Starlings

Took a drive to Aberystwyth the other day to watch the starlings murmurate as they settle overnight beneath pier. Alas, they were not in a showy mood so the swirling shapes were few and far between but it was nonetheless a very interesting and exciting display.

As we took up our watching position - out of the biting wind - the first little group of about twenty flew in over the roof tops and circled picking up another little flock so twenty became forty. This continued as more groups crossed flight paths and, like rolling drops of mercury, they seamlessly formed a bigger flock which was soon over a thousand strong. It was then that we had a few of those amazing displays as the flock twisted and rolled in flight but yet more birds came in and went straight under the pier. This was seen by the main group and quickly a number broke off and joined them. Within two minutes the entire flock was ensconced beneath the pier and for a moment the sky was empty.

Not my photo unfortunately

The final dive for cover

Was that it? No, of course not. In came wave after wave containing thousands of starlings but, probably due to the others showing that all was safe and well, they didn't hang about and dived for the cover. It was amazing to see a black cloud of birds taper at the front as a line of them dropped to their roost. It was like seeing a floating bowl of liquid being poured and seemed to defy the rules of flight.

Pretty soon it was dusk and the show was over for another day. We left to the sound of over ten thousand starling voices now audible above the traffic and waves.

It was a single starling that stopped me in my tracks a couple of days ago. Whilst walking the dog I heard that little 'cheeit' sound that tawny owls make to each other. It was repeated and I turned to see if I could see the bird but all I saw were starlings. Then I heard a long, slightly too high pitched and reedy 'tweeeeit' again repeated and realised that it was a starling imitating an owl. It went through it's repertoire several times and I really wish I could have recorded it.

Continuing on the bird theme, a house sparrow dropped a beak full of nesting material at my feet this morning and I've noticed the males have been squabbling a lot of late, a sure sign that spring is on the way. Dunnocks are also displaying and I've heard a woodpecker drumming out it's territorial proclamation over the last couple of days. Despite the bitter weather we are going through its satisfying to watch the signs that the season is about to change.

I hope to bring some fishing related stuff for you soon but it won't last. I've got until the end of the season and will fish as much as the shoulder and back permit but I'm having surgery on the shoulder in mid March which will knock my spring carping on the head before it even starts, which I'm a bit grumpy about. Then, two days into the new season and I have some spinal injections and physio to look forward to. But that, hopefully, will put me back on track and I will be fit and healthy for the end of the season.

Ju Suis Charlie

Happy 2015

Happy New Year one and all. Funny old thing the changing of a date, we all think we can start afresh but I don't think life and the world work that way. Still, onwards and upwards, maybe this year will be better than the last - I certainly hope so.

Before the fishy stuff a rant.

My wife constantly tuts and raises her eyes skyward as I chew the enamel off my teeth at the latest imbecile hairstyle. My father used to annoy me when, as a teenager, I dared to grow my hair to reach my collar. "You look like a girl" was his favourite and the journey to the barbers was interspersed with an opinion of everybody that wore anything more adventurous that a short back and sides.  Well I've become him.

You will remember the sniggering and open mockery when Kim John Un came to power in North Korea. His hair 'style' is ridiculous and oh how funny we all thought. Role forward a few months and half of the Premiership footballers are wearing adaptations on the same theme with the sides being cut so short that some of them look like they are bald blokes running about balancing a gerbil on their head. Meanwhile, most lads not yet able to shave, are wearing the Bieber style of combing everything forwards so that you can only see a nose and one eye. God I feel old.

Whilst I'm at it - Feedback! I perfectly understand the need for feedback on sites such as Ebay where it is necessary to judge the trustworthy trader from the charlatan. What I cannot come to terms with is every other bastard who thinks I've got nothing better to do with my time than fill out feedback questionnaires or answer telephone calls asking how I feel about the last bloody phone call that took me twenty minutes to get past the stupid automated switchboard. If you moan about the switchboard nothing happens because its cheaper than paying a person with a brain to sort your call, feedback doesn't work.

