Rough ruffe fishing.

Looking forward to something is a dangerous game! By putting a particular thing on a pedestal if it doesn't quite live up to your expectations then you're only ever going to be let down. Conversely if you don't raise something up in your mind then normally you stand a fifty-fifty chance of it exceeding your expectations and you're happy.

Since my last ruffe safari a year ago I have been really looking forward to having another go, as I ripped them up and landed a new PB in the process. I was thinking that my return this year with methods already devised and swims pinpointed, I once again stood a good if not great chance of cutting them up. Arriving early after a trouble free journey and after bundling my clothes into a wardrobe as only a man can unpack, I slipped off for a quick reckie session to try and see how the land may lay.

Bait the hook, cast the rig, float dips under, strike and land the fish. For two non-stop hours this was my mantra as a stream of hungry perch and roach time and time again took my bait. The only other thing to go through my mind was 'it's only a matter of time till my target species comes along'. Another hour later and my hopes were waning. Half an hour on top of that and I was walking away with a rather perplexed look on my face. How in gods name could I catch so many fish, even have at least one repeater and not catch possibly the most gullible herbert down there? Worst of all that was my number one banker swim.

The next few sessions over the next few days went much along the same lines only with less fish. The broad was not fishing well by all accounts, and everyone fishing was suffering due to the bright conditions and the strangely low tides. Fishing tidal venues is awkward when you're not used to it; you keep having to remind yourself to either increase or decrease the depths of your rig accordingly. Its even more demoralising on the ebb as you can just see the fishing getting worse as the level of water over your quarry's head reduces.

It was the evening of day three when a little light finally shone on my ruffe fishing exploits. I had fished through all the reliable swims thrice over and was making my second pass of the day when my float began to wander. Something had hold of my bait and unlike the suicidal perch which just sink the float, or the cagey roach which dither with it, this fish seemed to be eating my lob worm section as it moved round in a small circle. It had to be and couldn't be anything else other than a ruffe.

I think the most common reaction to catching a ruffe by most people is the surprised exclamation of "oh its a ruffe", normally shortly followed by a plop as the much maligned fish is discharged back to the bottom to carry on its scrounging ways. But I implore anyone who reads this to stop just for a moment and look closely next time you catch one, as this easily overlooked herbert is quite possibly one of our isles best looking fish. Its just that no one bothers to look closely enough to appreciate them.

I was on the board, my account was open, whatever you want to call it, I had landed a ruffe finally. Two more followed that session but all three were peas in a pod at 0.6, 0.8 and 0.6 drams. I am still not convinced that the first and last one weren't the same fish that swam straight back to the baited area and got hooked again.

On the matter of the sea.

I can't visit the coast without doing at least some sea fishing. So taking a break from the intense powder keg world of ruffe fishing, I got out the old broom stick beach rod and packed the other half up ready for a day on the beach. 

Hot summers days at the end of the school holidays and beach fishing are best compared to that time when you were a kid and you wondered what would happen if you made a milk shake using orange squash. It seems a viable idea before you start but that as the two combine you suddenly realise they don't mix that well at all.

Wall to wall blue, the sun beating down on your head like the dessert, and kids all around makes swinging an big chunk of spike clad lead very uncomfortable. Not only was little Tommy and Gilly splashing around in the surf making it difficult, but the general lack of bites made the idea of trying to squeeze in a cast here or there pointless.

For miles up and down the coast anglers had become nocturnal and stayed well away from the throngs, only to come out at night in search of the sacred sole. That was apart from one chap who my fishing radar detected instantly from half a mile away walking up the beach having caught a delicious bass. Turned out he had landed three of them and they all lay gutted under a damp towel. That was enough to spur me to have another go on the same beach. Though all I caught that day was the sun on my neck.

All in all the sea fishing was hard! Too hard for me and the best I feel able to offer you, dear reader, is this picture of a random tall ship which passed by; truthfully the most interesting thing I saw at sea.

