Honestly

I cursed the wrestling ability of bedchairs and sleeping bags as I set up my little shelter next to the lake. Its the worst bit of making your temporary home as the bed is heavy, unwieldy and barely fits in it but I scored two falls and won the bout.
 
The lake looked oddly coloured and was flat calm, disturbed only by the many small roach that live there, dimpling the surface here and there. But the banks and especially this swim looked undisturbed which is what this place is all about - solitude. I was soon baiting the channel on the far side and hoping that a patrolling fish or two might find my bait over the next couple of days.

As I'm still nursing an ailment or two I restricted myself to one rod - a Hardy LRH - and a horrible plastic Daiwa Regal because it was the first one I found in my store of such things that could be switched to right hand drive. Feeling a little disadvantaged should the moment of panic arrive in the night, I went through my bite reaction routine in my mind then got myself some food and sat reading until dusk. Heaven.

I dropped off but was suddenly aware that Cane - on lesson one in being a bivvy dog, the overnighter - was up and growling. He'd had a right go at a couple of swans and the three herons that flew in together but we'd had a chat about that and had been quiet calm. But now he was bristling and started to bark. He leapt forward to go off and chase whatever he'd heard but I grabbed him and sat calming him for a minute or two when I had a bleep!

I found shoes and head torch and was at the rod as a nice run developed and I lifted into a solid weight. In this swim the fish sit in a gully which takes a bit of persuasion to get them out, then they come begrudgingly through numerous but sparse weed beds and I've found that a steady pump and wind will usually win the day. This fish however, was feeling particularly stubborn and I was twice met with stalemate but, the rod has a lot of power and I just kept the pressure on and slowly but steadily the fish moved again.

Do you know what I mean when you have doubts about your hook hold? I had full confidence in my set up but I was wondering about just how this fish reacted to the pressure... or maybe it was just BIG!

As it approached my bank so it kited right - like they all do. There's an overhanging bush in the water and carp just feel the need to pop over and have a look but I put on plenty of side strain and kept the rod low..... it worked. Then it decided to repeat the manoeuvre but at high speed so we went through the same little routine and back it came but it kept going for the tree on the other side. The rod was now bent to the handle but I don't mess about with fish and this one was coming in.... and it did, right into the waiting net.

I rested it for a few minutes whilst I went through the laying out and wetting of unhooking mat and weigh sling and found the camera. I then lifted my prize from the water and felt the colossal weight in the net. As I climbed the bank to the flat area where everything was laid out, my back was telling me that I'd overdone it but I gritted my teeth and gently lowered the fish and unfurled the mesh.

Bugger! There, neatly in the root of the left pectoral fin was my size 8 hook. I gazed in awe at my biggest ever carp and said out loud "You don't count mate". To make it worse the fish had crapped out loads of my bait so it was feeding and I may have simply used too long a hair. I was gutted but went through the vein process of weighing it and took a couple of snaps then slid it back to it's watery home where I promise, I shall do everything I can to remake the acquaintance.

It was only a little after midnight but I didn't recast. I got back into bed and slept well......... eventually.

When I woke I felt a little like someone who'd put their winning lottery ticket through the wash but soon shook off the disappointment, after all, a day that felt pretty fishless had produced one and today the wind was pushing hard up to the narrow end of the lake - stalking time.

I headed for the bay and found a few nice fish basking, only one was stirring up the silt and it was impossible to get a bait to it. Never mind, I know a place. Once there I set a little trap near a lily bed and retired to write my diary and to educate a manic dog that he doesn't need to run everywhere and that not all squirrels need chasing. So he went for a paddle - through the deepest, smelliest marsh mud you could imagine.

Out of the blue the rod was away and I grabbed it - right handed - then fumbled to change hands and struck. There was a weight then nothing - Bugger again! This was followed by a spell when I forgot how to cast and use a catapult. I sat and sulked until the curse lifted but I knew this swim was a bust.

I made the long steamy walk back to the car and headed to the nearby village for an ice cream. This lifted my mood and I was soon back at base and fishing on my first choice spot. I spent the time watching the thousands of midges that formed a little insect tornado in front of me. By following individuals (not easy), you could see that they flew quite steadily up and down an area where the air was evidently warm. Its when they reach the turn point that they appear manic and give the impression of a swirling confusion, its just a trick of the eye.

