The Lure of Angling

That's it! enough is enough.

2012-02-29T09:56:00.000-08:00

The thought that I may get a second outing this past weekend had never entered my head. I had the weekend sorted in my mind; Friday go south and pour liberal amounts of maggot into a chalk stream, Saturday go to work all day and then Sunday spend the whole day with Jacky. So when Jacky proclaimed that she assumed I would want to go out Sunday morning as the weather was no nice I was stunned. Just to make sure it was not some kind of insidious trap I replied, "well I wasn't planning on going out" to which she confirmed it was ok and I should go. It did cross my mind that she may of been drinking or that Gerard Butler had finally succumbed to her psychic pestering and was heading round for a Sunday morning liaison. Turned out neither was correct and she instead had a date with chap called Link who wears green tights and lives in the land of Nintendo.

Conveniently I just happened to have a pint+ of magics left over from Friday, which I was intending to freeze for use in a few weeks time. But a pass plus bait equals fishing. So off I went early Sunday to do a spot of dace fishing on one of my favourite river runs.

I do love dace fishing. Probably because it is relatively easy to land a whopper. I don't think a lot of anglers put two and two together when they catch a big dace and realise what they have in their hand. It's odd because in these modern days of commercial fishing where everyone wants to catch weighty carp that very species serves best as a perspective species for the humble dace. Catch yourself a 10oz dace and it is about equivalent to catching a near 35lb carp. Which I don't suppose a lot of us could claim to have done, and trust me it certainly going to be easier to land a 10oz dace than a 35lb carp.

When I arrived at this spooky dace filled river, it was shrouded in mist and I was shocked to find an over keen twitcher hiding behind a thicket trying to snap a kingfisher that often perches close to the bank. Awaiting a tasty young dace no doubt.

The dace fishing went off like a dream. It only took a couple of plops of the feeder to line them up and I was off. The only problem was there were too many of the wrong sort of fish at first. I was averaging five small roach and two dace to every ten casts. Keeping the bait going in regularly soon changed those numbers as the dace came onto the constant stream off grubs flowing down the river and eventually pushed the roach off never to be seen again.

My rhythm wasn't broken until a pike swirled in the centre of the river nicking my feeder as it did so. Unperturbed I quickly set up and found the shoal had not been disturbed by the attack only feet away. Again I got back into that all important rhythm and again what seemed to be the same pike broke me out of it, stealing a small dace this time. It nabbed one more feeder before disappearing for a good few hours.

In that time I got my head down and the dace grew bigger. I landed my first 8oz fish just as Baz dropped by to say hello on his way down to another section of river, piking.

I did suggest he stick around as the pike seemed to be both here and feeding, but he stuck to his plan and headed off to another a stretch he fancied for a pike or two.

The pike for their part had seemed to have gone quite. So I went about my business of dace bashing whilst the sun warmed my back through the trees. Most of the dace I caught seemed to be slender males and apart from two deeper females I had landed earlier but all were seemingly the same year class.

I was just skipping a small fish across the surface when I spotted a pike dart out from my own bank and snatch it clean off my hook. The next two got savaged no matter how quick I reeled them in. I was getting seriously hacked off as they were ruining a great session and worst of all was I hand only really light feeder rods with me.

When the biggest dace of the day was robbed twenty feet from my hand, that was it, I'd had it! Earlier a passing angler mentioned he had a pike rod with him to cater for such a situation. So off I went to cheekily ask for the loan of a rod and to which he happily agreed.

Two foot of 20lb braid and a size two Drennan specimen hook and I was ready to attack. One of the savaged dace was floating in the edge where I'd tossed it. That plus a couple of 3xssg shots and I had a cobbled together jigging rig.

I also located my Polaroid glasses from my bag so as I could get a full on view of the strike. Holy crap! What I saw when I put those glasses on shocked me. There was not one, but three pike all of a similar size, racked up in a row like bleeding sausages. But when my dead little fish sank past them, they did not react how I would've expected them to.

All three started slowly moving towards it but not one of them struck. Time and time again they followed it round vacantly. I did eventually split them up and that's when the first one had a shot and missed by a mile. This in turn seemed to force another to strike at it, and that too missed. They all seemed to drift off into deeper water after those couple of attacks but I kept jigging the silver bait up and down until shadows again appeared below it. One of them approached looking like it was going to grab it then turned off at the last moment. I was trying to spot one coming in from the deeper water when a round nose came from under my own bank and nobbled it in a confident flash of the gills.

It had no idea it was hooked until it's head poked out the water then it went mad thrashing about. I think it was then that I remember something I had neglected. For as long as I can remember I have been using a Fox predator spoon net head. I use it for everything from Zander fishing, carp fishing and just general stuff. Today however I thought as I was after dace the 16" drennan net would suffice. WRONG!

For a while I did consider just chinning it out. But the thought of lying on my front in the mud trying to grab hold of a thrashing pike did not appeal, so I went for gold and tried to scoop a three foot long pike into a 16" of landing net. Low and behold it somehow went in and as I lifted it up what I though was an over sized Jack turned into a chunky young lady.

She was absolutely fin perfect from head to tail and was certainly and well feed on little dace it would seem, as she pulled the scales round to 12.8lb.
As I released her back into the water I warned her to remember my face as I ain't the sort of angler that tolerates fish theft. Then as she went off, one of the others which was still hanging round took a swipe at her.

I then returned the loaned rod back and thanked the chap before packing up and heading off. Looking back as I went off towards the car I am sure I spotted him walking over to my peg with that pike rod in hand looking like he fancied one himself.

A third scratch at that itch.

2012-02-27T12:19:00.002-08:00

On this my third visit to that southern wonder the river Itchen, I was again filled by the trepidation that I had felt on my first ever visit. On my second trip down I felt no such worries as I had total confidence that the abundant fish population of this amazing river had forgotten how good maggots tasted over the long fluff chucking season, when the likes of me are not permitted on this sacred beat to commit carnal acts of maggot murder.
This time however we were not visiting in those first heady days when you could trot a sketch of a maggot through and a pound plus Grayling would gobble it up before it passed by. But instead we were making pilgrimage at the end of winter in that worrying awkward time when trips like this can go either way.

My role as the heathen of the group I knew would be cemented when my compadres bore witness to my rod quiver. In a blatant and possibly ill founded act I had made the decision to take no float rods. During my first visit I trotted so much that I began to develop a serious case of repetitive strain injury leaving the elbow of my rod arm aching for two days afterwards. On the later part that same trip I spent the last few hours fishing the maggot feeder which opened my eyes totally.
Yes it's idyllic and beautiful to watch a hand made float glide through gin clear chalk stream as a few hundred pounds worth of precision engineered centre pin effortlessly peels line off, controlled only soft caress of your thumb. But for me the ruthless efficiency of the tip rod sorts out the proper ladies of the stream from the trannies of the trickle. So it is a simple case of art verses efficiency and as I am only here for one day I must therefore be as succinct as possible; hence my quiver was packed with three rods of ascending power.

Light feeder - To fish tiny maggot feeders or equally as small cage feeders should the bites be so subtle that only a rod capable of detecting such hints will do it.

Medium feeder - Essentially the same as the light feeder but with more grunt and much stiffer blank. This helps if the flow is heavy and more lead is needed to hold bottom whilst still retaining sensitive bite detection, and will double as a possible float rod if I became desperate.

Light Barbel rod - I know this river holds both barbel and big chub and last trip I gave the barbel few hours, to no avail. But this time water conditions should be just right for a possible barbel encounter and certainly for a chunky chub or two.

The night before we left I did one last idiot check to confirm nothing was forgotten before taking a final look at my three rods just before I went to bed. This was probably a silly mistake as I lay in bed thinking what I would do on the bank and it took me ages to get off to sleep. My alarms were set to go off at 3.45am which would give me a few taps of the snooze button and still enough time to get up grab a brew and stare vacantly at the TV until Baz arrived to pick me up.
In actual fact I initially woke at 2.30am and then turned over and went back to sleep before waking again two minutes later. This was repeated for the next forty minutes or so until I was eventually unable to get off again lost my rag and got up at...

Getting there never seems to take long and after Baz picked me up we chatted all the way south and finally arrived, as did the rest of the group a full hour early. Standing next to the river waiting was killing us as we nattered about the days plans. It never takes much too build anglers excitement at the best of times, but this was torture.

We did eventually get going and I as normal went for what I consider to be one of the best fishing and certainly the worst looking swim on the lower Itchen fishery.

Still unsure of what to expect I began swinging small feeders full of wriggling red grubs towards the far bank. To my relief bites came straight away, though they looked suspiciously minnowish! Fifteen casts, thirteen minnows and two tiny grayling later I was getting concerned that my suspicions were right - that was until my rod nodded in a very positive way before bending seaward. My strike was met by solid force, followed by a zig zagging upstream towards me on my own bank. Moments later in the clear shallows a I spotted a fresh run spring salmon which seemed to be attached to my line just before it really went berserk snapping my two pound hook link like baby hair. A repaired rig was swung out and the next bite snapped me off too.

This was war! The medium rod was put away and the light barbel rod came out. With the suspicion that the second fish was not a salmon. I winged a decent size chunk of bread into the run.

I had to wait for a while but it eventually went round and my strike met solid force. I honestly was not sure what was on the end of the line, and the fish just seemed to hang in the water before slowly succumbing to the pressure. When I first saw a thick golden side roll in the middle, I thought I'd hooked one of the Itchen's rouge carp. That was until a massive white mouth appeared near the net and the culprit became clear.

My first Itchen fish of this trip was not quite the six I'd hoping for the past few weeks, but at 5.12lb this chub was a very nice start. Albeit a bit not the best looking chub in the river.

After the chub the swim died and rather than waste precious time I moved on to another swim which the bailiff had tipped me off to contain some nice roach and he was spot on with his advice, proving you should always listen to the bailiff on these kinds of rivers. With my light rod and the smallest feeder know to man I deftly flicked my rig under a tree and got an instant reply. A slew of amazing clear water roach cued up to eat my flake bait. I landed eight before this bites stopped as the roach shied off the feed. The best one came out at 1.2lb. And although I know they weren't to monsters these southern chalk streams are renowned for, they certainly could be one day.

The middle of the day proved a testing time for myself. I fished no less than eight different swims over the entire bottom beat of the lower Itchen fishery with what could only be considered poor results. Over lunch with Jeff and Baz (Keith was not present as he sent word that he would not come down stream until a good grayling was in his net). We mulled over our options. Jeff went up and Baz and myself went down as since making my way up river the fishing had declined for me. So I headed back to the devil I knew.

After having a few casts at the southern most swim of the entire fishery without a single bite, I moved up the weir run, fishing a couple areas until I dropped onto a spot Sash had plundered first thing. Things seemed slow all round, so I stuck it out looking for a big roach by casting a small bread feeder into the flow and letting it find its own crease in the slack water at the edge of the run.

Whilst I waited patiently, I noticed a tame bird had stopped by for a free feed, something it obviously did daily. Now I have fed tame robins, ducks and swans. Hell, I even feed a Heron a dead bait once. But never before have seen such an unlikely fishery pet as this, and only a southern chalk stream would have one.

A tame yellow wag tail.

Be it a he or a she this little bird defended this area venomously. And you can understand why! This area is where most visiting anglers stop off at on their way home and should they have a lot of bait left over then hand fulls must come this little birds way.

Whilst I sat staring at a motionless rod top I remembered I had put a cigar in my bag to celebrate my certain recapture of the record gonk. Which never happened I should add.

When I finally found my celebratory stogie it was residing between a carton of Five Alive and a bait box and was quite simply busted.

Half was sent off to the Solent and I puffed away on the remaining half as I filled the weir in with bread and the air with pungent smoke.

My persistence paid off and coupled with me rotating hook baits from bread to maggots the bites turned on again as the afternoon wore on.

Even though I had come specifically searching for grayling I had kind of written them off by this point, as the best I had managed all day was a paltry six ounces. But fr the final few hours they came on the feed. After a run of Ladies around a pound I finally hooked something bigger which swirled like a dervish in the powerful weir before I slipped the net under plump southern grayling of 1.10lb that made my day.

I stuck the weir race out for a while hooking only landing one more fish - a superb looking brownie who fancied my bread flake. But after that the swim died a death and it was time for one last move.

Desperate to make the most of the dusk I nipped back to the roach swim I had fished earlier in the day to chance for a monster as the light went. Although I did land a couple more roach, they generally seemed nervous on this second visit and the twitchy bites were hard to convert into fish.

Although this first winter trip was not as hectic as my previous October sessions, it did still produce some great fish and I will certainly look forward to my return later in the autumn to try and beat my grayling PB.

Show and Short Session reports.

2012-02-21T12:14:00.001-08:00

Well it has been a busy one for me this past weekend. On Saturday after spending the morning paying all those annoying monthly bills, I headed over to the Richo arena to have a look round the Midland Carp & Coarse show to hopefully get pick up a few things.

First of all, I have to say how impressed I was with this show. I have been to loads of shows, fairs and festivals relating to angling and at just about every one I always find myself walking away thinking something like there was too many manufactures, or that there was not enough retailers, and that what the were peddling was a load of old junk. This one however seemed to have the right balance of just about everything; a few large manufacturers plus their obligatory big names such as Bob Nudd and Dean Macey - the latter of the two I spotted munching down on a banana just as we walked past.

As well as the big boys there were lots of smaller companies showing off their new ideas, including it would seem, every possible flavour of bait you can (and can't!) think of.

For me and most of the other penny pinching anglers in attendance, the retailers were really where the action was. And for once there was some real top quality bargains to be had.

I was adhering to a strict self imposed budget, as I have in the past gone mad at these things, so for once I knew what I was after and from whom it should be purchased.

My first stop was at Eric's Angling. Last year I bought some Fox camo soft steel line from them via mail order and was very impressed with both the line and the price. This is the old packaging version of it, but as far as I can see there is little difference between this and the new stuff.

Retail £18

Eric's sell this at normally £8

Show price £5

Next on my hit list were these Nobbler leads which are made and sold by Atomic tackle. Last year I was just using normal grippa leads for moulding hali pellets round for barbel fishing on the rivers, and this year I fancy these may help with that job as well as using them for bream and tench fishing on the Method.

Retail £1.90 each

Show price £10 for 13

I am a massive fan of back leads and although I have recently not been using a purpose made ones and instead I have been using a cheap bombs combined with a quick clip. These, cheekily nicknamed 'The Nutz', caught my eye!

Retail £1.90 each

Show price £10 for 13

Lately I have had some luggage problems. My Korum ruck bag is far too bulky to be used on short mobile sessions, so I have been squeezing the small amount of kit I take on these roving sessions into a tiny satchel sized bag. This always leaves me a bit short of space so I have been looking for a small to medium sized holdall to fill the void, and this oak leaf camo holdall with ergonomic strap and handle looked perfect for the job.

Retail unknown

Show price £11 (That is just a bargain no matter what the retail was)

The final item is a far as I am concerned a must for all anglers camera bags. I bought my first ever bank stick to camera adaptor from the local tackle shop and lost it on a beach in Suffolk in autumn last year. I begrudgingly paid and exorbitant price for a replacement on my return. Then at the show I saw a massive pot of these at a ridiculous price.

Retail £4.50 each

Show price £1

For me anyway, this show seemed a real success. It was attended well by all types of companies and organisations. Though it was not one of the gargantuan monster shows like they used to have at the NEC, it's simple size, free entrance and parking all seemed to help to pull in maximum numbers of punters. I think everyone involved must of been impressed as money was happily changing hands and anglers were struggling back to their cars weighed down by plenty of bargains. I hope it happens again and will keep my eye out for it next year.

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I am determined to get in as many trips to the river as I can before the season ends no matter how short they may be. In previous years I have been lured away in February and the first two weeks of March, eager to get onto thawed lakes. But this year I am sticking to my guns and refuse to leave running water until the very bitter end of the season.

Sunday was the chosen day for my family to mass in a reasonable food establishment to celebrate the 89th birthday of my Grandmother. I love her to bits but the fact that she insists on eating dinner not that long after the time most people are enjoying a leisurely Sunday breakfast, kind of scuppers any plans to do anything that day other than go to dinner with me nan. So with a short amount of time and a self made commitment to maximise my time on the river I opted to again go in search of that rarest of fishes, the 6lb chub from the upper Warks Avon.

I knew I had made the right decision when I stepped out the back to collect a frozen net head and was met by the sight of a light sprinkling of snow on the ground. I was also very disappointed no one was around to see the best slide I have ever done on the icy path going to the car. Rod in one hand, net in the other and my bag on my back I slid a full five or more feet perfectly calmly right up to the car boot, stopping inches short and pressing the boot open button on the key with my mouth.

The river looked spot on flowing harder than my last visit with that bit of colour that just looks right.

My first cast into the near edge under cut produced straight away when a nice three pound chub gave me a quick double tap as it engulfed my lob worm bait and signalled they might be on the feed.

Just lately I have switched from cheese paste and bread over to worms as I know this stretch contains some nice perch which gobble up lob worms before they even hit the bottom on the right day.

After breaking up a couple of sub par worms and depositing them into the flow, I walked of the have a look at something I'd spotted on the way to the river leaving my swim to settle down again.

It seemed most of the swans in the county were in residence in some poor farmers field munching away at his soft and tender crops. Literally hundreds of them were grouped in one single field calmly mooching about unhindered, which made for quite a sight.

Back in my swim and cast back into the undercut I thought the perch may of turned up when I got some very tentative plucks and my worm came back a bit mangled. After casting in again, the tip hooped violently as a brain dead 1-2lb chub crashed around the swim. Unusually this was followed by two more of the same year class which is odd because I have only ever caught micro chub or full size chub from this area.

The three marauding smaller chub seemed to ruin this swim totally so I upped sticks to go and fish a snag on the top of the meadow. After thinking I had cleverly made the perfect cast under the slumped tree, I sat on that it for about thirty minutes until a clump of dead reed forced me to reel in, where I found my perfect cast was not so perfect at all and that I was well and truly connected to the snag. My pulling for the break only served to yank a swinging branch up and down into the swim ruining this usual banker in only one perfect cast.

My time was running out and although I had another swim in mind way down stream. I opted to return to the original swim to run out my session and save the other one for another day.

Honestly I never expected to get another bite. So I was only half watching my rod tip whilst I scanned the mornings doings on Facebook when I spotted the first nod over the top of my phone screen and instantley dropped the the phone into my bag. It took a while for the bite to develop but it eventually did and I found myself connected to a real experienced brute. This one knew every trick in the book and used every one as well. Twice I had to pull it out of the dead reeds on my own bank as it tried desperately to bury itself deeper. In the end I snatched it before it made antoher to bid for freedom.

A short and stocky four pounder rounded off the morning well and as I packed up happy with five nice fish under my belt I wondered where that elusive six I know is here is hiding.

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I thought my fishing was done until later in the week, until Jacky mentioned she was going out for dinner to Leamington with her work colleges to celebrate the end of a particularly busy month in student immigration. At first it never dawned on me and just told her there was loads of parking in Leamington. But then the next day when I was residing in my silent ear defender world it clicked 'there are two rivers run very close to Leamington and my kit from the previous session is still set up ready to go'.

I felt like a real hero offering to drive her out for the night and then offering to hang round in the dark waiting to pick her up afterwards. Jacky gratefully consented to me dropping her off and I whipped straight over the corner shop to obtain a tin of luncheon meat for bait.

I was strange going to a bit of river I had never fished before and casting blind in the night. Straight away I was into the silvers fishing leftover bread flake on the hook and fruity liquidised bread in the feeder.

My meat line had sat silently on the bait runner since being cast close to a over hanging tree upon arrival but about half way through the session it went off with no warning straight onto the baitrunner.

I felt sure I was going to be met by absolute power of a barbel. So much so that I had dug my feet into the mud and almost spat on my hands before striking. But the power was not there and all to easily another chub found it's way into my net.

My first night time self take of 2012 did not go to well. I didn't even realise until I got home that it was a duff. I suspect the lens had misted up on hitting the night air after being wrapped up nice and warm in my snug new bag.

Now although I am determined to maximise my catches this year by fishing for appropriate species in the suitable seasons. My continuing appearance on my own blog holding nothing but chub is getting to me a bit! So next time my ugly mug appears on the internet I hope to be holding a Lady of the Stream which rightfully could be a man...

The lure of piscatorial idlers quest on the warks Avon returning past Ryton

2012-02-15T11:17:00.000-08:00

In the worst of the winters fishing every year I make pilgrimage to a stretch of river that I know has some serious potential when everywhere else struggles. I have been trying to get a good long freezing cold session on this stretch now for about about a month, but just before every opportunity I have been thwarted in one way or another.

