Last gasp success.

One of those days comes round every so often when with all experience and knowledge the fishing is just terrible. I had hit the tow path around midday in an area I knew held pike, perch and zander in range of sizes going from uh right through ahhhh. I had started in a spot that has produced some startling captures in the past and which is generally quite reliable, only to receive about as much attention as a white crayon. 

I worked that canal over like I have never worked anywhere before in my life. I was methodical and broke down every area I fished into zones and covered each with varying tactics. Lures were changed, line was scaled down and the variations of retrieve were just about incomprehensible, but still nothing could raise a take.

By two hours in I was dreaming about pole fishing and by four hours I had come to the conclusion that the only possible explanation was that a mass alien fish abduction had taken place. But we all know that isn't true and the fact was that the fish were just switched off or were at least switched off to what I was doing! It was a bit of a pisser really as this was really the only session I would get over the weekend and here I was with it dribbling away in what I thought was perfect conditions.

After working tight along the margins for what seemed like miles I resigned to give in and turned tail for the car. By the time I was in sight of the auto mobile the canal had began to look good again, but I just didn't have it in me to make any more casts. Instead I concluded to just tow a small orange paddle tail along the margin until I had to turn off to get to the car.

Lazily I tugged and dropped the lure backward and forward until I could see the path that lead me off the canal. I was somewhere between dreaming of mixed grills or beer when the line went solid. I swear I would have just yanked violently for the break if the line hadn't of surged off in the canal. Holy sweet Jesus, Mary and Joseph it was a fish.. a wonderful slimy wriggling writhing fish. I was as gooey eyed as Gollum with a trout in his hands by the time it was middle cut, and then I got the most spectacular fight I have had in years.

The little jack went in acrobat mode and lunched itself from the water little a tarpon shaking its mouth violently from side to side. It had only just disappeared back into the water when it came cartwheeling out again. After shooting into the margin and me reeling down, it tail walked into a third jump projecting itself a good three feet out of the water. Bearing in mind this jack was little more than a couple of pounds it would not give up. Every time I got it near the net it shot off across the surface until the pressure of the line and clutch sent it into a little jump. After it nearly jumped onto the bank I made a daring scoop for my prize. It did go in the net but no net was going to hold this determined fellow. It only began trying to jump out of the net which resulted in me having to lift it from the water and keep it wrapped up until I could find my forceps.

I have to give this little fighter credit for being the most determined and hard fighting Jack I have ever seen. Though I think there might be a clue to why this fish was so eager to escape on its flank. Given that this fish is probably only a few years old, the scar two thirds of the way down it's body looks to me like it's guile and determination may have already got it out of a much bigger cannibal pikes mouth some time not so long ago. 

Maybe it thought it had been got again and thats was the reason for it's very impressive display or maybe it was just a particularly spirited young jack. Either way I don't mind because it absolutely made my day with its antics and was the perfect way to end a generally poor session.

One Last Run. part 4

The sun was warm on his face and George felt as relaxed as he ever had. From his lounger he looked over the garden at Cynthia as knelt over the flower bed wearing that old straw hat she always wore and old flannel shirt of his she had rescued from the rag box. She always hummed as she pottered in the garden and although it was no particular tune, the sound of her humming away always made him feel happy. Content in the moment he closed his eyes and rested his head back into the warmth of the sun.

“Are you going to lie around all day George?” she called softly across the lawn

“It is quite possible my dear”

“You know there’s other chores need doing in the garden”

“But darling you love gardening and I would want to take away what you love”

“mmm… Well I don’t love pruning back that infernal gorse bush that’s popped up in the front garden”

“I’ll do it in a while. Right now I am ever so comfortable”

“Don’t make me come over there husband!”

“I think my dear wife that you might just need to come over here and persuade me somewhat”

He never heard her approach and only when her silhouette blocked the sun did he realize he had been called out.

“Up!”

“It’s going to take more persuading than that my dear”

“I’ll chuck a bucket of water over you and that will get you up?”

“Calm down all I am just asking for is a bit of a cuddle”

“You’re a soppy old bugger George”

Gently she slid onto the edge of the lounger put her arms around him and kissed him on the cheek. He couldn't have been more happy than he was right now sat with his love in his arms as the hazy sun warming them as they sat listening to the hypnotic sound  grasshoppers buzzing from somewhere over the garden.

A violent splashing woke him. Could it really be that he was wrong and the great fish still lived? He sat bolt upright before leaning over the edge. Expecting to see the fish writhing still tied to the boat he was shattered when he saw what disturbed the water. A big old dog otter clawed and bit at the pike under its gills tearing the flesh sending scales sinking down in the water. The sight of the otter eating the great fish was too much. Enraged, he grabbed for the oar and swung down hard onto the water well beyond the otter. It was more than enough to send the creature diving away from its free meal. Even with the otter well and truly sent packing he still swung the oar onto the water again and again screaming with anger until finally the oar contacted with the edge of the boat and snapped in two. Calm again he looked down at the fish. Not so long ago it had been perfection then he had killed it. Even dead it was still in some ways perfect but now at the hands of one hungry otter it had been tainted. There was no way he could leave her to be spoilt further, he had to take it back with him even just so others could see it dead and witness what a fish it once had been, even if they condemned him.  So he went about attaching it to his boat.

The head was still tethered so all he had to do was to get another piece of rope and secure the tail so the fish would be tight to the boat for the trip back. Wanting to get away before the otter returned he began priming the little seagull. The fact that it had been out and uncovered all night was a worry but he had to try. The normal six or seven pulls on the cord failed to spark life into the engine and after a few more he removed the petrol cap to check the fuel. There wasn't much but there was some and maybe even enough to make it back again. There was no way he would give up until that motor sparked up. A nasty blister had formed on his right hand were the rope rubbed when he tugged at the engine, well before it came to life one last time. The engine did not sound good at all. Running it was, but not in a healthy way for sure. The damp must have got into it or the fuel tank over night and now it sputtered occasionally as if about to stall. All he could do was chance it and give the little engine more gas. The boat moved and he was off. Having a large pike tethered to the side of the little tub made it handle very badly, the disturbance to the flow of the water round the hull caused the boat to drag on one side and he had to constantly compensate.  The engine still struggled and he could barely maintain a straight line never mind any speed. He was only just off the main Broad when the fuel reserve expired and again powerless he realised he was going to have to row all the way back. If only he hadn't of broken one of the oars fending away the otter then the rowing might have been easier, but with only one complete oar remaining it was going to be a long journey rowing Indian style with the single oar from the front of the boat.

He was far too old for this. In his youth he and a friend had spent a summer camping and canoeing on some of the Scottish rivers and lochs but that was more than fifty years ago when he was young and strong. Now every time he leant forward to dip the single oar into the water his back and shoulders ached. The muscles in his arms had not known exertion like this for many years and after the fight with the fish he wondered whether his old body would hold up long enough to get them both back to moorings.

He saw the first herring gull flying towards him low scanning the water for a meal. The moment it sighted him and the fish it let out a shriek and turned on the wing diving towards him. Holding the oar in the air and jabbing it in the bird’s direction halted its descent, but this was no timid otter, this was a true scavenger of the coast and lands, a real landfill hunter. Repeatedly it dropped out of the air and every time George waved his oar it screamed louder and louder. It was only a matter of time before it attracted more of its brethren. When they came they did en masse in a flock like the ones you see following a trawler on its way back to port, or tractor ploughing up a field. One he could deter, fifty he could not. For every one he batted off the fish two more dove in picking at the loosened flesh. One or two took hard enough shots to end up flailing on the water with broken wings.  For hours this went on as the whole fiasco drifted down the stream between the reeds. His defence of the fish grew less and he could hardly stop them turning the fish and his boat into a mess of gore and shit. When they had had their fill the birds just silently drifted away into the sky satisfied with their find, leaving him to survey the damage. The fish was hardly recognisable any more, now it just looked like a fleshy mess. It was as he peered down into the water that he saw the sea gulls were not the only ones who had found the carcass. Hundreds of tiny roach pecked at the unseasonal bounty and worst of all the vibration had brought the eels up from and they now took their piece too. The fish was disappearing and George could do nothing to stop it, all he could do was push on for home.