Its become a Damocles sword to hang over the work force. I recently hired a car and was genuinely impressed by the super efficient service by the team of youngsters in the office. As I handed back the keys I was asked if I was satisfied and when I answered in the affirmative I had a piece of paper thrust into my hand with the details of where I could send 'positive feedback'. I looked at the fixed smiles of the workers and saw, just behind the eyes, a look of desperation.

On my next visit there I was asked to fill out a questionnaire form before I even left. They did the scribing as I was quickly asked how I rated their service. A day or two later a letter arrived with a similar set of questions from the head office. The whole firm is forced to give good service or face whatever sanctions the bosses see fit. Well I can't live like that. I know that we expect a standard of service but I also understand that not everybody is bouncy, fun and "Have a nice day" polite 24/7 and nor should they be forced to.

Have you noticed that when leaving a shop where you may have had a spot of banter with the sales person (usually a girl in my case), that they suddenly 'offer' you the chance to fill out a feedback form and have the chance to win £ enter amount here - They don't give those to the grumpy buggers do they.

We also get asked to Feedback about web sites that we've only just clicked on. How can I give an opinion of service if I'm trying to access their site but an annoying bloody feedback window is in my way. Its a lazy form of self rating embraced by narrow minded executives that does nothing to improve their service unless they give us feedback as to what they do with our comments. In the mean time I suggest we all give negative feedback about everything and break the system, they'd soon learn.

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I don't make resolutions, but I do make plans and have aims to drive me forwards, especially when it comes to my fishing. After May, 2014 was probably the nearest my angling came to being a rudderless ship. To this end I am joining another lake syndicate (hopefully), which will allow me to fish an 'easier' location when the ol' back is giving me grief. Its an attractive lake with a level bank that doesn't require belay points and sherpas to get my gear in and out. It has a good stock of carp with lots of single figure fish but also a sprinkling of fish up to low or mid twenties. Although there are weekenders that bivvy up and attack it with multi rods and all the tech, it is apparently quiet mid week and that's when I can fish it with a more relaxed approach. My good friend Paul has stalked it to some success in the past and has found that many of the fish are fully scaled and immaculate so I shall be fishing for pretty fish where size is far less important than my other pool. I'm sure Paul won't mind me including this picture as a sample of the lake's potential.

Of course the 'other' pool is very much in my thoughts and I intend to fish it hard in the search of another thirty pounder. Circumstances have made it harder to arrange several day stays there but I reckon that the Spring time is the time to try and its also the finest time of the year to wake up next to a hidden pool at dawn. I am excited about the prospects and whether I succeed in the ultimate goal or not, it will be a fascinating journey.

Between now and then I intend to concentrate on chub and, if the opportunity arrises, grayling. I used to set my sights on a big back-end barbel but have spent many blank hours chasing hunches. I haven't caught a double this season and I'm genuinely not that bothered about it. Perhaps I've just caught enough barbel for now.


Thank you for reading this, now please take a few moments to answer these questions........

The Night Before Christmas

I had to get out. The urge to fish is constant just the amount varies and lately I've really felt the need. To add to the general frustration I had a rod to christen, a Sharpe's Scotty Avon that arrived whilst I was less than able to enjoy it. Nicky actually brought it to the ward for me to unwrap - bless her. The looks we drew as I put it together and gave it the customary wiggle were of bemusement.... but nobody said anything.

I dropped into my chub swim confident of a chance but not really too worried either way. The river was well up and thousands of gallons of coloured Wye sped silently past. I snuck into a crease and threw a few free pieces of spice flavoured meat well upstream. This was followed by a small pva containing three or four more bits and one on the hook. I sat back, the weight of the rod on a rest but the handle was in my hand and the line across the tip of my right index finger. 

Less than a minute had passed when I felt a faint tug, tug then a determined pull and I was into a hard fighting fish that ran upstream but stayed deep. The rod hooped over and took on a fighting posture that I hope to see repeated many times as the fish begrudgingly came to the surface. A chub, not a monster by any means but about average for the river. It was soon in the net and released downstream.

