Yearly Itch.

Me and the lower Itchen fishery are by now old friends. Frankly I know this bit of the Itchen better than I know many parts of my local river Avon and I now when I go find myself looking for really different targets. Initially when I first made this pilgrimage with Good old Keith 'jobbers' Jobling and old Jeff 'man' Hatt all those years ago my target fish was out and out grayling as prior to that I had only caught one. A few hundred down the line and unless they're big I ain't bothered and so I find myself more focused on trying to catch fish like dace or that giant gudgeon that haunts my dreams. Thus after an easy journey south with Mick Newey in the driving seat, I ventured off onto the feeder streams searching for dace whilst Mick went off to plunder the main river.

From the off it was obvious the grayling were for once not having it. As an example my personal best catch for the first hour on the Lower Itchen fishery was over thirty grayling, whereas on this trip I landed merely two grayling in the first hour. I fished just about every decent run over the first four hours of the day with little more to show for my efforts than a small grayling, a better fish and a chub that got away after it dived deep into a bed of rushes and I was unable to extract it.

With no luck on the feeder stream I slipped back on the main beat to check out a few holding spots where I'd spotted dace before. With dull skies overhead even my brilliant Fortis polaroids were struggling to help me pick out any fish in the clear shallow water so I concluded to trust fate and after feeding maggots for a while began trotting the runs quickly as the speed of the water seemed faster than ever. Two or three trots down the run something powerful sank my float as it raced amongst the flowing weeds beds and now I was stood atop a croy with my fifteen foot float rod hooped right over as fish used the flow, to its advantage. After the culprit ripped the swim apart and I faffed around trying to haul it up the flow Mick helpfully stepped in downstream to bundle a chunky brown trout into the net below me.

After that initial one, the trout flood gates seemed to open and in every swim I cast into the first thing the find my hook bait was another trout. The little buggers were ruining every swim I fished and on several occasions I saw grayling scattering from all the fuss. Not that it mattered because we practically had the beat to ourselves and through the morning we worked down following the twists and turns of the river fishing any likely looking swims.

One of my highlights of the trip had to be whilst playing a trout in a deep bend swim. The fish was making a bit of monkey of me in the pacey water. I repeatedly worked it upstream again and again in the gin clear water until a third party a entered the fray. Out of the depths rose a big old Itchen pike attracted by the battle and it had half a mind to have a pop at the trout on my line and I had half a mind to let it. I think on this occasion curiosity was what drew it near rather than viscous hunger as after thrashing straight past its nose the pike sank back to the depths. Luckily my net seemed a better option than the pikes teeth and the trout soon gave up and freely posed for its picture before being released in the gravelly shallows. 

All to soon the day got away from us and with barely a few hours light left before we had to away back north both myself and Mick opted to dig in with the feeders and see what the static baits could do. On the penultimate swims Mick caught a whopping bream from a deep bend swim. Fishing above him I managed three nibbles and a large snag which snapped me off.

My final swim produced a decent run of below average grayling for me but not the roach or chub I was hoping for. Mick however had disappeared and it took me a while to locate him fishing below the weir at the bottom of the fishery. I have to say what he angled after would have made any anglers eyes bulge clean out their heads. He had located a shoal of roach tight too his own bank which he pointed out to me in the half light. What I saw was wondrous...the smallest fish were pound plus fish and the biggest was easily over two and here they were just feet away holding off the flow no bother by a thing. I hung round as Mick tried his best to catch one of those amazing roach but sadly it was not to be as they were never going to feed. Once again even though I have become very blase about the Lower Itchen fishery it has pulled something amazing out of the bag and of course I will be back again.

Two for one predators

The things we put ourselves through.

Sunday morning I woke way before my alarm and lay in the warmth of my bed pondering what the day ahead held in store.  Once up I slipped downstairs and skipped across the chilly wood floors to get the kettle on. Whilst the ear shattering noise of boiling water filled the silence, I peeped out of the door to see the world covered in white frost. It was certainly chilly, but that only fed my fervour for the days session. 

Earlier in the week I had arranged to take Jeff to my secret squirrel perch spot on the canal promising him a new canal PB and I myself was very excited at the prospect of what looked like a classical sort of session. Cold air, fallen leaves dotting the surface of the cut and fish with an air of urgency to their feeding. How could it go wrong!

After getting my diesel chugging beast running I climbed onto the front of the van and hacked away at the solid widow screen until visibility had been restored. Prior to this my hands had been lovely and warm but that was the end of that for the day. Soon enough I was quietly tapping on Jeff's door and got no answer! A second subtle rattle of his knocker seemed to get no response either, so a proper bang was needed and that brought a bleary eyed Jeff out like some small furry animal waking from hibernation.

Every time I pick Jeff up I always seem to go the same way but today I had wondered if a differing route may save a little time. So loaded up,  for the first time ever I went a right instead of left at the end of his road. Little did I know that this time saving call may of been one the worst decisions I ever made.

