Desire and Disappointment

According to QI, they are known as ‘Desire Paths’. Those little tracks across fields, through woods or scrub, defined by the feet of people slavishly following the first. Unless the path is directed by a map or obviously skirts around obstacles of any sort, they are not paths of desire but of lazy minds. The mind set of the herd in much the way a sheep track weaves its way across a field or the slope of a hill in that often illogical manner.

I despair at the herd mentality of many human beings though, it is a fact that there are far more sheep than shepherds. I have witnessed this many times and, as a young policeman, I would be amazed at the attitude of the great british populous at the scene of an incident. I would arrive in a Ford Escort panda car, engine and brakes smelling very hot and bothered and there before me would lie the latest trauma to hit the streets of Bristol. Crowds gather quickly in a city yet there would be a parting of the waves and an almost audible sigh of relief as all eyes would fall on little me as they in unison thought, "Thank fuck for that". They would all take a step back, I'd plough in to try and sort out the mess be it fight, fire or physical injury and the multitude would think, "Thank God we haven't got to get involved".

I guess it comes with the terrain but I soon saw this reluctance to step out of the comfort of the herd and indeed, used it to my advantage, as does every member of the emergency services. Guiding - okay, herding the public is simple if done with the right attitude. I have guided confused masses, directed belligerent mobs and herded cattle and sheep. Its all the same, you just need to adjust the size of the stick.

So it is little wonder that I like to plough my own furrow and therefore pretty obvious that I kick and buck when my way is barred. But back to the desire path. There's one along a little drove that I often take the dog through. For several years I had noticed that for no obvious reason the path diverted from the straight but took a little kink and circumnavigated a couple of small trees. I have to admit that at times of relaxed rambling I had also treaded the path of another's erratic desire but, the more I did it the more I tended to go straight instead.

I decided to experiment and last autumn, when the leaves had fallen and covered the entire floor of the drove, I took my direct path and, as I did, so I scuffed my trail through. I redid this three or four times over the next few days and left it all alone. The result is plain to see. The sheep have followed and now they are dancing to my tune. Ahh the power! Not really, it was just an experiment and come the Fall this year I shall do the reverse.

A direct path where, if you look carefully, it used to go around the trees.

Anyway, my ramblings on foot and keyboard do have a purpose. You see, and regular readers will both roll their eyes as I mention it again, but my body has let me down again and that means that I am unable to do some of the lone dog, free spirited actions of my own desire once more. My back has been tolerable of late but I had an MRI on my shoulder to assess the results of the keyhole surgery I had last spring. In short, it ain't good. Having trimmed a tendon and scraped a couple of bits of bone to free future passage of said tendon, it would appear that three tendons are ragged and torn. Two of them have almost gone right through! I need a bigger operation. I have told the lovely lady doctor I've been seeing that I intend making the most of the summer before going through another recovery period and, bless her, she has arranged for me to see the surgeon later in the summer so the operation should be in the autumn.

Bugger! That means I may not be able to redirect the path.

...................................................

Back To The Beginning

I didn't manage to fish the river Tone last year so my fiftieth anniversary of tangling monofilament passed without ceremony but today I did it.

I have been spending a lot of time looking after the First Lady of the house of late. Nicky has added a couple of new ailments to her already too long list. It's been worrying but things are settled now and she'll be responding to the whip again pretty soon. It was her that sent me on a respite trip and it was to my old mate Paddy that I turned. It was at his house on the edge of Exmoor that we got drunk last night and this morning despite a bitter easterly wind and a gnawing hangover, we gave French Weir on the Tone a go.

The problem with umpteen happy memories of balmy summer days and mild end of season roach fishing is that they were actually less common than my recall probably gives credit. And to stand up on the weir bridge and face the full blast of a Siberian breeze did little for the blood circulation in my hands. I had forgotten my camera (twit!) and felt little inclination to use my phone as my digits were not responding too well. But I did catch a few.

I had three small chub off the weir before I sought shelter. When I sat in the 'One Hour Swim', I had the wind to my back and actually enjoyed some welcome sunshine. The Hour Swim has always been an enigma as, in those previous years, it would always fish well for about an hour before dying. I tried every method of feed, light, heavy, intermittent but it was always the same except for one day when it fished it's pants off all afternoon. Today it ran to form and gave me a few small trout, dace and my only roach, small but very welcome.