I knew that a fish so soon was usually the kiss of death but I went through the motions for an hour or so content to listen to the squabbling starlings looking for a roost. It got quite cold and despite a stab of a bite whilst I texted Neil, I decided to call it a day and go and help with the last minute Christmas preparations. 

Sometimes an hour by the water is more than enough but I'll be back soon for sure.

                         

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Have a wonderful Christmas period and thanks for stopping by to look at my humble scrawl. In a world that constantly throws grief and misery our way Christmas is a time for reflection and hope. 

Here's a seldom heard seasonal song for you to enjoy

December River Wylye Grayling Trip

I recall the opening to a film or book in which a hardened American Detective described the process of having the third catheter of his life removed, and how he had fallen in love with the girl doing it on each occasion. As I stared deep into the grey eyes of a beautiful young nurse who was about to remove my first, I told her of the tale, she looked a little shocked. I guess I'm no longer supporting the chiselled appearance of a rough - tough cop..... not that I ever did. But when it was removed it was as blissful a release as I can recall and a definite corner was turned. Its been quite a week.

A family weekend followed a day later by a sickness bout that became painful and persistent. A doctor was called for some anti-sickness meds but an ambulance arrived. "Your heart's okay", which, to be honest was initially our main concern. They then invited me to go to Hereford Hospital for some more checks. I declined. 'I'll be alright in the morning'... Teflon Burr, shrug it off.

Next afternoon and a brief recovery is quickly forgotten and I cannot get to the GP quick enough, it is an agony that is hard to describe and the Doc claims it to be 'pancreatitis' and looks sternly at my Units per Week count. Temperance is the watch word at the local surgery and I've held my gaze to these questions before as half a bottle of wine isn't that bad.... is it? By the time I'd been bumped along the cart track roads of the Shire and had reached A&E a life of sobriety seemed an easy course to follow.

Ultra Sound, X Ray and Fingers prodded and probed at many, many places and the Paracetamol was replaced with Morphine and still I felt worse. But the NHS has no room for people that are merely in pain but are yet to receive help so I was sent home to be returned next day for a CT Scan which would probably confirm its Gall stones. Again I had to endure our dreadful roads which, despite Nicky's best efforts, are just a series of jolts and bumps joined by moans and guttural groans.

Scan done, more invasive kneading and I was ready to show a white flag. I was eventually admitted into a small ward that held a man who never moved an inch, another that never quite got the message across to a miserable nurse with an empathy bypass that he was slightly demented and very deaf and a third who was either kicking the curtain between us whilst moaning or was demonstrating his total lack of bowel control. It was a bit like sharing rooms on a fishing weekend really. I was beyond caring.

And so began my first hospital stay. The signs all pointed to a blocked bowel but the Consultant wasn't 100% certain and hung on for it to calm down in order to do more tests. Come Saturday and I had not eaten since Monday afternoon, had not had much of my medication in that time (two of which can have adverse effects on their own after just two days without), and my sense of humour had gone without leaving a forwarding address. But it settled a bit. Despite tubes in and out of everything, I gingerly nibbled a piece of toast and kept it down. Over the next couple of days a colon that had refused to even leak a tiny fart began to do its job and I began to look out of the windows where this morning, there was the most wonderful purple dawn you could ever wish for. And so came Tuesday afternoon and my catheter was finally removed and I knew I was going home.

As I take stock I wonder if its something of a record to have doctors from three different continents shove an arm (well that's what it bloody felt like), up your rectum in two days. Why does hospital television cost £10 a day and the car park cost that about every ten minutes? Why also did the hospital internet connection claim that the Traditional Fishing Forum was not something that it thought appropriate and so blocked it? And why, when sleep is an important part of recovery, don't they keep a stock of ear plugs for us poor sods trying to grab a spot of shut eye in a busy night ward? They didn't even bring me some cotton wool. That said, the vast majority of staff were excellent, they really were.

