to pop in.

A Short Stay

July 29th was a day like any other but, when I woke on the morning of the 30th, something had changed.

I see the good part of the year as a bit like watching a hot air balloon being inflated. It starts with a flat, empty pocket full of nothing but potential. Then, with a gust from the gas bottle and a waft or two of the edge of it's canopy, there appear little bubbles and bumps like the first blooms of spring.  Nothing much happens for a while then, with an impatient rush, there is colour and movement and a great rising orb that can carry the souls of many with it as it ascends into a clear sky. It is as beautiful to observe as it is to fly and those on board must look down upon a sea of smiling faces. It is an event.

Then, the fight between the hot air from the tanks and the cooling air outside indicates a point of no return and from that moment, although the flight may continue for some time, it is doomed and classed as a somewhat protracted descent.

That is what happened on July 30th 2014.

It has always happened around this time of year although my memory tries to convince me that it used to be much later. But I keep an eye on such things and come the end of July each year and the swifts depart. One little moment in a world of animal migration and wonderful animal happenings and one that always saddens me.

It may be that from your current location you can still see and as importantly hear swifts as they wheel around the sky in the continual pursuit of food. There will be a number of birds still over the UK for a month or two yet and indeed just last year, with its painfully late Spring, they were here for at least another couple of weeks. But not usually. Not now. They have gone.

Their departure means one thing. Summer is now in free fall and everything is sliding inexorably toward autumn. You can't stop it and goodness knows this has been a very good summer with balmy evenings where I've sat outside absorbing the warm, thick air whilst listening to that exciting high pitched scream as groups of swifts soar effortlessly above. But from now on there will be just that little chill in the air. Air that will begin to feel decidedly thinner during evenings that will feel decidedly shorter.

So a lament to the swift. The bird that never stops flying and even sleeps on the wing. A bird that has to wait two or three years after fledging for its first rest if rest is the right word for nesting. A bird that has been recorded at twenty one years of age would you believe, which means that particular creature would have flown some three million miles.

Hearing the first swifts around the full moon at the end of May is a red letter day in any year, their departure is most certainly a grey one.

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By the way, I've made a decision. Its my last physio session tomorrow so win lose or draw I'm going fishing at the weekend. Well I have to, haven't you heard? Autumns coming.

Fifty Not Out

Accompanied by his mother, the trip to the tackle shop had been thrilling, a first step into new world. His little eyes peering to see over the counter where, with great determination and an air of knowledge (passed on by Bob, an older boy), he asked for his hooks. Six size 14 and six size 10’s were slipped into a paper envelope and he clutched them in his little hand like they were jewellery. Those together with his very first rod licence made July 18th 1964 a very special day.

The actual date of his first trip have been lost along the way but it followed close to that fateful day just mentioned. Bob, some four maybe five years his senior accompanied him on the mile long trip on their bikes with rods strapped to crossbars to the weir. As they approached the roaring rush of water the silty, ionised air entered his nostrils and engaged with a deep part of the brain, he would never smell such water without a reference to this hallowed place, he was at last born an angler.

Hands shaking with anticipation and with fumbling fit to try the patience of his tutor for the day, somehow a three piece rod, possibly of greenheart or some inferior wood, was put together and the line from a diminutive bakelite centre pin was threaded through the rings. The tutor asked where the float rubbers had gone? He replied, with due embarrassment that they had been discarded as he was sure they were of no use. A remedy was found and the little porcupine quill was attached by threading a loop of line through the eye then passing it over the float and so, with brand new size 14 hook and a little squeeze of bread, his first cast was made into the water below.

Looking on in admiration he saw Bob catch minnows with consummate ease, his words of “There see, its easy”, did little to assuage the boy but eventually and after reducing the bait size by a considerable amount, his float at last slid to one side and he was attached to a living creature. The throbs and pulses of that tiny minnow were transmitted though line and rod, it was the realisation of a dream he’d had for so long in his short life, this is what he had always wanted and he was hooked for ever.