One more swim produced another little chub but my arm had lost the strength to hold the rod or hit bites so I did the sensible thing and left much earlier than I had planned. 

Small but welcome

The day was a great reminder of my roots and it was a pleasure to fish the old haunt with Paddy. He also got much from the day.... but, like me,  not much in the way of fish. I also got to meet Paul aka Paffpuff (don't ask, I don't know either), a fellow forum member who now fishes much of my old stomping ground. As he left I shook his hand which was like a block of ice, we are a mad lot us anglers.

Lemonade

Season's greetings to you all. Hope you've had a good one.

What is going on with the weather? I went fishing today when it was 12 degrees! Twelve bloody degrees on December 27th Its mental! Yesterday I found Lesser Celandine flowering in the lane. Celandine is my 'look for' flower at the tail end of winter as spotting it generally indicates the first day of spring but December? Madness. Of course, a sting in the tail is inevitable and when it comes we could be building snowmen in June and wondering why the tench bubbles have all frozen on the surface.

Boxing Day Celandine

But, when you are dealt lemons make lemonade. And with that in mind I headed off to Curlew Minor armed with a few dog biscuits and an ancient Hardy fly rod. I did have a peek at the Wye on the way and decided I was wise to avoid it's allure for the sake of my own good health as it certainly looks like heavy going all along the banks and surrounding fields.

At the pool I made a quick and somewhat disappointing discovery - the dog biscuits sank. I'd also put some little Iams food in (stolen from the dog's bowl), which did float but which would never support a hook. Hmmm what to do? A little more experimenting and I found that the disc shaped biscuits in my bag did float - just, so I picked a few out and along with some Iams, lobbed them into the light ripple to float toward the reeds where there would surely be a few small carp. I then turned my bag inside out looking for something that floats. I found a couple of grains of pop-up corn and hooked one on a small hook. It just about gripped the surface but was difficult to see in the water.

By now the first few fish were greedily sucking down free bikkies and, with a spot of light feeding, they were well at it in no time. I made my first couple of casts and soon had my little yellow speck more or less where I wanted it. A pair of lips appeared and I was fighting my first carp on a fly rod. It was soon landed, a little scrapper but I felt like I'd won the big end of the cracker.

The others were back on the feed and I soon hooked something that set off holding deep until the line parted at the hook. I think this was down to getting some Superglue on the fluorocarbon line when I was trying to mount a biscuit - bad angling.

A miss timed strike or two saw them go down so I popped into the little pond over the road where I very quickly landed number two. But the horse in the field where I'd left my tackle was looking menacing so I returned to my original position to keep it at bay.

Unconventionally I fished from my chair and continued to feed them until there was a confident feed underway. However, there were several swirls and refusals at my bait, there was something amiss and I needed a rethink. I re-greased my line with a spot of man grease from behind my ear and, after a bit more bag shuffling I came up with a couple of plastic maggots, one hard the other soft. These would not float but I figured I'd offer this 'wet fly' and watch the fly line for bites. I didn't have to wait long. As it sank among the feeding fish the line soon tightened and number three, the largest and maybe three pounds came begrudgingly to the net.

I could have sat it out with a float rod and had more but trying something new and doing it at a time of year when no fish should be willing to chase floating baits was a novel and thoroughly enjoyable way to spend a couple of hours.

Have a happy new year.

Wellington Basins

Waters do not need to be famous or mystical to define our angling history. Most of us cut our teeth on average pools, rivers and canals yet amongst them will be waters that hold many, many significant moments in our development and memories. The Wellington Basins are very much in that category. I haven't fished the Basins in years but a recent correspondence with a fellow forum member stopped me in my tracks when I recognised that the road he lived in led straight to that little fishery. A further exchange and Paul sent me some up to date photo's which has set the old nostalgia running.

I'll take you back to June 16th 1977, opening day and Paddy and I were up early to fish the river Tone in Taunton. At that point I was yet to catch a carp due in the main by my fishing time being spent almost entirely on rivers and that the pools I fished had no or very few of the fish that has become the staple diet of many today. But I was to lose my cherry and caught the roundest weirdest carp I have ever seen from the slow water behind the weir. Looking like it must have originated from a small pond this bream like mutant probably weighed in at around a pound or so and, if I am honest, was a slightly disappointing way to break the auspicious carp duck.