Back on the ruffe hunt things were looking up though and a few more slight examples turned up the following night as I eeked my session right into dark. I pushed my luck and hung on thinking surely a better one had to be around. And for once I was right when my barely perceptible float slid slowly under. I would love to describe an epic battle at this point but can't as this is ruffe fishing, and even on most sporting outfit the most that can expected is a little thrashing and splashing. Fight aside this was the best ruffe and last ruffe of the whole week, and although it was way off last years giant two ouncer it still seemed a very special fish in the context of things.

Rumours had been flying around the broad and the local tackle shops all week of some monster perch turning up in the broad. Even as an angler I some times take these things with a pinch of salt and frankly I had discarded the information as soon as I heard it. Especially as after five days of fishing half lobworms over chopped worm/maggot and had not seen a perch an bigger than half a pound, of which let me say there were thousands, if not millions, everywhere!

The morning in question I had slipped out very early to bag a spot I fancied that for the previous four days  had a Geordie match angler firmly entrenched in it, and who had, incidentally, caught naff all fishing a feeder at range. I fancied it as it was the only swim I hadn't fished and it had some nice cover in deep water a rod length out.

However the queue of small perch waiting over my baited spot seemed endless and by the time the sun rose high enough to burn the mist off the water I was already counting my worm baits thinking I would be off soon. Lucky for me it quietened off a little and with my ruffe fishing experience growing I knew this was normally the time the ruffe turned up when the party had ended.

Half an hour of no interest and I was wishing anything at all would take my worm never mind a ruffe. Moments later the float just went! It didnt, dither, bob, slide or dip. It just went! Lucky for me I had the clutch set on ruffe. Because when I answered with a swift srike the fish battered off like a freight train. The first run had me convinced I had hooked a jack pike by the way it surged off. When it got thirty feet from the bank I was sure it was a pike. Thinking it wouldn't be on long, I tightened the clutch and waited for the inevitable snap of my line in its teeth, but the fish turned and kited towards a moored boat  further down the bank. A little more pressure and I managed to avoid that hazard before it came out into open water, making a big swirl as it did. On the next turn a spiky fin appeared and pike turned into perch. Seeing that I eased off fair bit I can tell you. A few more violent runs and it was ready for my waiting net.

I am normally very prepared when I land a good fish and if it was a giant ruffe I was prepared. But even a British record ruffe wouldn't need an unhooking mat, you just hold them in the net. This fish though I needed to be careful with and here I was fishing in a land of concrete without so much of a hint of padding to lay this fabulous fish on. Sadly the best I could do to unhook it was to lay it on a pile of soft ropes I found attached to a boat. Even laying momentarily on that it looked so perfect I couldn't resist a quick snap.

Luckily for me the sight of my bent rod had attracted another angler over who I commandeered into taking a trophy shot. Though this was a risky business in itself, as the chap in question was quite elderly and I could in no way ask the poor fellow to kneel down on the concrete. So instead I risked it, gripped onto the fish for dear life, and stood up for this shot with the most perfect three pounder I have ever caught.

Amazing dace how sweet thou art.

Spring is knocking on our door and it's signs speedily increase, but the frost still forms on the chilly March nights and in the last remnants of dark the world sparkles white. During the daylight the early suns soothing rays dry deep every tarmac road of an entire Winters worth of damp, leaving them white with salt dust. It's those powder white, half light highways in which I speed to try and beat the rising sun to the river. The end of the season fast approaches and after a maddening winter not ability to pay the attention I wanted to the river, I now feel if I must take every chance I get to spend whatever time I can casting onto running water before the last hour comes.

Four different people on five different occasions boasted to me only the day before that the Avon was in perfect condition. Winter green, clear and with the just the right bit of colour. It always sounds contradictory when I hear people say that the river is clear with just the right amount of colour, but I know exactly what they mean and so does any other angler worth their merit. I for one believe it is that rare state where the water has the perfect combination of good visibility so the fish see every morsel from a good way ahead, whilst the having adequate colour to enable them to feed confidently even during the brightest of days. Its ironic however that the rivers attain this perfect nirvana-like state just as the season ends.