The roads were as expected empty, and zipping along in the dark I was pleased with my snap decision until we turned onto a quite bit of road that marks the very border of Coventry.  Just as we were about to pass into some lit road, a figure appeared waving their arms on the verge. Luckily I actually saw them, as any momentary lapse in concentration would of had them splatted on the front of a large van travelling at 60 mph. Initially I thought it was just a hitch hiker trying to bum a lift, but as I moved over to pass, the person came further out into my path, nearly forcing me to swerve off into the gravel lining the road. It was Jeff who uttered, its a girl, as I just went round her. Straight away I assumed we were being flagged down for help by someone involved in a crash and the instant thought of a over turned car lying in a ditch came to mind. But when Jeff opened his door and she spoke what she said was worse, much worse! and she uttered those awful words "I've been raped by two men and I need to get back to Coventry" through the sobs. Honestly I didn't know what to say and I don't think Jeff did either. Neither of us reacted that quickly but she on the other hand did, and was in the van before any kind of offer had been made. Instinctively I pulled off and plotted the course to the nearest police station. 

The crying soon subsided, and peering around an agog Jeff at our new passenger, I thought something did not look right. She was no girl dolled up for a night out that had ended badly, and now quiet she was slumping over half conscious. It then clicked what she was, and I realised we were now just a drug addict hooker taxi service. Whether she had actually been raped, or just not paid, or just wanted a free ride home was all irrelevant. The fact was that now my idle had been shattered and I now found myself in a situation akin to something from a Hunter s Thompson novel. All I needed was a head full of mushrooms and Jeff to be yelling inanely, whacked off his gourd on mescaline, and we would of been half way there.

When Jeff enquired of her wanted destination it roused her from her slumber and to give probably the last place in the world I wanted to go in this situation. Now seething, I drove as carefully as possible so as not to attract any unwanted attentions, as a trip down the local police station to explain ourselves did not appeal whatsoever. In the end we did get rid of the unwanted passenger and ended probably the worst start to a day I have had in a long time.

I think what up pissed me off me the most about the whole incident was that we were pulled in under the guise of someone needing help. Yes, should we have been needed to help someone in a crashed car we would not of hesitated, or should it of been a genuine assault we would of done our duty in driving right to the police station. But this girl did so easily what people in her unenviable position do, and dragged two innocent people into her world of crap. And in future I can't deny that if such a situation should occur I for one will think twice about stopping...

We did eventually get to the canal and when we did my heart sank a little. Here was me waxing lyrical to Jeff guaranteeing a good day and the cut looked not that dissimilar to the milky coffee Jacky is partial too. Still we got going and Jeff soon enough got an early indication. Then just as he waited for it to develop rain began to dimple the surface and the wind kicked up. Luckily I had a brolly and we were soon entrenched under it for what looked like a long morning. 

The sport was slow by this places standards, but early on my dead bait rod danced off attached to a small jack pike which I landed, then twice again slid away pulled off by what we both suspected were dithering Zander which I did not land. Jeff plugged away putting together a lovely bag of perch and I nabbed a couple here or there. But now the weather was taking its toll. The incessant rain was accompanied by sleet,snow flakes and a biting wind. Both of us were suffering badly but with little inclination to move we endured on.

It got to the stage where we were so cold that our hands were unable to evaporate the damp from them leaving permanently wet. If it weren't for the fact that Jeff looked colder than me I would of considered sharing body heat, it was that bad. Even madder than us was Andy who turned up for a possible chuck of lures only dressed in water proofs. He ended up crouching on the mud beside our camp for half an hour before seeing sense and going home.

The rain did eventually stop and this was our chance to get out and pack up. Just as we began we both turned to see the float of my dead bait line had vanished. Winding down I discover the rig at least ten feet out of position and struck hard into a decent fish and moments later landed this mint plump Zander.

Before doing anything with it I flicked out the rig onto the same spot then got a few pictures. By the time I had released that one and got on with packing up, it went off again attached to a smaller but still pristine second Zander.

In the end even though we had pushed ourselves to the very edge of endurance we had a good mornings fishing and Jeff looked pleased as punch with his net load of billies that included a new canal PB which I duly informed he would beat next time he came back with me.

The Lake #17 Ahab is back after the pike eater.

That flipping big pike has been haunting my dreams. I swear most nights as I try to fall asleep the vision of it's flaring gills flashing white as it engulfed that bream creeps into my minds eye. I knew I must go back. But I needed time and decent amount time at that, for my traps to have chance to work.

Time is the key with the lake I think. It takes time to locate them, or for them to locate you. Either way I did not care, I just needed a whole day at least on the lake. So I booked a day off work to have another crack. Last time I was here I felt I had flitted about spending too little time in any one spot, and that sounds mad as I only fished two swims. This time though it would be one and I would wait it out for ether failure or success and possibly even madness.