Even the sight of the dyke entrance after such an arduous experience did nothing to raise his spirits. It was all he could to slowly keep going after rowing all day. The boat turned easily into the dyke as if to help the broken old man out one last time. Panting and wheezing George called forth what little he had left to get up the last few hundred yards towards the deserted wooden moorings. It certainly didn't feel real as he pulled the oar from the water and let the boats momentum carry it thumping into the dock. With nothing left in the tank he grasped for the wooden platform scratching the skin from his finger tips on the rough surface as he did. For a moment he just sat with his head hung low panting. There was no thinking to be done no considering the situation. He simply tied off the boat to the dock with a single half hearted knot and then dragged himself slowly up onto the wooden stage. Unsteady on his feet he nearly dove head first into the reeds behind the walkway, he was that tired. He was about to walk away when he stopped in his tracks and thought of the fish. Turning back he could make out nothing but the very tip of its tail beyond the boat from where he stood. The image of that beautiful giant came back into his mind; then the sight of its haunting eye. Looking down towards the water he could still see the ripples caused by a million tiny scavengers emanating from where the carcass was still tied up. It was too much to bear, he had to walk away and resist one last look.

The walk along the lane was one he had made alone hundreds if not thousands of times before but this was the loneliest journey he had ever made. It was like he was trapped in a bubble and all he could hear was his own laboured breath as he plodded forth back towards his home. With little care of how long it had taken him to silently walk back, George suddenly found himself looking at the over grown gorse which dominated his front garden. “I really must do something about that” he said as he stepped around the bush towards the house. Inside it was cold and crisp. No heat came from the agar and he would not stop to light a fire in it either. Still in his own world he walked right by towards the creaky old stairs. After only two boards he stopped and exhaled before sucking in a deep breath and pushing on. It really did take the very last scrap of life to drag himself up those few wooden boards before turning off into his bedroom. Only his boots were removed before he dropped onto the bed and pulled the sheets around him where upon he softly slipped away.

For Peter, Mondays were always slow at school, having double maths and double science both on the same day. But this Monday was far worse than normal. The previous afternoon he had waited round at the mooring for George to return from his fishing trip. But after hours of hanging around darkness had fallen and his old mentor had still not returned. Concerned, Peter had gone up to the cafe to speak with the other anglers and inform them of George’s absence. More mockingly than concerned they discarded Peter’s worries saying that George was probably just fishing into dark. But even the young man’s assurance that George never fished into dark did nothing to incline them into action. After running home he had pleaded with his father to help him look into it but all his father said they could do was contact the community police officer over the phone.  PC Gallington had assured both Peter and his father that George had to actually be missing for some time before he could do anything and that it was more than likely that he was just out late fishing. None of this was good enough for Peter, he knew his old friend so well and he knew something wasn’t right. After a sleepless night he had thought to do an early runner out of the house and bunk off of school to go and looking for George, but his father anticipated this and was waiting downstairs when Peter tried to sneak out. Forced to go to school, Peter bided his time, but once that bell went no one would stop him from heading out looking for his friend.

Like a greyhound from a trap Peter burst out of the door knocking over two first years as he did. The moorings were on the opposite side of the village so he would have to use every alley and short cut he knew to shorten the journey. With his rucksack banging up and down on his back he charged through the streets in a record time until he found himself outside the cafe at the top of the lane. Strangely he could see others hurrying down the lane towards the alley that lead to the moorings. Running twice as fast he pushed his way past to get through until he came to a solid mass on mooring right by where George moored his boat. With thirty or more voices all talking in different directions he could barely make out what was going on. Desperate to get through he jumped down into another boat and then began unsteadily making his way forward. As he tried to avoid going in the water he heard his name called, “Peter!” It wasn’t his old friend calling him, but instead Johno.

“Peter have you seen it?”

“Seen what?”

“That!” Johno pointed frantically down to the walk way alongside George’s boat.

There lay the most unbelievable thing Peter had ever seen.  The head of the pike was huge! Probably close on a foot wide and certainly close on two feet long. It was perfectly intact all the way back to the gills. From there it was nothing but a four feet long skeleton. Every speck of flesh back from the solid head had been picked clean off the bone. The tail was still in near perfect condition from above were the rope had secured it out of the water even though it was a little dried up. It was amazing to see.

“How big do you think it was?” was all he could think to say? The now silent crowd burst in to action all speaking at once. Fifty, sixty and seventy pounds were all called out as well as every weight between. It was the bullish Johno who quietened them all down by yelling, “Shut the hell up will you’s.” He then held up a set of scales before calling for them to weigh it.

They all fell silent once again as two of them lifted what was left of the fish up to hang it on the scales. Struggling to hold the weight up high Johno peered down to read the weight.

“Well bugger me! Just over twenty pounds for the head and bones alone.”

The whole crowd burst out with some outlandish weights and the discussion went into over drive. It must have been half an hour before they all decided that with the head making up maybe only a quarter or fifth of the fishes weight eighty plus pounds was not out of the question. The whole time this was going on Peter just stared at the giant pikes lifeless eye. As he did he filled in the blanks of what might have happened and then he came back to his friend.

“Get out of my way,” he yelled pushing, his way along the moorings.

“Where are you going Peter?” called Johno

But all the young man called back was, “George!”

The house was not far away but Peter ran faster than he had ever done in his life before. He ran so fast that his feet hurt where he pounded them at the ground needing to go ever faster. He skidded round the last corner and finally caught sight of the over grown gorse hanging out of the garden. Not stopping for a moment he charged down the street and through the open gate.  He caught his knuckle on the stone covering of the wall but that didn’t stop him. What did though was when he reached the back door of the house and found it wide open. His heart pounded in his chest and he dared not call out. Slowly he crept into the door way. The house was freezing as if the door had been open all day and this worried Peter even more. Further in he went and called quietly as he went, “George… George are you in here?”  Silence was the only reply.

Peter had never been in to the house any further than the kitchen so once he parted the curtain that separated the kitchen from the sitting room he was in an alien place. The dank sitting room was like a museum. It was clean but everything looked to be years old. On the mantel piece he spotted a picture of George sitting in a deck chair with his shirt open and wearing sandals. In a black and white one he was in uniform and young, and in another he stood arm in arm with a beautiful young woman. Even with pictures of him everywhere George was nowhere to be seen. Peter delved on further in the unknown and went the door way into the hall and up the stairs.

The stairs creaked as stood on each one in turn and by the top Peter was convinced should George be at home he would off by now heard him, but still he went on anyway. At the top of the stairs he stood on the little landing with three doors all open in front of him. The bathroom was cold and empty and the second room was half filled with old junk so all that remained was the last open door. Not daring to look he walked towards the open door holding his breath. There, lying on the bed covered by a sheet was the shape of a human. No movement or sounds were obvious at all. Almost in tears Peter moved closer reaching out with his hand to make contact. His hand rested slowly onto the figure feeling for any life. Unable to detect anything he shook gently and quietly called out, “George,” but the silence still clung to the air. He had to try again so a second firmer shake moved the body back and forth but drew no answer.

As a last resort Peter reached to pull back the sheets and finally saw his friends face still and his eyes shut. He reached out and touched George’s cheek as he spoke, “Oh, George…”

There was warmth! He could feel warmth when he touched the wrinkled old cheek, “George!” he called loudly and his old friend’s eyes opened and with a dry voice crackled, “Hello, Peter”

“Hello, George” he relied joyfully with a smile

“I was having the strangest dream about lions”

“Lions!!!”