Such heady observations were interrupted by a run at a little after 2pm. I suspected bream but was soon in the old pump, wind routine as another lump came towards my bank. No drama apart from a late flurry and a 26.7 was soon returned. I was very satisfied.

That evening at about 11.30 I was away again. I leapt out of bed and went into my routine of head torch out of the right shoe, both shoes on, close bait runner, lift into fish... However, a dog, deeply asleep and laying on my shoes failed to help in the dark. I went by the light of a June sky and returned for the light once the dog had sat up and yawned.

This fish came in like a sack full of kittens and was literally wound to the net. I have to say I was unimpressed and, as guide to just how blaze you can get about fish sizes, I considered returning it without so much as a photo. I soon came to my senses and did the deed after all, it was 25.8.

Again I opted for some kip and a rest of my bones rather than face another night time frenzy. My sleep would have been a good one except that Cane decided to jump on the bedchair and sprawl across me taking up most of the room. He's still got a way to go to get his certificate as fishing mutt of the year.

The next morning a bite brought my first tench from the venue. I've seen some nice ones in the past but this was just a small male and it did its best against over-heavy gear. There was drama at the end when I left the fish in the net for a moment and it discovered the hole some wretched rodent had made. I had to land it again with the line running out of the net and back into the top.
I was honestly happier with this fish than the wimp of a carp that I'd had before. Funny thing fishing.

The next couple of fish were small bream and were met with less enthusiasm.

A trip with highs and lows, a test of my honesty (what would you have done?) and a mind boggling struggle with size and values. I can honestly say it was great fun

Yay, Fishing Again!

I've been fishing! After a bit of a wait its come as something of a relief but I suppose its only been like the old close season. How did we manage back then?

Anyway, I was staying with my sister down in sunny Devon and we'd arranged for a day on her hubby's boat. Now, when he said he was going to get a boat I suggested something like a nice Orkney Longliner in 16' or so for poodling around the estuary. Did he listen? No, of course not. So we boarded 28' fishing boat which, I have to admit, is just the sort of boat I have spent many days dreaming about. I used to do a lot of sea fishing and have part owned several small fibre glass money pits and always yearned for riches and a mooring. David has both and he was only too happy to skipper me on a breezy day.

I'd be happy with the tender

Plenty of tech on board

Passing Salcombe the fish finder already showed plenty of fish about and when we hit the main water, my first drop brought four struggling mackerel aboard. It was too easy which is the nature of mackerel. Its either a coconut every time or you spend your entire fishing day searching for the damned things. The fact that I was using a multiplier outfit also meant I was fishing left handed so I coped admirably.

We soon had enough along with a couple of pollack and some launce that were returned. I don't know the area well enough to know where to bottom fish and the gusty wind was such that positioning the boat would have been problematic, so it was back ashore and a very tasty evening meal.

On the estuary beach I spotted this brute, a barrel jellyfish. I'd earlier found some small, black grape like clusters that later research proved to be cuttlefish eggs, a first for me. Apparently, some people have kept them in sea water and they've hatched! Man, I'd love to do that - cuttlefish are one of my favourite animals.

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June the 16th is upon us and I felt suitably confident in my left handed abilities to have a go on a new pool to me. It only holds small carp and a few tench but bites are assured, its little fished and the bird song surrounding the venue is wonderful. 

I baited next to a lily bed and lobbed my float gear out into the general area and I sat back. Okay, I cheated. I couldn't Wallis cast left handed and, truth be told, I doubt that I ever shall but, when the float sailed away I hooked and played a small fish to the net with ease. A couple more followed but they were even smaller. My arm began to ache so, after less than a couple of hours, I packed. I'd managed to fish, I'd caught and its the Glorious 16th - what could be better.

The Passing of Time

Its June and the summer is revving up for it's glorious opportunity to bring growth to the countryside and to bring warmth and joy to us all. Except its cold and the dawn temperatures are near freezing. Ah well, it'll get better soon, won't it? That's the trouble with these warm springs, they invariably get evened out during the summer but hey, it could be worse, it could be affecting my fishing.

