Return to the river.

It seems like forever since I've paid the Avon any attention. I have had an odd look here and there since the season opened up, but frankly I've been a bit preoccupied with trying to catch a crucian out of Napton Reservoir. Anyway whilst away on holiday the idea to get my arse in gear and head back to the river really came to the forefront of my mind. It just happened that a bit of rain the few days before I got back had the river in tip top conditions for my return.

I have a new membership for a bit of the Avon which some of my angling buddies have been recommending for years, which this year I decided to get on. So with a couple of rods set up ready to go I decided to head down the A46 for a morning session. Normally I would have tried to be on the bank for first light, but my early morning bumbling roused BB and he discovered some presents which had been stashed in his room that were to big too transport on holiday, so my leaving was delayed a little whilst they were opened.

In the end I found myself pulling up in the car park around 9am and shockingly there was only two other cars evident. Where was everyone? I asked myself, as I had suspected everyone would be on the river given the conditions. The first angler I came across was on the first peg through the gate and a quick chat turned up that he'd already had three chub and two barbel from out in the faster water. This was good news and got me quickly heading off looking for a swim up river. I soon found a great looking swim where the fast water is deflected by a big bed of reeds and with the extra colour on the water it looked great for the barbel I so much wanted.  

Trying to be as careful as I could I gently cast into the crease with a PVA bag full of goodies attached to my rig. Although I did receive several taps of interest I was soon recasting again and again, working my way down the crease in subsequent casts towards some cover where I suspected the barbel might be lying in wait. After a few hours I was getting concerned I may have missed or messed up my shot at a barbel from this swim, but rather than just move off I opted to make one final cast a bit further out, away from the crease I'd been targeting into the faster water.

I'd been sitting on the cast for a good fifteen minutes before another angler from upstream dropped by to see how I was doing. We'd been whacking on for ten minutes as I kept an eye on the white rod tip out the corner of my eye. I clocked a slow nod of the tip which grabbed my attention then a quick sharp pull got my hand hovering over the rod and then bang, as predicted, the rod bent over as the fish tuned onto the weight of the lead.

In the fast shallow water I lent hard on the fish to stop it finding any of the weed beds which I knew lay hidden by the coloured water.  A long pause with both of us refusing to give an inch ended when the fish was pushed down stream by the flow... then all hell broke loose in the deeper clearer water under my own bank. This powerful fish worked me hard to keep it from getting back over the river into the fast water but everything held true and the soft action of my rod soon subdued the fish and a gaping mouth lined with barbules appeared on the surface before what looked a big fish slipped into the net.

After letting the fish recover in the water I lifted the net out and put it onto he mat. I lifted back the folds of the net to reveal a perfect long lean summer fish. I can truly say I was beaming with the sight of this perfect first barbel off of a new stretch of river, and my companion who had stood silent the whole fight seemed very impressed too. We both agreed it looked to be a good one though on the scales my suspicion that it was in lean condition proved true and even given its long length the fish was only 7.14lb. 

Maybe in the winter this fish could have been at least nine pounds or more. The weight though hardly mattered at all to me as I was over the moon that I should catch such an amazing fish for my first barbel off a new stretch of river.

The rain came in quickly after that and I opted to make a tactical retreat, but I was back a few days later to fish another swim aways downstream. This time the river had cleared and with that in mind I had brought a second lighter rod along to fish the maggot feeder upstream of the barbel rod, with the hope that the maggots going downstream, combined with the activity from other fish might draw up any wary barbel to have a look see what was going on. The plan actually worked, but not quite exactly as I wanted it to. The maggot line was alive with fish chasing the freebies as I dropped the feeder again and again onto the same spot at the head of the swim. Roach, dace, gudgeon and perch were queuing up waiting for the feeder to release more free maggots into the flow.

As the session went on the interest in my downstream rod increased slowly but surely. It took a while but random jags on the rod tip indicated something was afoot. Soon enough the rod bent over hard as something took the bait. After those initial moments when you lean into a fish feeling something powerful abated, the fish power dwindled and I realised the chub had turned up, attracted by all the activity. The first fish was a greedy two pounder but the second was a much longer fish just under four pounds, which like that first barbel would be much larger come winter.

The bug had really bit and another evening session was penned into my diary for a week or so later, after seeing that the long range forecast predicted another deluge of rain to bring the river into peak condition.