It's about this time that the Avon's dace population find optimum condition, ready for the temperature to become constant enough for them to spawn. That's still a little way off so they are still feeding hard, and happy coincidence means that I just happen to know where probably the best dace fishing is to be had on the entire Warwickshire Avon. Only problem is... I am not the only one who knows this information, hence my need to get to the river before first light.

This ever popular section is only really fishable at the tail end of the season. During Summer the banks are so overgrown that you would need a machete just to access the river and it would hardly be worth it anyway. You see when Winter comes and the temperatures drop, the majority of the rivers dace and roach seem to drop downstream from miles and stack up in this deep slow section forming a bonanza ready for the taking, much like the sockeye of North America.

Is not the smell of a weir in the half light the most intoxicating scent? With the wind in the right direction that very specific smell can be detected miles away from the waters edge. That wondrous aroma licked round the corner, down the alley through the dank and went straight up my nose, and in one quick sniff, I knew it was going to be a good day on the Avon before I had even left the car park. 

Every time I come to this bit of river and cast out my feeder I wait expectantly with a hint of worry, even though I know that as long as Winter is cold and I have bait the fish will more than likely bite. You see nine times in ten the fishing is insane, but that one time it is not it is the worst kind of dire, and trust me, this stretch on a bad day is the exact opposite of it's many good days.

Worry was soon abated when two casts in the first bite came. From then on in it never stopped for one moment; every feeder load of grubs was eaten with nothing less than gay abandon  At first it was little roach that viciously pecked at my maggots, then after a while the dace began to show. Small ones first, then not long after that they began to grow in size.

Hitting dace bites using a quiver tip is never easy and truthfully sixty or more percent are missed. But my theory on this has held me in good stead for many years fishing this particular area. Yes, fishing the stick or waggler as many of the match style anglers do undoubtedly converts more bites into fish, but while this will put together a match winning bag it does pander to the smaller fish. Undeniably bigger ones do get caught, but probably on a ratio of  ten little ones to one big one, on the float. 

Using the feeder those little dips of the float caused by smaller fish never enter in the equation. You never strike the trembles or slight nods: you just wait for a convincing bite, hit it, and more than fifty percent of the time it's a better fish for sure.

Sport was fast and furious and the speed in which my maggots were dwindling reflected that. It was about this time that Andy who was downstream encountered some action on the pike rod he had cast in the margin. 

I watched him strike, play and land the fish before venturing over to have a look and offer help if it was needed. He had the nice plump double well under control so being surplus to requirement I slipped off to have a quick cast before he wanted a picture taking.

The tiny hook re-baited I flicked the feeder underarm using physical memory, straight onto the line I had hit all morning. I felt it drift down to the soft bottom with a muted thump before resting the rod on the butterfly rest and my knee. The other day I talked to a friend about those times when you instinctively hit a bite; seeing the rod tip begin to move in a way that countless previous experiences tells you will be a proper bite, and striking before it has had time to develop. This was exactly what I did. This whole minute may well be one of those few perfect minutes of my angling life. One cast into exactly the right spot. One bite which was detected instantly and reacted to before it happened. Then that heavier pressure than I'd felt all day followed a long bar of silver rotating towards the bank. No dallying, no losses, just straight into the net in one shot. A PB dace!

I looked at in the net and called out to a distracted Andy that it was a big dace. He though had just freed up his pike and was getting ready for me, who was in that heady PB zone, to come and do the camera job on his pike. That done I went back and took a second look. That was when a hint of doubt came into my mind and I thought maybe it was a little chub. I have had a few that I would describe as decent dace, but this thing was in a different league and I think that's what threw me at first. It took two hands to hold the wiry critter; it's features were not like all the others I had caught. Instead of solid silver it had different tones of colour. A dark back fading into a silver belly, it had a huge mouth and was wide across its back.

I know anyone who has reads this who fishes any Southern rivers might think I am over reacting to what they think is not that special of a dace. But for the Warwickshire Avon this is a absolute monster the likes of which I have never seen before. The shot of the fish in my big old ham hock hands really did not show the fish for how big and fat it actually was, so this mat shot shows her for the kipper she was. 

