Eskimos may have a hundred different names for snow but in the UK we have a million different types of rain. We have just experienced one of the dryest spring and summers ever, but suddenly things have changed and we are now experiencing in a rather wet prelude to winter. Sunday morning I thought myself rather lucky to manage to get out onto the bank, set up and cast all before the rains started. When it did, it went through the whole repertoire. We had mizzle, drizzle, showers, sheets, the stuff that comes down like bullets and even at one point it felt like it was coming back up into my face. But frankly we need it! Even this morning I heard a report that the EA have had to respond to fish getting stranded in deep pools on the river teme and were beginning to struggle for oxygen. So even though it has now finally begun to rain it could be some while before the rivers get back to their normal state for this time of year.
This session I was well away from running water and had decided to take my last shot for a catfish. Although I could essentially fish for them right till the end of September when the mornings will have distinctive nip, my next few weeks will be spent in a rather more tidal fishery. So if I want a cat its now or never.
The morning passed uneventfully as I sheltered under my brolly awaiting my bobbin to rise and the buzzer to call. Andy on the other hand having neglected to bring his shelter and after deciding to fish tight to an island spent the whole time perched behind his rods getting showered constantly, even though I had invited him under my more than adequate brolly.
With one rod guaranteed not to get any attention from carp due to a very oversized bait I ran the gauntlet with the other by fishing worms on the edge of a bed of 10mm pellets. And that was the only one to receive any bites. After a few dropped runs where I suspect the carp responsible had suddenly realised that rig they in fact sucked in was the crudest they had ever encountered spitting it out in disgust, it finally ripped off with far to much venom for a cat. After tear arsing off like a steam train it fought like a bream with a serious weight problem, coming to the net a bit too easy. Even in the net in the edge it sat calmly in the folds. Then out the water it went berserk, thrashing around slapping me senseless with its tail.
It must of took ten shots to get a good one and that didn't count all the aborted attempts where it flipped just as Andy went to take a snap.
Once again and for the last time this year the cats have not shown, as previously mentioned I will not seek to catch one again. For when I return back to the Midlands I shall have other things on my mind. Like returning to the land of the 2lb perch and more Zander fishing on the Avon