I arrived as quick as I could get there after work to find only one car in the car park, and after rushing over the fields to the river I scouted the whole section, baiting up a few spots as I went. The other angler was nowhere near where I wanted to fish and after a quick chat and finding out that although he was really after the silvers he had been skinned out a couple of time by big fish. This was perfect, no other anglers and feeding fish, how could I fail..?

The scene of my first barbel capture seemed the logical starting point and I was soon set-up and watching the river, trying to figure out the water in front of me as the added water and flow had seemingly changed the whole dynamic of the swim. It didn't take long to figure I'd chosen the most complicated swim to start with. There must have been seven or more areas in front of me screaming for a bait to go on them. In the end I began close in targeting a small crease right under my own bank. This produced nothing at all so I went about casting into each area I thought might hold barbel one after another for the next three hours. In the end I spent far too much time trying to logically cover the whole swim, in which time Mick had turned up and headed off upstream to fish for predators.

Having kind of shot myself in the foot time-wise, I decided to move downstream to fish one of the swims I had pre baited. With only enough time to fish one last swim I missed out a couple I had dropped bait into and went for the one I thought most likely to produce in the conditions. It was quite a simple swim I went to, with a large bed of bulrushes at the head that was creating a crease right down the centre of the river between the fast and slow water.

My first cast sent a tasty bag of morsels quickly down to the river bed just in the fast water, attached to a two ounce lead. The reaction was instant as my pre baiting already had fish nosing around on the gravel. Convinced the rod was going to bang over I had to sit on my hands as the small fish attacked the hook bait. I waited patiently and as I did, the rod soon indicated the presence of a bigger fish. A couple of nods later and the rod was nearly ripped of the rest and I was into a barbel. The initial savagery subsided and an interesting battle ensued in the slow water. It was only about four pound but this solid and fresh barbel took no prisoners as it dived into every possible place it could get snagged. In the end though the fact I was fishing gear capable of landing even the biggest fish won the fight and I netted an immaculate barbel that saved my session. 

The next cast produced the same response but this time I thought I'd hooked a small chub or something until I went to lift it out and a tiny sub pound barbel managed to shake itself off the hook, vibrating mid-lift, and dived straight back into the river. They were only small but two barbel in two casts were good numbers for me. I really wanted to get my bait right onto the bait I had put down earlier so I tried my very best to land the rig and new bag of freebies on the very centre of the crease. In doing so though I tightened up and it was more than obvious my bait was on the inside of the crease in the slow water. I decided to give it a chance and wait, letting it sit there for fifteen minutes at least, but I didn't feel in was the best place for it at all. 

The bite came out of nowhere with no warning which made it all that more shocking. One moment the rod was stationary the next it was bending double, lifting the butt out of the rests. Straight away I could feel this was a fish in another league. It powered all over the swim through both the fast and slow water with me just holding on tight and trying my best to steer it away from any hazards. After covering every bit of water in front of me, the fish dived straight into some lillies in the slow water, but its power and my power linked by the line just cut straight though the stems leaving the pad floating away downstream. A few dives later and I had what I knew was a good barbel in the net. As it rested in the water I made the call to Mick to ask for a spot of help taking a photo or two which turned out to be a brilliant decision as my camera phone, although great in day light, was useless in the half light. Luckily Mick brought his camera and I was soon proudly holding up my first double from this new stretch and beaming from behind all ten pounds and seven ounces of it.

In three close sessions this new bit of river has proved exactly how honest it is. By that I mean; it looks like it should contain barbel and chub and it does, it looks healthy and it seems it is and in the right conditions the fish should feed and they do. Which for the Warwickshire Avon, isn't that common from what I've seen in the past. A lot of the time I fished sections of the Avon and thought, this has to be a good area for this or that, and been let down. This place though seems different and I hope my theories about other different sections come to fruition over the autumn and winter. If they do, well, a few more red letter days for other species could be on the horizon.

Committed to something big.

My soul yearns to feel that extended adrenalin rush when you hunt for something more special than the norm, for that moment when you hook some unseen monster than pulls so insanely hard that you think you'll never control it, for when you see the fish of lifetime roll onto the surface and the feeling of panic before it's in the net that is so sickening. It's because of this need that I've pigeon holed myself into chasing a true specimen these last few weeks and as the time for river fishing is ever dwindling, it's there that I've sought one.