This weekend it nearly went that way too. Whilst visiting my local fishing tackle emporium I was informed by the sooth sayers behind the counter, when asked where I was going, that a large number of other locals were also heading to the very same patch of hard worn earth to try and take advantage of this winter bounty.

My only option was to get up at stupid o'clock and be there well before light. Which I did with Andy off of http://piscatorialpastimes.blogspot.com/ in tow. All we could get in the dark was a few minor trembles but once dawn broke the biomass went basserk and it was soon a fish a chuck.

After an hour of one a chuck the bites stopped almost instantly, which seemed a little odd.

A while later we spotted the first other angler of the day crossing the bridge downstream and he looked a bit familiar. It was Keith off of http://warksavon.blogspot.com come to partake of the now finished fish frenzy. Not long afterwards another familar face crossed the bridge tackled up. This time it was Baz off of http://bazalsblog.blogspot.com/ and if four blogging bloggers wan't enough, who should turn up a bit later but Jeff off of http://idlersquest.blogspot.com/ .

How bizzare that all of us should turn independently up at the same venue on the same day, although it could say something of the calibre of the fishing that can be had here.

Though considering how the morning went I suppose you could put it like this:

How many bloggers does it take to catch a 10oz dace?

As bleeding many as you want! cos we had five of em and we never caught one.

Myself and Andy were lucky from what I hear. We did have an all but brief spell where the fish fed and Andy did snaffle a nice pike just under double figures around mid morning. For me I had to settle for the biggest dace of the day, a mere four ounces.

In the few days that have passed since the uber blogger, The lure of piscatorial idlers quest on the Warks Avon returning past Ryton, fished this ancient bit of river I have been perplexed somewhat over the seeming poor performance. Reading that Jeff too has been mulling the situation has pushed me towards some conclusions of my own.
I initially thought a temp drop may have been responsible for a drop off in feeding in this normally reliable winter hot spot. Then I suspected it may have been a drop in barometric pressure or that the two cormorants may have been signs of a more insidious problem. But now I realise that I for one may have been attributing blame to all the normal scapegoats and ignoring the obvious...
I first fished this stretch when not one grey hair sprouted from my temples and way before I had forgotten what a razor felt like on my chin. At that point I remember even in winter we had to stamp dead winter foliage so our lines didn't get tangled in it and in the summer it was impossible to get any further into the thick scrub than the swim I was fishing in. Now it can comfortably hold multiple anglers which leads me to my final theory on what may be affecting the fishes feeding in this once forgotten wilderness. It's us! back in the day I would guarantee that these naive fish would feed from light till dark. I for one remember going home early after running out bait on several occasions. But now the ground is bare and hard from the scuff of anglers feet and at any one time multiple anglers will be in attendance. So if it is not our fault we must at least put ourselves in the same categories as all the other reasons we try to blame for the fish not feeding in our favourite winter hot spot.

Changing tack I do love a good fishing show and on Tuesday morning I received my Leamington angling news letter only to see that unbeknownst to me that we had one on our very door step in only a few days time.

I would just like to say thank you to Anthony for putting that on the newsletter as I for one would not have realised it was on. Also, to the organizers of this show, even though I live in Coventry and work regularly at the Richo arena, I had no idea this was on so maybe your local advertising at least needs some work.

I will certainly be going over to purchase some much needed supplies that I have been planning on ordering online that I fancy will help me out with my summer campaign 'The Lake'; I will let you know if it was any good and what bargains I got from it next time.

Snow go

2012-02-07T11:37:00.000-08:00

I have always got a real kick of being out in extreme conditions. Even in my youth I would happily trudge round Bedworth in frost and snow doing my paper round. I even had a couple of places on the local cut where the constant the trickle of entering streams kept enough water liquid that I could freeze myself half to death scratching out blade roach on squats. That's why I was half looking forward to this weekends fishing.

I say half because I although I do love this weather I knew full well it would probably naff up my plans for two sessions this weekend.

With that in mind I watched the weather as we all do and tried to keep positive whilst saying to myself 'it will only be a sprinkle of snow and both venues fish even in the worst weather'.

Saturday morning I looked looked out the window to see blue sky and smugly thought, ah I was right, it ain't going to be that bad.

Two hours later I stood amongst the 1960's buildings of Coventry city centre and watched a bar of thick grey cloud approach. My initial plan was to get out for three-ish and fish until dark to make best of a winter witching hour. The approaching weather front forced my hand however and I went out around twelve. This proved to be my best move of the weekend.

The swim I fancied for a winter chavin is a great environment for fish, with its five foot deep, half fast half slow water nestled between two deeply under cut banks fringed with masses of dead reed. Perfect to keep them snug in the worst of weathers. Above the water on our side of the fence its awful; miles of open flat fields in every direction and every time I've put up a brolly in this swim it's been the kiss of death, so I left that at home!

The wind was cutting through all five of my layers the moment I stepped out of the car and it did not get any better as I walked across the field dotted by cow pats, which were frozen like organic Frisbees. Not that I threw any.

Being so open I approach this swim in a massive circle so as not to freak out any of it's occupants. Once in position with the wind to my back and my rod as low as I could possibly have it and still register a bite, I looked over the bait options. I'd only brought bread as a back up, so it became a toss up between cheese paste and Lob worms. I have in the past caught more fish from this area of the upper Avon on cheese paste BUT the biggest chub I have ever seen on the bank came from this very stretch on Lob worms, so the answer was clear.

Once cast out I had barley wiped the ook of broken worms of my hand and poured a steaming mug of tea before the snow flakes started flying sideways past me, and I gave an inane chuckle to myself with a kind of macabre glee.

Half an hour in and I had sat on the one cast tight against the far bank the whole time. As well as throwing in two broken up worms and the result had been zero. So I decided to gradually pull the bait across into the faster water on my own bank.

Bingo! Half way across the river the tip nodded and the culprit was hooked. In the water it looked alright, three or four pound maybe. In the net it was a much chunkier a chub than I've caught in a good many years.

5.2lb- that will do me. I tried desperately to do a self take shot only to discover that it is nearly impossible to do so on a snowy day with no shelter to help reduce the bright white light on the open tundra. So I had to settle for the net shot. Which was not a bad thing! As in the couple of ghostly attempts at a self shot my face looked like old jack frost was slapping me just before the camera beeped.

After this I was not going to dally. That age old anglers thought of just one last cast never entered my head. It was just a case of one cast one chub that will do me thank you very much and I headed back to the car.

Bearing in mind that I had only dipped the net once and then walked back across the field, when I got to the car my Fox Predator spoon landing net was very rigid. So much so that I had to stamp it flat to get it in the car boot.

Sunday my intent was to do a bit of pike fishing at another winter hot spot on the Avon. But whilst Facebook lit up with a million posts about snow I sat cursing the stupid white stuff. At midnight I poked my head out the front door to hear the wondrous sound of melting snow and I went to bed hoping to awake to it all being gone in a few hours. As per normal I was wrong. Though what remained had only a short time before it turned to that classical English snow type. Slush.

I had to play it safe and I did not fancy crawling miles with my arse twitching every time the car slid around, so I changed tack, pulled on my lunker boots and hit the alleys as I headed off to the brook.

I could not rightly face catching any more half pound chub as compared to the previous days catch they would seem a little inconsequential. So I avoided any know Chub haunts and dropped on a swim I know has some as yet unmeasured roach potential.

The river looked great with that lovely winter colour and with a bit of snow on the banks. The roach however were in residence but had obviously read my last blog post and were being suitably coy.

After a few casts when my bait returned with the hook sticking out the back of a small gob of bread I came up with an idea. Decoy fishing for Roach. It is so simple I don't know why I didn't try it last week. Pinch a tiny crumb of bread onto a tiny size 18 hook and leave the hook point well exposed. Then pinch much bigger chunk on the line above it. Even if the bigger bit slips down the line, the stinger is always the little bit at the back which the roach plucks at.

First chuck a small but perfectly formed winter Roach on the decoy.

After landing the first one, my conversion rate went through the roof from about fifteen trembles to one fish to three hard bangs to a fish. I ended up landing thirteen fish up to 6oz and enough minnows to keep me in perch fishing for a full week.

I was having such a good time I never felt my feet getting cold. But once they had gone I knew it was only a matter of time before I had to go. Then when a huge sheet of ice came crawling round the corner it seemed the perfect reason to get up and move home for a warming brew and an afternoon on the sofa watching a movie.

Those maddening darn Roach

2012-02-01T12:32:00.000-08:00

Those who have cast a line for a big Roach will already know of the fickle nature by which they can possibly feed, and do not need me to remind them of the maddening ability to pluck a Roach develops around the age of 10oz. With a barbel, carp or pike and their developed methods of capture, angling them has become simple in a way. Simple in that once the finned culprit has the intent of your bait upon it's mind it comes down to a simple choice of yes I am going to eat it or no I am not. Whereas in the case of the not so humble big Roach it becomes a case of sucking, plucking, blowing, spitting and possibly maybe even eating. Add into this infuriating equation a flowing river and a recipe for madness is complete. Oppositely there are those days when like all fishes the big Roach can be as stupid and gullible as an angler in a tackle shop; to be on that bank on that sacred day is the provision of a lucky man, one whom in the past may have stumbled over a pile of rocking horse droppings and landed face first in a patch of four leafed clovers. But for most of us even if we know the location of a sacred shoal and we enjoy angling for a pound of silver in our net, we will have to endure a little madness as payment for the honour.

Having decided that Roach were to be my quarry of the day, I wondered as I drove south in the dark whether if by magic today was to be my day again, as I have had only one other real roach red letter day in the past.

Though before feeders filled with bread crumbs arc across the Warwickshire sky, another darker date stood before me. I do find it hard these days to visit the Avon without a a Zander rod in my quiver. Even if like on this trip I only have a short while to await for that single nod of my rod that might indicate the subtle intentions of a Zander. I still do it.

Early on as dark became light I had two enquiries in quick succession. I wouldn't say I missed them, just that the Zander responsible for both bites had a change of heart at the last moment, and put down my dead Rudd bait for reason only known to them. Although I suspect my pack of frozen glassy eyed fish may have been in and out of the freezer one to many times to be considered fresh.

Done with distractions of the predatory kind I shoved off upstream to the spot I knew I would fish. Ever since my arrival I had been watching it out of the corner my eye hoping no wasteful lure angler would pass through and ruin the whole area searching for a pickerel of a pike, which would probably not look twice at there gaudy rattling lure.

Winters and floods change the dynamics of swims easily, and this one was changed since I last cast here. The flow is now channelled awkwardly across the centre of the swim and worse the soft biting fish lie just beyond the entire pressure of the Warwickshire Avon on a small gravel run. The swim will again change when the next flood rips away the barriers accumulated on the far back which on this occasion hinder me. But for today it is just a case of making do.

It takes me a while to figure where my bait ends up on my first cast. Unlike a feeder full of wetted ground bait which sinks fast, a feeder stuffed with fluffy liquidised bread sinks slowly allowing the river to catch it and deposit it much further downstream than a wet crumb feeder.

It's making bottom at least two metres further down stream than I want it to, so I compensate by flicking it further into the flow and my calculations are rewarded with a bite. Albeit a very subtle one.

A few more loads of bread clouding through the water gets them in the mood and the tip now dances feverishly as fish pluck at the bread. Then finally a tiny sliver blade wriggles in after the feeder. The hooked fish drives off the shoal and I have to wait a while for the next bite. But once that comes they once again begin to compete.

A proper bite results in resistance on my light rod and a beautiful 13oz roach is landed and my hopes that the red letter day could begin get higher.

After this the madness begins! The shoal is disrupted and for all I can figure are moving round the swim. As the bites seem totally random, I focus as we are told, on one area, and try to hit the same spot again and again which does seem to get them in line a little. They have no confidence but infuriatingly are still interested in eating.
How many bites I strike at and miss grows quickly and my-patience to deal with this dwindles. In the end I find myself hitting good fast roach bites as the tip comes back, and no fish can be hooked when your bait has been spat out.
Luckily for my sanity they push off and the bites stop and now my tip sits still. The thought that a big straggler may still move over the baited area makes me stick around for sometime just in case. Soon enough I move off again down stream to a another choice spot. Here again the bites come quickly and a small chub which is novel in this section for the river gets away in a snag under my feet.

All too soon it is time to go as other engagements press my time. Even though those infuriating fish have pushed me close to the edge, I still wonder when I will be back as I walk to the car.

Otter a nutter and a liar

2012-01-24T12:51:00.000-08:00

Sunday morning shortly after my 2nd alarm rang, I lay in bed in that place which is neither asleep or awake and half wondered whether I should get up and go fishing, or just roll over and go back to sleep. Problem is that I haven't as yet this year done any early mornings, and truthfully I am not naturally an early riser. This combined with me still feeling like my head is stuffed full of cotton wool after a gargantuan two and a half weeks of lingering cold, has me feeling a little reluctant to venture out in the cold damp morning air.

I knew I had limited time on my hands so I forced myself up and slipped out the front door. The night before it had seemed prudent that with my time constraints I should go down my local trickle to maximise time out and not waste my time driving somewhere. Not only that but returning home the day before I caught a glimpse of the brook as I drove over her and she looked good!

On my short walk from my house to the brook I noticed a rather interesting person walking up the opposite side of the road on an early morning jaunt. To all intents and purposes it looked like this young man was trying to fend of a rampant swarm of those giant invisible wasps we are seeing around here in this warm winter. It seemed best we both stay on a opposite sides of the road and when we were opposite each other and he very loudly began to inform me the were "no fish here" again and again and again and again at the top of his voice, which I am sure woke half the people in Coventry, if not Bedworth too. After exchanging pleasantries and a few peculiar hand gestures I bid the colourful gentleman farewell and carried on my way, hoping to god he wouldn't follow me.

My first stop was at a swim I have now entitled the Gaza strip! It's a long straight run which even in low water drops down to three foot half way down the tall reeds and maintains that depth to the road bridge where it quickly shallows up and is situated right on the edge of no mans land.

I searched out this entire run fishing a super light quiver rig baited with small pinches of bread. Only to find it is so solid with minnows that a bait only lasts about two minutes wafting in this swim!

The next swim I moved to was on the opposite side of the bridge, where the water shoots out of a bottle neck with more force than anywhere else in this diminutive water. This too was chock full with minnows, although the increased flow turned their normal vibrations into full on bites.

Although both runs looked the part, nether produced anything other than whittled bread and foul hooked minnows. So I opted to move on again.

Before I left I had to answer the call of nature. Rather than have some passer-by call the law about and flasher down the brook, I ducked under the bridge. The river had obviously fallen recently and left soft mud beach on the edge next to the concrete where I saw something very interesting. A set of paw prints running into the water! A lot of them were fouled by each other and I could not get a good snap shot of them. But to me the seem about the right size for an otter.

If it is an otter I would be amazed, as that would mean they are at least 2-3 miles inside the city foraging amongst dense human housing. I am not totally convinced they are otter tracks though I have checked them out online and they look pretty similar.

That's all we need round here, urban otters loitering round under bridges smoking and threatening local water voles. Seriously though is this otter thing as bad as we think it is, or is it worse? I myself was never drawn into the whole Zander being murderous fish that kill for the sake of killing, and look how that panned out. I have to wonder are we putting otters in the same boogey man category or are they actually destroying our fish stocks, because I keep seeing all these fantastic fish in the fishing rags and the Internet. So some of us are still managing to catch some fish before the otters get them. Truthfully I am not sure whether they are having the impact the media seem to claim they are.

This actually got me thinking. I have been fishing for 25 years in the UK and in all the time I have spent on the bank, I have only seen one maybe two otters and truthfully I have only seen five or so injured fish.

Now I know that I am only one angler so I suppose I must ask whomever reads this.

- Have you ever seen an otter?

- Have you ever found signs of otters?

- Have you ever caught or found mutilated fish?

To be honest I currently find myself in neither camp for or against otters, as I have never seen first hand what they can do to a fishery. This could change in the future. But for now one niggling thought repeatedly pops back into my head. 'Who was fishing here first, us or them?'

After seeing the tracks I moved on down the tiny river and proceeded to bag four small chub from the next four swims which lead me to a conclusion about the chub in this zone of the river. They seem to all be the same size and I am a bit worried that is as big as they go here.

With only an hour left I went back upstream to an old haunt where an dog walker approached me. It turned out he was also an angler and he then passed on some information regarding whom and what resides around this brook.

I know anglers have a undeserved reputation regarding how big we say the one we caught was. Well this bloke was the king of angling flim flam. (if your reading this Jeff, sit down mate!) apparently he had deposited over 60 carp into the brook and only a few weeks ago the EA came down and removed fifteen fish from a deep hole up the way and the biggest was over 35lb.

If this guy had any idea how big a 35lb carp is he'd understand that a fish of such a size would only have half it's mouth in the water if it laid on it's side in this brook.

I think for my next trip out I may need to head back to the solitude of the country to get away from, well everything.

weightless winter morn.

2012-01-18T11:31:00.000-08:00

Recent suggestions for up coming fishing trips, and the general attitude of a lot of people I meet, would have you believe that winter is just about over and spring will soon be upon us. Well my arse it is!!! I have this horrible feeling that sooner or later we are going to get some proper bad stuff. Admittedly I could be wrong, but either way I will be thinking very hard before involving myself in any night sessions for a while to come, unless the temperature rises by at least ten degrees and stays that way permanently. As for species I am playing it safe so off to the river after old Mr Chavin for me.

Walking across crispy frozen grass Sunday morning I could not help but remark to myself that of all the outfits which old England wears, by far my favourite is the frosty white number she sports repeatedly over winter. Be it meadow, wood, or ploughed field they all look great covered in crystals of ice. Especially on the way to a river.

A while ago I watched a short video on Martin bowlers website http://martinbowler.co.uk/online-videos where he used a floater cake to counterbalance a gob of cheese paste for chub fishing, and last time I was out it popped back into my head. At the time I didn't have the stuff to have a go so this time out I had the required bits and was ready to give it a bash.

I am a huge fan of critically balanced baits and use them whenever I can whilst fishing. As fish do not have hands to test out things with, they must use their mouths and should a weightless bait fly in their mouth as the test it, a panicked fish and a sprung trap are inevitable.

Early last winter I knocked up a batch of random shaped pop up boilies to imitate bread to be used on a few different venues. They worked great for tipping off boilies with a fleck of white and worked even better for threading on a hair and squashing a hunk of bread round surface fishing for carp. And they seemed the perfect way to reduce the weight of some very fruity smelling cheese paste on this trip to the upper Avon.

Hook a buoyant bait onto a huge size 2 Drennan specialist

place on top of a flattened piece of cheese chod

mould into required shape leaving hook point exposed

Another thing that Mr Bowler suggested, and I have also used before to search out Chub, are very light weights. By using not quite enough lead to hold bottom the flow of the river automatically pulls the bait into areas with less flow, where any energy saving fish can sometimes be found waiting for a tasty morsel to pass by in the heavier flow.

I used to solely use multiple swan shots until I discovered these giant shots made by Preston Innovations which seem to be the equivalent of 2-3 swan shot. It may seem trivial to most other anglers why I should use one large shot in place of two or three smaller shots. But as far as I can tell it makes a totally different sound hitting the water and you only have to pull one shot of the line should a fish find weed and need to be extracted.

Then cast the slowly sinking free moving bait into your favourite chub hole and wait. It took all of ten minutes for my rod tip to make a slight but significant tremble. I never even waited for the tip to go all the way round before I struck into a hard fighting fish. I do have the utmost respect for chub as they are the dirtiest fighters that swim and that combined with their willing to feed worst conditions makes them a winter favourite.

The hooked fish made an attempt to get under every possible bank, snag and weed bed within twenty feet. But finally it hit the net and carried on swimming like it was still in the water just like a tuna does when hauled from the sea.

Thank you very much Mr Bowler for the tip - it worked a treat! 4.5lb of long lean chub makes a chilly Sunday on the river perfect. I was shocked at how lean this fish was to be truthful. Had it been proper plump this would have been a five plus fish every day of the week.

I did have a few more fruitless casts in the first swim before I dropped down river a way and a rather rude half pound fish ruined my next swim, by making a god awful racket splashing around and shedding my hook.

The rest of the morning was spent residing at the head of a beautiful run with the Sun warming me. I knew full and well that the clear river and bright midday sun did not bode well for any more fish. So I enjoyed the last hour or so sipping warmish tea from my flask as I stared up at the amazing azure sky from my grassy corner overlooking the river.