“Yes, they were running on a beach”

“Never mind lions. What about this giant fish?”

“Oh yes I’d forgotten about that. Put the kettle on and I’ll tell you all about it.”

Thank you to both Jacky and Jeff. 

Without all of your help, advice and patient editing 

I don't think I would have had the confidence to post this story.

One Last Run. Part 3

George was about to lift the rod and strike the now tightening line when he eyes traced the line back to the rod.  As his eyes focused on the rod, he noticed the line was not emanating from the tip ring as it should, but was instead dangling from somewhere back of the second eye. Knowing full well that should he strike now the chances were the line would snap or even worse severe the cane rod tip he calmly and deftly he flicked the rod gently up in the air and pulled the tip back through the water. The line now led directly out of the last ring and not to soon ether as the belly in his line was gone and the tension was not far away.

He sent the cane swishing through the air into an unearthly bend. That initial moment when the angler wonders what he has on and the fish does not realise it is hooked seemed to last an age. It wasn't until he struck the rod into the air once, then twice more to make sure the hooks were driven home, that the pike moved and when it did, it did so with nothing but pure ignorant power. The Mitchell reel sounded the movement before anything thing else got chance. The reel sang a verse begging him to ease the strain so he loosened the stiff clutch off straight away, relieving the pressure.  There was no panic from the pike at all as it resisted the pressure being applied from above; almost imperceptibly the force from below increased, turning the arching cane into a near hoop.

The words his father had passed down all those years ago rang through his mind, ‘It’s all about balance son. Light enough to trick the fish but heavy enough to land it. If it’s a monster, let it do its thing, hold on and pray your line don’t snap.’ So he let the fish do its thing and it took generously of the spool and headed straight for the sanctuary of the reeds. With no choice George had to manually break the spool and then try and turn the fish, but the pikes only compromise was to turn a little and move in line with the edge of the pool, forcing him to physically turn in the boat. Twice more the fish turned back on itself and kept plodding up and down the reeds until finally it found what it sought and buried itself behind a lone clump of reed standing three feet from the rest. He could see his line cutting into the water on the left side, the fish on the right making the water pulsate; he had no choice but to go over and try and free it. All the while trying to maintain pressure on the line he pulled the oar from the mud behind the boat, untangled the rope as best he could and pushed off in the direction of the snagged fish. It took a little time to catch up with the sagging line but luckily when he did he could still feel the occasional thump of contact. The reeds neared quickly and within moments he was positioned right over the fish. Instinctively he let the drag off so as the spool could spin freely should the worse happen and then he grabbed the closest oar before leaning over the side line in hand.

What George saw when he parted those reeds made his heart thump harder than the German’s flack did all those years ago. Three feet down in the gin clear water laid the most immense pike imaginable. He could only see from the gills back as its head was buried deep under the roots of the reeds, but what he could see looked to be almost five feet long and had a body as thick as a black Norfolk pig.  It was huge and tangled very badly deep down in the water. His only choice was to try and free it with the oar. The first time that oar touched it bucked violently rocking the boat from underneath and tangling itself further. This was never going to work, the more he tried the more he knew he would sooner or later part the line. Then it struck him! The reeds around which the fish was tangled actually sprouted the surface right there in front of him, he just had to pull them up. One by one he began pulling at the soft stems. At first they broke off but after grabbing four at once he clocked that they seemed to break less when pulled in a clump. He’d only managed to pull three small clumps, when on the forth the whole lot moved. He felt the root ball move off the mud and as it did he turned to see his line become tight again and his spool start to spin. Dropping the vegetation he dived for the rod grabbing hold of the now vibrating handle, as he did though an awful mess of line spilled from the spool. Keeping calm he wound carefully on the handle trying to clear the nest. How he got away with it was a miracle but the line untangled at his fingers as he reeled it through them. Now again the fish was free moving in open water and he stood a chance, if only a small one.

The fight so far, though eventful, had remained relatively calm as the giant pike continued plodding around the pool. The only issue now was that the boat on which George floated was not in any way anchored. Thus the powerful fish now towed it in any direction it chose to go. At first it was just round and round but soon enough the fish realised that it might stand a better chance out of the pool. Just like that it stopped circling and moved in the direction of the entrance to the hidden pool, dragging the boat with it. Why George suddenly panicked was anyone’s guess but he thought he should stop it leaving the pool and braked hard on the reels spool, gripping it with his hand. This only served to push the fish on and that’s when he came to the worst problem so far. Abruptly the spool of his old Mitchell reel locked up. Looking down his heart sank when he saw that age old classic problem associated with these reels; the line had at some point found its way behind the spool and was now jammed firmly, preventing any more line from winding on or off the spool. The only reason the massive beast had not snapped him up was all the give from the free moving boat. Now he was in trouble; attached to a massive pike, being towed around and with barely control of the fish at all. The pike passed though the reeds barely moving them an inch, the boat though, crashed through them like an elephant through the jungle. That was it, they were both out of the pool and travelling back along the little channel into nowhere.

It was midday by the time the fish stopped meandering up and down the channel. The sun was not far off as high as it would get today and George was getting hungry. The pike had stopped momentarily, probably sulking as pike are prone to, so he took the opportunity to first reach for his foil wrapped cheese sandwich that was hidden under the seat. Half watching where the line entered the water and half looking at the foil package he clumsily tore away the wrapping. It was never a meal he was going to savour as he chewed franticly at the crusty bread and pungent cheese. Luckily though the pike continued brooding long enough for him to manage to pour a tepid cup of tea and quickly swallow it. Not long after that they were off again down the channel like a speed boat towing a water skier. On and on the fish went with ceaseless stamina and as it did he could see the sun growing lower and lower in the sky.

Just before dusk the fish stopped again mid-way through a bend back in the main channel. George had watched the line for five or more minutes before deciding to take a chance whilst the fish was resting and he began to gently unscrew the wing nut so as to remove the spool and attempt to untangle the line. Turn by turn the spool loosened and then with the wing nut removed he slipped the spool off as if he were diffusing a bomb. Underneath it was a mess of grease and line. Unable to see entirely what he was doing he plucked at an errant loop which did untangle a large portion of the line from the nest, but only served to leave an even larger loop sticking out of the tangle and it was just then that the pike moved deep under the water. It only twitched but the hint of action was enough to force George to begin screwing the spool back onto the reel. With it back in place he stupidly gave into instinct and turned the reels handle and to his surprise found that the reel would actually recover line. But his rash action re awoke the beast and they were off again. The now free running spool again let line off to a certain extent, certainly until it reached the tangle again when it stopped once more. Why he tried it he would never know, but he reeled hard to recover the line. The fish would take it back and the line would stop every time it hit the tangle. At an estimate he figured he had some were near thirty feet of line between him and the pike.

It was a stalemate for the time being and as the mighty fish lead him along a merry dance he pondered his situation. He had been attached to the fish since before ten in the morning and now it was getting dark which at this time of year meant it was maybe five thirtyish. He did hope that the fish might of dragged him back to the Broad where all the other boats were fishing and the others piker’s could help him, but the fish as yet had not decided to lead them there. Next he thought of the fish. He had been fighting it for around six hours and he had seen its massive size, how long could this giant go on for? At one point he had wondered if cutting his line might have been his best option but the fish stood a good chance of starving to death with his hooks sealing its gullet, so he would never do that.  The only thing he could think to do was holding on and try to win, but on thinking this he realised this could well be a winner take all fight were one if not both of them could end up dead.

The cold of the night soon crept over the water. The fishes towing had slowed to a stop and he suspected it now rested, regaining its energy lying on top of the weeds. Still hanging onto the rod his hands now cramped up and his body began to shiver. Knowing the cold had become a player in this battle he jammed the rod between his legs whilst he fumbled for the boat cover to wrap himself in. Now with his all his layers of clothing, coat and a leatherette boat cover wrapped around him George knew he stood a chance of not freezing to death on the water that night. With the wind holding tension on the line he concluded to try and rest a little by curling up in the prow of the boat wrapped up still clutching his bent over cane rod.