Three sessions ago I searched for a pike on the Avon. Initially it was a zander but the river was considerably clearer than expected, hence zander became pike. I concocted a plan to fish a winding section of the Avon which is known to hold some very nice pike in the slacker water through winter. I arrived and fished and blanked. By mid morning I'd searched the entire stretch and felt that I was wasting my time covering the ground again with the same method. So I took the dead rods back to car to swap them for a medium weight lure outfit I had stashed in the boot. My hope was to make something happen and at least avoid the absolute blank. Sadly the best I managed in a second pass of the entire stretch was a single follow by a near double figure pike. I watched that fish follow the lure right into the shallows to the point where it saw my ugly mug and shot off.

Two sessions ago I returned to the Avon after some very heavy rainfall to find it looking perfectly coloured for a daytime zander session. This time everything felt so right that I stuck it out zarbelling in a known zander hunting area for most of my session. The only movement on my rod tip was from the last few bits of debris coming down the river and hitting my line. In the end with only an hour or so left to fish I scampered off to a slack downstream. The bait had only been in the water two minutes when the tip nodded positivity. I waited and waited for a second indication before striking at a soft pull which resulted in nothing. The next hour was probably one of the most frustrating times I've had zander fishing. I knew for sure in the big slack in front of me was quite likely a large amount of zander and that if I could get into them it would be just a numbers game before I found a big one. Over the next hour I had run after run, tug after tug and every strike resulted in nothing. In the end, time ran out on me and I had to leave but I feel that should I have gone to that spot earlier I might have been able to crack the finicky bites by ringing the changes in my rigs, as those zander I felt were still just about feeding.

My last session though was by far the most punishing. With two blanks under my belt I felt I needed to head for a bit of a banker location. My old mucker Andy had mooted that he was heading over to Saxon Mill to do some trotting and pike fishing. It was as I pondered all the silvers and predators stacked up above the mill weir that it occurred to me that there should by rights be a few big river perch hanging around all those prey fish as well. So I concluded to join Andy and target the perch instead of silvers and of course it would have been rude not to fish a pike rod as well.

As per normal I was late arriving and Andy was already set up and running a float repeatedly down the river through the area where the larger proportion of the silvers shoal up. The shallower water below him held no interest for me, so I headed up stream a little to the one area here that screamed perch.

Seriously, how could this swim not hold a massive stripy somewhere, it was perfect with the flow decreasing closer to the far bank. The only problem was that the bank above me seemed a little to eroded for me to sit comfortably without fear of it collapsing. So I concluded to have to fish it straight on rather than from upstream a little.

I wanted to keep it simple and cheap. There was no way I was going to be filling the swim in with chopped worm as the huge amounts of silvers would mop that stuff up quickly. So I decided to fish a maggot feeder filled with red maggot's that had a bit of chopped worm mixed in to flavour them up and use half a lob worm a hook bait. 

You know I have never been so confident that something special was going to turn up, when on my first four casts I hooked a quartet of roach bigger than I've caught of the mill in years. Even downstream Andy could make out the much bigger size of the fish I was catching and made his opinion quite clear. It was my blind confidence of the impending big fish that made me not bother photographing anything and just push on and fish. But the harder I pushed the more I changed the situation! More casting meant more maggots going in and that just pulled more fish upstream and even a few inches of lob worm wasn't deterring the smaller silvers from eating it. In the end I had to back off and cut out the feeding which just stopped the bites entirely. It quickly turned into a no win situation as all I was catching was silvers and I figured those prey fish would be that confident to feed if there was any big perch in the swim.

In the end my only hope for really getting my chain pulled was left in the hands, or fins, of the resident pike. Now it's worth saying that I have never fished this bit of river and not had some kind of pike action. Till this occasion that is! What do you know, we never had a single run from two rods fishing different rigs in probably the most pike infested bit of the Warwickshire Avon. I fear that the dropping temperature through the morning may have been a factor in the lack of pike action and even catching a load of quality roach and dace early on I felt once again unsatisfied after committing to catch a specimen. Andy though finished off the morning very well after working hard trotting in the freezing weather all morning and filling his net up with a mess of roach and dace.

In truth I had forgotten what it can be like chasing after big fish. The famines can go on for some time and it seems like sheer madness to week in and week out take that gamble and forgo catching lots of fish for the chance of a monster. I know I will continue to bang my head against this brick wall though  until I feel I've satisfied my need and caught something a bit more special, as after all it's still freezing cold and things have to get better as the temperature rises..

Dace chase.