Ten inches long, pigeon chested and with a stomach like Pavarotti. She was with all the best possible meanings an absolute hog of a dace, and luckily for me I had my digital mini species scales to weigh her on.
The plastic box I have been using to hold my captures on the scales was only a little over eight inches long so the poor girl found herself a little bent in there whilst the scales recorded her weigh,t and my new PB, at 12oz plus.

After that capture the keenness was taken from my cast. I often feel like this when I land a big fish, like I should just stop fishing and bask in the afterglow of a great capture, not sully the moment by casting again. But I never can not cast again as my whole ethos is based on the fact that I cannot have caught the biggest fish out there. On this occasion I should have stopped and gone home. The bites withered away as did my attention and soon I wandered off upstream for a few casts in another reputable spot.

Although well populated by anglers it seemed they were having a fruitless time, bar a few small silvers. So I soon wandered back to find Andy about to chip off, and Keith who had slipped in my swim working hard for bites.

Later myself and Keith wandered off downstream to explore what I can only describe as the oldest looking bit of the Avon I have ever fished. Sitting under the sandstone cliffs in the warm winter sun feeling for the tug of a perch as it picked up my worm, the question of how long it took the river to carve that stone down from the fifty feet peak of the cliff to where I sat was mind boggling. Jeff has often written about how spooky this place is at night and I was beginning to realise what made it feel that way. It is its age! The slip of land that surrounds that river has probably not changed for thousands of years. The cliff above has, as have the fields that flank it, but the bit where I was sat couldn't due to its geography  How many other anglers had sat aside this river searching for a fat perch dangling a worm I can't imagine. Anglers, like those dace, have probably been returning to these same few fields for hundreds of years and I know that I, like many, will continue this tradition come what may so next year I will be back.

Fishing in a winter wonderland.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

High and dry looking for that one moment of magic

Like most men I have the potential to drive my other half potty, and after a few hours of frantic Christmas shopping followed by a stop off at the local European style super market I was guilty of doing just this. I hate that snippy state we all get into at this time of year, and I for one often end up getting so frustrated over all the fervour for just one day, that I just have to escape. Luckily Jacky felt the same and suggested I maybe should go off for a few hours and leave her in peace. Me being the obedient type, she did not have repeat herself before I was pulling on my coat and slipping out the door with rod and bag in tow.

Two hours till dusk, a selection of juicy lob worms in my bag and the river was calling. I knew we had a bit of rain the day before but honestly never thought the effect would be as bad as it turned out. The land everywhere is sodden and it doesn't take much to get the rivers rising, but this takes the mick.

It looked like a weeks worth of rain was charging through the river as I crossed the field, and I won't deny almost turning tail, but truthfully I actually fancied having a crack at this familiar area when it was flooded out. I have an intimate knowledge of the banks and thought a couple of the areas where I normally sit might actually have turned from pegs to swims.

Getting close to the river though turned out to be a monumental effort alone. I hopped from island to island trying to avoid the deeper water, and after a detour probably equivalent to ten times the length of my normal route, I was sitting atop a mound in front of a nice slack water.

There is little need to go into the ins and outs of  two hours of debris catching on my line. What I can say is there was certainly fish in the slack and I did receive one tentative bite. More of this little session was spent watching the river rise out of the corner of my eye. For safety's sake I had earmarked a couple of tufts of grass a little up the bank, and as the minutes ticked away, they slowly disappeared from view under the rising water.

I eventually came to the conclusion that this was just not worth the risk, and decided to make a move towards home. This was the point when I realised that although I had be watching the water rise to my right I had neglected to watch it flanking me from the left. The water had risen up a drainage ditch along the edge of the field and spilled over in a old trench which dissected the field, and had left me very much marooned.

Landing net pole in hand, I carefully felt my way through the shallowest water, or so I thought. One step a little off course and my right boot went fully under the water, and trying to correct my mistake the left one got the same treatment. Feeling water now seeping through my thermal boots, my feet were certain to get a soaking, so off I went double time trudging through the water as a quick as possible.