It was the jolt of movement that roused him from his half sleep. The pike was done with resting and now so must he be. Disorientated he looked around for something familiar and the only thing he found was the bent over rod. It wasn't a dream or a nightmare at all, this was really happening. 

Slowly the fish moved off towing the boat again. George was still rubbing the sleep form his eyes and could barely make out his surroundings in the semi dark at first but then the shadows and silhouettes became familiar. They were back in the Broad and things were soon to become very eventful. Stiff and drained both physically and mentally he knew that he was making no head way in the battle between him and the fish. He had to do something to turn the tide in his favour, if that was at all possible. His options were limited to little more than pulling on the rod harder. So far the 20lb line had held firm under the pressure from both sides but its biggest test was about to come. As they were now in some serious open water he made the decision that would make or break this battle. Slowly he made his way across the boat so as he was seated in the back. Then passing hand over hand up the rod he worked his way back along to the rods tip ring at the other end of the boat. With the main line now in his hand he pulled hard moving the boat forward against the pressure of the fish. In doing so he created enough slack in the line for him to grab hold of and wrap it a few times around the nearest rowlock. With the line now tethered he quickly went back down the rod to the reel and began trying to untangle the line from within. With his hands cold and fumbling it seemed like he would never get the knots out but with a little wiggling here and there he actually loosened the knot from around the reels central pin and up through the rings.  Before reattaching the spool he did check to see if the small tangle might possibly come undone but there was no chance of that. As it seemed small enough to pass back and forth through the rings he opted to leave it alone and not chance cutting out and retying his line. That was it, the moment the wing nut tightened onto the spool once again the battle was back on. Straight away he freed the line from around the rowlock and wound the little nest back onto the spool and instantly called forth what energy he had left and leaned hard on the fish once again curving the old cane right over.

The fish answered his call by also upping its game in a vulgar display of power. Like a rocket it came from the depths with all but its tail coming clear of the water. Some five or more feet of pike bucked back and forth with its epic mouth open so wide you could have stuffed a football in it. Like a whale it crashed back down into the water sending ripples across the broad shattering the dawn. George though was not going to be intimidated by the mighty fish and knowing that his line still held he pulled hard on the rod to send another message pressure down the line. This time the fish surged across the shallow broad just below the surface forcing the water’s surface up as it went forming a massive bow wave. It nearly pulled him over before the motionless boat dragged slowly off the mark. Around the Broad they went with him leaning as much pressure as he could on the fish and with the pike becoming more panicked as he did. Before this he’d wondered if the pike even knew it was hooked but if it didn’t then, it did and now at the start of this new day.  Eighteen hours after he had hooked it the pikes attitude had changed. No longer was it the queen of its domain, no longer did it have no fear of predators; now it was in trouble, maybe even scared and he knew it. The realization that he was getting somewhere spurred him on to push ever harder. Dawn had now broken and the end was in sight. The violence that occurred over the next hour was frantic and barley describable. The fish jumped, thrashed and banged its head under the water. Hardly a square foot of the huge sheet of water did not have bubbles or foam on it and as for him, he was sweating, but finally the mighty old girl showed signs of tiring. Now after all this time and the battle to end all battles, she swam just under the surface and he was able to pull her back.

Then she began to circle side on just under the surface and he knew he had won. There was never any doubt in his mind that a fish of this size was never fitting in his feeble net. His only option was going to be to try and chin her. In  quiet moments during the fight he had considered if this was even possible and he had even formed a crazy plan to pull a noose around the pike using his mooring rope so as he could keep her tethered in the water whilst he removed the hooks and now this seemed the only option.

Only a few more times did she go round and round before at the furthest point of her path she surfaced. Her gigantic mass just lay there hardly moving apart from an occasional half hearted buck or twitch. This was it, George had won!

Like pulling an inanimate object across the surface he retrieved his prize, the biggest pike he had ever seen. As good as gold she floated towards him and in no time he was running his hand across her mottled green flank. The sheer size of her was scarcely imaginable, even by an experienced angler such as George. She had to be close to seventy or eighty pounds in weight, a proper giant. She barely moved as he slipped at the noosed rope around her and tied the rope off a little back of her still moving gills. Instinctively he reached down into the water to get his hand under the chin and lift her head. That’s when he saw it! He watched as the huge head as it rose up out of the water and then he saw her eye. Never before had a fish’s eye looked so human to him. The look of pure fear in that one big eye told him instantly that yes he had won his prize, but at what cost?

Now he fumbled with the hooks to remove them quickly and as he did the massive girl seemed to grow limper. The hooks gone, he tried to right her in the water whilst gently rocking her back and forth in an attempt to get the water moving over her gills. Time and time again when it seemed like she could support herself he let go only for her to sink slowly down sideways on towards the bottom. How many times he hauled her back with the rope he couldn't know but the truth of the situation was now lying right there dying in the water. He couldn't stop looking at her eye as he built up the courage to do what he knew was right. He had brought her to this state and he would not let her suffer gasping for air on the bottom of the broad. With tears welling in his eyes George took hold of the pipe he used to stake his boat to harder banks and then pulled the fish up in the water. The words didn't seem to want to come out at first, then he half crying he said aloud, “I am sorry my friend for what I have done.”

And with that he brought the pipe down hard as he could onto her skull. With that single merciful strike she was gone. George watched the life drain from her eyes as tears began to stream from his own.

Emotion overwhelmed him after he committed the merciful act that he hated so much. All he could do was slump down onto the wooden seat holding his head in his hands and cry. He hadn't cried like this since that awful day seventeen years ago when his beloved wife left him for the last time. The feeling was unbearable. He had fished since he was knee high and over the years he had probably killed thousands of fish, first as food and then as trophies, but that was in the past and now and he revered all fish as sacred. Now here he was after the capture of his life mourning the largest pike known to man. Time began to slip away from him as he curled up in the bottom of the boat in a tired daze and drifted off…

One Last Run. Part 2

The bedroom was practically frosty and lying under the pile of blankets with nothing more than his head exposed George was warm. As he breathed he could see his foggy breath as it reached the crack of light that sliced through the room.  Normally he struggled to motivate himself from bed, but today it seemed a modicum easier to throw off the covers and quickly grab hold of his clothes. Stiff as his old joints were, the cold floor made him skip lightly off to the bathroom, down the familiar route he had taken three times hence the night just passed.

Downstairs the perpetual warmth of the kitchen was always welcome. He practically lived in the kitchen now and the old agar never seemed to get cold, even when its fire had gone out hours before. With a new fire now blazing inside its belly the kettle was soon screaming with enough hot water to fill his dented flask and also make a large pot of steaming tea to get him going again. While the tea steeped, two slices of soft bread browned near the fire of the agar. One of the few joys left in George’s life was jam on toast; over the years it had never changed and so easily it took him back to breakfast in his grandparent’s farm kitchen or those lazy mornings he and Cynth spent in bed after the war. Today, however, those cherished memories were hardly observed as thoughts of where he may end his blank weighed heavy on his mind. All his old spots now seemed the possession of the new guard, with their echo sounders and shrill bite alarms that they deployed from the banks with aggressive tenacity. No, he had to go far out deep into the Broads keeping off the main river which the angling papers had spoilt with their raving articles. In truth, his memories of those far off barely fished places were fuzzy at best, although and that didn’t really matter as unlike most places, the Broads altered their appearance year on year with the growth and death of the reeds.