The river where

2012-01-12T11:28:00.000-08:00

My year has not started well at all! I made that stupid mistake we all make from time to time and proclaimed that 'touch wood I had not been ill so far this winter'! As a result of this frivolous and poorly vetted comment I became ill on new years eve and have been ill ever since. Without being too graphic, I have suffered just about everything this virus has to offer all parts of the human body. Happily I am just about over it and the only the remaining symptom is that my voice resembles a rusty wrought iron gate swinging in a stiff breeze.

My problems of late have been compounded by my car getting written off just before the holidays and me now being reliant on the charity of others for transport. Though it all seemed to be coming good with a Sunday trip on the cards down the Avon. But! and that's a BIG but!!! only one thing stood in my way. The winter bloggers meet at a local watering hole. And that went a bit like this... a group of anglers turn up at real ale serving establishment, they chat mercilessly on one topic whilst downing pint jars full of ale like rampant Vikings and sometime after the others started to slip away so my did memory. After that point what I could remember was like a movie montage. Glasses, laughter and Keith applying make up to Jeff...

I awoke the next day with some kind of chili sauce caked into my beard and with my throat feeling like I'd eaten thumb tacks. A cup of tea later and the faint recollection that we had meant to have gone fishing crept into my head.

Whilst I attempted to salve my rising heart burn, Robert confirmed that we had in fact inducted Jeff into the mornings proposed session and that we were already an hour and a half late to collect him. Immediately we struck into action! Rob like a sedated slow loris and me like a stoned tortoise. We did eventually pick up Mr Hatt. Two and a half hours late, but that didn't matter as he was just about as confused on the previous nights arrangements as us.

It wasn't until we seemed to be travelling in the wrong direction that I asked Rob whom was piloting this precision mission where we were going, as he was driving a seeming long way of course. It turned out we had changed plans the night before and were going exploring today not back to an old haunt.

With a fuzzy head and my recent fishing drought, all I cared about was the presence of water and certainly not location. Soon enough we arrived at a river. Which was actually the fat arse end of mine and Jeff's beloved river Sowe. But for all us three knew about this bit it could have been anywhere.

The weir looked the part so I snatched the primo swim whilst Jeff was gawping at his plump mistress rolling by and whilst Rob scampered of through the thicket searching for pastures new. Only problem was how to get down a step bank without ether vomiting or falling in. I managed it and quickly applied my new simplified fishing mathematics to the venue.

January + River + Angler + Hook + pungent cheese paste = Chub

First cast of the new year and one fish! this can't be bad. So I tried again and cast my over sized cheese ball into the flow. This time it rolled back to my own bank unhindered. But half way through my third roll, tap tap strike ended with something big ripping me off. It had to be a barbel which I know for a fact exist just downstream in the Avon, as no chub in Europe was snapping the agricultural gear I had on.

I thought the capture of one fish and the loss of another may have ruined the swim so I cast around the tail of the pool thinking the fish may have backed off a bit and explored all eddies and riffles.

The classic one last cast under the most precarious bush on the whole swim brought me a second nice chub just before I upped sticks to wander off downstream in search of a new swim.

The rest of this section of the Sowe was virtually impossible to access, though we did discover a little gem of a run, where no less than five different fish rose to passing bread crusts. I got three takes at range by floating a hunk of crust downstream and missed every one like a numpty. My attempt at creeping closer only served to send them flying into cover. Now I have seen chub take crust of the top and know that If they come up to grab it they have it! But these fish were a lot more coy than any stupid chub I have ever seen and when I went right up close and took a peep, the culprits were gone and the swim was literally only inches deep. Leading me to conclude that they may have been not old rubber lips, but maybe just maybe that rarest of Warwickshire fish population. Wild trout!

Living the dream... slightly!

2011-12-29T06:01:00.000-08:00

Someone once said "I have a dream", well so do I! albeit a little less world changing. My dream is not one that will profoundly change other peoples lives but one that would certainly be very nice for me, should I ever be lucky enough to live live it.

I dream of a small cottage clad heavily with years of ivy growth, situated close to a small well kept stretch of river in the middle of nowhere. Where early on Christmas day I would wake and slip out of bed to peer from misted windows to see rolling fields shrouded in frost.

Before venturing out I would stand and enjoy the sights further as I sipped steaming tea standing in a quint old kitchen eating an oak smoked bacon sandwich. My belly filled and body fuelled I step out in the sharp morning air rod in hand and begin my short jaunt down to the waters edge.

As I walked the frozen grass and leaves would crunch under foot and as I passed through the small coppice picture postcard images of red breasted robins and cheeky squirrels would fill my eyes and warm my soul before I finally reached the bank and settled down to spend a short time casting for a precious bite on Christmas morn. Returning back to the cottage a roaring log fire would await me and the smell of roasting turkey would fill my senses.

But that is just a dream! and in reality I have yet been unable to shake the shackles of Christmas in the city where work holds me back, unable to realise my dream. But this year an Angel appeared before me and told me that as last year we spent our Christmas at my family's house, this year we would stay at home and instead invite others to us. Which did not surprise me at all, but what she said after this did!!! "So if you want to nip out for a couple of hours fishing feel free" It took a moment for this to compute and an another for me to shut my gaping mouth. But that was it! it was on. A fishing trip on Christmas day.

A strict curfew and common sense procluded travel. But with my car currently out of action I have been developing an acute appreciation of my tiny stream round the corner, down the hill and up the road.

So early on the 25th I lived out my dream minus the cottage, frost and southern chalk stream of course.

The water had a tint of winter green and I fished a few swims on my precious little brook. Bites were had at every stop but it wasn't until I settled for a while on a deeper looking glide and flicked out the ubiquitous pinch of bread that the fish began to flow as did the hooch from my hip flask.

Although no monsters were caught every wonderful little fish meant ever so much to me on the dream realizing session and I ended up catching (sung to the tune of the 12 days of Christmas..!)

Three tiny minnows,

Two small roach,

And a chub of maybe a pound!

I hope you all made much merry over the holidays because I did and I wish everyone a happy new year where your lines are tighter more than they are slack.

A winter warmer

2011-12-23T05:38:00.000-08:00

The total of my last couple of trips can be summed up quite easily with only a few lines and a couple of pictures.

On Sunday all I netted in four hours of fishing on the gin clear canal was about fifty pounds of ice!

On Wednesday myself and Andy had a ten hour picnic next to a massive wind swept gravel pit!

I think everyone still mental enough to be fishing here in the UK will agree that the fishing has certainly taken a turn for the worse since the winter has set in. And I for one will be re-evaluating my approach for the next few months to counter for this dramatic change.

- No more messing round on lakes, unless pike are involved.
- If I even suspect a venue may be frozen I ain't bothering.
- Stick to the rivers at all costs.
- Target only the species that can feasibly be caught (no chancing a rare catch)
- Use the two pound block of stinking cheese paste that Jacky's been trying get out of the freezer all year.

Being a little bored I have been looking back trough my blog and dreaming of easier days gone by. Whilst looking through it I discovered that of all the posts I have done in the last few years, one has been the most popular and most viewed ever since it was posted. This in turn reminded me that a while ago I had written a little tale which I had extracted from this post and expanded on it a little. And in this time of little action to blog about I felt this short may hold a little interest and warm a few cockles.

A knock out Barbel

A few years ago whilst targeting some very respectable Barbel on clear shallow section of the upper Warwickshire Avon I went through what can only be described as a unbelievable run of comical disasters whilst trying to land even just one single Barbel, leading up to the crescendo that I will never forget.
I endured numerous problems including; having a close friend spoil my best chance of the entire summer through a morbid fear of wasps, a rod snapping like a twig whilst playing a very nice double figure Barbel, which I subsequently lost; and having a mink dive in where I was fishing sending every resident of my favourite swim off for days.
But by far the worst and final disaster happened on a surprisingly hot and hazy autumn afternoon.

One of the best swims on the entire stretch of river had a mouth watering willow which had slumped over into the river. All summer long a huge mat of debris had built up around it making the perfect hiding place for a resident shoal of Barbel which ranged from three pounds right up to oh my god.

Perfect as it was this swim had one major drawback. One of its bows supported it perfectly from the bed of the river and just happened to be dead centre of the entire hidey hole, which made casting baits under the raft from upstream absolutely impossible. In fact the only option was to cast a bait as far under as you dared from the side and then try and tempt the residents out slowly by trickling hemp under it from above.

On this occasion I had crept into position being very careful to keep myself well hidden behind a small mound fringed with tall dry tufts of grass. I had for once made the perfect cast first time and after being cramped up against the trunk of a tree for two or more hours my gradual baiting had finally tempted a few fish to the edge of the shadows just under the mat where my hook bait lay visible on the bottom on a fantastic gravel run.

Just as I moved back to my position after again peering through the grass, another angler very considerately crawled up behind me to ask how it was going. Whispering back to him I explained that they were just starting to come out to play and I had seen at least two good fish move out and then back in again. Both of us sat transfixed by the tip of my rod as it began to tremble. Knowing full well what could happen next I readied my hand hovering just over the rod just before it jerked violently over. I was to my knees instantly applying maximum side strain to keep the beast from the snag. With my heart thumping I somehow blurted my belief that it felt like a good one just before the rod sprung back violently as the hook pulled.

I just looked at the river with that forlorn look all we anglers get in that situation and waited for my companion to maybe utter a few words of condolence. But he was silent. Turning round I realised why... He was no longer beside me but was instead lying flat on his back about five feet away in the grass with little birds fluttering round his head and an Adam Ant style red mark straight across the bridge of his nose where my rod had connected with his face. After I helped him up and dusted him off and he stumbled off and downstream cursing me as he went. I didn’t even get the poor blokes name never mind apologise. So if he ever reads this “I am very sorry and I hope it didn’t have any lasting effects”. And if that was not bad enough I never did actually land one of those Barbel from that very special swim.

I hope that warmed you up. And if anyone else has any amusing stories get em posted on your blogs cos we've still got two or months of this freezing weather left and we could all do with a chuckle.

Remembering a good friend

2011-12-22T09:49:00.000-08:00

Growing up in a non angling family left me rather short of influential figures in my younger years and as a result anything thing I learnt was glimmed from books or old VHS tapes. On top of that the travelling radius in which I could fish was limited that which I could walk or cycle, as persuading parents to drop you off back then was a no no.
It wasn't until my very end of my teens that two brothers came into my life who would step into the role an angling father would have held: both showed me there was a much larger and varied angling world beyond my own; both had a passionate love of the Norfolk broads having spent a large proportion of their life fishing amongst it's reed line banks. And this was something they have passed onto me. I don't believe there has ever been a single time when I had spoken to ether Richard or John when they failed to show interest in what I have been up to or what I have caught.

I have spent countless days cruising the broads with Richard and whenever we were looking for a mooring he would always be thinking of where we could get some good glides for us to trot down.
John on the other hand would pick me up early in the morning and transport me off to Northamptonshire to fish a small syndicate water he was a member of, that had a astounding stock of powerful and stunning carp. which I would go at like a kid in a candy shop until I was practically falling asleep sitting up. I once returned the favour and took John to a friend of mines secluded lake where he hooked what at first we thought was a small carp. Which as always morphed into something else in the net. Only thing was it turned out to be the single biggest chub I have ever seen. God I wished we had weighed it! cos I've seen a few six pounders and this thing made them look like tiddlers. But John just smiled and slipped it back.

Sadly John passed away some years ago suddenly which shocked us all. Happily I remember all the times we spent together doing what we both loved so much. But as always I still wish we could have fished just one last time with him.

John Bibb

New hat new techniques.

2011-12-15T05:59:00.000-08:00

Just lately I have been pondering the possibility of a new hat. Now to most normal people this would be a simple case of adding another hat to ones wardrobe, much as you would another jumper, but for me it's turned into quite a quest.

As you see I am in no uncertain terms a one hat angler; meaning that at any one time, barring substitute hats for winter when my protruding ears are at risk of being snapped off, I only wear one hat for fishing come rain or shine. Why this should be the case I am not exactly sure, but it is and that's why at this time of change I have found myself in such a quandary.

For the near entirety of my youth I sported what I often refer to as a Happy Mondays style hat which was put aside along with fishing from the ages of fifteen to nineteen whilst I was obsessed by chancing nothing but girls.

Early in my return to angling I won the only competition I have ever won in a fishing rag whereupon I received a black baseball cap with Kamasan embroidered on the front. This freebie stuck with me for a few years and was subsequently replaced with army green jungle style hat of which loved dearly and has served me well for a very long time.. until it went mouldy after being stuffed wet into my fishing bag.

The last hat in this abbreviated history of Daniel Everitt's hats is the one most people who have ever read this blog will be familiar with. The Hill billy chic camouflage baseball cap. Which I would like to add has driven my poor Jacqueline insane for some reason ever since it graced my head. Her constant pressure to replace it and annoying habit of whacking the peak in seeming anger at it, has driven me into a corner where my only option is new head gear. So for the past two months I have browsed every hat repository for fifty miles and tried on a multitude of hats including deer stalkers, other baseball hats, trilby's and even a bowler hat (which incidentally I came very close to buying). But finally I think I have found it.

The flat cap

It's strange that I should have ignored this head wear for such along time as of all the hats available this one is what the men of my family have traditionally worn. My father occasionally dons one and both my grandfathers wore them. One of which wore one so much that up until quite an age I was convinced that this was what his hair looked like. I am sure that the flat cap goes back much further into my family history judging from the areas of the country that both sides of my family emanate from. But why have I denied my birth right for so long. Maybe it's an age thing, maybe I didn't feel old enough to pull it off. But now it's on my head it feels strangely comfortable and even a little reassuring. So I will give a go and maybe even consider getting a waxed jacket to go with and possibly a mutt. A whippet or a Jack Russell should set it off just nice.

So wearing my new hat and having a morning to spend fishing I headed off out into the beautiful English countryside so I could appreciate the resplendent wind and drizzle at my pleasure. As well as trying my new hat I also wanted to try a new method which I have until now never tried.

Long range maggot feeder fishing using helicopter rigs in winter has accounted for some very large roach in the past and as I've heard along the grapevine that one of our club waters is rumoured to hold some very respectable Roach indeed. It seemed the perfect place to have a go at it.

Even though I was hell bent on whacking feeders out through the stratosphere a niggling thought in the back of my head made me only half commit and take a float set up to fish close in. The idea being that one or the other line should locate some fish and I was right. The float line died a death after I caught a few small perch and soon after this the feeder line lit up so I swapped my float rod over to a very light feeder rig to maximise my chances.

There is no doubt sitting behind two light rods perched on indicators roach fishing is an odd sensation. As most anglers would be far more at home trotting or even ledgering for them rather than fishing what is essentially carp style with light rods.

At first the sharp tugs were impossible to hit. But as I suspected that the roach were just plucking at the three maggot baits. I pushed the hook link which was trapped between a couple of float stops right down onto the feeder to create a self hooking rig. And low and behold it worked with a roach first chuck of the modified rig.

One thing that continued to bug me as I fished was how long the fish took to get on the bait. So in-between casts I did a little experiment. After filling my larger feeder, I dropped it in the edge to see how long it took the maggots to find there way out of the feeder.

I was surprised at what I saw! From the moment the loaded feeder hit the bottom to when the grubs made this attractive spread took and gargantuan 17 minutes. It took nearly five minutes for the first one to escape then once he'd gone most followed suit. What the picture does not show is the large amount which wriggled straight under the feeder and disappeared into the sand. But after seeing this it all made sense. The bites took ages to appear after a cast and probably came about when the freebies made a decent spread on the bottom.

My decision to commit both rods to this strange technique turned out be the right one as by off setting my casts of each rod by 10 minutes meant for the final three hours it was constant action. Cast one rod out then then by the time that one was all set to go, the other one went off and after landing the fish I repeated the process.

The only disappointment was the size of the fish. Although I landed 25+ roach not one was over 10oz but saying that there was not one under 5oz.

So by those results I can happily say the method works. All I have to do now is find some bigger roach!

The forgotten stream

2011-12-08T11:59:00.000-08:00

Xmas is coming and as per normal my spare time is dwindling. Like everyone, my family commitments and work seems to increase exponentially as the holidays approach and as result my chances of nipping off for even a half day this weekend were zero. Saying that I love Xmas, so it really wasn't that much of a hardship and a little lateral thinking got me two micro sessions back to back over the weekend.

There is where I live a tiny little river long forgotten by the local angling fraternity. I have heard that at some point in its life, not that long ago, it was more than just a focal point for the junior anglers. Apparently in its hey day it was common place to see trilby hat sporting men, perched on wicker baskets brandishing split cane rods as they trotted out some respectable fish. But this is now all history, and since then the city has encroached on it. Seventies style housing estates now sit on its flood plains and its silted river bed is strewn with fifty years worth of rubbish dumped by a myriad of idiots. It would seem that the majority of people that live close by are oblivious to this diminutive waterway and those who do know of it would fall over laughing if you were to inform them that fish still swim in that trolley filled brook. But they do, because as we all know, nature finds a way. She always does and she certainly will when we have all gone!

Day one: Validation

My time was to be short. So well before all those people with common sense had risen and the others with less than me had staggered home to bed, I was up and slipping out the door into the night. I always get a bit of a kick being out in the empty streets at night. It feels like the world is all mine to do with as I please as no is around to say otherwise.

Through the fluorescent lights I walk, slipping through alleyways and crossing roads at will. In one hand I can feel the cold aluminium pole of my landing net and in the other my 10ft super light quiver tip rod is banded neatly into three sections with the reel attached. This rod is perfect for this tiny river, short and sensitive. I know the river is low and the fish will be shy. So before I left I fitted a tip so sensitive even a passing water boatman could make it quiver. I carry only a tiny satchel, full more of bait than tackle as I will not need much beyond a few hooks, some weights and couple of tiny floats.

I know when I am nearly there when I see the suburban underpass. I always half expect to come across a gang of loitering droogs hanging out looking for some ultraviolence but as always it's far to early for that part of society to be up and out. So I pause to study the tribal writings on the walls and wonder is Becky as promiscuous as they say she is or does Dave really have such sub par genitalia. I ponder the enduring appeal of of 'ere over here and wonder why the people who scrawl on walls think that missing the H off saves time.

I shouldn't waste too much time, as now half the sky is black and the other turning blue as the dawn rises and today time is precious. Last year I studied much of this stream when the water ran clear so I know where to begin. Even in the dark I can tell no one has ventured to this area for a long time as mine are the first feet to crunch the dry cowslips lying across the ground on my way to my nest of nettles which still have a shockingly venomous sting in the cold morning air.

Operating with no light I line my rod rings up against the sapphire sky and pinch a minuscule of bread onto my hook before swinging it mid flow. Rustling into my bag I pull out a small bag of bread that I ran through a food processor the night before, until it was more like a liquid than solid. Now I squeeze it back together in balls no bigger than fifty pence pieces and toss it out a little upstream of my bait. I know from experience that after it almost silently hits the water it will float for a few seconds before breaking up in a seductive cloud which can stimulate the most obstinate fish.

There is no way I can see my rod tip so I feel for bites holding tension onto the line with my left hand. At first I can't tell if the tapping on the line is fish or the blood pumping through my hand but then the hair like line is ripped between my fingers and with anglers instinct strike into a fish.

I am careful not to strain the light line and let the rod do my work as my quarry ploughs around the river. It's not big but still it darts back and forth across the river until I hear it splashing out in front. Although I can't see it at all my net slides under it first time and I lift it from the water. Well away from the bank I turn on my torch and smile at my suburban chub.

The river is no more than than a good jump wide where I am fishing so my hopes of another are not high. But still I cast again just to check and moments later the line is again torn from my grasp as I hook the sibling of the first.

After the light rises I trot away my time catching some tidy roach and perch in between minnows as my float ambles along an eddy. Kingfishers dart round the bending little river and I get distracted for an age by a tree creeper darting up and down the tree at the end of my rod. I am satisfied that my original statement holds true and this forgotten stream holds more than the odd minging old fish just clinging on life by a thread. This place is well and truly alive with life.

Day two: Where others wouldn't dare

I repeat the journey of the day before but this morning the air is warmer and by no means still. This morning I can't see the stars as they are hidden by cloud and the wind intermittently gusts. Back in the same spot I chance my light rig again into the dark and instantly it is met with a sharp pull which I miss. A second cast ends the same. Maybe they are on to me, maybe it's the same fish again and they've learnt their lesson since yesterday.