Yes, I'm still bloody grounded as my shoulder creaks and groans back to proper use and my back finds new and exciting ways to stop me from doing much. Am I getting testy? Of course I'm getting bloody testy! There's so much I want to do but cannot that I'm driving myself and my long suffering best lady well and truly up the wall. The time is passing very slowly but, at the same time, the year seems to be dripping through my fingers at an alarming rate. Its very frustrating.

On the bright side I've joined a new lake syndicate. I've had a good look around it and it will certainly see me on the banks soon one way or another. I've decided to give it another week or so then start fishing - left handed. I reckon I can reel with my right hand fairly easily and let my left take the weight of a rod and enormous fish..... maybe. Casting may be a tad comical so please, no following me with the video cameras.

Here be stalking places

Let me at it!

The 'passing of time' has been at the forefront of my thinking of late. The idea that I am well and truly crocked and that the procedures I've had and the one I am due are but sticking plasters over a wound that will effect me for the rest of my life has been sinking in. This has all been brought home by looking through boxes and boxes of old film slides that my father collected during his life. Seeing the family looking so young really does drive home the inevitability of ageing. Its something that we tend to shrug off until we reach a certain point in our lives and I have evidently reached that point. 

Ho hum, here's a few pictures from when I were a lad. The first is one of my all time favourites as it shows the day when my grand father was staying with us and came out with my dad to collect me after I'd fished at Yeovilton Weir. I had a net full of dace and roach most of the latter being caught on trotted silkweed. He was quietly impressed and held the biggest fish for a while, turning it in his hand in appreciation like he was admiring an antique. To have that silent nod of approval from the one relative that had helped me to become an angler meant the world.

Hopefully my next blog will show some pictures of me holding my first captures of the season but in the mean time - here's young me!

I'm too old for this trike, buy me a bicycle!

The allure of water has always been there

Lost in the patterns of turbulence 

I haven't changed a bit.

Nostalgia and a warning

I was in Taunton today, the town of much of my youth and adult working life. Its normal to feel nostalgia when in your home town I guess but a stroll around French Weir really set the memories flooding back. 

I have written before about my first ever fishing trip there and today I realised how much of it is exactly the same as it was five decades ago. Would you believe that fifty years of floods have passed yet the cabbage patches below the weir and the lily patch above are still there and are still roughly the same size as ever they were. Sadly though, the old Horse Chestnut tree beneath which I made that first cast is now just a large stump. I had to stand 'beneath' it and look over the old fence into the swirling pool.

All that remains is the stump

Chub were everywhere. A fish that didn't appear on my catch list until several years after I'd left Taunton yet now, the shoals of dace were missing replaced by chub, chub and more chub. A few roach and minnows were the only other fish I spotted.. oh, and an umbrella. It sat tight to a concrete ledge, submerged, fully open and doubtless beneath it was a patch of bone dry river bed.

The salmon steps - there were no warning signs in my day :o)

But the nostalgia was heightened by attending Bunny's funeral and not just for the reasons you may think. I had been asked to provide some pictures by his son Phil who especially wanted some with him and his dad together. Fortunately I was able to oblige. But then, as I poured over my vast collection of pictures, I realised that I didn't have a single picture of me and Bunny together. I took it a step further and I cannot recall one of me and lifelong fishing mate Paddy together and only the occasional one of my son Neil and I, taken when Nicky happened to come along. This is wrong.

Now think - when you fish with your mates, how often do you get a shot of both of you together? I'll bet you're like me and its one of you with the camera, the other grinning inanely at some comment made or trying not to look too serious when posing with a fish. Rigging up a timed or remote release shot seems like too much faffing about much of the time and how many of us want someone else posing with our fish?

In the time of the 'selfie' can I suggest that you make the effort to take a few shots of you with those that you care about because if you don't, one of you may regret it.

Bunny 1931 to 2015

When you meet somebody who, without a hint of irony, introduces himself as "Bunny" you know that you are in for an interesting journey. Having travelled that journey for nearly twenty years I can happily state that it has been fun all the way.

The first article I ever wrote was entitled 'A Day With Bunny' and centred on his somewhat calamitous struggle through work and play. It made him a minor celebrity amongst the barbel set and I know that he loved the attention. But the truth was that when you heard about Bunny or better still met him, you instantly accepted him into your heart, he really was a lovely bloke.