Only one other boat still remained in the mooring as he lowered his tackle down into the boat. He knew full well that he had been up and out before the rest of the rabble, but it took him a fair while to walk down the boats via the paper shop and after discussing the football with Sid he was well behind time. Eventually he got himself and everything arranged just how he liked it: the paper was hidden away alongside his cheese sandwich and flask filled with tea; his old cane pike rod that his dad made for him lay in the prow of the boat along with his faux cane fibre glass float rod he used to catch baits. The last thing he checked was the bait. He took a quick peep in the bucket to confirm the two skimmers Peter had given him had not been stolen by the otters that slunk around the moorings at night. Both were still there as was the half-eel he had left over from the previous blank. After sitting visibly thinking for a while he managed to remember the one last thing he needed to check, though he did struggle to locate the old aluminium bait tin under the seat where he was sat. In the cold morning his dry hands struggled to get purchase on the freezing cold tin. When he finally got the confounded lid off he rustled around in the dry maze with bent fingers finding mostly floating casters. Somewhere from deep in the tin he did force up a small population of still wriggling grubs. They would have to do for today, no tackle shops would be open to purchase replenishments and besides, there might be enough left to prize out a few wriggling roach should a shoal come by.

Now came time to fire up the old motor, “Damn it… Fuel,” he muttered to himself.

He unscrewed the oily cap and rocked the whole boat side to side to see how much petrol remained in the tiny tank.

“Oh, not much left I see. A top up is in order.”

From the paint-flaked jerry can he topped up the little tank and in doing so it emptied the last of the fuel he had. Thinking it would be more than enough, he pressed on to leave although not before checking both were oars were safely, stowed just in case.  George hoped the old seagull might be a little more cooperative than normal as he wrapped the cord twice around the pulley, but it was not to be; several times he wrapped the cord before pulling violently to try and ignite the engine. On the eighth pull he heard the hint of a splutter that suggested the next pull would crack life into the thirty year old engine, and he was right. Blue and white fumes billowed from the exhaust into the cold morning air as he tweaked the choke on the little engine. Waiting for the tone to level was the last part of the morning’s ritual before he cast off from shore. As always he readied himself as the engine warmed up by untying the mooring rope and passing the uncoiled rope around the mooring post leaving only a single coil holding the boat. He sat back down by the motor, still holding the rope by one end. The moment that engine settled he gave it one small burst of throttle just to check it was ready before flicking the rope in his hand down hard like a whip, sending a wave up the rope which when it reached the post sent the rope sailing over the top, and George was off.

It was one of those joyful days to be afloat, with clear blue skies overhead and the rising sun warming his face from the east.  As pleasurable as the sun was on his face but he knew it more than halved his chances of catching, but for now he made the most of things and soaked up the warmth like a lizard on a rock. He had been cruising at a steady speed for not too long before he sighted the first boat nestled tightly against the dried winter reeds on the big bend. Four huge flighted floats marked an invisible boundary around the two anglers. One sat smoking, staring through half closed eyes as he passed; the other seemed to already be asleep in the bottom of the boat if the protruding boots were anything to go by. No one fished the long straight which led up to the first Broad but once inside he knew a second boat would be close by and he was right. He spied it just to the right hand side of the entrance and one of its occupants was into a fish. Not a big one but still a fish for sure. Where the Broad opened up he could see others in the distance but they were of no matter to him as it was much further out he wanted to go. He wondered if one of the specks fishing on the reed line was Peter with that bull-headed Johno but he couldn't tell from this far away.

Further on he went until no other humans were in sight; once you got deep enough into the Broads you suddenly realised how inaccessible the place really was. Even being alone and getting further away from civilisation didn't bother him, he had probably been this far before despite having no recollection of it. Three quarters of an hour later he travelled right through the string of smaller Broads and was now motoring along the narrow channels only accessible to small boats such as his. Some of it seemed familiar but maybe that was just because the reeds and water all look very similar. As yet though, he had not seen any spots that called out to him. One or two looked possible but the depth put him off as being too shallow. Things weren't looking good at all, he hadn't seen signs of prey fish and the main channel seemed to be shrinking ever faster.

Thinking he had made a dire mistake, George made the decision to turn around in the mouth of an offshoot he had just passed in the reeds.  After letting the little tub drift backwards in the slight tow he revved the engine to turn the boat, only for it to stop with a thump. Looking over the side he could see submerged log which prevented the boat from turning. He knew the Broads well and knew it was more than likely a new channel would come out further up or down the main run, so off he went down a tiny path in the reeds hoping to pop out back further down. He soon wondered whether he had made another mistake taking this detour as the channel seemed to go on forever, then he noticed the reeds were forcing him to bear right; sure enough the reed cutter that had made this passage cut it so he could go in one way and out the other and soon enough sighted a familiar skeletal tree he had passed previously on the main channel. Relieved, he decided to backtrack along his previous course towards the main Broad. Now he had his bearings, he stopped up against the reeds to answer the call of nature and pour himself a cup of tea before heading off again. Rather than drop a mud weight he just did as he often did, staked an oar into the reeds and tied the boat off to it before giving the old seagull a rest.

It was lovely and quiet there deep in the reeds and apart from the wind rustling the dried stems the only sound he could hear was the cooling metal on the exhaust of his engine.  Sipping his tea George soaked up the sights of the winter waterscape. He had just closed his eyes and was enjoying the warmth of the sun on his face when he heard a herring gull shriek and opened his eyes just in time to see the bird drop down into the reeds. This pricked his attention as sea birds aren't ones for diving into thick reed beds. Eventually curiosity got the better of him and after downing the last of his tepid tea George stood up gingerly to try and see where the gull had gone. He spied what looked to be a hole in the reed bed some way back along where he had just come he could. He craned his neck and saw that that further along the cavity in the reeds came quite close to the channel he was on. It was far to interesting he had to investigate. Rather than spark up the motor he used the oar the push himself and the boat back up the channel and after not too far he soon began to see the reeds thinning. Then lo and behold he saw it, a secret gap in the reeds, the entrance masked being as it was on bit of a dog leg. One hard push and the boat crossed the channel and entered the concealed entrance. George harboured a suspicion as to what he may find beyond the hidden ingress, but all was not finally revealed until the reeds sank away behind him. 

Hidden deep in the massive reed bed was a pool, like a pond within a lake. It had probably always been here undiscovered, hidden in plain sight amid the flat landscape, waiting for his arrival. As he surveyed the scene the old man wondered if the secret pool might hold something special. Floating in the entrance he looked across its small surface and estimated it to be maybe the size of two eighteen yard boxes. As he scanned the pool he saw tell-tales signs of a shoal of roach moving along the edge; that was it, he had to cast out here!

After securing his the boat against the reeds, George quickly checked the depth by causally dipping his rod in until he felt the bottom, five feet down. Then after fumbling in the baits he pulled out one of the glassy eyed skimmers Peter had given him and hooked it onto his claw-like old trebles. The heavy weight of the fish caused a worrying bend in his ancient cane rod, but it held firm and soon enough the fish arched through the air, towing his float with it. There was a gentle splosh and the red painted cork float with its cane antenna bobbed up like buoy, right in the centre of the pool. Whilst that fished away he went about catching some fresh bait from alongside the reeds. A few pinches of maggots were flicked out with a decent helping of the bran that kept them dry before he swung out his porcupine quill float into the baited area. It took a while but soon enough the quill dipped as a hungry roach fell foul of his trap. Another followed before a third came off and it was then that he flicked out the last few grubs he could locate in the bait tin. With barely any bait left, he was quite relieved that nothing had taken the maggots off his hook.

No more bites came for ages until suddenly his quill began to move sideways across the water; George had seen enough eel bites to know when one had found his bait. The eel caused a massive fuss, thrashing around as it neared the edge of the boat and when he eventually got a hold of it he saw his hook had been well and truly swallowed. Years ago eels got a really rough time of it and George, like many other anglers, would have just stood on its head and ripped the hook out of its mouth, but times had changed and with numbers in decline the eel population was now in trouble. Every effort was made to free the writhing mass of snot from his line as gently as he could but sadly it was not to be and after several attempts with the disgorger blood trickled from the gasping gills. Even with the knowledge that he was not meant to, he decided to do what he thought best and put the eel out of its misery with the intention of using it as bait. Even dead the eel’s body still writhed around in the bottom of the boat, and it was that movement that inspired him to reel in the dead skimmer and replace it with a fresh live roach.