Looking back over the now flooded field I could see the river had covered at least a quarter more of the low lying field than it had when I arrived. Even with a soaking wet feet I still think it was worth checking out that slack water, as there was always a chance that the heavy flow could of forced a lot of the rivers population into that tiny little area.

That following morning had been when I was really expecting to get out onto the river, but my experience the night before had luckily confirmed it would more than likely be a waste of my time, so a change of tack was in order. Having only thirty something lob worms as bait my only real option was to go and continue testing the waters on the tiny woodland fishery which I suspect might hold some decent perch.

Nestled in a spinney surrounded by trees this fishery has, as far as I am concerned, all the right ingredients for monster perch; no competition from other predators in or out of the water, huge amounts of prey fish and not too big. Partly the reason for targeting this water is that more than five years ago I myself caught a three pounder here, and then the following winter a fishing buddy of mine did the same. I was never to sure if it was the same fish but either way it proved the water more than capable of such fish.

I know the fishery's owner very well, and when I spoke to him on the subject of perch he firstly confirmed that from time to time big perch do turn up in matches, and secondly that this spring just past was a bumper year for spawning, or as he put it "the water were black wi fry". On a visit earlier this month I landed two perch of one and half and two pounds on a freezing cold day when the water was still muddied up from the feeder stream flooding over, so now it was clearing I really fancied my chances.

Maggots would have been a good addition to my bait as they would have concentrated the smaller fish and drawn in the perch, but with only limited worms at my disposal I opted to use a technique that has worked for me before. Fishing a whole split worm on the hook and flicking out a chopped up worm every twenty minutes to half an hour seems to be enough to attract perch via the scent of those chopped worms, whilst not quite being enough to attract to many swim ruining carp of which this lake has many.

With all my best efforts it seemed that still thawing pool was proving to be frigid in more ways than one. Through the morning there had been some intermittent topping by the silvers but that seemed the full extent of the activity. I stuck with the plan and concentrated all my attentions of the single orange top which slipped in and out of the shadows on the mirror like surface. 

My first bite came two hours in when my float buried instantly, leaving me connected to a powerful fish which was at least double the size of the current UK perch record. It didn't take too long to get off my hook either - three powerful runs towards the last vestiges of the lily pads and it was free. Happy with a little action the loss was not that hurtful, as carp held no interest today.

After the swim had settled and another two hours passed, out of now where I got a single stern bob on the float before it headed out into the lake. I must of hit hundreds of these classic perch bite this year alone but this one when struck contacted nothing. Both halves of my worm were gone though, which hinted a perch was somewhere scoffing its free meal. 

A quick recast and that magic moment came again exactly as before, and as I watched it sink away I paused giving this one a little more time to engulf the bait before I struck into a certain perch good perch. Whether it was the contrast of little activity or whether I am growing in appreciation of the perch's fight I don't know, but the the scrappy battle was a joy, and the first glimpse of that spiky dorsal was breathtaking.

Nowhere near the biggest perch I have caught this year but certainly one of the most appreciated  It was maybe a pound and a half or more, but more importantly it was the right sort of perch; big head, deep body and young. I have come to look for this sort of perch in these more commercial lakes as I think they are a good measure of what the water could hold. Even if they are still a few years off becoming a monster, there could be fish with the same genetics a few years older hanging around, and not just that, there's always the ones that spawned them.

After the floods have passed.

The Avon has got my attention. For the longest while she had fallen from my mind, whilst other far away rivers and moody lakes have preoccupied me. But now she has changed from a memory to a target again with a monumental discharge of power which has turned my eyes back toward her.

The slow sedate flow is gone and the level has risen violently, bursting bank, covering field and fence as the familiar channel in which it flows was unable to cope with days of rain. The entire country has been reminded of how water governs our lives. Gone are the picture postcard images only to be replace by scenes of disaster and woe.

Unlike most who would rather get away from the frigid water sopping through their lives, I find myself intrigued by it. The flood plains now call to me and I have been watching for an opportunity to explore and see it in a different way. I do not want to see her as I always do, I want to cast into new slacks or differing pools which are only temporarily there; to play whilst she is a different mood.