Whether the conversation about that fish dictated the day or maybe it was just part of the tapestry that unfolded but Paddy knew of a water where carp could be taken on crust. We packed and headed the short drive to my first visit to the Basins. My wedding was to take place just two days later and I think that this is as close as I got to a stag do. I could not care less, I was going carping!

Two ponds separated by a narrow footpath revealed themselves through the trees as I parked my Ford Cortina and hastily followed Paddy to the hotspot. I followed his lead and tore a lump of crust from one of the loaves we'd bought en route, dunked it in the margins to weight it and promptly cast it off with too hard a swing.

But soon I had a bait on the edge of the weeds and fish were beginning to show. The order of action is blurred by time but the sight of a grey shadow appearing beside my bait, the ripples as it sucked it down and the blur of action as the fish ran and broke me is engraved deep in my memory. What a rush. By day's end I had landed my first proper carp. At a mere 4.8 it may seem insignificant but this was a milestone.

16/6/77 4.8 carp

The Basins became a regular haunt for me despite living fifty miles away in Bristol. Nicky would visit her mother in Taunton and I would sneak off for a few hours or, at times I would make a day or night of it such was the excitement of carping. The smaller pool was rectangular, small and stuffed with fish. I once lost an enormous bream on the way to the net yet never heard of one caught.

The larger pool was heavily weeded and had lily beds scattered throughout. It was generally the harder of the two to fish but that gave it a mystique of it's own. There were plenty of species to go for and we all caught plenty of roach, skimmers, eels and even a few crucians.

Lookout, these crucians are loaded

One of my little pleasures was to sit and fish both pools at once from the footpath. It was never entirely successful but it made me feel like I was somehow cheating but without the guilt.

The carp soon wised up to the new wave of crust wielding anglers that had descended upon the place and we had to learn to adapt our methods accordingly. The baits became suspended in the margins where the line could be hidden or suspended from overhanging branches all to stop the tell tale line on the water. Our efforts then went to the bottom of the lake and we began fishing corn and meat and sport became lively once again but, a sneak around the edge at dawn and a fish from the top always felt so much more satisfying.

Chris with the mirror

I introduced Chris Newton to the place for a taste of carp fishing and he sat it out with me for his first ever night trip. Come the wee hours toward dawn he was jumping at every swirl of a fish or tweet from a bird. Fatigue was really messing with his head but I, being a shift worker, felt fine and well entertained by his jumping up and striking at nothing. But it was Chris that dispelled one myth about the place. We had been lead to believe that the lean, hard fighting fish were all genuine wildies but Chris had a 5.8 mirror that I was also to catch the next season. It was exactly the same shape as the commons so they were just feral to use a 21st Century term.

A typical basin fish

Our approach was becoming more accomplished but, like I said, we were all influenced by the folklore of the day and few ventured out during the winter but I had been reading about cold weather carping in the magazines and kept at it. I had also read about 'twitchers' in that pre-hair time and was deeply frustrated by so many tweaks, pulls and tremors on my light bobbins. One cold day I hit a bite that did little more than send a ring around the line as it entered the water, the result was my biggest fish ever from there at 9.3. I was as chuffed as can be.

9.3.... and a silly hat.

It wasn't all plain sailing. I arrived predawn on a misty and frosty day intent on fishing the small pool. I set up my gear and cast toward my chosen spot only to hear a 1oz Arlesey bomb tink, tink, tink.... its way across the ice. A move was called for.

It may have been that very day or any other when insanity drove us out in sub-zero conditions but Paddy and I settled in a the corner of the big pool and float fished the only ice free spot. During a long, cold day we caught one roach and one perch between us. But the high spot was the woman that stopped to say hello. Pushing seventy with a tad too much lipstick and a fur coat that had more life in it than my bait box, she was not 'my' kind of gal. However, it soon became apparent that she was... how shall I put this? 'up for it'. Her double en tendres became more and more blunt until she told us about the man who'd come in through her bedroom window the night before but, "... as he'd been with another girl wasn't much good for me!" Being a friendly sort I offered Paddy to take her home and repeatedly nudge, nudged him whilst he spat "Cut it out you...." under his breath.