As the light appears something feels different. The fish are more coy; apart from two tugs nothing has touched my bait at all, which is odd as the day before I got constant attention from little fish. The shadows of trees on the water reveal the truth to me. The day before the river had that strange green tinge almost like winter water but today it runs clear and I can see a speckled patch of white on the bottom down stream where my liquid bread has settled. If that was not disturbing enough I can see that no black shapes pass over it to indicate fish.

The decision is made I have to move on and search out cover or deep water where nervous fish would hide. I know upstream spots are limited but down I have spotted a few fine looking runs but there is an issue. A river chooses not where it runs and if it did it wouldn't run here for the the place where I go is not pleasant.

On a warm summer evening this place is a no go zone. It's like Beirut with Burberry and dirt bikes, and as I cross the field the burnt out motor bike in the bushes reminds me of this.

I am sure that most of the people that live here are perfectly nice but I also know they they aren't the problem, it's the kids that are. Walking along the river it is rammed with crap. The fallen trees of upstream are replaced with sofas and trolleys all forming ugly man made sculptures just inches underwater.

At the end of no man's land I reach the run I have seen before and my keen anglers eyes are right - between two reed beds the river narrows and deepens into around two and half feet for a good thirty foot. And although leaving time is very close I make a few casts just to probe out this run for another day.

Bang! First chuck the tip hoops and I feel resistance for a fleeting moment. I cast again but this time a million hungry mouths can be felt whittling away my bread. I give it a while before I reel in one of the culprits.

With this my time is up and I must make tracks. But even though this trip produced no more than minnow I now know this deeper run in the war zone holds better fish that are secret and shy. So I shall return another day while those angelic kids who rule this place still sleep.

Those reflective eyes and lights in the night.

2011-11-30T06:27:00.000-08:00

People heading off for a quiet Sunday jaunt around the dog poop infested canal at Hawksbury junction, or those popping into the grey hound pub for a quiet pint, would be forgiven for thinking that the Midlands arm of the Rebel alliance were massing for re-enactment of the rebel assault on the empires shield generator on the forest moon of Endor, as the growing throng outside the pub were dressed head to toe in green and spoke a strange language where every sentence was punctuated with a type of fish.

It was in actual fact the meeting place for the local blog bunch, who were gathering in honour of Jeff Hatt's half century and for a the first ever canal roving Zander fishing match that I have ever heard of.

These fish socials as always are a great opportunity to meet up with old friends and new. And I for one always look forward to the banter and as per normal it started well before a single line is cast. Everyone was tooled up with a full array of tackle and raring to go. But my vision of ten plus anglers all racked up in starting blocks loaded with tackle as Jeff stood atop the eighteenth century iron bridge that spans the canal firing of a shot gun to signal go, was only a fantasy of mine. Instead we trickled out in dribs and drabs around 3.30pm. Some had intent in mind and shot off to favoured haunts whilst others wandered off a little glossy eyed in unfamiliar territory.

I hadn't made any plans of where to fish and sat back a little with Andy to wait and see where everyone went. Surprisingly just about everyone went away from the area that we all know for sure has produced Zander in the past. Knowing full well it was available myself and Mr Lewis trundled the short distance round the corner to start where we knew they had once been and shot four float rigs out over the water.

The first area we fished was a wash out. Covered in the collective debris of most of Cov cut it was number one, barely fishable and number two, sans feeding fish. So we opted to start leapfrogging our way up the tow path.

This was a great move as in the very next swim the first action of the night came promptly. A sail away run form a small Zander, which Andy lost early in the fight signalled a hectic hour just as day rolled into night.

The next run was missed then the third got Andy off the mark with nice 2lb ish schoolie.

Working as a team I sorted the fish as he recast his rod so as to maximise any chances of more Zeds being around. The tactic worked a treat for us both as within minutes of casting out Andy was away again with a slightly bigger Zed of 3lb plus.

I was beginning to feel left out until one of my floats zipped off attached to a tiny pound fish. And although I the blank was avoided I was disappointed that my only fish so far could have actually been smaller than a few of the deads I was carrying in my bag.

The best for me was still to come when my other float which was a bit away from the hotspot buried instantly not to return. This one had to be a better fish as my rod was actually bending for this one unlike my first fish. I cannot deny the whole competitiveness of the match got to me a little as the Zed did it's open mouth thrashing bit in the middle of the cut and I demanded Andy net it as quick as possible. Which he did and a four pound fish brought me within ounces of Andy's weight.

Phil came walking through the dark just as we did the photo and was shortly followed by Merv and his grandson Curtis. As we stood in the murk anticipating more runs we all had a good old chin wag on the only subject on the cards when such a large group of fishing fanatics are out on the water for the night.

Even with more moves made the only other things to come our way a were other anglers as the time ticked away and in the end even the blunder bust approach of four anglers including myself, Jeff, Andy and Lee covering just about every inch of one section canal failed. As we met up with everyone at the pub it became apparent that all the action came in the first two hours just the light faded. Which can truly prove that the fish only fed in that tiny window known as the witching hour.

Back in the pub, pints in hand, the presents and prizes were handed out as the libations flowed and the discussions reached their zenith. Andy took first place winning the prize of a ABU multiplier reel piping me to the post by only ounces and what can be described as an already well oiled Jeff was over the moon with the home made present and the worlds only example of Just for Jeff hair dye. That I must say does not have what could be termed as a reputable lineage ( think hard before you use it Jeff)

All in all I think it was quite a successful first go at this format of fishing match and it could have some serious mileage if we were to again maybe in more favourable time of the year.

In honour of the humble worm.

2011-11-24T00:46:00.000-08:00

The other day I happened across a small red book which had been languishing upon a shelf for quite some time. It had come to me amongst a pile of other books which had been handed down to me by another angler. I am not sure why it has taken me so long to peruse its pages - maybe because others filled with mythical stories and pictures of unobtainable fish have distracted me - but once I opened it and read one single verse I was hooked like a hungry fish! It is a compendium of writings and accounts by different authors and is compiled by a man who only refers to himself as BB. The stories held within in it's pages are nothing short of inspiring no matter how trivial a subject they be about.

As I contemplated in that place only a man contemplates, I read a short verse in dedication to the humble worm. Descriptions of every one of our native worms that an angler may be interested in are followed by detailed methods for collection and storage. This proved enough of an inspiration for me go out and obtain for myself a load of worms from the local bait purveyor and head down to my favourite perch patch to see if that now the weather had settled on cold they wanted to come out to play.

Stepping onto the tow path with enough fresh worms to prize out half the perch in Warwickshire I was in a good mood. There was no breeze to contend with, the air was full of mist and above it all the cloud blocked the suns bright rays. It all seemed just right for once.

Puréeing handfulls of worms into a lumpy soup may seem to most a poor pastime for seven o'clock on Sunday morning but quite honestly there is no better way to attract a hungry perch or two. Although I had to wait for them to arrive for a good hour or so, the first perch was more than worth it.

#27

Oddly that two pounder was the only one to turn up to the party at my first stop of the morning so I moved on to another useful spot to repeat the same process. Again it took a good while for the magic ambrosia to take effect but it did in the end bring the fish in, where my almost free lined patented double half a lob worm snagged a couple more fine perch as it sank attractively onto the bottom.

I decided to try one more area before I left and spent an hour or so fishing close to the car. The sky had now cleared and sunlight was illuminating the water but contrary to popular belief the fish became a little more keen in the brighter conditions. Maybe visibility improved slightly, but a late slew of pounder's snatched more bait as it settled in the water and every one was hooked in exactly the same place.

With my time spent well for once I began to slowly pack away my kit just as a couple came walking past. They stopped to ask if I had been successful in my piscatorial endeavours and just as I casually replied, I squatted down awkwardly in front on the edge of the tow path to pick up a bank stick and heard that most embarrassing noise ever.

Wrrrrrrrrrrrip!

I knew what that was! It was the gusset of my trusty thermal troos going for a Burton.

They left snickering and so did I with a face redder than a perch's tail.

A new Day

2011-11-22T05:32:00.000-08:00

As far as I am concerned there is no better way to spend a mild winters day than in the company of running water. I have sat back and pondered the current state of things and concluded not to try and force it, but to just enjoy time spent in the wilderness connected to the river by rod and line.

After stepping away from the familiar and dabbling with the unfamiliar I returned with an appreciation for what I know and as a result the Avon seemed nothing less than comfortable and beautiful to me.

Above the water and without the cover of leaf, every resident of the river is exposed to the quiet and well camouflaged angler. Electric blue kingfishers flash like horizontal lighting, skimming the surface as they add alien colour to the brownish back drop. The methodical thumping of a woodpecker searching up and down the trunks of trees is no longer muffled. Flocks of field fares have appeared in the sky flitting from tree top to tree top, and higher up a Buzzard circles overhead on the thermals caused by winter sun.

On the water different birds busy themselves ready for frost. A pair of aloof swans rummage on the banks eating tender weed torn from the bottom and the shy little grebe repeatedly dives under the surface looking for who knows what, whilst a jet black Moorhen with her bright red and yellow beak picks over the debris hanging on low bows left over from recent raised water.

On a day like this I was not concerned with landing the biggest fish possible - though that does not mean I did not try! - but as I sat and gave that giant its chance I happily pondered the river, its residents and what's in store for both them and me in the months ahead.

I had arrived here with not only the intent to happen on big fish but also small, and the wriggling grubs residing in my bucket would have there chance to perform after I was finished with strong smelling meat and man made fodder.

Just after the last crumb of my sandwich was dusted from my beard I upped sticks like a beast of burden and strolled off downstream towards a likely looking run where I spied rings of rising fish as I'd munched my lunch.

Deep under the bank on a gravel knoll I watched to see exactly where between the reed lined banks those fish would rise and I would cast. For this run looked perfect for a plump old dace.

These fish had hunger on their minds, for the plop of my weight had barely reached my ears before the first enquire arrived. Silver roach with genes both myself and Jeff would appreciate were the first to befall my tricks, followed by small Dace then a rouge perch or two.

Too many maggots served only to attract masses of minnows so I cut back and cast more into the flow to avoid their attentions before a shoal of perfect gudgeon turned up, giving only a single clonk to indicate one had consumed my bait.

None of what I caught would qualify as a specimen, but every one was brilliant and welcomed by my eyes.
Late on I returned to were the day had begun. Casting under a bare old tree with a massive matt, where things that might make your eyes bulge could hide.

Before spending my final hour into dark I took time to sit beside another anglers who'd popped over for a chat earlier in the day. We both watched his line drifting away into the water as we exchanged stories and discussed issues regarding only one subject.

With the sun kissing the horizon I returned to my spot what remained of my day again waiting for that brutal arch of rod a panicked fish can make. Just as the last crack of the sun disappeared. As if by magic monsters began to roll in the half light. Though none of them came across my bait. I walked away happy across the now dark meadow bidding my comrade farewell through the cold night air as I headed back for warming food and shelter.

pastures new

2011-11-17T10:36:00.000-08:00

I cannot deny that right now I am feeling disillusioned with the Avon . We had planned a trip to the Wye this weekend but that all fell through at the last minute and left us in need of a change of venue. So upon Andy's suggestion we procured the correct visas, tickets and guide books and took trip to fish the mighty River Severn.

Considering I don't live that far away from the Severn it's odd that I have only ever fished the upper Severn on the welsh boarders. In fact I think that the lowest place I have ever fished it is at the small Welsh town of Abermule. So until now the middle Severn has remained a total mystery to me, which in itself is amazing as the area we intended to fish near Bridgnorth has a reputation as some of the best barbel fishing in the UK. So why I have never been there before is any one's guess.

Previously I referred to this river as the mighty Severn and this was by no means an understatement. It is the longest river in the Britain, it also drains a very large proportion of Wales and discharges the largest amount of water of all our rivers whilst doing it. But until you first set eyes on it in full flow you have no idea of how power full it really is!

We had decided to start of in a comfortable area to try and get to know this raging beast with a little foreplay if you will. And straight away the power was obvious when I casually tossed out a 2oz maggot feeder towards the middle of the river, which never touched bottom until it passed into the slack water some forty feet down the bank from me. eep!!!

On the advice of another far more experienced Severn angler I stuck it out on the maggot feeder whilst it was light and fished a second rod baited with a chunk of spicy meat under any fishy looking trees. It soon became apparent that although our first spot was comfortable it was equally shallow, and although I was getting some regular attention form the local minnow population I was not converting nibbles into wriggles, so we decided to move down stream.

The next spot I opted for was much deeper and even more powerful due to a sunken tree pushing the river hard into a crease emanating from the opposite bank, which collided with another coming from my bank. The maggot feeder stood no chance here resulting in me fishing a single meat line close in again.

After a short while in this swim I began to feel that I just wasn't doing this right at all. I'd seen two or three fish roll out in the centre of the river and quickly casting my meat bait upstream of the area proved that even if I added enough weight to my rig to keep it there, all the debris caught up in the flow soon tore my rigs down stream inevitably finding a snag.

Feeling as if I was ill prepared to fish such conditions with an entire day of it ahead I decided to stop fishing, take a look at my map to see if I could locate some more fishable water to target.

After packing up my kit and spending a good ten minutes trying to get myself plus kit up one of the savage slippery Severn banks I dumped my kit behind Andy and took a stroll down stream in search of quieter water.

What looked like a five minute walk on the map turned out to be a half an hour hike around the edge of open fields. Along the way I did find a few locals fishing and took every opportunity to try and find out how others were faring. This is normally an easy task of just approaching giving a nod and then asking if much is coming out but - and I mean what i am about to say next in the nicest possible way - some of the locals who were fishing had some very vibrant and rich accents which if I am honest resulted in us having only half conversations. That meaning I could only understand half of what they were saying. And as I am too a midlander who lives not far away it is pretty insane that we barley speak the same language. Saying that I got by, and the jist of what they were saying was that a few days of over night rain in Wales had not done the fishing any favours here. So much so that even the locals 'cuuuldunt uven bost owt naw muggowts'.

After trudging all the way back up to Andy we had a quick brain storming session and came to the conclusion that rather than sit here fighting it out in an area we didn't feel confident in we would drop down a few miles to fish the Hampton loade section where Andy said he knew some deep holes under trees on our own bank would be fishable.

By the time we arrived it was nearly dinner time and luckily Andy was spot on with the info. So we settled in a couple of swims on the inside of a slight bend in the river that was bookended by a couple of over hanging trees.

My confidence soared when my first flick found a decent depth in slower water with a nice thump of hard bottom at the end of the cast. My maggot feeder rig even held nicely just on the edge of the main flow.

Straight away the tap tap tap of small fish husking out my maggots made the move to this area feel a great idea. My persistence I thought would pay off when I started getting some decent bites then I landed a small chub. (Which I never bother to photograph as I was convinced I would soon be snapping plump barbel later on.)

I did bag a few more micro chub and miss a very keen bite on the maggot but no Barbel came my way as I sat watching four Kingfishers zipping up and down the river in front of me whilst I the Severn valley railway chugged away behind me. Andy on the other hand did manage one barbel, fishing some rather savoury meat deep under a tree upstream.

The thought that I still stood a chance on the pellet when the light began fade kept reverberating around in my head as the end of the day drew to a close. But the only surprise I got was when two sheep crept up behind me and simultaneously bleated at the top of their voices, nearly sending me into the river.

As I packed up I cannot deny feeling a little disappointed by the days performance. Especially as the middle Severn according to popular belief supposedly throws up barbel like commercial fishery throws up pasty size carp. But I suppose I can't judge a river by a single chilly session in November. So I will probably be back to try again.

Frog blog.

2011-11-07T11:27:00.000-08:00

I could offer a multitude of reasons as to why I think the fishing was so bad this weekend; suffice to say it resulted in my first blank in a while. So rather than bore any readers with the sordid details of my difficult relationship with the Warwickshire Avon, I thought it would be more interesting to post this picture of the large frog that resides in my garden pond; I happened upon this little fellow during his morning jaunt whilst I was grubbing round in my pumpkin patch a few weeks ago. Enjoy!

"ribbit"

A strangely satisfying day of mediocrity heralds a change in conditions.

2011-11-03T12:32:00.000-07:00

A long journey ahead that night inclined me not to venture too far from home in search of piscatorial action on my day off. I wracked my mind for days for something I fancied and in the end settled for club waters outside the city limits. It was to be a day where everything was much of a muchness or the pinnacle of mediocrity if you would, where nothing special graced my net. No dark brown bream or shining bars of pound plus roach. Just snow white skimmers and tidily roach, which all seemed rather insipid on a dull day. So much so as I never bothered to photo a single one, for their scales had no shine in my eyes!
Even though I cannot deny I enjoyed myself, as the aim of fishing is to catch fish, and that I did. But other bigger things inadvertently satisfied my angling urge.

Rain !

The night before I'd stood in the dark watching Diwali fireworks explode and light the sky in luminous colours. In between the flashes and bangs I could see the stars shining like pin holes in the sky and I thought to myself that it would have to go some if this weather front was going to come in over night.
In the morning I woke to the wondrous sound of rain on my bedroom window. It was finally here like Santa Claus at Christmas. But instead of presents the rain brings those wondrous gifts of coloured rivers and confident fish.

I could have ran excitedly down to the river just like a kid at Christmas. But I know better! For that first rise after summer brings misery as much as joy in the form of hundreds of tiny hunks of weed, torn away in small rotten pieces which drive anglers mad pulling rods round as they hang up on the lines, so much they spend more time out the water than in.
Restrained I continued with my plan and sat in the rain catching and watching excitedly as rain drops fall and fill up low lakes and swell slow rivers.

In the few days where I waited patiently meditating on how the river would be when I finally arrived I managed to attend Andy's wedding reception, do a days work and spend Saturday afternoon following the Earlsdon Morris men on their tour of Earlsdon. For the first two I was stone cold sober, on the third I was not!

My good friend Windy recently rejoined the ranks of the Earlsdon Morris men and had informed us all of the impending tour. I was very interested to go and see this spectacle as here in the UK we seem to let just about all our traditions slip away unnoticed to the masses, whilst only a die hard few keep them alive. Upon seeing the enthusiasm of them all on this tour my heart warmed that so many people should care so much and have so much fun whilst practising this ancient tradition.

Windy seemed to be having a good time fuelled by barley based power.

A second group, the Bristol Morris men had travelled over to join them in the tour and take turns performing outside many of the pubs we stopped at along the way. On one journey between watering holes I noticed the best use of a bit of Golf equipment ever.

The tour encompassed most of the pubs in the larger Earlsdon area and the Earlsdon lot danced between every one with a parade of eager followers trailing behind ready to assault the next pub.

By late afternoon I for one was comfortably toasted. Enough so that Jacky repeatedly asked if I felt sick on the drive back. When home I finished the day off by topping of my beer filled body with a liberal helping of red wine! Lucky for me Andy had agreed to pick me up for a trip down the trickle the following Sunday morning.

It's hard to tell water clarity in the dark, but the amber glow from a nearby street light showed the colour of the Avon was at least enough to hide the streamer weed under the foot bridge we stood on. Both of us had Barbel in mind and four dedicated rods were cast out in total darkness.

I have personally just about had it with the local bream population. As I reckon I may have caught just about every one at least once this last year. So I cast off all finesse and left my sensitive tips at home and went for a fish by design approach. Avon tops and bait runners would see me not striking at little taps here and there as I waited for the hoop job as a lovely Barbel grabbed my bait.

Luckily for me a couple of bream did manage to do a poor impression of a Barbel by clicking line slowly off my reels or I would have had to endure the blank as no Babs showed again.

Unlike most days where the bright sun would have ruined our chances. This one stayed nice and cloudy all morning. So we stuck it out with hope that a bite could materialize at any point.

Until... Andy called over 'Dan, I am in real trouble here' in that way that you know someone ain't joking around!

It took a few moment for things to compute in my addled brain and even after he explained his problem I still didn't fully comprehend it until I saw exactly what had happened.

Whilst pushing a baiting needle through a boilie the needle had suddenly shot through the bait right into Andy's index finger, well under the skin. As I approached and saw it for myself the poor chap looked a little peaky to say the least. As with all blokes we to think we are qualified surgeons whilst toting a Swiss army knife, but after ten minutes of twisting pulling and slicing, the barb of the needle just seemed even more embedded.

With the situation getting no better and my suggestion to shove it through being the final attempt at riparian surgery a trip down the local hospital was the only remaining choice. Only problem was we had two and a half anglers worth of tackle and the only insured driver had a large implement sticking out of one hand. In the end Andy ventured off alone to flag down a taxi whilst I packed up his kit then waited behind my rods for him to return.

I thought I was going to get an big extension to my fishing session as the normal waiting time at a UK hospital is generally three hours. But shockingly he was back in under forty minutes, after being the only person to walk into the A&E department with a foreign object projecting from his body that Sunday morning and was seen immediately.