The lake looked in fine fettle with a green tinge to the water. The brook had obviously been pumping coloured water in over the weekend just passed, and I could not wait to get started. In no time at all my three floats were rotating around the large bowl of an area I had chosen to fish, and almost instantly my short range float did a quick bob which sent a ripple out over the calm water, indicating a imminent take. 

It was only small but what he lacked in size he made up for with spirit, and did a spectacular jump just off the end of my landing net. But that was to no avail as the next time round a plump and prime jack found the folds of my net. 

I would love to say the next eight hours were a blur of non stop action, but they weren't.  In reality all that ensued was a very long staring contest between me and the lake. Honestly it seemed like prime conditions with overcast skies, drizzly rain and reasonable temperatures. But it wasn't until the very last gasp that another float sparked up in exactly the same way and produced a equally spirited jack of a slightly larger size.

It is a little hard to see in this picture, but this fish had a little indicator that maybe I might not be that far off track, as it had signs of being grabbed by a much larger fish across its back. It was never a deep wound but more of scrape where large patches of scales had been removed by what looked like a considerably larger fish and indicated the definite presence of a pike eater in the lake.

This second foray after my white whale did produce some better results as the fish are getting slowly bigger. For my part though I do feel the whole Ahab-like obsession creeping over me. Maybe now I should start looking for a stove pipe hat, then get to work on Andy with a magic marker and fake tan so he can be my Queequeg.

The man from Del Monte he say No!

I would like to say before going onto the main topic of this blog that my impromptu mid week session at a tranquil and deserted commercial fishery after a big sarge was a sobering experience! 

About an hour into the fishing on this immaculate pool that is reputed to hold some staggering perch, I hooked and played a good fish which from the one glimpse I got of it, was somewhere in the big category. Just as I got to the 'grab the net' point in the fight, it made a twist which sent my hook and float flying out the water like a missile from a submarine and made me feel rather sick.

So, onto the main topic of this tale. I continued chasing after another giant perch from the same swim even though what was supposed to be a hazy spring day soon became a bright sunny one. 

With the horrible thought that my one chance was wasted ringing in my head I persevered. When my float bobbed again just like a perch, then slipped off, I thought my luck was again in. This turned out to be a small skimmer, which was followed by another, then another, then another. It would seem my chopped worm had today not attracted carp but a shoal of slimy immature bream. The next one I caught seemed different to the rest for some reason, so rather than tossing it back I took a closer look.

Bigger than normal eyes and peachy pectoral fins. Could it be...?

Did this pool contain an unknown population of silver bream? When the bailiff came round for his money I asked all the right questions and confirmed that yes, they stocked some silver bream as well as bronze bream. I did check that we were on the same page, and he again confirmed that he meant silver bream not skimmer bream.

But rather than get myself all het up thinking I had just landed a silver bar of rocking horse doo dee, I took some suitable photos weighed it at 10oz and let it go. Then caught another of 1.10 oz and nearly pissed my pants.

It was hard not to get excited about a possible 55% of the record fish. But again I took the close up shots and released it.

The rest of the session passed without a any more possible silver bream and without anymore big perch encounters. I did however catch several smallish perch and noticed some of the male fish exuding milt all over my hands, meaning that they must be just about to spawn which will scupper the perch fishing soon. Also I was amazed at how small of a size perch seem to be able to breed at. One of the milting fish was under an ounce, which did seem rather odd.

The next step was to get the possible silver bream checked out by the man who knows. Some call him the man from Del Monte, others call him Gongoozler extraordinaire. I call him Jeff Hatt off of idlersquest  

Yes folks, you can always trust a man who wears a carrier bag on his head and points at trees.

Whatever you care to call him his number one hobby is fishing and his number two hobby is silver bream identification confirmation.

So the morning after I sent Jeff a full picture of each fish and a head shot as well and awaited his experienced verdict. For my own part I had gone back to the pictures repeatedly since taking them and once on my computer I had myself compared them to previous captures documented on line and had myself sown the seeds of doubt. Truthfully to me they looked like nether silver bream or skimmer bream.

The man from Del Montes email confirmed my already growing suspicions. They were not silver bream but some form of bastard hybrid of god only knows what.
The lake in question does contain roach, rudd, bream, supposedly silver bream as well as all possible connotations of hybrids within those true species. This is were the problem lies. Not only are we talking about telling the difference of a silver bream from a skimmer bream but also the possibly that it could be a hybrid of two thorough bred parents or even possibly  the product of twenty years of cross breeding and contamination of gene pools. So I reckon trying to catch a pure fish from this pool would be an absolute waste of time.

Although I kind of knew in my heart they did not seem quite right I was still a little disappointed by the verdict. It would have been very nice to bag a PB silver bream twice in one session, but on the other hand I am happy I offered it up for confirmation, as I at least know for sure they were not silver bream rather than living with my own doubts should I have not.

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.

Those reflective eyes and lights in the night.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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