Although I can't rightly remember the first time I fished Saxon as it was that long ago, I do remember that it was love at first sight. Anyone else who reads this and has fished there knows full well it is not the resplendent summer river I talk of, but is instead the bare naked, freezing cold winter that inspires us anglers out of bed way before dawn to secure a good pitch.

Once the temperatures begin to drop before Christmas, the fish from miles up river seem to drop down and congregate in huge numbers above the ancient weir. Any of the ten or so accessible spots above the weir are well populated throughout winter, but the last three in my opinion are some of the best winter fishing spots on the Warks Avon you will find. The only fly in the ointment of this wonderful bit of river that gives so much when the going is so hard, is how little respect is given to it by some of the anglers that frequent it. Not really wanting to point any fingers, but beer cans of all nationalities are always present littering the banks, along with all kinds of rubbish like ground bait bags, old margarine tubs that were probably makeshift bait tubs, food packaging, coffee cups, tackle packets and so much more. 

It incenses me to see all the mess left by people who come here. This bit of water has been and will be an oasis in many an anglers long fruitless winter and really should be respected by those who fish there. Seriously, how much bloody effort is it to take the rubbish away. For me it was a sad day when Leamington Angling Association passed up the opportunity to acquire this gem of the Avon. I feel sure had they taken it on they could have done wonders with this lawless bit of river.

Back to fishing though and it is one species that draws me to these muddy banks, the dace. I have real soft spot in my heart for the dace and there aren't that many opportunities to catch them round these parts. In fact the numbers of them at Saxon Mill does seem to have dropped in comparison to the amount of small roach present, but still they are here and with the plying of plenty of maggots you can work your way through the numbers to root out a few better ones here and there.

More often than not it's the float, or more specifically trotting a float, that people use on this venue. For me though the maggot feeder works best. So in the dark the other day I struggled to thread a loop of line through a tiny swivel atop a small maggot feeder ready for the light to come up enough for me to begin feeding the horde. The light finally came up and I swung out the first feeder brimming with fresh maggots to a run two thirds across the river. The feeder barely made bottom before the tip was bouncing under the attack of hundreds of hungry fish.

It took a few casts to get into the swing of things, but soon I was repeatedly dropping the feeder onto a area about the size of a pool table and with plenty of feed on the bottom, things calmed down enough for me to wait for a solid pull of the tip before striking into a fish. The roach were coming one a chuck and did so for maybe half an hour before I landed a small dace. With this place it's just a case of numbers and I worked the numbers hard all morning, fishing with the rhythm of a match angler until finally I found a few nicer sized dace. 

With this many silver fish present and this much activity concentrated in one spot it is always going to attract some attention and Saxon Mill has its fair share of fish thieving pike. A couple of splashing silvers had been torn from my line and several others had been slashed at through the morning, but these pike weren't dealing with the average dace angler were they. I've fished here so much I know exactly how they attack and I had brought along a pike rod especially for the job.

I fished a small dead roach on a free running paternoster two feet off the bottom in the flow. By mounting the dead roach with a slight bend in it, I could see it moving around in the flow, pretty much like a hooked fish. Using such a cumbersome rig it took a bit of effort a few casts to make sure it was tangle free, wiggling around in the area just below where I was lifting fish from the water and tossing them back. It didn't take long for the bite alarm to bleep a little as the rod tip bent over and the line pulled from the clip of the drop off indicator. After a fierce and frantic battle a solid jack pike was landed, had its picture taken and was released well away from where I was fishing.

The next attacker ripped into the spinning dead bait so hard I barely had chance to blink before line was whizzing off the reel. Luckily I had set the free spool very lightly on the reel or the rod may well if taken a dive into the river. I don't think that fish had the bait fully in its mouth, as after a single run it just seemed to let go.

A while later I saw some odd pike behavior. After answering the call of nature in the scrub behind me I returned and before sitting down I peered into the water. Was it not for an odd pinkish growth protruding from her mouth I would have never seen the decent sized pike lying a foot from the bank in the dead weed bed, but once I'd clocked her head I could soon pick out the other three foot of her. After a while she rose up in the water and swam up stream. Thinking I'd never see her again, I sat and got ready to fling more maggots, but as I bent over to load up the feeder I saw her drift back into the edge from downstream and settle close to where I'd seen her before. This was too good an opportunity to miss, so I slowly picked up the pike rod and carefully drew the bait back in towards her. She definitely saw it, I could tell from the way see moved a little as if to line it up, but then she turned back.