His float was soon dancing around the centre of the pool sending ripples in every direction which he hoped would attract any lurking pike. For an hour he watched the floats action diminish with the energy of the little roach until eventually it stopped moving entirely. Reeled in and in his hand he could see the little roach’s life was spent so he stowed it away with the other few dead baits and grubbed in the water for his last live one. Re-baited, George readied himself to cast and considered where it should go. Most of the pool had been searched by the previous bait but one shaded corner was as yet untouched. The roach landed with a big splash and he had to check it was still on by pulling the line back a little. The tension sparked the dazed bait back into action and soon the float veered towards the reeds pulling his line tight. With the reels bale arm preventing it getting into the sanctuary, the bait fish soon rose to the surface splashing to the very base of the reeds.

From the boat he watched, thinking he would have to soon reel it back a little and it was just as he reached for the rod to do so that he spotted the water to the left of the fish erupt as a pike attacked. Now he watched the float and waited for it to go under… but the bait soon reappeared on the reeds panicking, and again the water exploded. Amazingly the bait fish escaped once more and this time headed into open water, towards the bottom judging by the actions of the float. He watched as it came back towards the boat and just when he suspected it might, the float made its biggest bob so far and an audible plop; the pike had got the bait fish in its mouth for sure.

The float hung motionless for a few seconds then slowly slid below the surface. The rod was soon in hand when George did as he always had, and counted...

“One, two... three!”   

One last run. Part 1

All the boats were back bar one, the one which Peter had lingered long in the cold February air to see return. By now every other boat had been emptied and packed away for the night, including the one from which he had fished so successfully that very day, landing two good jacks and one low double. None of that mattered to him right now. All he cared about was the safe return of his old friend.

The raucous voices of the other pikers carried across the cold night air to the post where Peter kept his vigil next to the dyke moorings. He could hear the boisterous jeering as they bragged of their captures, displaying images on mobile devices and bright screen shots on digital cameras in the half-light outside the cafe where they smoked and swilled mugs of steaming hot coffee to warm themselves. Peter strained to make individual voices amide the cacophony but instead detected a foreign grumbling tone somewhere out over the water, which grew louder as his listened.

The repetitive though slightly irregular metal beat to some might be an offensive noise, but it was a noise that Peter had grown to love. Soon he would smell that evocative whiff the old seagull outboard made which would signal his friend’s safe return. The seagull was always heard well before it was seen, and an age passed before George’s old dingy rounded the corner into the dyke. Slowly but surely it did as it always had and laboured up the channel, with scarcely enough light left to find his way, George cruised the old tub back into the same mooring he had done hundred thousand times before.

“Hello there young Peter,” the old man called as he tossed the fraying old rope through the dark.

“Did you get any action today, George?”

“Sadly once again, not so much as a nibble, I think if I am correct that makes over eighty blanks in a row for me. This the worst run of luck I've ever had my whole life.”

“I could come along tomorrow if you want? I already caught three today and I could help you out.”

“Three you say! Any good un’s in there, eh?”

“Yes, one double”

“Very nice young man”

“So I can come along tomorrow then?”

“Peter, your parents were right to get you another boat. My luck has run out! You don’t want to be fishing with an old timer like me when you could be out on a modern boat catching fish here, there, and everywhere.”

Peter didn't want to push the issue and upset George so instead asked “Would you like me to catch you some live baits before we go out in the morning? The public marina is full of them and they’re all a perfect size.”

“You don’t have to do that, I can catch a few when I find a spot tomorrow,” the old man replied.

“Well how about some dead baits then? I have two nice skimmers left over if you want them,” Peter insisted

Knowing the young lad as long as he had, George recognised that he wouldn't give up until he had helped and so to spare his young companion any undue embarrassment, he accepted the two motionless young bream and stowed them safely for the night in the chilly bucket at the bow of the boat that he used as a live well.

Peter helped George carry the little gear he had up the old cobbled lane back towards the village. It wasn't a steep hill, Norfolk not being renowned for its mountainous geography, but even with him shouldering his wicker basket and clutching his old cane rods it still took the old man a lot of effort to walk along the dark, uneven path. As they neared Daisy’s cafe at the top of the lane, the other fishermen’s banter grew louder and clearer until they came into sight, at which the gathering fell quiet. They ceased their squabbling and stared as the old man and young boy walked slowly past.

It wasn't until their backs were turned that the bullish ring leader called out to Peter, “We’ll be off at first light tomorrow if you’re coming along with us kid!”

With a heart full of sorrow, he replied without turning round, “I won’t be late, Johno.”

“Glad to hear it, kid! Your old man practically begged to get you onto a decent boat and off of Jonah’s old tub.”

At that the whole group burst out laughing like a pack of hyenas trying to ingratiate themselves with their leader. Peter frowned through the darkness but his companion still walked on as if he didn't hear the laughter.

“I am sorry.”

“What are you sorry for lad?” said the old man gently.

“That they call you names.”

“It’s not your fault, peter. They’re in their prime and those in their prime always pick on the weak. It’s nature’s way. Besides, one day they’ll be old and clapped out like me and maybe then your generation will be picking on them.”

Peter was still considering George’s last comment as they arrived at his old cottage, with its walls covered with round beach stones cemented over the brickwork and the gorse bush which had grown so large it filled the front garden.

“Are you coming in for a cuppa young man?”

Neither coffee or tea were of any particular interest to him but he always said yes, as he enjoyed to sit across the table from the old man and talk about their other shared passion; canaries.

“So do you reckon we will stay up this season then?” Peter asked from across the ancient kitchen table as George busied himself with the teapot.

“It isn't going to be easy, there is a lot of good teams in this league, like Man U and Chelsea, and the likes of them don’t take no prisoners, lad”

“I know! But we finished pretty well in our league last year didn't we? Eight points clear of Brom can’t be bad.”

“You’re right, we were on top of that league, but up here’s a different matter with players like that Terry Henry running round. That froggy scores goals with his eyes closed and old Shearers going to want a bit of glory to go out with an all. Trust me, Peter, we’re going to be the whipping boys come the end of the season.”

“Ah you say that now, George, but we could take a few scalps when desperate and the lower down teams like Fulham should be a piece of cake.”

The two talked until they were both yawning and their beds called out to them. After George had shooed the hopeful young fan off home he had to force himself out of the warmth of the kitchen, up through the frozen house to his creaky old spring bed. As the years had gone on and certainly since Cynthia had passed away, he’d struggled to find warmth in his bed. Being just him it never seemed quite worth the effort to start up the little fire in the bedroom chimney breast. Sometimes when he remembered, he bothered to take a hot water bottle up with him, but today like on most occasions he crept into bed still wearing his long johns and woolly hat and tried his best to get off to sleep.

Tired as he was, George never slept much. Maybe more than half of his time in bed was spent lying motionless, staring at the small crack in the ceiling. There was nothing special about the crack nor did it worry him; it simply gave him something to focus on while he passed the night. As he stared his mind wandered. He'd think about the past and the things long lost to him, but when that made him sad he'd ruminate instead about football or fishing in order to divert his thoughts from the more painful memories. But tonight he'd ponder fishing especially and more importantly breaking his duck, until the thin strip of half-light appeared in the gap between the curtains heralding dawn and the start of another day where he would attempt to finally end his terrible run of blanks...