When receiving a phone call heralding his return Andy asked me if I had had anything in his absence. Thinking quickly I answered that he'd find out when he got back! As soon as I was off the blower I pulled out my weigh sling and unhooking mat out dipping them both in the river before giving my landing net a good dunking and placing my scales prominently on the wetted mat and waited for him to return.

Soon enough Andy ambled along the back sporting a comically bandaged finger. It took him a few seconds to clock the wetted mat and sling with scales strategically placed on them. I can't rightfully type his reply as my blog may need some certification if I did. I tried to hold out and be coy for as long as possible but he soon saw through my rouse when I broke out laughing.

With the excitement over we headed off with no signs of barbel again. But at least the river is getting coloured and that infernal weed is starting to die away at last.

The game has changed.

2011-10-25T09:24:00.000-07:00

I have been out a few times in the last few days and on all occasions the fish have been rather finicky due to the drop in temperature.

Last weekend myself and Jeff visited the Avon early. As we crossed the river in the dark the water surface steamed where it contacted with the cold night air. I would be lying if I didn't say that I for one thought it was going to be a real special session. But I was very wrong! Nothing fancied it at all. No babs, no zeds, Jeffs roach made a slight attempt at feeding but they never really got into to it.

I was lucky to land one solitary bream a short while after first light which helped me avoid the blank but honestly this not what I was after. All morning Jeff gave a running commentary on the water and air temperature which is where my thoughts on the current fishing situation have come from. With air temp of around 3c and water temp of 10c+ to begin with, both dropped as the sun rose and as it did so did our hopes of catching.

By 9am I had given up on Barbel and Zander and now chanced lobbies into slack clear water for perch. It seemed the drop in temp had affected them too. As the best I managed was a few trembles of the tip. Only a month ago that same worm wouldn't last two seconds on the bottom in the same area before it would have been engulfed by one of hundreds of tiny perch.

Although last Sunday on the Avon hadn't been a resounding success I wasn't that down about it. We all knew this was coming and so now the game is changing so must we players. For there is no point trying to catch Crucians on frosty mornings. With that in mind I thought carefully about what to do on my impromptu mid week foray. I had hoped the liberal downpour we had on Monday may have added a hint of colour to the river. Then I would have gone after barbel, but it never touched it! My back up was to go down to the land of the giant perch and bag a few two's.

Turned out they too were suffering from early winter lethargy. I moved five times before I got a bite and had been through the whole repertoire just to get that. All our normal spots felt very exposed to me and I wondered if the fish felt the same? so around dinner time I settled snugly behind a tree and fished tight to a rusting old narrow boat.

It took an age for the bites to materialize and the first one looked suspiciously like a crayfish making off with my bait. My slight strike intended to pull my bait from it's nippy claws was met by solid resistance. Not that 'holy shit this is big' resistance but that 'ah crap I've hooked the earth' resistance.

I hate pulling for breaks but I had no choice. But as I did, what ever I was connected to began to move. I pulled it right into the edge before it stopped when the trace hit the tip ring, then I grabbed the line with my hands. I didn't notice the group of walkers standing close by until one said "what is it?" thinking it was a fish. I knew what I thought it was, but no one wants to hear 'it's a bin bag full of dead puppies' or 'it's a severed head wrapped in clingfilm' do they? Turned out it was neither when a handle slowly rose through the water.

I had to laugh as I pulled a dripping golf umbrella from the canal and politely asked it belonged to any of them.

Strangely the removal of the brolly didn't ruin the swim, as it's hard to ruin a swim that ain't fishing. Turned out that recovery the stinking silt covered brolly was a sign. When rain began to dapple the surface I thought this is all I need. But things took a strange turn... The rain actually brought bites. The first run on my dead rod resulted in a bait sized Zander and the second yielded a nice plump canal schoolie of 3-4lb which went berserk once hooked.

After this the perch showed, if only for a short while. I landed a couple of pound plus fish in the tail end of the rain. But once the rain stopped the bites to dried up.

This made me wonder. How often do you think you are sitting there not getting any bites when under the surface there are unseen fish within millimetres of your bait that are not prepared to consume it because of some external factor like the weather.

My third trip of this tale was one that has been brewing for a while. I have what can only be termed as a strained relationship with this moody ancient estate lake. Coombe fishery is literally only minutes from my front door and it really has potential to throw up some very special fish... if only you can get one out.

I have seen carp over thirty pounds under my feet, I know for a fact that Zander inhabit this water that are so close to the British record, that one good meal could push them over it and there is so much water that monsters of any species that reside in it may have never seen a hook.

BUT! as I explained to Andy before we went. It is a brutal water that nine and a half days out of ten will do you over and on that half day she tempts you to come back for another nine days of spanking.

The amount of times I have done that sorrowful walk back to the car park and sworn I will never return is unbelievable but here I was again pike rods in hand and a pocket full of hope.

It's not hard to see what attracts me back! She is as beautiful as she is hard.

We did locate some feeding pike close to the slipway that trickles out into smite brook. Their slashing at the prey fish was enough to keep us entrenched for a while but once again coombe gave up nothing of what it had to offer.

My time to bang my head against the brick wall that is coombe was limited today, as I had a prior appointment to attend. One I was in no uncertain terms to be late for! And yet I was late. And yes, I did incur Jacky's wrath for being late.

About three years ago myself and Jacky decided we would like a pet and as we both work long hours it would have been unfair for us to get a dog or cat when we knew it would spend most of it's days locked up in our house. So we got a ourselves a pair of guinea pigs of which Jacky had lots of experience and I had none. Over time I have really grown to love these hilarious little animals which have as bigger characters as they do appetites (very large) Unfortunately one of our pigs called Bubble suddenly passed away a short while ago and I have no qualms in admitting that I for one was heart broken. After a short while, where we let her housemate Squeak settle down, we began to look for a suitable partner for her.

Three year old female Dutch Cavy

with First floor luxury apartment,

country retreat on lawn and condo in shed

seeks similar female Cavy or

youngish neutered male for munchies and friendship

Stinkers may not apply!

It took a while but finally we found one that suited at http://www.rspca-coventry.org.uk/ re-homing centre and after passing the home check we took our little piggy to meet her potential new friend. After a very successful meet we got to bring him home, and here he his:

Blue

And he loves ripping the Angling Times to shreds.

Holy crap I think I chucked back a British record!!!

2011-10-12T11:36:00.000-07:00

It's been busy for me fishing wise the last few days; I have fished two rivers hundreds of miles apart and it has had its ups and down, but honestly all the effort has been very worth it as I have landed some some superb fish, one of which was small but turned out to be a real heart breaker!

The Avon still seems rather stagnant as it awaits a good flush through, which has to come sooner or later. In the meantime it's a case of going when you know you stand the best chance of catching. So Sunday I picked Jeff up well before dawn to drive down for a session.

For me it was all about Barbel/Zander and looking for one in the wake of the other. I was a little unsure if the zeds would have a go in the early morning as I am currently of the thinking that they feed hard at last light and taper off through the night, but the Barbel seem to revel in the dark, so the chance of a searing yank was always on the cards as long as the moon was out.

Turned out the Zander did have a brief feeding spell just as the sky lightened, where from three bites I landed two minters, the first of 2-3lb and a second of 5.4lb.

The sun came up all to soon and the Barbel never showed, but through the morning my deposits of halibut ground bait and pellets attracted the bream on mass. Four nice chunky fish graced my net and three got away but all were welcome whilst I waited for the no show Barbel.

For once the Avon seemed to perform rather consistently. Either that or after spending the whole season so far fishing poor conditions I am getting used to it.

Tuesday I again picked up Jeff in the dark. But this time we bypassed the Avon and headed south to the theatre of dreams where in the company of many other anglers just as keen as ourselves, we would again cast lines into the resplendent and ever giving river Itchen.

The Itchen changed the bar for how good rivers can be for me. On my first visit last year I had no idea of what it was like so therefore I flitted around trying to do everything on one day. This year I knew the crack and had a plan.

On my first visit I had enjoyed the beautiful art of long trotting for most of the day, but as enjoyable as it was, it was overshadowed when the devastatingly efficient of the maggot feeder had been deployed by myself.

When I left that first time there was no doubt in my mind that although the catch rate was the same for both methods the feeder yielded much bigger fish. So this time this was where I would begin.

Once everyone had touched base at the bottom of the fishery they all headed off upstream, all except myself and Jeff, who also had intent in mind. I headed straight for the ugliest swim on the entire fishery, plonked myself down and began hoofing in maggots by the Drennan feeder load. It took all of two, maybe three seconds, for me to get turned over by a unseen fish so heavier hook links seemed in order straight away.

All morning I had a queue of fantastic Trout, small Grayling and Chub ready to gobble my baits down with unabated gusto and every one was picture perfect...

I thought the highlight of my session was when my rod tip buckled over and I made contact with a Salmon which after shedding my hook performed some brilliant zigzagging jumps defiantly up river in front of me. That was until the bites petered off and just as I began packing up to move my rod went again. At first I thought another trout or chub had taken my bait as the light rod arched over, but when it swirled in the water like a Grayling I knew my first new PB of the day was close to the net.

When I first saw it on the bank I truly thought it was going to be 3lb but the dial eventually confirmed it was a PB at 2.1lb. Interestingly it coughed up a load of corn and the only person within any range of me upstream was Jeff whom when asked confirmed that he hadn't feed any corn, so where it got that was anyones guess.

Around noon I migrated up stream to lunch by the anglers hut. Whilst awaiting Mr Hatt to arrive and brew the tea I slipped into a swim after very polite gent who was off down stream. I could have done some trotting but the previous angler had been running baits through for a few hours so I threw the feeder back out.

Straight away the fish were onto the bait and after ten or more Grayling up to 10oz my first trout crashed the party, cartwheeling around like a dervish. Now I am no expert in trout but this one looked different from all the others I had encountered, which lead me to question whether it was a brownie or a small sea trout. If anyone has an opinion please feel free to comment.

The next trout that turned up was a real kipper which absolutely refused to come to my bank no matter how much pressure I put on it; but when I did finally land it, what a fish it was! A chunky cock fish with a well formed kype and an attitude to boot. This fellow was king of this swim for sure and my second PB of the day.

My biggest suprise of the day came from one of the smallest inhabitants of the river. A slow and tentative bite produced what I first thought was another little Grayling which turned into the mother of all Gudgeon which was as thicker than a sausage. In all my life I have never caught a gudgeon half the size of this one. It had to go on the scales. I remember thinking 'oh 6oz thats a big gudgeon' as I photographed it then plopped it back in.

Then when a chap called Danny turned up. When I explained my capture he told me the records only four something which straight away put doubt in my mind. He then suggested that it could have been a baby Barbel which apparently can look like gudgeon when there are juveniles. But when Jeff turned up we all looked at the picture it was confirmed gudgeon again.

Now I know that weighing small fish on over gunned scales it not that accurate so when I got home I first took a picture of my hand with a tape measure to show how long it was. 7" is a impressive length for a gonk!

Then at work I checked my scales against some high quailty certified comercial scales and found that yes they are not perfect at low weights, but on every anttempt the 6oz mean weight came out between five and six ounces. Foolishly after this I checked out the offical record online and found out it was 5oz dead. Yes I am gutted! If only I would have called Jeff up who had some relative scales I could have been contacting the british records committee about submitting my application, as well as getting another PB.

After lunch and spending a few hours mooching around some pools near the hut I again headed back down river prompted by other anglers descending. My reason for this was to get a spot on the weir at the very bottom of the fishery, which contains every type of fish from salmon to carp. Happily I was the first on it and bagged a prime spot where Keith had landed a small barbel first cast this morning.

Having a load of maggots left I set up a heavier feeder set up and went to work running out my bait. I was hoping catch a nice Roach or a Barbel but nether got onto my slew of bait. But this is the Itchen so although what I wanted never turned up I caught plenty of fish. Grayling, salmon par, and eels all grabbed at my bait in the turbulent water.

Eventually I ran out of maggots which was shortly followed by the corn too. So with only one option left I started with bread. My first fish on bread was an eel of a pound. The second fish I never would have thought would touch a big gob of white stuff, though I am not moaning as it was the most spectacular trout I have ever caught in my life.

As always we left under the cover of darkness in a daze of grayling and trout plus a hint of sorrow that I never checked that little giant out before casually tossing it back. I think now after my second visit to the Itchen I can without a doubt say this is one of the best rivers in the UK.

Only getting silver

2011-10-05T11:34:00.000-07:00

Quite honestly I don't know who is more confused right now, me or the fish. In moments between casts into the sea, I thought as a snooker player does about what moves I may make when I returned home to coloured rivers, the scent of damp leaves and mobs of crow cawing from roosts in the woods. Only problem was it was still bloody summer when I got back and all my plans do not fit well with this late heat wave.

I really want to fish for autumn quarry as does Andy, but no matter how hard we tried to think of something that may be fruitful we found nothing that we thought would be truly productive. So in doubt we crashed Lee's trip and went crucian fishing on October the 2nd...

I do love a nice estate lake and once long ago the lake we were visiting was one, although now it is shadow of what it probably once was. We arrived in pitch black and after checking the notice board for booked pegs (honestly) we set off towards the dam wall.

It certainly looked the part and according to both Lee and Andy this lake held a good population of Crucians right up to big, so I set out my stall accordingly; light floats capable of detecting shy bites, centrepin reels and a veritable smorgasbord of baits.

Mine was a corker of a swim and looked perfect for a Crucian or two, but it seemed it was also perfect for skimmers, which plagued all three of us all day. At 10 oz - 1lb each they were a match anglers dream, but for three midlanders seeking gold they soon became a pain up the arse to say the least.

Confidence on all our parts of catching Crucians was high so the quid for the biggest trophy was put on the line for the biggest of the day, though sadly unlike Andy and Lee, I never managed to root gold from all the silver. Until he had to head off Lee was on route to take the trophy north for a stint, but Andy fluked a mucking great fish just before we left to steal Lee's thunder.

Seeing it in his net I thought he'd nobbled a two but on the scales it fell a little short at 1.12lb - still enough to keep the trophy south of the M42 nonetheless.

I feel bad saying this as the owners of this lake are obviously working very hard to try and make a nice fishery(which is a credit to them), but it is rather heavily populated with carp anglers who seem to think they are fishing on a much larger lake than they are, and show little to no concern for each other, never mind the few visiting anglers trying to scratch a few fish from amongst their web of lines.

14 days in the east

2011-09-29T12:07:00.000-07:00

'The trees grow yellow and burnished gold, the morning has begun to nip and again I find myself in the east'

My love affair with this flat country where our land slides away into the sea has changed as I have grown older. The attraction of the reedy waterways has diminished only to be replaced by a child like curiosity of the ever eroding sea, which laps away at the land slowly threatening to reclaim it.

I think the challenging nature of the sea is what attracts me. On the broads I know I can catch silver flashing roach or dark brown bream with relative ease. But the sea... the sea is never constant! Species come and species go, the wind can move only a few degrees and all can change. I suppose the only thing that remains the same is the fact that the tide will rise and the tide will fall. This itself I find a source of amazement. Standing in front of of an endless sheet of water which either grows closer or slips further away with every wave is daunting. Once this mass movement of the ocean has been realised the thought that what causes it is planetary in size suddenly makes me feel very small.

A question of bait is something we anglers often find occupying our minds. Weather it be to flick out the humble worm or a pinch of bread, or which fly should best suit the current conditions are questions which go through our minds well before we set foot near water.

With the sea this is no different and well before leaving I diligently studied local catch reports to try and ascertain what may be on the menu for either me or the fish. As per normal, research produced nothing more than a mixed bag. So with no real angles by which to angle standing clear I will only find out by trial and elimination.

I feel sorry for squid as everything that swims eats them! However they too eat their far share, so maybe my sorrow is unfounded. Everything likes a calamari ring - myself included - and pound for pound they are by far the most cost effective way to find out what or whom is on shore; they are perfect for the job in hand, rather than throwing expensive rag or lug into the crab infested waters only to be reeled back stripped away. So squid is always the first thing I obtain on arriving at those seaside tackle shops that differ to those back home.

How much fun can you have with 75p worth of maggots and a handful of magic berries in the tail end of a hurricane? The answer is, surprisingly, a lot.

The first day of our break had begun well with a probing session on the break water, which had confirmed that although the whiting had arrived, the bait stripping pin whiting horde were as yet absent. But this was all the good that this day had to offer. No sooner had the tide begun to ebb away that it soon became one of the worst days of my life as I found myself returning to the Midlands to make a very tough decision.

My third trip down the A14 in three days had left both physically and mentally battered. The tail end of hurricane Katia now whipped thirty plus mile an hour winds over the flat landscape and I was in no mood to battle it out with the sea.

My first relaxed meal and a hot bath later Jacky urged me to head out, even if only down to the broad with a bottle of cider in hand. Quite honestly I hadn't planned for this type of fishing but I really needed to just switch off and relax. To the hardcore bunch of Geordie match anglers whom had taken residence on the tip of the marina with more gear than the drennan England team, I must have looked a proper holiday noddy in my shorts sitting on a deck chair with my bottle of booze and half a pint of maggots rattling round in the wind. I could tell by their looks of disdain as they passed by that they thought I was just another holiday chancer.

But it ain't what kit you've got it's what you do with it counts!

Sheltering as best I could inside the marina fishing in a space between two boats with Jacky sitting next to me immersed in a book I put away a slew of perfect roach and perch up to 6oz and even the bootlace eels turned up enticed by the grand total of 75p worth of grubs that I flicked into the wind regularly.

From my vantage point behind the boats I could just make out the moans and groans of the Geordies of how bad the fishing was and not at one point did I hear those favoured words of ' that's a nice fish' proving my point exactly. Happy and relaxed once again my break could begin after a slight sputter at the start. Oh and as for the elder berries as roach bait... I personally think its a bit of a white elephant.

Walking across the area where it's not quite beach with an air of urgency in my step to get to the shore, the sun was beating down on me. Out of the wind behind the cliffs and laden with tackle I wove in and out of all the strange plants that exist in this salty environment. Anywhere else I suppose it could be called dunes. But here it's mostly shingle not sand, so really I have no idea by what name to call it.

Soon enough that brown mass of open appears, then my eyes spot the breaking waves and I am here for my first real chance to stand toe to toe with the sea with nothing between us.

I arrived purposely at the bottom of the ebb tide for I know this area fishes well now. I also think I know what is here and how I suspect it will go!

I begin to fish as planned, just as the tide begins to flood in again bringing fish with it. On one rod I hold out for a monster with a whole hardback crab I collected this morning from Lake Loathing. Whilst on the other I run the gauntlet fishing mean rag worms and strips of feted squid.

Somewhere in the still gusting wind I spotted the tip rattle in a different way to general wind and tide action. Somewhere out there something has found my bait. If casting 6oz of lead into a gusting wind wasn't hard enough reeling it back as the tide forces it onto the bottom is really tough. But I feel the faint throb of a fish.

These are not the annoying pin whiting but big keepers if I so wanted, but alas I do not. The evening creeps closer and the fish switch on in the churning sea, then it soon becomes one or two a chuck. Interspersed with the big whiting the odd smooth hound pup takes a bait or two. At only ten inches long they are frankly rather cute and I even land a starry smooth hound pup somewhere amongst the veracious whiting

The tide now races quickly up the beach and I find myself having to move further in land to avoid everything getting swept away. Upon arriving Id noticed that the high tide mark was higher up the beach than Id ever seen it before, as this morning it hit 2.9m. The highest of this month of September so I should move right up to the tide mark at the top of the beach.

I could carry on doing this all night but the moon has appeared on the horizon and my stomach now grumbles.

Just one last whiting before hunger drives me back across that unnamed land towards the car which will carry me towards warmth and sustenance.

My exploration of the industrial edges of lake loathing has been a long time coming and quite honestly I do not know why! Today I ventured further past the boundaries of where I have ever bothered to look before. With an obstinate Jacky in tow, who felt she had cruelly been tricked into some silly folly of a walk away from the quaint idles of civilisation, we passed through the Victorian tunnel which had for so long been my boundary for some unknown reason.

Stepping into the light again we were confronted by a wall of boats. Some afloat, others high and dry. To most it would appear to be nothing more than a waterside junk yard, but to me it was strangely beautiful and defiantly intriguing. Every square foot contained boat upon boat. Massive rotting hulks, ancient yachts and even a few surprises.