Suffice to say she grew bored and waddled off and Paddy swore revenge continually until frozen nets and fingers sent us packing.

The last time I visited the Basins it seemed small and insignificant. there were too many kids, too much litter and way too much disturbance. It had been a ledge from which I had climbed higher which is, in some ways quite sad. It did however, show me that my challenges had grown with me. It is also relevant that many of the lessons learned on those little ponds are still catching me fish today.

Plan 'B' and the wonders of cheese paste.

With mild air, little wind and the threat of a downturn in temperatures in the offing I was eager to get some high water fishing done.

Its a wonderful way to spend a few hours, sat next to a raging torrent but fishing those little slacks where an ounce or two of lead is holding nicely and where the fish are packed tight together just queueing up for lumps of meat or cheese paste. Its generally the chub that oblige as the barbel are out in the middle happily feeding as a Generation Game conveyer belt of trees, fence posts and dead sheep pass. In the past I've had chub feeding on the grassy ledges beside me in a foot or so of water and to lift a fish from such a maelstrom is always pleasurable. Let me at it....

Ooer! Letton road was closed, a sign that the river has burst its banks. Never mind, it may have passed and I may have a chance, let's go see.

Any of you that know the entrance to the Red Lion fishery will recognise this gate and the observant amongst you may see that the river is a tad closer than usual.

The view upstream of the bridge underlines the futility of any attempt to fish today...

A wider view..

And so it was that Plan 'B' was hatched. I did the same on my last Wye outing when it was being particularly unobliging. I went to Curlew Minor, a small one acre pool that lies next to one of the carp lakes I visit. I felt certain that I'd get some action there.

As I walked the short distance to my chosen spot I saw a couple of fish topping. Most of the inhabitants are small but they pull hard and when all you want is a throbbing rod that'll do. I was light of a few essentials such as some floats so I plonked a lead out with a lump of meat on the hook. These fish cannot be too discerning, can they?

An hour or so later I'd had a couple of pulls and tweaks that rattled my cheese paste bobbin but nothing to strike at. I whittled down the size of bait but still they would not take it. Maybe it was the paprika that I'd liberally added to it but the bits I'd flicked into the edge had caused some dirty water as fish mopped them up. I tried for them, of course. Lowering my bait in amongst the disturbance but all I 'caught' were a couple of branches.

I'd scattered a few 10mm boilies about and some pea sized paste balls. I decided to wrap a boilie in cheese paste and immediately had a good pull which I missed. It was bites all the way then on but my were they difficult to make contact with. I'd changed my rig and tried one or two other baits and combinations but cheese paste was what they wanted. I had nothing big but as I was trying out a rod and reel combo for the first time it was fun to see them in action.

Cheese really is a great bait especially during the winter. Over the years I've had minnows, gudgeon, dace, roach, chub, barbel, carp, bream, trout, eels and pike on cheese paste, I think that says it all.

Testwood

The last pool down the Test is a special place indeed as its also the first obstruction that salmon and sea trout encounter. This then has made it a hallowed venue for those driven by the pursuit of our spotty fish. I however, am far more inclined toward the thoughtful members of the piscine world and set off there to try and tempt a roach or two.

On the way down I stopped off  to see my old mate Dave Steuart. His first words were "Testwood! Huh, they keep all my salmon back..." There followed many, many minutes of ecological enlightenment on the art of sluicing a river.

I love Dave, 87 years young, shrinking steadily down to a scrap over five feet but as feisty and entertaining as ever. During the four hours or so I was there we chatted, went for a meal then chatted some more and I hardly got a word in. Nothing changes.

I left my grotty hotel at just after 7am and soon found the fishery. The pool at Testwood is amazing. Four main sluices create a series of swirling currents that each interact with each other, then, throw the effects of the tide into the mix and its an extremely demanding float venue. I began trotting the edge of a white water outlet which, twenty minutes later and at the top of the tide, became calmer and almost manageable, Half an hour later and its white water confusion again. No two trots were identical and loose feeding bread mash, well, I din't bother too much as it was pure guess work.