Omne trium perfectum

'Everything that comes in threes is perfect'

With the pure gung-ho attitude that only a man can possess, Andy took his second run at the small ramp that led to the top of the flood defence barrier. Maybe two feet farther up than his previous attempt the wheels began spinning again. So he did as all men would do and floored it spraying mud in all directions. As for myself I was perched half way up a different plane of the mound, out the way of the flying earth, with a mixture of Herefordshire mud and cow shit slowly seeping through my crocs as I watched on. It was not long after this that I heard a local voice call to me from over the field. "Can I ask what you chaps are up to?"  I think it is only natural to feel a little guilty when a figure of authority questions your intent and I could have defensively or sarcastically replied that we were down for a days fishing on this here salmon beat and before we began, fancied ploughing up this here field a bit. But sense prevailed and I meekly replied that we were here to fish and had foolishly thought we could get up on the hill, but had now realised the error of our way and were in retreat. "No one drives up there at this time of year, all the locals know that." I knew exactly what he meant; simply put 'we were not local!'

Our only choice was for Mr Lewis to perform a very impressive rally reverse back down the lane to the civilised parking at the very top of the beat. Once parked where the car was at no risk of reaching its axles in mud, we now had to walk back the distance we had driven twice to reach even half way where we wanted to go. Even with highly reduced kit this was going to be a sweaty walk in the cattle-created Somme-like conditions.

After a little Wye wander we did eventually find ourselves at the point we agreed we would work our way back from through the day. You see this whole venture was conceived as a piking trip and they would be our main quarry, but as the weather has been so mild, we thought the barbel might well be on for a bit of an re-Xmas knock up. So we split our gear down the middle and had brought along a barbel rod each and a pike rod each. So we had headed to the massive sweeping bend that has in the past it has always proved more than reliable were as Bertie was concerned.

I went for the middle of the bend whilst my companion targeted the crease where the flow deflects off across the river. Today though the Wye was as low as I had ever fished it and my first few casts seemed to be hitting the deck far too quickly. In the time it took Andy to land three brownies from the crease swim, I had done little more than fine tune my rig to stop my feeder from rolling around the swim and ruining my hook links. Even with very little water on it, the flow of the Wye still shocks me and me only option to hold bottom soon became the clumsy cow lead.

Honestly, the sound of my feeder hitting the water not only grated on me but I was sure would see off any fish present as it made such an awful thump hitting the water. But I was proved rather wrong when after mere moments on the rest the rod tip tapped once before jerking violently over. All barbel fight hard but these lean wiry Wye fish run like savages in the early moments of the fight. Combine over two ounces of feeder and the fear of hidden trees littering the river and it makes for an interesting battle.

After the first one slipped up, that was it, I thought the flood gates had opened. As soon as the rig made bottom again I got a hard tug which resulted in nothing. The again next cast barley had enough time for a leaf to hang up on my line before another one was on. I had brought along my JW Young barbel rod which I have been using on the Avon for barbel this year. It could be said by many that at 2.5lb it's a bit on the heavy side, but for this river its tough back bone was more than enough to handle the big rigs I was discharging into the river, whilst still being forgiving enough cushion some very intense first runs.

Two more similar sized fish came in very quick succession after the first, but it would seem that the feeding spell was to be very short lived. Either that or my theory that the Tonka truck of a feeder hitting water did spook them out of the area. On the journey down it had been agreed that would would keep moving and not sit around waiting for bites, so after a quiet forty minutes we made tracks back up the beat.

The pike were always going to be a different matter to the barbel. We have fished this stretch of the Wye twice before and truthfully although we had seen one pike lingering in a slack we had no idea of where to begin fishing for them. On the way down we had taken some time to clock out possible areas of attack but nothing really screamed pike as most of the beat is shallow fast riffles. There was a couple of 50/50 spots that we could have tried, but nothing definite. On the way back up from under hoods we discussed where to fish. The rain by now was really coming down and wanting to lighten our loads we agreed to stop at the car and leave most of kit there, and armed with only a rod each and one net we would head to a area that even now thinking of it makes my blood run cold... Dead man's bend.

The very first time we visited this stretch we were chatting to a local dog walker/angler and it was him who pointed out this ninety degree turn in the river. As the water quite literally changes direction instantly as it collides with the bank it creates one of the scariest undercuts I have ever seen. From a distance it looks quite innocuous but when you stand directly above it looking at the massive straight that leads into it you realise the very bank you stand on feels the full force of one of the most powerful rivers in the country. But that's nothing compared to when you look down at the water and see the random boils emanating from twenty feet down under the bank. It quite literally looks like there is a shoal of whales gallivanting under the water. Apparently according to the man who pointed it out this one bend has done more than enough to earn its name over the years.

As dangerous as it looks from above we had spotted that a large still eddy had formed with the lack of water and that luckily it looked like we could easily get down the bank behind between two trees. We were right and soon enough pitched up in a cap between two barren bushes. The bank itself was nothing more than a skid of bare mud exposed by the low water and should the river be any more than a foot up it would disappeared under the Wye. Flanked on both side by trees which hung down into the water it was going to be tight but also looked the perfect pike swim.

You know you're fishing deep water when your float stop is half-way through the rod rings and the bait is in your hand. With depths between ten and fifteen feet this wasn't going to be easy but did look spot on for pike. We had to wait a while for some action and what occurred next was destined to be one of those moments that hurts for a long while. My float had sat motionless for a good three quarters of an hour just off the trees. Then, out of nowhere, ripples emanated from the dumpy float. I remember saying "hey up here we go" before I took the rod in hand. A few more bobs came before the float toddled off classically away from the trees. I watched carefully as I paid out line, then after the float traveled about three feet, it sank under slowly and I tightened up and prepared to drive my hooks home. Not so much a minuscule of resistance was felt and my float, with rig in tow, launched straight out of the water and into the bushes behind me. Only a moment of silence followed as it took me that long to inhale enough air for the protracted and explicate tirade that followed. It wasn't that I had just missed a fish, more what that fish could have been judging by what happened later.

I calmed down from my tantrum by the time Andy's float seemed to get caught by the flow. Then after I convinced him I suspected it was a fish all hell broke loose when he struck and with no choice he had to really force the fish through the swim avoid an obstacle coarse of snags. Luckily the fish cooperated and went pretty much straight into the net. It looked massive lying on its side in the net and I think both of us were equally excited to get it on the scales.

Out of the net it looked just as big, but three sets of scales proved that even though we have both seen our fair share of pike we were well out on our estimates. For my part I had seventeen pounds in my head but could barley believe it weighed just under fourteen pounds hence the three sets of scales.

But that wasn't it! Next cast the bait had barely hit bottom before the float sank away attached to another good fish. This one we saw deep down in the water and it looked very long and thin. Not long after we saw it, a shake of the head set it free before came near the bank. I could barley believe it when a third and forth fish snaffled Andy's baits from the same small area. These two were totally mental beasts that smashed us both around, getting us in a right mess, hence no pictures for either. Both were smaller and so badly behaved that we were glad to see them back in the water where they were unable to twist, snap or trash around.

Three different sets of three different species that all came in threes seems an odd coincidence to me on what I can only say one one of the dampest days I have ever spent by the river. We walked sopping away from the water not long after the last fish as the river was rising fast and I think truthfully we were quite satisfied by the days catches considering the time of the year.

My only regret of the day was that missed run. Considering all the pike Andy caught were low to mid doubles I can only surmise that at the minimum, my fish was at least a double, and considering it was the only bite that came away from the hot spot I can't help suspecting it might have been a loner that the other fish avoided. Adding insult to injury is the reported size of the stretch monster, which I feel most comfortable referring to simply as big! And we all know the Wye can breed them proper BIG...

Till the very bitter end of name that fish.

This break wasn't about me and fishing, it was about us, and having a rest. The fact that we were staying next to a huge broad full of big pike was incidental. 33lbs though! That just can't be ignored can it..?! and 33lbs is the weight of the biggest biggest pike caught in recent years from this broad...