Hidden away behind a barbed wire clad fence I spotted this MTB boat from WWII which when I got home and researched it, it turned out to have an interesting history, which included transporting Churchill and Eisenhower to inspect the D day invasion fleet, acting as the rear admiral Wake - Walkers flag ship after HMS Keith was sunk by a Stuka bomb at Dunkirk and also starring in several films including 'The Eagle has Landed' after being renovated after a twenty year stint as a house boat on the broads.

http://www.mtb102.com/

Every possible space had some kind of fantastic colourful old boat in it and the clear blue light made it look even better.

Peering between boats the still waters are full of tiny fish which look to be ether baby bass or mullet. Even a few red and white Blennys living a horizontal life on a wall came close to the surface to investigate dust dislodged by my hands from the edge of the stone I was leaning on. This place is alive and hopefully at the end of the alleys I will find the place I seek to fish.

As we continue on I come across a sight I wish was contained to this salt water environment instead of the lakes and rivers back home. A pair of cormorants where they should be.

Finally I do find what I was looking for on this exploration; confirmation that the wide open beach area I had seen on Google earth was in fact accessible and fishable too.

Though we are far from the sea we still get caught out by the tide. As we head home we find our route here has been cut off by the rising water.

Luckily unlike getting stuck under some dangerous cliffs where the RAF would now be fetching us the flood is easily bypassed by crossing two lanes of man made danger.

Like most I am guilty of forgetting how good some baits are. After spending my fishing time this morning exploring. Which I have to say was by no means a waste! I spent the rest of the day in the bustle of holiday makers. This left me with only a tiny window in which to fish . With no time to get to the sea I grabbed a rod nipped out the door to hit the broad. Upon opening my bait box expecting to see writhing maggots I found my grubs had very inconsiderately pupated into caster. Undeterred and with only a handful of shells in various states of pupa I went anyway sending Jacky to the pub for much needed refreshments.

Sitting on my deck chair I was happy. I was even more happy to see the resident roach loved the tiny casters even more than I remembered they did. Every cast produced flashing silver. Why the hell have I neglected to to fish with caster for so long...

Sometimes you just can't force fish to feed. This morning I woke very early and it was still very much dark when I peeped out the curtains. The moon still shone bright and clear framed by the stars as I stood in the early chill.

I struggle to sleep well in a non ergonomically designed bed crafted by swedes nowadays, and subsequently every time Jacky moved so much as a muscle I woke. Well before the alarm sounded I was up. If at home and going to the river Barbel fishing or something else I would have just gone. But here in unfamiliar territory I waited for the light and sat with a mug of steaming tea catching up on my notes. As I did I periodically looked out of the window and watched as the sky change from midnight blue to sapphire before I left.

My first foray out today was to continue my investigating of Lake Loathing. This time rod in hand searching for the elusive mullet. Passing again into the silent graveyard of ships the dawn made it look unbelievable and I am beginning to love this strange industrial backdrop.

The tide was well out so this gave me chance to look for scoots below the low water line in the mud, which could betray the sifting actions of feeding mullet. After slipping around on the damp sea weed for a while unable to see a thing I decided to change tack and cast out some leftover ragworms into the deep boat channel in search of flatties whilst I scanned the flat shallow water for bow waves.

Six crabs later, close to the only boulder on the flats two bow waves appeared on the surface so I crept into position bread in hand to try and develop some feeding action.

Mullet are supposed to be the most infuriating fish in the sea to attempt to catch and this turned out to be exactly true. Time and time again they drifted in and out appearing and disappearing like ghosts amongst the bladder wrack over an area of twenty square feet and nether one consumed a single morsel of bread before I left, rather perplexed.

My second outing of the day saw me head to a very well renowned mark on the golden sands of Gorleston. It's a beach I have long fancied. Largely to do with the unusual feature of a wreck being within casting distance of the beach. To any angler having such a prominate feature nestled in the middle of nothing but snag free sandy bottom it is far to much to resist and my early afternoon arrival coincided with at least ten other blokes all with the same idea. But sadly the fish were much as they were this morning; unobliging.

I cannot deny that two trips without so much as a scale to show for my effort had me feeling a little down. Undeterred I pushed my luck and chanced a third to try and make something of the day. With Jacky along for the ride I returned to a normally reliable mark. I spent the next three hours casting long and short very much in vain. With the sun again sinking below the cliffs over my shoulder, desperation saw me put more and more welly into my cast in a bid to attain even a few more feet when finally my tip rattled twice.

Two mediocre whiting proved enough for me on a dire day, so I cut my losses and left.

It may seem that the fish may be holding off the beaches during the day only venturing in under the cover of darkness.

Something has changed. The tempestuous wind has calmed, the sky's are bright azure and an air of cold seems to have taken residence over the east. Although disruptive and awkward conditions to fish in , it would seem the wind had its advantages, stirring up both the sea and fresh water. Its warm blasts seemed to provoke the waters residents at the start of my trip, now it has gone and I find myself wishing it would return.

Over the last few days I have dipped my toe in every possible scenario available! Casting lob worms under every boat for miles in search of perch. Blasting rag, lug and squid towards the horizon from the beach and concrete have all proved a little fruitless.

Oddly the answer has come to mind as a result of the maligned little roach, whose feeding had decreased markedly in just those few days.

This morning whilst anticipating that sacred tradition of Sunday dinner I snatched a few hours and sought a sunny corner to ply the roach with maggots. Only two bites came my way. The first resulting in me trying to untangle the untangle-able mass from around my rod tip and the other produced a small but poignant silver roach.

What should make a simple roach so special was not what it did or how it looked, but how it felt. Swinging it to hand it looked exactly the same as every other roach I have ever caught on the broad this past week. But the moment it hit my hand lighting struck my mind. It was freezing cold!

Every other before it had unnoticeabley warm, but this one was as cold as it was silver. The roach last week feed like voracious summer fish, but on the other hand this was if anything a winter fish, shy and torpid.

As I sat watching the motionless float this theory snowballed. On the sea the summer species were only just lingering round whilst the winter favourite the whiting are only just turning up and nether seem to be able to make up their minds whom should be on shore as yet. On the broad the cold clear nights sap away the daytime heat chilling the water and the fish.

As I walked away from the broad still mulling over my realization I stopped and spoke to an old angler fishing a vintage fibre glass rod and ancient quill float. Most of what he muttered was gripes but one thing stood out 'Winters coming' and he was right! If the previous week was the last of summer then here in the east this would be the first real one of autumn, which heralds only one thing; the impending arrival of winter.

Tonight I again stand on the shore with the idea in my head that since the seas have calmed the biomass now moves in a different way. So I too must change tack to accommodate capture. I had loomed around the house until the point where I'd annoyed my better half and she had almost demanded I leave her in peace and go out.

Its still light and I know any fish interested will be situated right at the zenith of my casting range. But this does not matter for I am armed with new rigs dedicated solely the the art of distance. 6oz breakaway leads and short clip down rigs should attain dizzying distance until dusk when the horde will march upon the breakers inshore.

It takes a few errant casts before I hit the zone hundreds of meters out. It's amazing with so much mono line stretching out over so much water that bites should register at all, but they do! What is also surprising is the average size of the fish too, every one is just about a keeper.

My second line searches for straggling flatties with wire clad boom rigs making the worms dance around the bottom attractively. But this had been totally inactive till the sun disappears.

Even though I am well on the fish, common sense kicks in when dark clouds form over head followed by lighting jumping under the clouds. Looking round I can clearly see the highest object for a good long way is my rods, so I step away for a little while until the mini storm passes just in case any bolts should search for ground.

I watch the storm as it passes out over the sea and it grows bigger. Its like watching opera building and crashing before my eyes. Standing there facing the ocean you can see 180 degrees of the entire world from my spot and things that seem massive on the land get put in perspective over the sea.

By the time I return to the rod and re bait the fish have moved in by half a cast with darkening sky and they are feverishly hungry, my bait dwindles and new players now join this performance.

Cute but still a shark; these miniature starry smooth hounds seem to hang out under the whiting and their bites are so violent they can be seen from the water line thirty feet from my rods.

A satisfying few hours proves the fish of the sea to act like those in my native river, waiting till dark for their tea.

As I did the night before, tonight I probe for eels. The reedy broad seems lacking nowadays. In years gone by they could be so persistent that they would send bream anglers home moaning. Now however the tables have turned and the bream now annoy me as I try to catch an eel.

After scaring off a huge mullet which I'd found resting amongst the bladder wrack in the shallows of lake loathing I'd searched every nook and cranny to locate more, but I couldn't find a single one. Diligently I'd baited a few spots with mashed bread which still sits there now as I write dejected. I need some salve. So back to freshwater I go armed with worms and squid. With forethought to this session I cobbled together odd starlight's and float rubbers to produce shonky night floats.

Wrapped up in my warm winter coat I sit in the inky black watching two blue strips bob around in the ripples. A few small perch have already fallen for my tricks and now a hint of something sniffing my bait moves the float a little.

The resistance is tenfold to the perch but this no flipping eel, which gives itself away with reverse swimming. This is big but it comes in like an old sack. It has to be a Bream...

On my third consecutive outing I sat on a convenient bench as the sun dipped towards the reeds in the west. As per normal the small perch were first to root out my crudely presented half a lob worm before something rather special snaffled my bait. At first glance I thought yet another small perch wriggled on the end of my line but closer inspection reviled otherwise.

'With a hint of violet in it's eyes. Transparent yellow in colour with mottled spots down it's sides and serrated gill plates. This bastard brother of the perch is rarely seen nowadays and when it is many believe it is just a dower perch. But I know who it is. He is the pope or Ruffe . whichever you care to call it. Time spent chasing him has giving me a discerning appreciation for this little fish I call pope'

I journey north to test the water. Rumour has it that big smooth hounds hang round up until late in the summer in a sandy tidal trough between Scroby sands and the land. So I find myself at Caister on sea fighting the dreaded red weed .

For two hours I have stood next to my rods casting randomly to check if the weed has piped down as the slack water approaches. My first few casts resulted in collections of weed bigger than my own head. So I wait and watch seals hunt out in front of me. They curiously pop their heads from the water looking over at me as if to check what is was up to. A pair of diving birds dive repeatedly in the same area so there are fish around. If only I could keep a bait out I might stand a chance.

The land behind me is just as interesting as the sea in front. The dunes and brightly painted buildings remind me of Hoppers paintings of landscapes and I am sure he would have appreciated this forgotten little hamlet by the sea.

The tide has stopped now and the weed it would seem has sunk to the bottom. So I squeeze in a few casts before we must leave and land a single fat flounder close to the shore.

Spending your penultimate night of your holiday sitting next to a huge lake in the dark pulling pencil sized eels from the murky waters as they regurgitate rancid half chewed maggots all over you may seem a rather unsavoury pastime to most. Personally I found it rather a wheeze!

It was a warm and still night, the lights from the other side of the lake extended right to my own bank unbroken across the mirrored surface. I could hear an owl hooting from some trees beyond the marsh to my left and bats still skim the surface of the water chasing unseen insects.

Ever since I had liberally deposited handfuls of red magics only yards in front of me my glow worm of a float had danced merrily around in the dark. The eels were out and on the move. But oddly the first confident dip of the float produced not an eel but a fish that had my heart thumping.

A hard and dogged fight where I had to pull hard to keep the culprit off the rusty old posts that framed the swim I was fishing ended frantically when in the beam of my torch I saw a huge silver flank. My god I hoped it was a big roach. But brown fins and half to much of a anal fin dampened me down. As this fish was quarter bream and three quarters roach.

A near two pound roach would have made my decade, but a near two pound hybrid only makes your hour. After this a few more perch and another Ruffe came along before the bottom of the broad began to seethe with tiny eels. I lost count of how many I caught before my towel grew claggy with slime.

When I returned home common decency dictated I should remove my trousers and coat before entering so as not to offend Jacky's nose with my putrid stench of eel slime.

Myself and the North sea nearly parted on poor terms. Timing and conditions I have figured mean as much to the sea as they do on clear rivers far inland.

My mid afternoon arrival coincided with the rising tide, which should on most days be a good time to fish as the shoals push inshore to feed. But the sky was like a dome of pure azure for as far as the eye can see and hardly a wave broke on the shore at all. For summer species this would not be out of the normal but as there are few of them around and as the winter species hold off till dark it did not bode well.

All would have not been lost if the conditions would have stayed this way, but just as I clipped on my first rig a savage onshore wind whipped into action. Dashing my hopes of the maximum cast I would need to perform to get get my baits anywhere near the fish.

It's hard to stand and watching time tick away as you know full well the fish will come closer later in the day when you should be packing ready to go far away from the brine. A bit too far that any lover of the sea would feel comfortable about.

I held out as long as I feasibly could and as I did the crabs claimed all but six of my remaining rag worms. Only half looking at my rods I was already planning a dower Finnish to this tale. But then I caught tiny movement of a rod tip from the corner of my eye that looked nether like wind or wave and brought hope. Could they be moving in early tonight? It went again before I reeled in empty hooks. For the few last casts I gamble on fully loaded hooks and eureka a lovely fat whiting.

Of all the king rag in Britain the two I saved till last are the king of kings. On the hooks they look preposterous, but this is it there will be no 'just one more last cast' as I am out of bait.

On that last cast the sea giveth more than enough for me to feel happy about and temptation for me to need to return again keen.

Another whiting, but a big one, the best of the trip just as the sun falls and I must leave.

And I do leave, happy and thinking when shall I return...

Back in middle England a few of my rods looked sad from neglect. So I push my luck and sneak out in the wee small hours just to make them feel better and see if they still work.

And they do...

Last cat saloon!

2011-09-07T04:41:00.000-07:00

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

Day trip fishing.

2011-09-02T05:51:00.000-07:00

Prior to the supposed summer myself and Mr Lewis had been banging round the idea of doing some mid week sessions on venues that wouldn't normally fit in with our normal fishing times. By that I mean places that are just a bit to far afield for us to pop to for a short session.

Finally we got our arse's in gear picked a week and discussed venues. With so many places we both wanted to visit it was no easy task, but a couple soon stuck out due to the impending approach of autumn and the warmer requirements of the species we wanted to try and catch on this occasion.

I do love crucian carp fishing. The memories of school holidays spent on weed choked ponds catching little circles of gold are some of my most cherished. The only problem is that nowadays I would dearly love to catch a big one and most of the lakes and ponds I visit seem to be inhabited by smaller specimens. So when Andy said he fancied trying Leamington lakes priory pool, aka the crucian pool, it didn't take much for me to agree.

We arrived at seven on the dot to adhere to the strict rules covering this fishery and I don't think I would be far of the mark to say we were both flabbergasted. This place was absolutely spotless! Just cruising down the drive you could see how clean it was. The grass wouldn't look out of place at a test match and the pegs looked like they were polished daily. I have never ever in all my years fishing seen a place like this; someone put a lot of effort into this fishery. But strangely that made it me feel a little uncomfortable, like you were about to go fishing in your mother in laws front room; taking a quick pee in the bushes was going to be a big no no for sure.

Priory pool as with the rest of the fishery looked very sanitary from afar but pleasingly up close we could see it was rife with Canadian pond weed and certainly looked the part for a morning crucian hunting even if the weather was a little grim.

Nether mine or Andy's first cast got to the bottom before the floats zipped under. Turned out this lake had a more than healthy population of small tench as well as crucians and they were little monsters. As with the fishery itself every single fish was immaculate which I suppose has to be attributed to the strict rules that govern it, and I have to say it works.

We did get a few Crucians but not the ones that are prominently advertised on the web site. Neither of us landed a single crucian over a pound in weight which I for one found very disappointing as the fishery openly claim to have a good stock of large crucians that they suspect will be knocking the door of the record very soon. What we did get was thoroughly naffed off with the constant mini tench which in all honesty could do with being in a stock pond growing on for the tench lake on the fishery.

We had decided to only spend the morning on at the lakes and around dinner time we packed up after setting up our rods ready to tackle the ever beautiful river windrush nestled in the Cotswolds. Being only twenty minutes down the road we soon found ourselves leaving the local tackle emporium tickets in hand and headed off to spend a few hours trotting the lower beat.

I have never fished this tiny river in the summer and kind of hoped it would be gin clear so we could have a good look round and spot a few areas for the autumn or winter trips I hope to make later in the year.

Some of it was clear but all the deep runs seemed to have a light green tinge to them. But this had no effect at all on the fishing. Every time I swung that tiny chubber float into the head of a run and watched line peel off of the J W I knew something would have a snatch at the maggots. My first swim alone produced five or six nice dace, what seemed like hundreds of minnows and this sole brownie which didn't fail to disappoint when it cart wheeled instantly in reaction to my strike.

Dropping down the beat leap frogging each other we finally ended up in a corner run which had an outlet from the adjoining field mid way through the bend which was racked up with small chub. Andy went first as I watched. After a while I squeezed in and ran the float right round the outside of the bend only to rewarded with the mother of all minnows.

I have never caught a minnow as large as this and not only did it justify a picture but it also went on the scales. It might seem churlish to some for me to weigh such a tiny fish but for a few years I have harboured a slight inclination to have a crack for a mini species record. Although the scales I used were rather over gunned for the job this little giant weighed just over half an ounce. Translated into mini weight it comes out around 8-9 drams. Incredibly the current UK record is 13.5 drams so this monster minnow is definitely a specimen and in comparison to other species, it is the equivalent of a 13lb barbel, a 3 1/2 lb perch or even a 2 1/2lb roach, which are all very special fish! Should I have had some suitable scales which would give me an accurate reading it could have been much closer.

Later we moved onto the top beat only to confronted by a decent size herd of over curious beef steers. Now I don't have to much of a problem with cows as such but some years ago whilst investigating a new stretch of river myself and a couple of companions got caught a bit off guard when a herd of similar steers decided to have themselves a good ole stamped right our direction and ever since I have been a little cautious whilst in there company. Frankly most people would have found our movements around the top beat hilarious! though I feel sure Alexander the great himself would of been rather impressed by our flanking manoeuvres throughout the afternoon.

Somewhere we did get some fishing done and although nothing really special got landed we did catch a small Grayling each as well as a plethora of other species. The one bit of excitement for me was when I hooked a decent size silver fish which at first sight looked like a giant dace but turned out to be a really long skinny roach of about eleven ounces.

As planned we ended the day fishing into dusk on the weir pool at the bottom of the stretch, Me holding out for a big roach on the bread feeder and Andy trotting around from above.

That big roach never did turn up but there is always next time and I know I will be back.

Night of the living Zeds.

2011-08-18T13:45:00.000-07:00

The troublesome shy bites I'd got from the Zander on my evening session last week had been bugging me over the weekend; why I had received such tentative enquires whilst Andy was getting full on takes had me perplexed. After the early morning action on my weekend barbel foray, I had time to sit back and watch the river whilst I contemplated my quandary. After mulling it over a few times the only logical reason that came to mind was the flow: Andy had all of his runs in a area where the rivers eddy allowed him to have little pressure on his line; I however had been fishing down stream with the entire flow of the river upon my line, thus causing maximum pressure.

We had arranged to meet again to target the same area as the light fell mid week, so my chance to experiment was soon at hand. We fished almost identical spots, arriving well before sun down in readiness for the initial feeding spell.

Our baits were in position well before feeding commenced and luckily for us low lying cloud cover brought dusky conditions a little early this time. The first wave of Zander passed through just as the light went, and I could barely see the top rod without the aid of a tip light. Unlike last time, when I got the first knock I picked the offending rod up holding a tiny amount of tension onto the line by hand, feeling for the fish to move off. Bingo! It worked a treat and my first schoolie sized zed was hooked.

After that first fish, just as I expected the wave of fish hit Andy's rods as they moved upstream and he to landed one of a similar size.

At this point I was thinking it was more than likely that the shoal would carry on upstream and maybe come back later past Andy, and after he got another bite I might get a second shot. I did get a second chance but it came before Andy... A second wave of fish moved through and this time after getting a enquiry I picked up the rod, waited, and finally struck into a slightly bigger fish of around 3lb.

Sure enough Andy was next to land a fish. These zeds were definitely moving upstream in waves hitting our baits in order as they went. And seemed they to be getting bigger!

It was an age before one of my rods went again and this bite was the most timid yet. I held the rod in one hand, line in the other, for ages as this fish dropped the bait time and time again. It kept moving off then stopping and bumping here and there before the line finally started to peel through my fingers.

Instantly I could feel it was a better fish, and the bend in the rod as it plunged into the heavy flow confirmed it was the biggest of the night so far. Once on the bank it weighed in at 6.3lb. If common theory holds true that would make this fish a loner, a graduate of a school of smaller fish. All in all a very satisfying Zed.