Mike Perry, who'd invited me down, was also on the float but Ian stuck to feeder fishing. His method was certainly the most 'effective' but I sit behind a lead rod most days so I stuck to the float. I was however, using a carbon rod for the first time in a couple of seasons as a whole day holding cane was never going to work with my still grumbling shoulder besides which, some of the water was very deep and, when I did give my Lucky strike a go I couldn't pick up the line quick enough to strike at distance.

I had a nice roach of about a pound which pleased me no end but, try as I might, I couldn't find any more. Moving around I had a very hard fighting bream which was followed not five minutes later by Mike taking a similar fish from the next swim. His however, was the most spectacular looking bream I have ever seen, I'll let the pictures do the talking. These were the only bream taken all day.

There followed brown and sea trout of between two and a half to three pounds but, after a break for lunch, the place became quiet and I failed to add to my catch.

Mike and Ian both caught many more than me but I was content as I'd had the biggest roach. I wimped out a little early and missed the dusk as I was feeling the aches and had a three hour plus drive home to come. All in all a great experience at a wonderful venue, to think there's well over a mile of the main river to fish as well but the lure of the raging weir is always going to call loudest. I shall return.

Right Time, Right Place.

A wet Wednesday means an extra water Thursday and that means its time to make the effort to get to the river. Trouble was, when I got there the river was only up by a few inches and running crystal clear. No matter, the level would come up a little more during that afternoon and that may be all I need. I headed for my chosen area and hoped for some room to myself.

As I neared my goal I spotted another angler and stopped for a chat. He and his mate were in a couple of swims I'd have happily fished as they've produced plenty of autumn fish to me before but these guys were biteless. It turned out they were on their first visit to the Wye along with one of their's father who was nearer their car, and had found the learning curve to be very steep. I had a long chat about tactics - which they were pretty close to anyway - and wished them well. Hmmm, it could be a tougher day than I thought.

I dropped into another favoured swim and introduced four feeders full of a mixture of pellets, boilie crumb and optimism. This was followed by a couple of 10mm boilies wrapped in paste. The wait begins.

Just fifteen minutes later the rod nodded. I lifted into a fish that pretended to be a chub and ran close to the bank where it turned and convinced me it was indeed a fit barbel. It fought like a wild cat but eventually waved the white flag and hit the net. Job done - right time, right place, that's all you need for success.... Mind you, finding that time and place can be a tad trying.

A bit of free bait, a cup of coffee and I was casting again. The river was definitely rising slightly but was so clear that the margins were like an aquarium. I fed much of my bait to the minnows - like I always do. Fish have such a hold on me I can't resist watching them no matter what size they may be but my attention was soon drawn back to the rod. Was that a nod? I lifted it and felt the fish moving away and again I was given a right old scrap. Barbel number two was banked.

It was getting cooler and I pulled my coat across me for warmth. A kingfisher peeped loudly as it passed whilst long tailed tits twittered through the hedges. A wren passed in front of me and dipped into some scrub imagining it was as invisible as it was silent and a robin provided the only reminder of summer's bird song. I don't have a favourite season but autumn is certainly atmospheric and seems to have 'cleaner' edges than the manic hurry of spring and the heavy air of summer. Leaves caught on the line apart it's an awesome time to fish.

I checked my watch, 5pm. Two hours since my first cast. I couldn't help but feel I'd done enough and was about to reel in when the rod bounced and I was in to barbel number three, a genuine bonus. I enjoyed the fight as it made some impressive runs for a modest fish but took time out to watch a swan flying noisily overhead. They really do like to announce themselves when aloft compared to the comparatively silent goose. Anyway, barbel rested in the net, hook slipped out and back it went no worse for its adventure.

I stopped and chatted to my new friends downstream and apologetically reported my catch. They shrugged it off as all part of fishing and vowed to be back next season when, I have promised, I shall attempt to put them in the right place and just hope that its at the right time.

We Meet Again

I took Nicky for a drive on Wednesday afternoon, the sun was shining and there was the promise of tea and maybe a cake. What she had not spotted was the bag of boilies and a catapult secreted in the rear of the car. I had ulterior motives.

And so our rambling journey happened to take us to my syndicate lake where the obligatory look around brought about a decision - I must fish here and bait was duly introduced into a favoured swim.