Having moved swims a few times he found himself standing tip toe to reach over the fence rail but it was uncomfortable and his rod pointed up and into the leaves of the Horse Chestnut tree above. The solution came by way of a damaged section of the fence where he could fish through and lean out to gaze down into the shady water below the great tree. Here he watched his bread sink only to take on a life of its own as it popped from side to side as minnow after minnow attacked it until it was small enough for one to swallow and again the shaking, spinning form came alive as it spun up through the water etching an image that remains as vivid today as it was fifty years ago. His keen eyes spotted larger fish, some as much as six inches long and this sent the boy running to find Bob to breathlessly describe the ‘monsters’ he’d nearly caught. Bob shrugged it off, he was talking to some bigger boys who were using one of his minnows as an eels bait. The boy was dispatched to catch more ‘bait’ and, filled with a sense of importance at being entrusted with such a task, he ran back and resumed his fishing with glee.

The next two fish were duly taken to the lads sat hunched over a rod cast under the overhanging trees on the far bank of the backwater section. This water was entirely different to the lively, fresh water of the weir and was dark, deep and foreboding. But the boy felt inflated with the praise and exclamations at his efficiency at catching minnows but felt uneasy that they were being left to expire on the top of the wall. His gaze was observed and they were dispatched by stamping on their heads ‘to release the flavour’. It was a mixture of emotions that the boy had yet to understand and which would crop up time and again though out his angling career.

His confusion was ended though when an urgent call made him run back to those boys and he watched as a mighty beast of the deep waters was reeled to the bank. It was an eel, probably about a pound and half in weight and the little boys eyes grew wider and wider as the older kids dispatched it and set off home with their meal. Any moral debate was dispelled in that instant, at least for the time being, there were monsters here to be caught and one day he too would conjure such leviathans at his bidding.

And you know what, on occasions he did just that. Its fifty years on and the excitement of that first trip is still bubbling away just below the surface like a well shaken bottle of champagne, a bottle that I have uncorked on countless occasions and one who’s taste and head spinning effect never lessens. I doubt I’ll make it a hundred years of fishing so I will celebrate my bicentennial and wish all of you as much pleasure as I have derived from this wonderful fishing life.

Grounded

I am not happy. I've had a few evening sessions and have taken plenty of chub including a couple of scraper fives. They were probably well over the magic figure but I have a knack for underestimating chub weights and am frequently amazed when I do take the effort to lift them on the dial. It matters not, I only get excited by those that near the next step up the numeric ladder nowadays, I'm not being flash its just that we have a lot of big chub in the Wye. But that's not what is getting me down, I'll never tire of chub they are wonderful fish and I am still looking to improve my best each season. No, its the result of fishing for them that's got to me.

I have only had a single barbel to date, a poor return you'd say but the river has been difficult apart from a slight lift in the level that I didn't fish - typical. Rain brought a similar rise a couple of days ago but I was unable to join the fun. You see, I'm grounded.

The dodgy back (oh here we go again!), has been receiving some pretty intense physiotherapy in recent weeks, compliments of my impending insurance claim, yet there has been little improvement. One session sent me back a notch or three but it was soon back to bearable but after an evening sat watching a static rod I found myself in agony. I know I can handle the occasional blank so the pain was purely down to a buggered back, neck and shoulder - I was in bits.

Going cap in hand to the Physio he looked at me with a somewhat miffed expression. "You don't have to fish you know", he scowled at someone not taking his efforts seriously. I tried explaining the compunction felt by us afflicted with the fishing virus but he merely explained that 'even professional sportsmen have periods of rest'. Check Mate. I lowered my eyes and muttered a weak "Okay". So I am now on an enforced abstinence during a perfect summer when the rivers and lakes are all looking temptingly wonderful and my eagerness to put a bend in my rod has rarely been higher. Bugger!

I shall return - soon I hope and I shall doubtless find something to wax lyrical about in the meanwhile but if you not a hint of grinding teeth and frustration in my prose please forgive this grumpy fellow, I am certain you will know how I feel.

Fledglings

I used one of those God awful self service tills in B&Q yesterday although it has to be said, the B&Q ones are far less temperamental than the main supermarkets, those things are just there to increase the blood pressure. Anyway, I put my little packet of Epoxy resin through and, with hand on wallet ready to pay was told, No. I had to wait for someone to tell the machine I was over 18 years of age. Can you get high on Epoxy? If you use both tubes wouldn't your head set into a permanent bond also suitable for glass, wood, metal and leather?