Ever the gentleman but with a wicked sense of humour, we used to swap our war stories late into the night as we shared my caravan near the Bristol Avon then later his own on the banks of the Severn. In that time I got to know him very well. It is a shame and a blessing that the only luck he ever had when fishing was 'bad' as it makes for some great anecdotes and the fondest of memories. Better anglers than me tried to coax a specimen fish onto his hook but Bunny would have none of it. It is ironic that he died in the hospice that backs onto the river Tone where, on the opposite bank I once settled him into a 'goer' swim whilst I set off to look elsewhere. Later in the day I suggested that in future he paint his floats, leads and swimfeeders silver and gold as he may get paid by the local council for decorating the trees for Christmas. He just laughed and bemoaned the fact that the trees were too close.

Of all the tales I can relate about Bunny this is my favourite and oddly, it was when he caught a two pound plus roach which was very much against the grain.

We were fishing on Norman's pond, a small pool that was naturally stocked from a brook and contained lots of big roach and the most immaculate looking chub you could ever imagine. Fishing there should then have been like spending a day in Utopia and it was but for one thing - Norman. The owner was a roach expert, he would stand at your shoulder and announce every missed bite to have been a roach as he just 'knew' or had seen it in the murky depths without the aid of Polaroids. The fact that he had never fished made no difference to his knowledge and he insisted on talking at/to you for hour after hour. He was also very fond of his free range chicken and woe betide anybody that upset them during their stay.

The day went well and we both caught a chub and roach including a two pounder each which Norman insisted on witnessing and blabbing on and on and.... as I talked to Norman I looked over his shoulder to see Bunny hurrying back to his rod and lifting into a running......chicken The damned thing had grabbed his maggot baited hook and was now intent on making it to the cover of the shrubs to swallow them. After a brief struggle the hook was removed and the chicken left with a flurry of feathers and a cluck! This all happened without Norman finding out and when he at last went for a cup of tea, we had a good chuckle.

That would be enough for most people but later on Bunny joined me to see a fish I'd caught when Norman appeared once more. Again Bunny went hotfoot back to his rod and once more I had to hold Norman's gaze as over his shoulder as just yards away I watched Bunny in a tug of war with a belligerent hen which refused to move towards him. It dug it's claws firmly into the soil and leaned back raising its behind in the air to gain maximum leverage.... It was at this point that the rooster joined the fray and, seizing an opportunity, mounted the chicken and gave her a bit of a seeing to. All the while Bunny's panic stricken face, ashen with fear of discovery was a picture but I dare not give even a hint of emotion.

And so ended yet another day with Bunny - I am really going to miss him.

A National Bird

Do we really need such a thing? What will a National Bird achieve? I can't imaging the Union Jack being altered to accommodate it's image so its just another one of those pointless pieces of fluff designed to take the mind off of important matters like which shower of incompetents are we going to elect to screw us over for the next five years.

Before I continue I must explain that I may come across as a tad sour today as I was due an operation this morning but it was cancelled at 5pm last evening still, could have been worse, Carl told me his brother was in his hospital gown when he was given the news. Hey ho, my recovery period will now impinge further into the summer's fishing so I may go and kick the neighbours cat later.

Back on topic. Given that this pointless discussion is in place I shall add to it my own pointless thoughts so here goes.

Were we to seek a National representative of the avian type back in our deeper history I suppose the Cuckoo would be right up there as, back then we had a penchant for invading other people's nests and letting the hapless occupants sustain us for a century or two. Bring the analogy up to the seventies and it would have to be the Kingfisher that represented the Great British workforce as every time you see one it's striking - bah dum tish!

Should this bird mirror us by its behaviour or is it just a popularity contest? I think its the latter as stupid, aggressive Swans are there.... mind you, they do have a foot in both camps. What does a Blackbird represent other than there's a lot of them? Do we want to be represented by a Red Kite? A scavenging bird that has survived in this modern world by hand outs or by picking over garbage tips.... This is harder than I thought as they really do seem to have much in common with large portions the UK population.

Robins. Beautiful little creatures that star on countless Christmas cards but really? Have you seen them when they get all territorial? They will happily kill each other as they scrap like things possessed over a length of hedgerow or a south facing garden. They really do have a dark and unsavoury side which again explains their place on the list. Wrens however, they are just short and loud so maybe they should represent ......... no, I won't say as they are not renown for their sense of humour over such matters, are you boyo.