Sense over valour has prevailed though. When midweek I ventured near, I found banks still very submerged. It's not that I did not want cast into the flooded water or that I did not feel confident to wade through the flooded meadow, it was more what I knew of this stretch!

Last year I sat on frozen banks in total silence as the evening drew in and from nowhere, the bank no less than twenty feet upstream crumbled into the river reminding me of how undercut it was. With no other reason than it was no longer able to support its weight, a sizeable chunk of dark brown Warwickshire mud, grass and all slid into the river. How many times I had sat atop that bit of earth with not a single thought to it's stability I could not have recalled if I tried, but what I did know was that I had sat there. Witnessing such a thing has ever since acted as a reminder to probe the ground I intend to sit on carefully with a bank stick before I settle in; should that bank stick suddenly dive deep after half a foot or so, then I always move back a little more, extending my landing net as I do.

No fish is worth your life, and for me this day alone in the half light it was easier to walk away. Giving the old mother Avon a few more days to temper herself, a nearby fishery I suspected might hold big perch came to my aid, and after plying its chocolate waters with left over grubs and a few lob worms, my suspicions were confirmed a little. That bitter morning a landed two nice perch of one and half, and a little under two pounds along with a rouge chub, proving that I will return again for a bigger perch.

Two more days passed before I ventured back to the river and when I again found myself looking over the fields. The water was again hidden within cuts on flat land and although the river was back where it belonged, signs of the floods remained. Just over the barbed wire fence a tide mark of debris marked high water and my normally straight path was today more of a game of hopscotch, as I traversed from mound to mound.

Though familiar at first glance, a few moments watching revealed my timing seemed quite right. The water flowed right to left but the currents were like a jigsaw put together all wrong. In the past my knowledge of some of the swims have lead me to believe that should I fish blindfolded, I could get my baits in the right place (if I did not fall in first that is). Today, however, the swims were new and I had to again think how to best fish these old haunts.

After a few probing casts of a light rig, where I watched diligently as the weight skipped across the river bottom before snagging on old weed, I spotted not far from the rod tip the tiniest of eddies, no bigger than a metre in width where the current deflected off a slight jut in the reeds.
Just lowering the bait into the water I saw my worm waft in opposition to the flow, and the tension in the line went as the lead made bottom, the bow of the line indicating my bait, now on the bottom, was possibly upstream.

How in such flow the rod tip registered such a half hearted enquire is a miracle, but the rod tip did judder just once hinting at some interest. I nearly struck the second, but just stopped hand on cork and said to myself 'next time' which took no time to come at all. We have all heard the popular saying referring to a barbel bite as a three foot twitch. Well this was a three centimetre twitch, and I hit it at one point five.

Every moment of the spirited fight was enjoyed, and the satisfying sight only a small chub of a maybe two pounds vilified my choice of casting into the temporary eddy at my feet.

I do not often chance a second fish from such small features. But given the power of the current between this eddy and the rest of the river it seemed perfectly plausible there could be a whole shoal of chub crammed in it. A short interlude and a few broken worms flicked tight to the bank and I again lowered the bait into the opposing current. 

Another tinkle came and went before I checked to see if I had been robbed, and I had! So pushing my luck I recast, set the trap and waited. Longer than before it took, but there is not many chub, no matter how fickle can resist the allure of a worm in fining water. The bite was the identical to the last. Only this time on the second twink down the white tip never sprang back. The fight of these chub in the more powerful flow was impressive, but unusually for the chub of the upper Avon they pulled none of their normal dirty tricks instead opting to hold out in the flow rather than dive into every available bit of rush.

This slightly larger one proved me right concerning the presence of more fish in the tiny eddy. But it was also a clear signal to move on downstream and spend the last hour or so fishing a favourite old swim, which I was convinced would certainly flow differently in my favour and would be a great last swim as the light went.

From the first cast to the last, fish were very interested in what I was offering. The only problem was that the quick and half hearted rattles were not caused by chub, but rather perch and if the chub bites were shy these could drive a man insane for sure.