As I packed to leave there were whispered words between staff members and I could see them mouthing the letters M.R.S.A. A deep clean took place in the cubical to my right and the one two over. The guy left in the middle looked very bad and I was glad that I was going and that I had not been opened up. A sobering experience without yet a conclusion.

The grayling trip? That was supposed to have been tomorrow.  

Worth It

Fishing for grayling should be a gentle pursuit with relaxed fishing on a cold day, taking time out to enjoy the countryside. It should not therefore, be attritional. However, my recent trip to magnificent river Frome became just that but through the grief and grind came a moment or two of pure magic.

Day one was full of optimism and wonder at my first chance to fish this hallowed venue. I had been offered free access to a long, private stretch many years ago but, at the time was unable to take them up on it and so a golden opportunity was lost. It has rankled me for ages so here I was redressing the situation.

The weather was destined to be wet and I had forgotten to bring a brolly. No matter, I'm made of stern stuff and headed off upstream until I found a delicious looking run that screamed fish. The rain started and I chopped and changed floats to try and get perfect presentation and visibility, but never quite achieved it. I decided to move and that is when my butt ring fell off.

After the long walk back to the car, the drive to two garages in the search of insulating tape and the long trudge back to my swim, my sense of humour had taken a bash. The next hour saw it disappear completely. I'd changed reels to make casting and retrieving 'easier' than with my little 3" Hodder but my Speedia decided to fall in love with the line and hugged it tightly to the spool. The wet rod didn't help nor did me leaving out a ring when I set it up but that was soon rectified amidst Anglo Saxon mutterings.

I was aiming for a far bank run that would surely give me a bite but I never managed to trot it effectively. I had a lovely selection of floats gifted by my friend Richard who's guest I was but none of them was capable of bossing the current as the river had come up over the last couple of days. I stumbled from swim to swim getting into all sorts of tangles and mess and angrier and angrier with myself. It was cold and the rain was relentless. I decided to pull my coat zip up further to warm the top of my chest but it stuck. I swore and then swore again when the zipper popped off one side and the coat slowly opened fully leaving me colder and wetter.

I had seen a fish top in the previous swim and another in an unfishable spot but, when I eyed yet another good looking run I saw a grayling take something from the surface right in front of me. This urged me on and I eventually broke my duck with a grayling of about three ounces.

When the phone rang I was unable to answer it as the screen was wet and my fingers too cold to register on the touch screen. But it was Richard calling and as he'd left his phone in the B&B I knew he's long since given up so I quickly followed.

Day two saw us eying each other at breakfast, each waiting for the other to be the first to cast doom over the day's proceedings. But we headed to the river anyway and grimaced at the brown, turbulent and very ungrayling like conditions. "Sod it" I said, "I'm going to keep walking upstream until I find some quiet water". Richard agreed and off we set.

A few yards later we watched an Osprey fly across in front of us and disappear over some trees. It was my first Osprey in the UK and we both agreed that it must be a good omen. A few yards later the confluence between main river and feeder stream that looked bland yesterday suddenly looked perfect. "This spot is calling to me Rich, I'm going to give it half an hour" I declared. He carried on up river whilst I put my tackle together and tried to suss out the movement of the water. There was a fast run on the far bank (albeit much slower than the main river), which hit the main flow and created a long, almost dead section that eventually found its way back upstream in a back eddy.

I cast into the flow and let the float trot down then around the slower water where a gravel bank had formed. I let the float drift it's way, exploring for a fish or two sheltering from the flood. It stabbed under, reappeared then slid across the surface - I struck! I found myself playing a good fish
which I teased gingerly over the net - it was mine.

My hands shook as I slipped it into a plastic bag and onto the scales - two pounds two ounces, a new personal best and my first grayling over the magic two. I was elated and so was Rich when I rang him.