As always the best and worst was still to come. My final tap was followed by the most fussy fish ever, toying with my bait for a shocking amount of time. At last it began to move off and I gave it stacks of line before I hit it. Instantly I realised I had just connected with the biggest river Zander I have ever felt.
It just hung in the flow shaking it's head from side to side before moving off as my rod doubled over. After it swung out into the flow by ten or more feet it again shook its head as I held on. Then all went slack just before old bill rolled over in his grave as the worst use of the English language ever echoed over the county of Warwickshire, and lit the night sky blue! Very blue!
Andy's prompting forced me to get a bait back in the area just in case it came back and that cast did return a small bite, but all that came of that was my night light visibly bouncing around in the dark in reply to my shaking hand holding the rod.

There was no more action before we left, but I was happy to observe the Zanders movement up and down the river, which seemed to confirm my theory about their behaviour in this type of environment. Even though I experienced that awful feeling of having lost what was possibly the fish of a lifetime, this was one of those occasions that makes it all worthwhile, and inspires me to cast out again and again.

Small windows for success.

2011-08-16T09:18:00.000-07:00

The Warwickshire Avon looks nothing less than resplendent in its summer finery at the moment, but contrastingly the day time fishing is pretty dour. Frankly you would have more luck targeting a cup of tea on a day session than you would the Avon. It's not that you wouldn't catch anything, but if you want to catch anything bigger than a tiddler you really have to go nocturnal to do it.

So Sunday morning I practically got up before I went to bed to be on the trickle well before the sun peeped up in the east, just to be able to fish those few hours when I would realistically have a chance of connecting with a lump. Lucky for me I didn't sleep that well sat night and by three I was ready to get going. I was on the bank just before four and in the dark nearly walked straight into someones bivvy that was set up a little down stream of where I wanted to fish. Though I tried my hardest to be quiet as I passed the mere presence of someone on the bank roused not one but three anglers from their tiny shelter. I could see the burning glows of one of their cigarettes through the dark as I set my rods up and although they obviously spent the entire night next to the river no rods were actually out fishing.

I fear putting on my headlight when casting just in case the sudden appearance of an alien light source on the bank should freak out any fish happily moving around in the dark. So both rods were cast in total dark using only memory to guide them towards the hard gravel area amongst the masses of summer weed. Feeling the leads down on a tight line both gave a satisfying donk as the made bottom on something hard.

With now two rods both on areas I was happy with I sat back and stared at the hypnotic green glowing tip lights that were attracting the attentions of some feverish bats. I was just thinking how hard it is to tell the bat strikes on the lines from any tiny hints of fish when my left hand rod carried off! Luckily I always fish for barbel with baitrunners on as I've seen many a rod lurch perilously close to going in without that bit of extra time the baitrunner gives you.

I knew that most of the water right in front of me was clear of snags even though it has some very serious flow. Taking my time with the fish I opted to stick with stealth mode and kept the lights off in case I should be lucky enough to get a second shot at a fish in this swim. Playing a fish in total darkness is a strangely satisfying sensation as makes you rather aware of how much you actually watch where a fish is going then react to it rather than feel were it is going and react to that.

Most of the fight took place right under my feet and whilst I gingerly held on the three anglers from down stream came over to watch. As soon as the net slipped under it all three had a quick look before running off into the dark. Moments later the sound of big feeders sploshing into the water could be heard down stream.

Unhooked I slipped the fish back into the net to regain some strength whilst I phoned Andy who I knew should be around somewhere by now and he was; just walking upstream from the car park. He ran the last hundred metres fully laden with tackle.

It wasn't the monster berty I was after but on my first proper barbel session on the Avon this year a 6.9lb fish will certainly do to open up my account.

As I previously mentioned the rising of the sun heralded a turn in the sport and after that initial excitement where I think I may have sent any other Barbel flying into cover it was very quiet. We did get a bream each for our efforts though but as the day grew brighter our chances of any more barbel faded along with the ripples of the topping tiddlers.

Hand full of hali saves the day.

2011-08-14T10:46:00.000-07:00

I was going to head back into the dark on the eel grind again one night this week but a text message changed that and instead I hooked up with Andy for a predator session on the Avon. I love catching Zander in the warm summer evenings rather than on a chilly autumn ones as they give a much better account of themselves during the fight. They always seem rather pumped up from chasing bait fish around and in my opinion fight at least twice as hard as they do once the temperature drops and they become a little torpid.

The plan was simple; leave work, drop Jacky home, grab my already set up rods and kit, drive to river, park car, cast out a couple of dead's and start landing Zander.

Wrong!

The both of us having cast out some baits took it in turns to try and bag a few bleak to use as livos. Turns out the message had got around of what we were up to and although we could see bleak topping everywhere we couldn't prize one out anywhere for love nor money.

Andy bagged one little pike from the first area before we made the decision to drop onto a very reliable Zander hotspot where I have bagged up time and time again. Turns out this time I wasn't due a bag up session and whilst Andy got straight into the schoolies I couldn't get a bleeding run.

As dark approached I felt the looming shadow of old mr blanky upon my back and in desperation dived head first into my ruck bag to search for inspiration. Low and behold there they were - a sorry sight to most, but to me the 8th of a bag of Halibut ground bait and the 30-40 8mm pellets were like an oasis of hope as I faced that desolate road to blanksville.

The lead came off to be replaced by a feeder, the hook link was changed from wire to braid and a pellet was lassoed just before the whole lot was cast into the flow. Straight away the tip nodded but I had to wait a while before the hypnotic ground bait spread it's scent over the river floor and worked its wondrous magic. Three sharp bangs then I hit the fourth.

Not the savage response I'd expected but there was something on the end.

"I reckon its a tiny barbel" is what I said trying not to be too brutal to a small fish on heavy gear.

"Go easy Dan it ain't a barbel its a big roach" is what Andy replied

And right he was, but what would any self respecting roach want with a big fat halibut pellet?

Exactly 1.8lb of avon finest.

This stretch of the Avon is starting to produce some good size roach and it must be attributed to one thing; Barbel! As Barbel are the new carp and every angler in old blighty seems to chasing them right now, using not the old school truncheon meat or sweet corn. But instead by piling lavish amounts of high protein baits in the hope of bagging a double (something I can't deny I was doing) and of course not only bertys are going to eat it. So these roach are living in pretty good quality water eating large amounts of free steroid like food and if they can avoid the hungry intentions of otters, cormorants and other larger terrestrial predators(you all know who I mean) then they should actually be able to find themselves in the situation there lake bound piscatorial cousins did a while ago and we could see an upsurge in roach weights in rivers all over the country.

Later on my old friends the bream moved on and I bagged a couple of plump examples up to 4.8lb which just increased the size of the smile on my face.

As I dropped this picture onto the blog I noticed something very interesting on the bream in the above picture. Its tail! I had caught this fish before on a session last year and I weighed it then at 3lb.

And that got the brain turning over too. That fish has put on one and half pounds in weight in eleven months which has to be a lot for a bream and possibly reaffirms my previous theory re the affects large scale berty fishing is having on our rivers.

Loads of birds but where's the cats?

2011-08-14T10:41:00.000-07:00

I must be bleeding mad! Those were the words that echoed through my head as I sheltered under my all new 50" brolly on my first ever catfish chasing session. If dedicating myself to catching a big eel wasn't enough for me, I now feel like the angling equivalent of a bigamist as I add trying to catch a catfish to my already strained bank time for the summer months.

Saying this is my first attempt would be a lie as earlier in the year I spent a day with the lads on another venue; although the company was good the lake itself was awful and frankly I have tried to block it from my mind, so that one don't count.

This new venue is very attractive and even though its banks are worn hard by its obvious popularity it still retains a certain old English charm which appeals. Personally if I were the owner I'd empty it of all the annoying carp and even the cats then restock it with Crucians, Rudd, Tench and the odd eel and perch sealing it into the romance of English summer fishing. But as I am not the owner I will just try to winkle out a cat for now.

What this lake doesn't have in size it makes up for in features and chose a swim with a few nice ones to choose from. My first rod was cast into the shadows of a weeping willow.

And the second onto the edge of the only lily pads not on the edge of the lake.

I knew full well before this trip that the lake contained a lot of carp, so bait wise I went well overboard and used giant baits to try and avoid them. My 40mm home made hali/tuna/crab boillies on one rod and a 3" Rudd dead bait on the other certainly kept the hordes off my hook baits and also kept my buzzers in silent mode.

If a lake has trees round it, it has a robin and I guarantee it will be a cheeky bugger for sure and this one was no different. When this this fella turned up like all fishing lake robins he was expecting a free feed of maggots, but sadly what I had to offer he couldn't carry off and as far a I know they don't like cuppa soup!

The session being a quiet one soon turned into an bird watching session and the next avian to catch my eye proved that not every bit of lost or discarded fishing line is deadly to birds, although it was playing with fire...

The bird parade continued all day with giant chickens strutting by.

Followed by some very noisy guinea fowl.

Midday the baliff came by on his rounds and stopped for a chat. After explaining what I was after he offered some interesting and believable info re the cats in the lake. Apparently there are only ten over double figures in the lake as far he knows but there is a large amount of smaller spawned fish in the one to five pound bracket, which are often caught on small baits aimed for the carp and one bait in particular seems to sort them out! So the last few hours of the trip I switched one rod over to a smaller bait and ran the carp gauntlet landing a string of small carp, but still no cats.

A few days later I returned equipped with the recommended baits and a lighter rod so I could split my my approach 50/50. One heavy outfit to target the bigger fish and a lighter outfit to float fish some of the secret bait off the ledge to try and bag a kitten.

Good god my heart started beating when the heavy outfit sprang to life only moments after being cast out. A slow run turned into a screamer! Something had made off with my my 3" dead Rudd........

My strike connected not with an immovable object I'd expected but instead vibrated suspiciously. Yes a 4lb carp had bona fide taken my dead bait and I was not happy!

To make matters worse it happened two more times on the trot and confirmed that a hungry carp will eat anything. The secret bait didn't work ether as every time it went in it to produced a carp. I even tried baiting a spot heavily with pellets and fishing off that spot hoping a kitten might be attracted to the noise and I could pick it off the edge but no it just brought in more and more effing carp.

Already I feel like just abandoning this whole cat thing as every venue I have looked for cats seems to have the same problem tonnes and tonnes of carp or should I say tonnes and tonnes of crap.

Burnt, knackered and slightly satisfied

2011-08-08T05:21:00.000-07:00

For a few days prior to the first Midlands bloggers annual fish in I was trying to think of what you call a large group of anglers. Fish obviously are a shoal, most animals of cloven foot are a herd, birds can be a flock, mob or even a flight but Anglers seemingly have no word by which to refer to us in large groups. Trying to think how our long suffering partners or any normal person would feel in the presence of such a large group of such focused individuals gave me the answer... Bored!!! Hence forth I shall always refer to a large grouping as a bore of anglers.

Preparation for invasion Harvington had been bubbling away for a few weeks but unlike Dunkirk this was destined to be a gradual trickle of anglers arriving throughout the day Saturday rather than a full on arrival at four and run for the swims boys. With suspicions that the river may not fish until the evening myself and Andy arrived after leisurely breakfast in a tail back on the A46 to find a few were already entrenched in front of gravel runs with that look all expectant barbel anglers get. The one that silently says 'any minute that tip is gonna whack round'.

After walking the bank touching base with some new friends and old we finally settled in an area I had fancied since my last visit to this bit of the Avon. The very point of the island with its deep water shallowing up into a fast run and its lock arm to my left looked perfect for Zander fishing which was pretty much exactly what I had in mind for this trip. Knowing full well that the crystal clear water and blazing sun where not the ideal conditions for this endeavor I opted to spend the day light hours chancing my luck for a carp or a rouge barbel.

During the afternoon little happened apart from everyone else arriving, us gassing and Andy bagging some nice pike wobbling dead baits under a mat of debris. Whilst he wasn't looking I nabbed his his wobbling kit and ran a bait around the lock entrance. Just before I gave up a little Jack pike shot out from a weed bed a nobbled my bait. Normally I wouldn't bother snapping such a petite pike but this one really deserved some credit after it tail walked a good twenty feet down the river like a marlin.

After that excitement the fishing went into that torpid midday sun state when everything falls silent apart from the crackling of human skin in the afternoon sun.

As the dark approached I made the switch over to my intended attack and cast out two popped up dead baits onto the deep far bank. Upon returning from the local watering hole a gathering formed on the point just as Joe dropped by for a social chat. Keith after walking the bank since arriving chose to fish the swim next to me, right next to me! The sun disappeared as we all guffawed and then the pike had a mad hour as mine a Keith's rods took it in turns to go off as Jack pike snatched our baits.

The night drew in and gradually people slipped away to get some much needed rest. but for me my vigil was only beginning as what I sought would only feed at night. I ended up just half snoozing wrapped in my sleeping back as intermittently through the night my bobbins got jangled by a host of bats. My only real action all night came at around 2.30am when my right hand rod lit up with a slight run which was followed by another then stopped. Just after id checked the bait and recast the other one went the same way. Both runs got dropped and I suspect the tension necessary to keep the baits out in the flow may have deterred some cagey summer zeds.

There was only one way to describe the look just about everyone had at 7am Sunday morning. Rough. A few began fishing and I continued but after myself Lee and Andy prepared a real cobbled together half ass fry up which I think we all suspected may off possessed a few unwanted items of fauna, I knew it was only a matter of time before we all started burning out.

Excitement had got the better of most of us and I think our expectations of double figure barbs and zeds gracing most of nets had faded and the reality of not one single 8lb perch turning up had brought us back to earth with a thump though I for one had fantastic time and really enjoyed meeting some new peers although I did learn a few things about my blogging buddies this weekend

- Jeff Hatt it would seem has a different hat for every different day of his holiday.
- Dave has some worrying tendencies towards photographing men in compromising situations
- Keith has no concept of what his half of the swim means.
- Lee I think believes his warranty on his bite indicator may still be valid after he attempted to repair it in the dark after drinking all afternoon in the blazing sun
- Andy when he asks if you want one sugar or two in your tea is referring to kilos not spoonfuls
- Joe was much taller than I thought in real life; Steve was a little shorter.
- Martin believes pike are baby's at 12lb.
- Dan should listen to Jacky when when she suggests he takes some sun block with him fishing.

For the next fish in I would like to suggest that the nearest or first person to the chosen venue should climb the highest point and summon us all using a large alpine horn of sorts, as this I feel is the only appropriate way to bring to together such a melé of a bash.

Good bye Morlock hello Eloi

2011-07-29T07:33:00.000-07:00

I have felt rather dislocated from angling for a little while now. This is mainly to do with me being laid up for nearly eighteen days recovering from an operation and on top of that, the brief hiatus was bookended by my now seeming insatiable appetite to get my ass thoroughly kicked by my still invisible foe, Anguilla anguilla.

I was in serious need of some food for my soul after my first trip out into the wide world was again plagued by everything but eels on the cut. I chose to cast off my self imposed Morlock status and head into the sunny easy living world of the Eloi and see if I could remember what it was like to fish in the light.

Still limited by trying to take it easy, I decided a trip to some old childhood haunts may salve my soul and maybe rekindle me a little. A lot of my local blogging buddies visit these abandoned ponds on and off through the year although I think I may be the only one that remembers how they originated.

In my youth I would ride the tow path of the canal to get here to fish with my friends, though back then there was only two ponds which both sat on Parkers Farm. The big pond was the preserve of the adult angler and in some ways was one of the fore runners of the modern commercial fisheries, the way it was lined with anglers on a Sunday hoping to land a carp or two. It was also the first place I saw other anglers using the modern carp tecniqes over twenty years ago.

The hard worn banks are now overgrown and the once grey water is now gin clear. Every square foot of the pond has some kind of weed growing in it and although seemingly abandoned by the masses of yesteryear, fish still remain. Although I still remember it fondly amongst the hazy memories of my youth it now has grown new charms, ones I apreciate more now I am older, and it has a forgotten feeling which really appeals to me.

I fished for only an hour or so, just enough time to land a handfull of wild as you like perch who had probably been skulking amougst the debris awaiting a meal.

The next stop was a pond that was not one of the orginals but came to be in the second life of this land as a golf course. The crater as it is now called by Jeff, has a very water trap feel to it but what it lacks in charm it makes up for in sheer numbers of fish. At sometime in the past it has been stocked with Rudd and they went besserk!. I wouldn't bet a penny with anyone that a maggot could reach the bottom of this pool any day of the year.

I only fished for an hour and a half. but in that time I landed well over a hundred fish just like this these stunted little buggers.

I did get a few bigger ones up to about six ounces as well as few rouge perch, but the high light of this stop was watching two very frisky black coloured carp rolling around in the weed. Being only a few feet deep at best I find it very hard to understand how any of these fish survived the harsh winter when just about every bit of still water in the country was practically solid.

My last stop on memory lane was the one which I really remember. This little pond was no more than a drinking pond for the livestock back in the day but was where most of us kids fished. Now due to the massive weed growth which is flecked with rubbish deposited by the local yobs it only has a couple of very tight areas to fish. But as always nature finds a way and peering into the depths I could see shoals of small silvers passing over road cones and perch inhabiting old trolleys and rusting wheels.

To be truthful I was more intent on staring at these wonderful little survivors than fishing but somewhere in the last shady hour I hooked a few hungry little perch. All in all I had great time exploring my old stomping ground and walking back through the waist high grass with the sound of a million grass hoppers buzzing in my ears it actually felt like summer for the first time this year.

A few days later I took the opportunity to get a mid weeker in on the Avon. I could have done with maybe making an effort on the challenge but all I had in mind was lazily sitting on the river watching a rod tip nod all day. So I paid a visit to an area I have only ever fished once before in the summer.

Every year I say to myself that I should check out more of the river when it's clear so when the winter arrives and the water is coloured I will know where the features are. This turned out to be the perfect opportunity to combine some self indulgence with a bit of recce work for later in the year.

Every time I poked my head through the bushes and peered into the clear water, hordes of dace, chublets and roach scattered in every direction. The river looked beautiful and as I'd hoped I could see just about every pebble on the bottom. I clocked loads of cracking looking spots for the winter as I headed to a bend where I knew there would be a few fish holding up.

Seeing all those fish gave me a hint that I could get a few nibbles but on the other hand the Avon has an evil streak through the summer so I didn't get too excited. Turns out they were well up for it! Using a small maggot feeder stuffed with red grubs I got bites from the outset. Though two different species were responsible for two types of very different bites.

Dace constantly worried the bait until the maggots got husked out or I was quick enough to hit one; perch would give me two or three slight nods before pulling the light tip right over.

My thoughts of a relaxing day faded away as quickly as my two pints of mags. I never thought there were this many fish in this area but the must have been thousands of 'em queing up waiting for the feeder to make bottom.

By two all my maggots were gone and the shoals seemed to have no appreciation for ground bait what so ever, so I slipped off up stream with a few slices of bread to see if any chub fancied a tango under the trees.

Apparently old Issak was right, the summer chub is the most fearful of fishes, and once I showed the slightest of shadow on the sky line they melted away under the weed beds never to return.

I'd totally lost track of the time until I realised I only had twenty minutes to get from Stratford to Coventry to pick Jacky up from the University. In a rush I foolishly cut through the thicket on the way back to car and came out the other end cover head to toe in sticky buds. I must have looked like a mad man all the way home as I brushed what must have looked like invisible insects cursing as I went.

On the verge of obsession

2011-07-13T01:33:00.000-07:00

I have of late found something creeping into my mind, although creeping may be the wrong way to describe it! Wriggling, slithering or drifting may be more apt, as the protagonist has no legs. Often in moments when I find my mind free of day to day distractions I dream of a clear corner of some beautiful fantasy pond surrounded by ancient low hanging trees. The last of the evening sun illuminates only the thinnest strip of the silty bottom as tiny silver fish flash over it. Under the trees in the mass of tangled roots something stirs in its dark dank layer where it has laid still as the sun passed over head until the air cooled and the light faded. The pangs of hunger and a thousand nights of habit push it forth into the open water. Confidently it glides into view. In the last shadows it appears grey, but as its sinewy body moves towards that last strip of light, its true colour is revealed. It is green, like no other fish bar the Tench, but long and thin in shape, like a snake. Her eyes seem black as coal, but it is not sight that drives her on, it is something else… She can feel what she seeks somewhere and out there something panics. Under the round lily pads a small roach struggles to remain upright. The open wound on its side is fatal. Only a few hours ago it swam strong in unison with its shoal mates when from nowhere the heron struck! A fraction higher and it would have all been over as it became a tasty meal but as fate would have it, the sharp beak that had been the demise of so many others only stabbed instead of grabbed. In a moment of panic, survival had sent the little roach zipping into the sanctuary of the weed where death now stalked it. Time was always on the eel’s side as she meticulously searched the small pond until the telltale vibrations grew stronger. Smell now took over and the scent of fresh flesh filled her senses and belied the location of what she sought. Directly below she gently reaches up from the bottom before she snatches the roach in a single bite and sinks slowly back into the weed; the roach’s life ended.