The information regarding pike caught from this broad is as secretive as the bitterns that supposedly reside in the marsh alongside it. The men that brave it week in and week out through the winter are as  protective of their captures as they are hardy enough to catch them in the relentless cold. I know, because I spoke to one face to face at the end of a wind swept jetty the other day. Whether it was my dedication to be out in such atrocious conditions that endured me to him I will never know, but my friendly wave as he passed me on his way back to the marina inclined him to change direction and throw me a rope so he could stop for a momentary chat. Turns out things were not good. The broad had been frozen recently until when a change in the wind and sun had combined forces to thaw it; since then nothing significant had been landed. "The weather conditions were the worst they could be" he said, but when I broached how well he had done this winter the conversation stalled, and rather than restart it he instead opted to politely say his good byes, sparked his ancient outboard back to life and preserved his secrecy.

That conversation was one that was to echo through my mind as I pushed myself to the very point of defeat by the cold. For the next four days it would only be a case of how much punishment I could take whilst I waited for an encounter.

I have a slight infatuation with broadland pike. How many hours I have spent engrossed in the pages of The Pike of Broadland by Stephen Harper probably should not be recounted. Needless to say it is a lot. If you have ever read it or one of the many other books written on this subject, you will know that in the big pike water stakes the broads is the tortoise to all the new waters hares. Look back through the recordings of big pike captures in the UK and something becomes apparent - waters rise and fall in their reliability to produce big pike. Whether this is to do with angling pressure or whether its just the way these things happen in nature, the fact remains that in most cases a water producing big pike does not last forever. With the broads it is different as they are not one but many waters interlinked. They change with the growth of the reeds that make up a large part of their geography, and as they do old parts disappear and new ones are formed. If you have any knowledge of this water I know you will not hesitate to agree that there are fish in this vast waterway that have no knowledge of man whatsoever, and I think they are what makes it such a special place to pike fish..

The general geography of the broads and where those weather beaten men fish in relation to this little adventure were irrelevant. As to truly explore this water and the system to which it is part, a boat is a necessity, and not having time to use or access to one I found myself truly high dry.

My whole theory for my terra firma based quest however rested upon the idea that even fish need shelter in bad weather. Therefore me having access to five boat packed marinas where life could hide seemed to make my target areas very simple. Or so I thought...

No matter how stringent I was about my plan, the romantic idea that the huge reed bed that flanked the marinas seemed the more classical back drop by where to catch a monster pike. My first attempt was squandered here watching a gaudy florescent floats bobbing around in the waves.

I finished that outing back in the mariners where I had scampered after the wind began to cut right through my many layers of clothing. Something inside my head needed to see that physiological boost of a float dipping under in order for me to be able to keep up what already seemed like sheer madness after only a short few hours. A bite I did get, not from a crocodile of a pike but instead from a blade of a roach I had caught using tackle I would normally only use in sheer desperation on a winter canal.

Not one to give up I again readied myself for the Arctic conditions early next morning, gathered my tackle and threw back the curtains to see snow on the ground! The day before the odd flurry here and there confirmed that winters icy grip still held firm in these parts, and over night it would have seemed to have carried on with slightly more consistency.

This time I was headed right into the deep of the marinas in search of pike, and as I walked along the hard concrete banks I could felt the snow rolling under foot. This was not flakes of snow but rather frozen rain! It sounds insane but this was not postcard style ice crystal formed in the high in the sky but it was instead droplets of rain frozen by the freezing north east wind as they fell to earth.

Twice that second day I pushed my self to the very limit of what my body could take. I made my way through no less than three large marinas as I searched for both predator and prey, and not so much as a the slightest dip of a float had come the ether my pike or my scratching rod alike. 

The wind and cold had become so bad that I covered as much of my skin I possibly could, as a few moments re-baiting had left the fingers on my right hand a unsettling shade of blue and seemingly almost frozen.

Three sessions of practically nothing and I was getting desperate. As I ate what can only be described as a superlative steak in a broadside restaurant later that night I chatted to Jacky. Honestly I had been pushed right to the very limit by the lack of action combined with the constant struggle to be out fishing and was about to ether just leave it alone or seek solace in some sheltered dirty commercials arms. But somehow Jacky talked me round and the next morning I would again cast into the frigid water.

I had thought about it all night and as best I could figure my final chance lay in me finding the most sheltered spot on the entire broad away from the relentless and savage north easterly wind. So the next morning I began to look for a fishing spot in way totally different to how I normally would. Simply I walked around the waters edge paying no attention to the water itself and instead concerned myself only with how comfortable it was for me. 

In the corner of the broad is a lobular marina and here I found that the wind was buffeted away from the water by a couple of skeletal woods. It was certainly warmer but not by much. Now I had my area I now had to find my and this wasn't easy due to the masses of yachts and cruisers moored up for the winter. Soon enough though I found a free spot and began to set up. Only a matter of minutes after sitting down sliver roach broke the surface scattering and they were followed by the huge gaping maw of a big pike and I was flabbergasted. This was it, shangri-la, the place I was looking for, and hell did it look risky...

There was certainly fish here, but those two posts filled me with a terrible feeling of dread. I have done a lot of stalking of carp in tight spots but this was different. Carp you can hit instantly and hold, pike though need a little time to run before striking and also make surging runs once hooked. Bearing these things in mind I at first only dared cast my dead mackerel half way between the bank and the post to my right.

Using the finest pole float I had in conjunction with a size 22 hook and one pound line, I plumbed up a reasonable deep area about a metre of the boat to my left. Fishing just off the bottom and scattering minimal amounts of pinkie over the float began to stir some interest. The bites were very slight to say the least, only sinking the fine bristle half way. But soon enough I began to catch fish. Roach, perch and the odd skimmer mixed in for good measure.

All the activity had to rouse old essox again and it did when once again swirls of scattering prey fish appeared around the right hand post. Reacting to this I put on a small roach and suspended it half way off the bottom, sadly to no avail. Then when all had gone quiet I flicked the mackerel out again this time much closer to the post.

The little fishes confidence again rose and After a while I was quite absorbed in catching them and as always that's when something else happens. I caught sight of the float drifting away from the corner of my eye and was on that rod so fast. I held on for as long as I could letting the fish run for at least a few feet but it was going toward the post and I had no choice but to strike and try to hold it. My hard strike was met with a quick and decisive run right under the yacht beyond the post. I lent on that fish as hard as I could giving so much side strain the fibres of the rod were audibly creaking. Then the inevitable happened! my hook hold from the early strike was obviously not too good and with all that pressure I was exerting combineed to pull my hook hold free. I felt the exact shake of that pikes head that dislodged the hook. I saw the big oily swirl on the surface as the pike found freedom and instantly my trace found the wooden post just at the surface. Trace, weight and float, the lot was gone as was the fish. The only good I can say came of that moment of madness was that the pike did not get tethered around the post.

Sense took over at this point and how painful it was. There was certainly a chance of another run but the risk was to great by far.  The next one could get snagged and I did not want that at all. So the pike rod was put away for good and I carried on just after the the small fry.

Even unable to pike fish I was having fun just getting bites in such cold weather. Then amongst the roach and perch I made a very unusual capture. Being someone who has studied British fish since I was very young, it's not often I catch a fish that I don't know the identity of pretty much instantly, but as I swung this one in it did not look right. At first I thought I may have caught an alien top mouth gudgeon but close investigation proved its identity to be something else.

I figured it out after about two minutes of looking it over and it really is a first for me, and maybe the last one I ever catch. So I think I will extend a challenge to anyone who read this blog...

Tell me what species of fish you think it is by leaving a comment. 
Once everyone has had a go, all right answers will be put in a hat and I will draw out a winner who will receive one of the last four bottles of my much sought after semi-hallucinogenic 2011 homebrew, ladybird wine.

After that last session I knew the reality of the pike fishing was that they were where the prey fish were and the prey fish were where I could not safely fish for pike. So I let my last chance slip me by because I know I will be back and maybe when I am the pike might be in open water.