Well I looked around but the attendant walked past me to a little gathering of another B&Q chap, a great strapping lad of about 30 and a shopper. They were hunched over a grey mess on the floor that to me looked like a piece of lagging had fallen from the roof, their upward glances underlined my suspicion. The attendant looked in my direction and I proffered a smile that said 'Help, I am a man stuck in the bonds of technology' but she walked past muttering something about the RSPCA. The guy walked past me as well, grim faced and holding a paint brush looking like it was about to go off.

I looked again at the centre of their attention, now abandoned, and saw a little head rise from the greyness. I wandered over and picked up a very young herring gull which kicked and pecked in much the way you would expect. In a voice you'd normally relate to someone announcing that an ambulance had been called I was told, "Its alright, someones gone for a box." I asked if there was any access to the roof to return the lost youngster but was met with blank faces.

Big fella' suggested we put a basket over it so that it could not escape. Instead I put it in to a basket so that the flightless and stressed creature could rest. A debate was taking place, apparently it had happened before and an older assistant said that she put them "In the park", which, by the way, is some distance away and, as I pointed out, a predator rich environment.

Big Guy asked if I wanted to use the staff toilet to wash my hands? Looking mildly disgusted that I had touched a bird. The attendant, who I collared just long enough to put my order through, was having difficulty in tracing the local RSPCA branch but had contacted a vet. The crowd of employees gathering around the basket grew.

A young worker asked if I had seen it fall with a look of morbid delight on her pretty face. No, I just picked it up, she squirmed in an excited way, her eyes wide with the thrill of it all. I told her that already this year I have put a sparrow, two blackbirds, a jackdaw (that was a foot from being eaten by a large cat) and a couple of greenfinches out of harms way when they had fledged too early. "Oh" she exclaimed, "Your like the bird man or something". I said that its all natural selection and maybe we should leave the stupid ones to their fate. Adding, with a smile, but if that was the case there'd be plenty of humans would struggle to survive". She agreed not knowing that I'd just bitten a lump out my cheeks as I was going to add "But if we did that how would B&Q find any staff?"

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In the evening I relented and had a few hours on the Wye. I fished a swim where I have taken early season barbel before but it has altered in the floods and is now very deep. Definitely one for later in the season but I only had one bite which resulted in a good chub that went 4.14 but which will be a very nice catch later in the year.

I moved to some fast, shallow water and had a couple more, one of over four, the other I didn't even lift out of the water and was around the three pound mark. A pleasant trip and some action for my Allcocks Avon Superb which handled them all very comfortably. I think this rod will be a regular visitor to the river this year.

A New Season Dawns

According to Mr James the Wye is fishing well so a bumper start to the new season is assured, not that I've much inclination to start barbel bothering just yet. I spent the day supervising my work force (Nicky and Neil) as we sorted the fishery in a last minute slash and clear project. This Summer the flora is as lush as I can remember, the hight of the balsam and nettles is extreme so even finding old pathways was challenging but, its all up and running for the big 'Off'.

I shall probably be drawn to the river within a day or two but I really can't get too excited about upsetting the fish population so soon after their spawn. With back and shoulder issues I shall rest for a bit longer which will doubtless mean the fishing is excellent from the word go if previous seasons are anything to go by. Anyway, my mind is still on the lake.

Ahh the lake. I sat by it whilst I read a few chapters of 'The Secret Carp' the other day. I read this book most years during early summer, it really is the best fishing book I've read and it always feels fresh when I open it's pages. To sit by my own secret lake as the tale unfolds is just too good.

On the subject of my lake, it is also blooming in this exceptional year with weed beds showing all over, weeds that didn't show at all last year. Its given it a more challenging but even more carpy appearance, I can't wait to get back.

I'm still a little disappointed at missing out on my French trip, I've tried to put it behind me but typically, it turned out to be the most productive trip that 'we' have taken. Neil had something of a blinder taking muscular river carp between 16 and 30 pounds. I was delighted for him of course even when I received yet another catch report text whilst sitting around hurting. I'll pause whilst you send sympathetic thought waves my way before I post a few pictures of some of his successes.

Good luck for the new season and I hope that at least some of your dreams are fulfilled.