He was soon back we shook hands warmly. I offered him my swim but he politely refused. I rather suspected that there were few places that would produce today and insisted but still he declined. I stopped fishing and sat writing my diary, now Richard decided to maybe have a little go at the bottom end of my spot and, in no time at all, was playing a fish of his own. This one went two pounds three, the cad!

It was a perfect conclusion and although we fished on the river got higher and no more chances came out way. We packed much earlier than intended but were well satisfied with the result and know that in different conditions ....... well, maybe next year.

Fishing is a lot like.......

Fishing is a lot like making love to beautiful woman. When you are young you plunge straight into any available water with inadequate tackle and no experience. It doesn’t matter where or when, you just want to catch that first fish and your recklessness and ineptitude means that many desirable specimens are lost.

As your ability grows so you find an obsession for the pastime and will visit any muddy hole just for the chance of a dabble, its quantity not quality that you crave.

Ultimately, as you become accomplished, your desire to specialise comes through and your efforts are likely to be rewarded with much more success. You will be tempted by distant venues and will fish every selection of water from headland streams right down through curvaceous flood plains and even taking the odd dip into the estuary.

A time will come when you will settle on one given venue. It will give you everything you desire pretty much whenever you wish. You will explore its every inch and find certain areas that are either more productive or which are more receptive to your chosen methods. You will happily remain on this venue for many years unless you are affected by poachers or a new, fresher venue becomes easily available.

Of course there will come a time when you will still have a yearning to fish but the ability to do so will be affected by other causes. At such times you can sit back and take solace in the trials and tribulations of your past and know that when the urge is strong enough, you can choose your swim for comfort rather than ambition and just be content with being there.

I went chub fishing yesterday. I have to admit that my choice of swim was, once again, down to comfort but, in my defence, it is a very good winter chub spot. I know I’ve dripped on about my ills and have been inundated by your flood of indifference but it's my blog and I write about my exploits, and this year the ‘ills’ have had more influence on my fishing than anything else. I’ve got a couple of herniated discs and am waiting for a further hospital visit for some sort of injection procedure which ‘should’ help, and a buggered shoulder that will be operated on in the new year. That will put the kibosh on my spring and maybe some of my summer plans but hopefully (and nothing is guaranteed), I’ll then be back to paragraph four. In the meantime I shall probably bitch and moan a bit so please be gentle with me :o)

Back to the chub swim and what a glorious autumn day it was again. Unlike your average weather reporter, my life does not crumble every time a cloud covers the sun. Quite why they are so apologetic when it rains in the winter is beyond me. I think it's all to do with them sending a ‘positive message’ to try and cheer people up, perhaps they could try another way and get rid of the badly dressed anorexics and the effeminate mother’s boys and just tell the truth. 

See, told you I’d be grumpy.

Anyway, it was bleak but mild and in my chosen spot the sounds of the 21st Century rarely encroach, instead you can listen to the birds and be enthralled by the skeins of geese passing overhead in the growing gloom. There is always something happening around you when you fish and I become quite absorbed, how people fish with headphones on is beyond me.

Nothing much happened on cheese paste bar the odd rattle from minnows or gudgeon. It's odd but that’s the second time that paste has failed despite it being a great favourite of mine on the river, I’d usually fish with it with complete confidence. But once again this season, meat has saved the day. I went a few years without even opening a tin as I firmly believe it had become way too spooky for most fish to go near it but not now. Come dusk and chub cannot resist it and when fished over a bed of small pellets, a little piece of meat has been a winner for barbel. It has outfished every other bait I’ve tried.

And so I put on a little ragged lump and had a slight but positive knock and landed a chub of three pounds or so. The swim went very quiet but I was comfortable and happy to sit touch ledgering into dark when a sharp pull had me back in action. This fish scrapped well and was easily over four pounds but I slipped it back rather than faff about with a camera after dark. Like the first, it was plump, scale perfect and a pleasure to catch. I just know there’s a five pounder or two in this area and maybe even a six, but they can wait for now.

I hurt and ache in many places today but my river understands and will doubtless accommodate me again as soon as the urge returns.