Not one of those quick rattles were connected, no matter how quick I tried to hit them or how long I waited. These perch had robbery down to a fine art. Somewhere in the rash of violent tugs the tip pulled round very slightly, as if a tiny bit of weed had hung up as it passed by my rig. Even if I am just reeling in I give my rod a tiny strike just in case it might be a fish and on this occasion it was. A third chub smashed up the swim before broaching my net.

After that it really turned into one of those one last bite things. By the time the sun dipped below the horizon I was still getting bites, even though I could barely see the white tip of my rod in the dark. Even unable to hit those pesky perch and with my hands numb from the cold, it was well worth being on the river to see the sky first turn dark blue, then purple as night fell.

Even after a Saturday night fuelled by rum and cokes I was always going back the following morning despite knowing how cold it would be after a clear night. The one thing that kept me ever confident was that I knew the fish were on the feed. 

In a new swim however, it was no chub who struck first. With the turbulent flow close to my feet a large eddy was accessible by fishing my rod tip pointing skyward, lifting my line well over it into the slack. I had already stuck at a very perch-like rattle before recasting, and just as the weight touched down I fancied the slight nod of my rod tip indicated another may of attacked the worm as it fluttered down. Nothing more happened though and suspicion grew that once again I had been turned over.

My little flick of the rod just before reeling revealed the rig may of snagged up on some unseen obstacle. This was in part true as the hook was in fact snagged in the mouth of a pike who had grabbed the falling bait. For the first few runs it was all good, and even using a relatively light outfit I felt sure I stood a chance with this toothy critter. That was until it did a very unseasonal jump over on the far bank and revealed itself as an nice size jack of maybe five pounds or more. I survived the first bit of acrobatics but on the second my line stood no chance as it thrashed its head and severed my line like cotton.

I think the reason I cast back into the same spot was because I wondered if its prescience may have in some way hampered any other fish present, and that may of been true, as after only moments the tip once again went before I hooked another chub of two to three pounds.

Three more swims I fished after this one and no more fish were landed. Then thinking it was about time to get off, I chanced that pesky perch hole again wondering if on a different day their confidence may have grown overnight.

Straight off I missed two wicked bites which I am still kicking myself for missing now as I write this. They were the only proper bites I had in two different occasions in that swim, and somehow in a fumble of hands I struck both as the tip was going the wrong way. One fish I actually felt vibrating up the line for shortest of time before the rig popped clean out the water.

Even with that hint of regret of missing what could have been a nice river perch, I am glad to see that one of my favourite stretches of the upper Avon is showing no signs of suffering from the recent floods, and now I find myself really looking forward to those short cold winter sessions and maybe rooting out a five pounder here or there.

Early Halloween shockers and monsters.

I don't know about anyone else, but with me enjoying the pursuit of many different species I often find myself planning what and where quite far in advance. This year though one of my targets was a big perch, and luckily for me my plans unusually went to course, ending up with me landing a large fish very early on. So with that box ticked I was free to waste time as I wished. Even with a target achieved, the fact that I love perch fishing was always going to mean I would still carry on despite the likelihood of me beating that fish being quite slim. I do fish for my own pleasure, not just to achieve targets after all.

The one question that had come back into my head repeatedly was, should I return to the small commercial fishery which was the scene of that capture or not? I mulled it over more times than I care to remember and compared it to a multitude of other suitable venues. In the end I could not see any reason not to return, even though I thought to myself, and Jacky confirmed, that what ever I caught was always going to be smaller.

The normal population of anglers at commercial lakes on weekends inclined me to arrange a mid week session to avoid the masses and Jeff was more than happy to come along for a spot of autumnal worm wanging. We arrived earlyish and set up in a quite part of the lake in adjacent swims. 

Jeff pondering his rig after playing piggy in the middle between a snag and a hawthorn repeatedly 

The action was undoubtedly slow but here and there we got hints that perch were around. Jeff was first to land one which had been attracted by his free maggots. Though no bigger than his little finger, it still had a good way to go to reach the size we wished it was.