I watched that pike for half an hour as she observed the bait, moved off and returned to her spot. She did this three times and every time I was sure she'd hit the bait when she came back, but no nothing. Then after she moved off again a second slightly smaller fish came moving in quickly. This one was going to have the bait for sure, but then the one with the growth drifted in and the new fish bolted off. Finally thinking she just wasn't into feeding I gave up on her and moved the bait back out into the flow a bit. 

The pike distraction over I began casting the feeder again and happily the silvers were still lined up ready to go. But after a few casts fish came flying out of the water just beyond my casting zone as they were chased by a predator. Quickly I chucked the dead bait into the area and sat it on the rests. I'd not even sat down before something took the bait violently. I struck hard and was soon playing another hard fighting pike. After running me a merry old dance right through where I'd been fishing sending fish scattering clean out the water, I managed to subdue the angry fish into the net. It wasn't a huge fish but it was bigger than the first, and like that fish it too was heavily patterned and certainly well fed.

After releasing that last pike to sulk under a tree in the margins upstream I went back to the maggot feeder to finish off the session. Sadly though that last pike's antics, combined with a clearing sky, had changed the dynamic of the area I'd been feeding. For all my efforts with the last of my bait I only scraped a few more small roach to finish off the session. I wasn't disappointed though after catching literally hundreds of silvers, a few nice examples of my target species and two nice pike. I reckon that I had pretty damn good session as once again Saxon Mill came through on a cold winter morning.

Old rivers.

Rivers by nature are reborn all the time. Courses change over time, the winter floods wipe them clean and change their features year on year. Though most places will look similar there are undoubtedly changes that can be seen if a lifetime is spent walking their banks. On the other hand there are places on most rivers that through time, stand still and hardly change at all. These spots that never seem to change have a strange feeling of age about them, and the stretch I had chosen for my very first trip to the river of the new season feels old, very old indeed!

Ask anyone who fishes Saxon mill and they will tell you that once you cross that bridge and step onto the ancient cobblestone path you undoubtedly feel as if you are stepping into history. The graffiti alone reveals just how long the weir has been channelling that water into the weir pool and just sitting next to it, the notion of how many other anglers for hundreds of years sat in exactly the same spot before me, doing just the same.

I don't know exactly what it is that causes that distinctive smell that weirs produce, but I do know that smell is food for the soul of the early morning angler. Later in the day it dies away as your senses become accustomed to it, but by then usually the mystery of the turbid waters takes hold and you become immersed in your surroundings as you try to fathom where, in such a complicated environment, might be best to drop your bait. 

I think it is mystery that draws us to weir pools. Its obvious what sort of fish we seek in what areas of them, but you can never rely on what you know with a weir pool. You might cast into a slack hoping for a carp and catch a tench, or run a float down slow water looking for a roach and catch trout. Either or any way you never quite know what will come next and this is the mystery that draws us to them.

It was that mystery that turned my head the other morning. I should have walked straight on by after looking from the bridge on my way to my intended spot, but I just could not do it as the lure of the weir was just to much. I just  had to have a go. Ask yourself, could you walk by when it looked this good...

'Just a quick cast then on I go' I told myself.  'You probably wont get a bite' I said in hushed tones trying to reassure myself I would move on as intended. Then moments after the lead found hard bottom; tap tap bang! A small chub engulfed my meat. That sealed the deal, I was staying a bit longer than one cast. The next one again found a lovely clear spot towards the tail end of the run. With tension on the line and the random patterns of flow tugging gently at my rod tip, I sat back to wait. 

It didn't take long for a single knock to indicate a little interest and sit me upright in my seat. Even knowing a fish was around, it still came as a shock as the rod buckled over and the spool began to spin. My strike met solid resistance and hooped violently over. I cannot and will not deny verbalising my thoughts out loud to myself that I had hooked a barbel. However the initial violence subsided and when no savage runs were forthcoming my hopes of a barbel, or a carp for that matter, faded.

Whatever it was, it was giving me some serious stick in the powerful water and I had no idea of its identity until it seemed to pull backwards. Cursing myself for forgetting, I remembered this had happened to me before many years ago on the first peg downstream of here; the same situation only on the first day of the season, and that day it turned out to be exactly what I now suspected this was. A big river eel.

Two casts into the Avon and I was going to get royally slimmed up. If it wasn't that I actually quite like catching eels I would of been livid. With my expectations adjusted I was very happy to see a thick green body spinning in the current attached to my line and this one, like the other, was no boot lace ether.