I had physio the next morning but talked her out of the usual agonies and hurried home to throw the last few bits and pieces into the car before heading off with a renewed enthusiasm. I was genuinely concerned that somebody may beat me to my prebaited spot but a look across the field as I descended through the woods confirmed that once again, I had the entire pool to myself.

I casually set up and put a couple of rods across to the gully that the fish seem to follow on their amblings. An hour later I had a bite but it was just a small bream that came in with the verve and attitude of a plastic bag. It's brethren spent the next few hours rattling my bobbins without result but doubtless reducing the amount of freebies left in the zone. I rectified this with some replacements, catapulted at the 'pult's extreme range. An arduous task but I couldn't find my throwing stick.

After a meal the sun was soon setting and the temperature plummeted. I read in the bivvy until a mixture of Bill Bryson's description of the Big Bang and BB's account of goose shooting had a soporific effect and I switched the light out for the night. I'd like to say it was restful but the owl that decided to sit about 2" above my head whilst continuously calling for a mate meant otherwise.

A lone raven woke me in the morning and I peered out to a cloudy start. I hate leaving the sleeping bag to get going but a coffee or two did the job and I rebaited then changed the 'snowman' set up to have a bright yellow pop-up on the top for better visibility. The other rod was left with 10mm boilies on the bottom.

Around 10 am I had a screaming run and a very hard fighting fish powered off up the lake. It then turned and, with equal strength, went off in the other direction. From bite to net it was a mighty tussle but, at last, I had it on the scales. At 27. 9 I was well pleased. A fit looking fish with muscly flanks.
Ian, a fellow syndicate member turned up and did the business with the camera before heading off for his chosen spot and a night's fishing.

My mid afternoon coffee was disturbed by a single bleep as I reached for the milk in the coolbox. The right hand rod was again bending and, as the clutch let go so a screamer of a run set off. This fish was not a fighter and it lolled about with copious amounts of weed hanging from the line and the fish's head. Despite having lowered the second rod into the water, it still managed to pick up this line and, as it's nose broke surface so the hook popped out. Ah well, I'd had a fish so I wasn't too upset.

The evening was even colder, so much so that I dropped the front flap of the bivvy. As I closed it I looked at the rods and thought "Please don't go off tonight, wait until I've had a good sleep". The owls were less active and despite the chill playing havoc with my bladder, I had a lovely kip.

I woke to a freezing morning and wrapped myself up in the sleeping bag for a bit of a lie in. Bleep! B.b.b.b.leeeep! "I'm coming!" I said as I opened the flap to see the left hand rod bending to the right. I'd switched to a similar snowman with the yellow 'head' on both rods and a carp had nobbled it. It again went fast to the right and I leaned hard against it whilst walking left and holding the rod low.

My efforts had little effect on the fish and it was kiting dangerously towards an overhanging bush where it would have doubtless found sanctuary. Not wanting a paddle on such a cold morning - I was in a T'shirt and a pair of pants at the time - I gave it some more stick and the fish relented and turned. It headed for open water where I let it have a good run about hoping to burn off some of its energy. It became ponderous and I felt I had the beating of it but, as it got within eight or ten yards of me, it turned and ran hard for the far bank. I was starting to realise it was a good fish...... and feel the cold.

Eventually it slipped begrudgingly over the net and was mine.

I rolled it onto it's side in the water to slip the hook out. I immediately recognised a scar on the left pectoral fin and knew that I had recaptured the big fish I'd had in June but had had to discount. A quick lift of the scales and a personal best was confirmed at 36lb 4oz.

I popped it into a sack, dressed and made a hot drink. It was 8am. "Morning dear, you didn't want a lie in did you?"  To be honest, Nicky loves to see my better fish and was happy to make the long drive just to take a few pictures. She really did enjoy being part of it although the dog was far less impressed.

What are the odds, the same big fish from the same swim on the same bait (Quest Baits Rahja Spice), in two trips three months apart? Others have fished this swim and it's produced some good fish, even bigger than mine, in the mean time but my fish showed no signs of hook marks other than the fin scar. There you go, just one of those little mysteries of angling and I for one, have no complaints whatsoever.