Where do Hen Harriers and Barn Owls come into it? Can't see the reason behind them other than their charm and good looks and that shouldn't be enough to get you voted in, remember Tony Blair? - exactly.

Blue Tits. Surely Great Tits would have been funnier so they don't appeal nor do Puffins as they are too comical.

Have I missed any out? Does anybody care? Thought not. So here's my suggestions. If you want a bird to represent the people of the country then look no further than the pigeon. They tend to be fat and waddle about outside of fast food establishments where they eat constantly whilst making monotonous noises. They breed at a phenomenal rate and when they get together in large numbers they become obnoxious, annoying and tend to leave mess wherever they have roamed.

I can genuinely see no bird thats more fitting than our humble House Sparrow. Ubiquitous, charming and vastly underrated by most. To study the plumage on a sparrow is to open a world of subtlety and perfection of camouflage. To watch their antics, the communication and social instincts when danger is around is wonderful. Yet their numbers have plummeted in recent years so maybe a little bit of kudos from an otherwise useless exercise may just bring their plight into the Nation's conscience which may be a starting point to their recovery but no. They didn't even make the list, what bunch of great tits decided on that?

Spring Grayling

In mid 2013 I organised a grayling competition through a forum and two lucky chaps were to accompany me and my old mate Mike Perry on a trip to the river Wylye during the winter months. Alas the weather gods had other ideas and we eventually convened at Bird and Carter farm shop for a superb full English last Wednesday. Dave and Richard were the competition winners and both were eager to wet a line having, like me, driven well over a hundred miles for the privilege. Dave had done it in his immaculate Morris Minor who's odometer turned 32000 en route.

Its fair to say that the morning was not as productive as we would have liked as the river, which 'looked' perfect, played hard to get but a few fish came to the net and the afternoon's entertainment was assured. We moved to the 'Farm Stretch' just a little area of the seven miles that the club owns but which is simply full of grayling.

As I was a ghillie for the day and have a buggered shoulder, I only dabbled when pointing out a method/swim for the guests but I still had fish. Dave experienced the heart break of a big fish only spot where he missed a couple of bites but successfully landed a stick that put them down. However, when we all met at the bridge pool is was like those halcyon days of our youth when Dave and I ended up sat on the bridge, legs swinging above the flowing chalk stream and watching a little float drifting thirty or more yards below..... until it disappeared time and time again. Dave's old Alcock Isis bent well as a fish was hauled back from the next county to be met by two beaming men in their element.

Meanwhile Rich and Mike were making a mighty catch amongst the shoal that sits in a little eddy and the day was filled with the banter that easy fishing provokes. It was great fun.

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Two days later and I was back, this time with my good friend Bunny with whom I haven't fished for about a year due to the weather and my annoying health issues. Anyway, we filled up on another breakfast and set about putting the long absence to rights. Poor Bunny, he puffs and wheezes like an old train and had to take a few stops along the short stroll to the first swim but he never stopped smiling well, he rarely does .... unless he's discussing immigration or the government.

The swim was known to me and one that we had been unable to fish the other day. Its simply full of grayling that queue up for red maggots all day long and when the sun hid behind a cloud for half an hour the average size vastly grew. Once Bunny was catching I decided to go for a wander downstream and fish for as long as my shoulder would allow. Stopping just long enough to tie a new hook for the old bugger I dropped into a lovely run and tossed a few maggots in - left handed.

It was one of those swims where virtually every cast brought a bite, most bites brought a fish and each fish brought a smile. I took a quick snap of the first as it was the first on that rod, a Lucky Strike just back from being refurbished by Andy Sliwa. It really is the perfect grayling tool as it absorbs all of those thumps and lunges beautifully. The fun lasted barely half an hour before I had to concede and return to Bunny, just in time to tie him another hook.

I've no idea how many fish we took, it doesn't matter. Its a type of fishing that we all need from time to time, bites and fish guaranteed, an easy pace and great company, I also spotted the first celandine of the spring which means that winter is drifting back to where it belongs and although there will doubtless be a sting in it's tail, better weather is only a short wait away.

I won't pick up a rod again until I've recovered from the operation I'm having in a few weeks time but I shall certainly be spending time on the banks - nothing can keep me away.