Self takes are not easy at the best of times and self takse holding small eels are impossible. Trust me I know from experience. But once they get above a certain size eels seem to behave not too badly on the bank, and this 2.7lb one was almost cordial as it lay in the folds of my net in the long grass. The hook was right in the centre of its bottom lip and once that was out it kept quite still as I gently lifted it up for a quick picture.

I don't know why I cast again. I know that normally where there is one there are others, hence my next cast ended much the same way only with a smaller eel on the hook and that one ruined my hook link irreparably. That did move me on.

My next intended port of call was the very first peg of the downstream section and the very place that I had been duped before. Even though I knew there was a chance the same might happen again I still ventured forth as other more special fish have grace my net in that spot. I had not though taken into consideration how much time might have changed this swim and after forcing my way through the head high nettles and cow slip, I was confronted with a much altered swim that seemed not to be a good option, with a large log only a few feet out and dead centre of the swim.

With little choice I carried on downstream using my seat like a shield to defend myself from nettles,  trying to limit my already growing collection of stings. The only real option for a cast was right at the bottom of the run where the river breaks hard left at forty five degrees, in a swim known as tramps corner. Its a bit of bleak place as its name implies. Most of the chancers and poachers that sneak a cheeky day here spend their day drinking Special brew or Tyskie under these trees. Apart from that its not a half bad swim; carp and tench often can be seen in the shallow slack on the opposite side of the river where lily pads grow out of the flow.

My first job was to scatter a liberal amount of pellets into that slack to hopefully get any passing fish to stop and have a feed. Whilst that brewed away I amused myself by fishing worms for perch just off the flow. In the past I have had some decent perch from this swim but I don't think I, or anyone else, has ever seen the true potential this swim has to offer.

A few casts in and the perch dutifully turned up, possibly attracted by the maggots I was distributing upstream or maybe by the flashing of silver fish intercepting them as they fell. After an hour I was building the swim up nicely and the fish did seem to be getting bigger, up to a pound and a half. Then out of nowhere there was an awful commotion and the swim erupted with dace flying in all directions. At first I suspected a pike had arrived which is not unusual here, but the the worst culprit possible popped out up right over the spot I was saving for later. A huge cormorant with a white throat bobbed up with a still wriggling dace in its beak. It pancaked, flapping desperately to get airborne just as I was scrabbling for a projectile to throw at it.

That was it for tramps corner. Every fish had scattered in a panic to get away and my once highly active swim swim seemed dead as a dodo. Going downstream where it had emerged from seemed a senseless move and with the two upstream pegs not much of a better option, the weir or higher seemed the only prospect. Just as I packed up Baz let me know he had turned up to trot on the mill race so my only option was the still free weir pool.

Luckily no one turned up as I raced through the undergrowth, though once ensconced again Baz did come down for a chat as the white throated bugger had circled the field, landed above his swim  and pulled the same swim ruining ruse to him. As for the weir, its time had passed and not much action was forthcoming at all on my meat line. The last hour saw me contact a slew of beautiful perch fishing a light rig out in the slack area but as for the chance of anything big, I did not hold out much hope.

A few months away from the Avon and I had forgotten how fickle it can be. If you're in the the right swim and the fish are on the feed you can bag up, but it does seem like when its low and clear as it is right now, there is only a small window to catch. Add a few predators into the mix and and the fishing can be over and done with in the blink of an eye.

Fishing in a winter wonderland.

I feel lucky too know of a special spot on old mother Avon, that when the weather is at its most horrid you can be guaranteed some wondrous sport. Fishing there can be so good in fact, that I would quite easily go as far as to say that it can be more consistent bite wise on bad day, than most others rivers on their very best of days.

Years ago I, like empty beer cans, was a regular feature of this understated bit of the Avon. My seasons would begin in the dark on June 16th attempting to hook hold of a rare barbel. During the summers I would jig the deep clear waters for perch and rampant jack pike. Then as autumn crept in chub could be relied upon to feed amongst the dying weed. But of all the seasons to be enjoyed sitting aside running water it was winter that was most enjoyable here, as when the cold easterly wind brought snow from Europe that was when the dace became king. And what dace they were too!

Nowadays it is only those dace which lure me back to this ancient river bank, and conditions this weekend just passed seemed torrid enough for a date to surely to be set. Truthfully we had it in our minds to travel to another place, but four hundred miles of driving to freeze half to death did seem slightly pointless on such a day. So after a myriad of suggestions, the name of old reliable was uttered and we were off.