My thoughts of eel are borne of something more than a simple want to catch eels, but of a more competitive need this year to behold a monster. I have for the last decade at least held more than a passing interest in this much maligned species. Up until my late teens our paths had never once crossed. But when they finally did I found myself not looking at that wriggling mass of slimy green entangled in my line with disdainful eyes, but with more a look of intrigue. As with most anglers, my first encounter came whilst fishing for something else, or rather anything else. Unlike others my reaction was not anger; I did not just cut my line leaving it to die, instead I took the time to struggle on and unhook this newly discovered oddity. As with most first experiences they are highly affecting and it was settled: through my life as a Brother of Angle I would be no hater of the eel.

It was deep in the cold winter when my research began. By night I trawled books and the internet. Even as I fished blankly through frosty and snow covered mornings waiting for single bite my mind harked back through hundreds of stories and sessions to try and find every tiny fragment of information of past captures and wondrous tales of lost monsters.

Like all anglers I have my own fables of big eels, be they my own experiences or others passed on by fellow fishermen. A good old friend once told me how on one of those club day trip fishing matches to an old estate lake over twenty years ago, one of his fellow competitors hooked what he described as ‘something huge’. After an age fighting the unseen monster he finally got it to the surface whereupon he laid eyes on an eel thicker than his own arm. His desire to land it and quite possibly win the match, were diminished somewhat upon the realization that it was only an eel, and he pulled for the break freeing it back to the depths.

On that most special of days, June 16th, some years ago I myself landed a rather large river eel whilst fishing for chub using lob worms at the end of a weir pool. My first thought of the unstoppable run was that I had hooked a good Barbel that had been lurking in the slack water. But after getting pulled from one side of the river to the other for a good while I finally slipped the net under a perfectly formed river eel of over three pounds. The same year I made a late September pilgrimage into Wales camping with a lifelong fishing companion. Three days in we found ourselves fishing the rarefied glacial lake Bala. Through the day we’d struggled to land even a couple of the tiny perch which frequented the shallows of this gin clear lake. Later that day whilst in one of the local shops chatting to elderly shop owner she mentioned that the lake contained plenty of eels. This was more than likely a ruse to get us to buy some of the many pots of red worms she had randomly stacked in a dusty corner of her shop; it worked for as the sun dipped below the mountains and the moon rose we both sat on what seemed like the top of the world and stared at the florescent lit rod tips waiting for them to tremble as an eel made off with our magic beans. It was a perfect tall story in the making if only she hadn’t been absolutely right. We caught plenty of small eels and as the last of the libations drained away I hooked a much larger eel of nearly a metre long, albeit rather slim.

If any place in England could lay claim to being the ancestral home of Anguilla anguilla it has to be the Norfolk broads, a place which holds a dear place in my heart. I have caught more eels here than on every other water way I have fished combined. On one of my first visits to the broads I fished a tiny reed lined bay on the river Ant at How Hill just after a horrendous summer storm. The ravenous Rudd couldn’t get enough of my maggots as I landed one after another from the shallow water. Upon striking one bite it seemed I had found an unmoveable snag, until it moved that was. My poor light float rod bent double for an age until I landed the culprit; the shortest fattest eel I have ever seen lay regurgitating my maggots in the bottom of the net. Weighing an amazing two pounds plus it was only as long as the cork handle of my rod, but was thicker than my wrist by far.

My favourite story of all came from a great friend whom is sadly passed. John, whilst fishing for carp on a very modern commercial fishery, struck into what seemed to be a massive Carp whilst float fishing luncheon meat on the bottom. The battle was one of sheer legend as for over an hour he followed the fish up and down the bank. Eventually he began to get the better of the fish but not before a crowd had gathered to watch, which included the bailiff of the fishery. Eventually it surfaced and what thrashed on the surface scared every angler that watched. It took two changes of net to find one big enough for it to fit in, but when it was finally landed the creature was a sight to behold. Eight pounds of eel as thick as a cricket ball lay on the grass. John himself referred to it as monstrous and others have since confirmed this. Upon asking the bailiff why a eel should turn up in a stocked carp lake, he came clean and admitted that the lake was not built originally for carp fishing but for the farming of signal crayfish and once the crayfish business had run its course the lakes owners decided to convert it to a carp pool. The only problem was how to get every last annoying crayfish out. The answer was to stock five small eels which in only a few years rid the lake of crayfish and then disappeared, until now.

It’s perfectly reasonable to assume that any of these eels still exist in the same waters where their tales were born. Although by now their instinct to breed or just move on may have driven them down some long forgotten stream back towards the sea, all that remains of them etched into the memories of the fishermen who encountered them. Chasing old stories may be a foolhardy endeavour but they still serve enough of a purpose to inspire me and drive me on.

With information collated, soon enough plans began to form and venues began to stick out. Though I feel on the verge of obsession I find myself unable to commit due to my yearly rotation through a long list of species of which I travel, as the year does through the seasons.

The criteria for possible targets were heavily influenced by that rarest of specific anglers, those who actively target the reclusive eel. These brave men dedicate themselves to what can only be described as the hardest specimen fish to catch in the land. They are like their quarry, secretive as ghosts and seldom seen; to catch a truly big eel you must seemingly fish like one, only coming out at night.

However, some generous anglers of anguilla have openly shared their knowledge and this is what has guided my choices, along with a few other factors of my own constraints. In its simplest possible form I have three types of water of which to choose my target.

Still waters seem to offer the greatest chance of a really big eel, however times have changed since the majority of eel fishing literature was produced. Nowadays any lake which has seen even a paltry twenty pound carp landed becomes the focus for carp hungry crowds, and ends up its banks lined with rod pods and bivves. Getting on a suitable lake with under a few months research is hard and costly. A few lakes for me fitted the bill but again the travelling distance only makes repeat visits difficult and expensive. So for me lakes were an ill fit if you would.

Rivers on the other hand, though accessible, are heavily populated by immature eels. These streams harbour relatively high numbers, but do not possess the means to entrap an eel for the length of time needed for the specimen to age, and thus attain weight I dream of. This leaves me only one true style of venue that suits my needs.

Strangely over the years canals have proved a perfect type of water for small eels to populate, and an even more perfect prison by way of their many locks which retain an eel long enough for their need to spawn to be hampered by winter. As I live in an area abundant with canals - which coincidentally just happen to be as far from the sea as you can get in England – these man made waterways are the forerunners as the most likely body of water to yield a good eel competition.

A venue chosen, it comes to this; how many hours of my life can I dedicate to the cause? Far better men than I have offered themselves whole heartedly to chasing this ghost like species and in their writings have openly concluded that a very low return rate is to be expected when searching for big eel. There is some common advice: firstly, nearly all waters in the UK will contain eels, whether intentional or not, as they have a mysterious way of appearing from nowhere; second, given that eel fishing is as about popular as going to the dentist, it is unlikely that the casual angler will be aware of their presence, save from the odd accidental capture; and finally and most importantly, the more eels you catch from one place the smaller they will be. So the theory is, the more blank sessions, the bigger the eel.

So into the darkness I go.

Panning for gold

2011-06-24T06:48:00.000-07:00

They say you need a good breakfast to start the day, a fact I certainly believe in. But a lesser known fact I also believe in is that to start your day or fishing session you need a good sound track to get you into the right state of mind.

Personally I have a rather varied and encompassing musical taste, and on any given journey to water I could find myself listening to anything from the Rolling Stones to Bentley Rythm Ace, right through the Rat Pack before coming back via Amy Winehouse.

Sitting in the car I flipped the leaves of my CD collection and happened upon on perfection for the journey ahead. What else could I listen to as I cruised into the Warwickshire country side but the waling tones of the 1960's psychedelic rock legend that was Janis Joplin.

Having finally arrived after giving the steering wheel as much of a battering as the car speakers I descended the tree shrouded drive turning off the music as I did, as this is the point where I move from the outside world into a tranquil world of angle... Oh and I didn't want to piss off anyone already fishing as I traversed the lake side road by Janis screaming ' Take it, take another little piece of my heart' as they tried to hold their pole steady.

Turned out I hadn't of worried as I had the whole lake to myself all day: 'Score!'

On the way there I had listened to 'summer time' the song and technically it is summer time here in the UK if you'd believe it, so today I intended to angle for the epitome of English summer species: Crucian carp.

Unlike so many of the other species that I pursue Crucians don't seem to care how hot it is or what time of the day they feed. In fact in my experience on a lot of lakes they actually prefer it to be hot and stifling. I suppose this is largely to do with their uncanny ability to live in water with practically no oxygen it. They are hardly caught before the frosts end and once the first chilly nights of autumn arrive they once again become scarce.

Feeling a little classical I had opted to fish some classical kit by way of my old speedia centre pin and a old school quill float. I would have included my 13 foot billy lane cane match rod in that but sense had prevailed as a day of holding that beast is by no way relaxing...

A little bit of this bait scattered in followed by a little of that and I was off. First cast I could say that the bait never got to the bottom before it was taken, but that would be a lie, as to say this the bait would have had to got past the top, which it didn't! The first fish of the day was another summer classic, a Rudd which snatched it the instant it hit the water.

Hungry and perfectly formed there was masses of them within inches of the surface.

I had to box clever here or the voracious horde would hamper my chances of going for true gold. The answer came by way of two pints of red maggots which I began to dispense onto the water a rod length off my chosen spot.

It did work to some extent as my baits were at least hitting bottom but still I had no choice but to wade through the masses of roach, bream, perch, Rudd and micro tench with my float dipping within seconds of the bait sinking.

As the sun neared overhead I caught sight of something very interesting. A pod of three lovely golden crucians swam bold as brass right in front of me only two feet from the bank. What happened next was pure wonder! When baiting my swim, I had done it from a little to the right of where I was actually going to fish and seemingly some of the bait had fallen in the edge and probably a bit short of the intended mark. As suddenly as they appeared they stopped in unison, all dipped and began to pick up the freebies. I watched as the pod followed the measly trail into deeper water towards my bed of waiting goodies. Sure enough moment after they disappeared into the abyss a gentle dip of my float was followed by it slowly sliding away.

I managed to pick two of them out before they seemingly slipped away to be replaced by the hungry horde again. But that little tiny insight into there movement was just too telling. As I topped up the feed I scattered a hint of bait purposely this time in a line ninety degrees from the bank leading again to my baited area.

It worked a treat and through the afternoon more pods of between three and five fish cruised into sight before duly stopping over the bait and changing course towards my trap.

Ten in total graced my net and of them, seven were some of the grand old fish that inhabit his lake; the other three were a few of the new smaller stock which was added earlier this year. I saw these tagging along behind the big boys learning the lay of the land and they will soon enough reinvigorate the ageing stock.

A photo of summer

I can't deny it. I am a sucker for a brace shot

Aside from a great catch of Crucians I caught a shocking amount of fish whilst trying to extract that streak of gold. I didn't bother to net anything other than the Crucians but I landed well over twenty small bream between 1.5lb and 3lb, an easy15-20lb of Roach, Rudd, perch, tiny tench and one of the roach topped the scales at 1.2lb.

I have to say that Snitterfield reservoir is fast becoming the jewel in the crown of LAA and to any other Leamington members. "Snitters is on absolute fire at the minute so if you want to bag up in a monstrous way get down there and don't forget some serious bait as it took me two pints of red maggots, 1.5 kilos of pellets and a couple of bags of ground bait to winkle out that lot".

Not really a glorious start to the season.

2011-06-21T05:03:00.000-07:00

The onset of June 16th saw what I can only describe as a mass holding of breath by the river enthusiasts of the UK. This necessary break (which I personally whole heartedly support) not only gives the fish a break to spawn but also affords us anglers an opportunity to rekindle our passion something which diminishes over a cold winter as we become blasé about flowing water towards the end of the season. The build up is as ever filled with plans and excitement of what we are going to do on that sacred first day.

I myself have in pretty much the entirety of my working life never worked this day as for me not being of a particularly religious nature this is the closest thing I have to a holy day. But this year things were ever so slightly different! When ever the holiday charts appear at work I am the first person at the office door ready to book the 16th of June off. This year having already booked it a fly plopped into my ointment by way of a begging boss. Turns out the only dates my direct superior could get off passed over my holy day and as I was the poor sucker who had to cover for him I was forced by hook or crook to relinquish this day in order for him to jet off for two weeks.

My tales of woe regarding this only get worse as in the week and a half leading up to the 16th I managed to bag an impressive 120 hrs work in ten day straight days. To be honest my fishing was knackered as I was. I had managed to squeeze two eel blanks somewhere in the haze of work but honestly even now I can't remember a thing about them.

There was no way I was missing out on the first day.

Oddly even though we all get rather mental about this day, the fact is it is generally a bit of a let down catch wise. A fact that I have always suspected that can be attributed to us anglers. For three months the inhabitants of our clear rivers see nether hide nor hair of us until the break of dawn on the 16th when from nowhere anglers pop up everywhere on the rivers like a case of chickenpox. Chickenpox tooled up with wholesale amounts of bait which is scattered liberally upon the river in the hope of relieving it of something special. From only natural food to hundred different flavours of ground bait and every possible connotation of freebies mixed in with it in only a few hours. Its no wonder they play hard to get!

With no day to waste lazing beside a river blanking, an evening trip down to the ever fickle wasperton stretch of the Avon seemed the best option.

The journey there was like an abridged version of some kind of fairy tale; travelling through the thronging masses of metal giants through Radford and Holbrook saw me meet Jeff of Hat at the junction where the Saracens head faces Londis; the next leg of our quest we journeyed the long distance from the west of the midland deep into the shire know as warks where in a sunlit field we happened upon Keith of Jobling and a man I know only as Thad. After swapping tales myself and Jeff of Hat continued on down stream beyond the village wasperton to the wooded banks of the slow stretch in search of Andy whom had ventured forth ahead of us to bag himself a spot to stalk the piscatorial delights which lay ahead of us.

We did eventually find Andy setting up in a rather nice lily lined area which looked as special as it did snag filled.

I know this bit of river only too well and as a consequence was in no rush to cast out, as it fishes best as the light fades and the fish begin to top. Beyond that during the day any chancing anglers would be forgiven for thinking it has no fish in it whatsoever.

Mine and Jeff's reluctance to start was much to Andy's advantage as the discovery of a broken rod tip was a real downer until Jeff offered to do a bank side repair for him to get him through the evening.

I eventually did set up in a odd swim behind the roots of a fallen tree in an area of the stretch I have never fished. It was a cracking view with a tempting looking over hanging tree brushing the water on the opposite bank which screamed barbel.

True to form all bar Andy had to wait for bites, but as predicted once the rings off topping fish dappled the surface our baits began to receive some attention. I was however the last to actually connect with a fish as finally after loads of trembles one of my rods went over.

Jeff appeared just as the fish surfaced and oddly we both came out the same insane statement that for a fleeting moment it looked like a massive crucian carp... It was actually a youngish bream whose colour seemed rather golden in the evening light.

If it was a rare river crucian I would have no word of a lie, wet my pants as the chubby little fella weighed four pounds ten. We stuck it out until late but the ever moving shoals of bream here are hard to hold in one place unless you have half a ton of bait to do it with.

New season Part 2

The weekend was soon upon me and Fathers day meant limited fishing time so my options were constrained, so a early jaunt to a secluded narrow run on the top meadow seemed a great idea.

I love this bit of the Avon as it's classic barbel river. fast shallow gravelly runs framed by low hanging willows and those bites.... Savage is the only way to describe them.

The mist clad river looked good with a hint of colour flushed in by showers of summer rain. As I trudged across the damp grass I spotted a very unusual sight at the end of the meadow. Normally this field has a running occupancy of maybe two anglers and a herd of nervous sheep but today it had me and what looked like a a few miles of warning tape stretched around it.

Something was definately afoot and the turning up of a truck loaded up with what looked like marquees confirmed there may well be some kind of olde English style fete happening in this field today.

I decided to have a few hours anyway and cast in. From the corner of my eye I kept seeing cars arrive here and there... By six it was busy and finally it clicked I was actually fishing at the start of the Stratford upon Avon raft race.

As the competitors arrived on mass the tannoy started to sound intermittently with ear screeching feed back and I knew my chances diminished by the second.

The only action my rod tip showed for the whole time I was there was when it suddenly sprang forward and pinged back as what I suspect was a fleeing fish charged upstream past me. I didn't know weather to laugh or cry as I sat watching more and more people arrive in the field. So I laughed loudly which seemed to erect some kind of invisible barrier around me as watchful parents told there children to stay away from that nutter over there.

In the end I gave in as the now water bound rafts were sending sea worthy waves upstream.

Leaving I stopped and took this picture of what can be described as a festival size crowd of people over the field. You would be forgiven for thinking U2 may have added wasperton as an impromptu stop on their 2011 festival tour. As I walked away I felt no ill will towards this session ruining gathering as I knew from the interview conducted over the load speakers as I packed up that it was all in aid of a good cause http://www.raftrace.org.uk/

For about the tenth year of my fishing life the barbel buffoonery has begun again... and the I feel sure the next few months will see me finding myself in some of the most preposterous situations known to angling as I try to bag my target of a double figure beardy.

Pest or not?

2011-06-09T09:27:00.000-07:00

Q. What makes something a pest?

This was a question I posed to myself as I stood awaiting a run in the dark on the canal the other night.

I myself as I leave the house laden with tackle and a sarnie in my mouth often just say to my beloved "I am off fishing see you later" and therein lies my point. Fishing! I rarely say I am off eel fishing, carp fishing or Zander fishing. I just say fishing. Therefore all I am making point of is intend to try and catch fish not anything specific.

Now in my own mind I know that there is normally in my day to day fishing some kind of target species that I am aiming for, as I was on this particular session targeting eels, but realistically we can never use one so specific tactic that will only catch one species and one species only whilst avoiding all others, That's probably a good thing to be honest, as how often can any angler actually say that when looking down the barrel of a blank or skunk or whatever you want to call it on a bad day that you wouldn't give anything to catch even the most annoying of pest species, just to feel even the smallest fight of a fish.

But on the other hand when the fishing is good and all you can catch iswhat you're not looking for, everything suddenly becomes a pest.

The other night is a great example for me because after all of ten minutes one of my rods ripped off and I found that the cause of this monstrous run was in fact not the ten pound eel I was hoping for but a tiny Zander. Now for me the first fish gets a pass because it took away the chance of me encountering old Mr blanky but after two more exactly the same size they suddenly became a pest.

I love catching Zander but when eel fishing they truly are a pain... but add eight pounds and it ain't a pest no more!

The next pest that picked up my 2oz dead roach really whacked off even more than the first three. Now this was defiantly not an eel so technically that made it a pest on this trip.

Pest or not?

(excuse the poor pic. Me the the camera were not on good terms for that one)

As the light faded the next wave of pests came out to play and my rod tips began to bounce like the rear suspension of a car parked in lovers lane. I knew what was going on and it was only a matter of time before one came bankwards.

The crayfish were on the town tonight and boy were they hungry! They took every thing that went in the water, even grabbing baits before they hit bottom. I landed about seven or eight of the horrid little buggers and whilst trying to detach one huge example from my line I caught wind of a rather bad pong. Initially I thought I had stood on a pile of dog walkers surprise in the dark but soon realised it was actually the Ronnie that stank (If anyone has any explanation of why it should stink please let me know) so it was unceremoniously kicked back in. An hour of bounce bounce bounce and beep beep beep and I could stand it no more and left eel less once again.

Somewhere in the crayfish meleé I did however think of an answer to my own question of

Q. what makes something a pest?

A. We do.

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There was something I meant to share with all my fellow anglers on my last blog but felt that before I made mention of it that it needed a bit more research and Field testing.
On my last few sea trips I have struggled to shift the determined aroma of bait from my hands as it reeks (a fact Jeff off of Idlers Quest a avid sea angler will confirm for sure) and whilst trying to find a hardcore detergent I found this stuff.

And it is brilliant!!! It shifted crab, squid, rag worm and lug worm stink no problem. Having now brought it home and tried it on several flavours and baits including the source which is a renowned stubborn one I feel confident to recommend it to anyone. And not only does it work but the other half will not object to it gracing the kitchen sink unlike a trade size pot of swarfega.

Happy hand washing.