Dace as far as I am concerned are the most underrated of our course fish. If I was to say that on our last session myself and Mr Lewis caught ourselves fourteen or more carp of between twenty and thirty pounds in under five hours, you would think I had surely gone mad. On the other hand if I said we had caught fourteen dace of between six and ten or more ounces... Well that statement would probably not raise so much as an eye brow, and considering that pound for pound or ounce for ounce they are just about the same comparatively, I think it would prove my point aptly.

What makes this even more amazing is that these fish were all caught on probably less than five pounds worth of bait; when was the last time you read about anyone catching even one carp on anything less than fifty pounds worth of bait.

As I knew would be the case, once positioned knee deep in freshly deposited mud in the half light, bait flowing, the bites came quick and fast. Though my first catch of the day was to have a total weight probably the same as everything other fish we caught put together, and maybe a few more too boot.

You see not only does this dace abundance provide great fishing for us but it also provides good feeding for pike, and most of the pike for miles converge at this time of year, like us, on this section. Oh, and are they a thieving bunch for sure. How many small dace have been stolen from me here I could not count on all my digits and yours. Feeders and floats to seem to be regularly taken on the retrieve as the pike here are that wound up in the frenzy.

The most unbelievable situation I ever experienced first hand, happened after I hooked a tiny dace which flipped my hook. My still baited hook was taken as it sank by a second dace which I began to reel in. This  fish was then grabbed by a small pike of maybe four pounds which bent my rod double. After playing the pike for a while I was thinking it may get landed if my luck held and then a bigger pike grabbed that one and ended the whole debacle in a flash.

Knowing the amount of pike present and having two predator rods in my quiver for the afternoon session I was always going to put out a bait just in case. But I never thought one would come along so soon!
My first enquire from a dace had just been spectacularly missed and as I loaded my feeder full of magics again I caught a slight bounce on my other rod tip from the corner of my eye. At first I wondered if I had knocked the rod as I was re-baiting my feeder then it bounced again with a little more venom.
Normally it takes an hour or so for the predators to move into that small zone right at your feet where the small fish exit and re-enter the water. Today though someone was already resident in the kill zone and my bait had dropped right into its lair.

Before I had even had chance to land a single lovely silver dace I found myself striking into a pike as it moved off. I don't know why but I always assume it's going to be a naughty little jack pike here. Maybe it's because when the water is clear you can see the little buggers racking up under your feet ready to attack your catches  Today was no different, and assuming it was just another jack I powered straight into it and gave it some real stick. It did not take long to get it on the surface where through the still murky light I sight as I thought a decent enough jack pike. Then it ploughed off like a steam train. This was when Andy called over suggesting I take it a bit easy that I replied " pah... it's just a little one with a big attitude" to which he replied
"I reckon that's a bit bigger than you think". When it next surfaced shaking its head I will admit it did look a bit bigger. Then when the net slipped under, it didn't seem that big again. But when I picked the net up and set eyes on its bulk filling my predator spoon, I did finally agree that I may have been a bit gung ho with this lovely lady.

What a start to a mornings fishing! I had not even taken my head light off and here I was wrestling with a plump mid double pike in the stickiest mud in Warwickshire.

It took a while to settle down after I returned her safely upstream and recast another dead bait back into the that kill zone, but soon enough I got my head down and caught up with Andy, who was by now swinging in dace and roach in one after another.

The silver fishing was out of this world as expected. Running a float through was scoring hard for Andy and fishing a tiny maggot feeder kept me striking all morning as the snow began to fall. The float as expected registered more bites, but as I have often felt, the feeder seemed to sort out a larger class of dace quicker rather than having to wade through all the tiny ones to catch a big one here or there.

All in all the stamp of fish was great and if only could have caught just one dace the length of Andy's longest fish and the girth of my fattest fish, we may of actually stood a real chance of landing a one pound dace from the Warwickshire Avon.

By noon I was clean out of magics and quite frankly caked in fish slime. After another enjoyable dace bashing session my only regret was that I never got one single picture of one of those lovely dace as I was to wrapped up in catching them to remember to get any pictures. Oh well, all I can to do is go back again try for that pounder or maybe even a twenty pound pike.

That's it! enough is enough.

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.

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

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.

A new Day

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.

Day trip fishing.

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.