My 'big bait equals big fish' plan proved to also attract the tiny yearlings, but my baits being four times larger than the tiny perch present meant they could only harass my baits, causing my floats bob constantly. Soon though I got a real bite, when a single thump of the float preempted a slow submergence into the murky water. Strike met solid resistance that seemed about right for a good perch. The jagged dives seemed about right. Having convinced myself it was a decent perch only served to increase my shock when it surfaced and, quite loudly, I made my disbelief clear to a now approaching Jeff.

Sometimes the best descriptions are the first things out of your mouth and with this one I got it right first time with 'It's a crucian carp wearing a Halloween costume.' 

This thing had a bit of everything mixed into it's lineage; it had a crucian dorsal fin and mouth, a proper dose of goldfish and quite possibly a hint of shubunkin or koi just for good measure. I was almost embarrassed I did not see it coming and avoid capturing it, because as I let it go I could see it swimming off four feet under the water.

After my early Halloween caller, the small perch carried on doing what they always do until my float repeated the previous bite exactly. One thump then it slid off confidently.  How nothing was on the end seemed unfathomable to me. In the wind it took a few attempts to get the bait exactly back on the spot. Satisfied I sat back and only had to wait a short while for the next decent bite. For a third time the float didn't dally and this time I felt the solid resistance as a good fish held low down. I did have one of those oh bugger best let that have a spot less drag moments as the fish dived repeatedly.

"Please let this be a perch", rang through my head as the powerful fish still remained unseen. Then that moment all big perch anglers desire so much happened. A big spiny humped back broke the surface before shooting back below the surface. That was when my heart began to thump hard and the reality that I was attached to a fine big perch hit me. 

Those moment between realisation of what is on the end of your line and the safety are the net are both the worst and best times in fishing as far as I am concerned. The instant it went into the net I started to wobble. I must have alerted Jeff during the fight but I don't for a second remember doing so and as he approached I did babble out "it's a good one".

My second big perch in as many sessions on this pool went onto the scales to reveal a satisfying 3.6lb weight.

I cannot deny wondering if this was actually the same fish only at a much lower weight. So once back home I got pictures of both fish up on the computer to double check. Though undoubtedly related, the first was a much longer fish with a massive head, whereas this one was shorter with a much more pronounced humped back, and was all round a little less tatty. On the subject of comparisons, Andy and myself once caught two, two pound perch from a canal within moments of each other which were identical right down to the stripes. The only way to tell those two apart was by a small swirl in ones scale pattern and proved to me how similar shoal mates scan look.

The similarities in the two perch from this pool now leads me to believe there is probably one shoal of one year class, giant perch marauding around this water. In fact I will go as far as to say that it is quite likely that one both occasions when I have caught one it is probable that the whole shoal was in front of me and the hooking of one fish sent the rest of them of packing. I did hear form a regular angler of this fishery that he once caught nine perch around 3lb in one sitting, when they were shoaled up tight and hard on the feed. But that's it for me! I am convinced there is a decent number of big perch present and I know I will be back for sure all through this season of falling leaves right through to when the first cat ice forms to try and bag a multiple capture.

Southern shennanigans

I rarely begin writing about an adventure before I actually embark upon it, but this time I think it may be necessary   You see, after returning from any of my previous trips that have involved the lower Itchen fishery, I have found myself almost speechless. The reason I often find myself lacking words is simply due to a fishing daze. Just half a day early in the coarse season and you ultimately feel like you have been blasted with angling shot gun.

I told Andy, who is on his first visit with us this time, that the only way to describe how good the area we were going to fish is,  think of the best river fishing he has ever had, take away all fear from the fish, and times it by three. 
The reason, I think, for this above exceptional sport is quite simply a lack of pressure. This highly prized and protected stretch is, for most of the year, the premise of the Salmon and trout angler. So for the entire summer the numerous residents that are not targeted by the fluff chuckers do not supplemented in any way. Come the end of the game season and copious amounts of maggots suddenly sink slowly through the water; the fish gorging themselves on the bounty. 
Obviously given time, the fish acclimatise and realise that the bounty comes at a price, thus becoming wary. But for the first two weeks of the season it really is pure heaven and could well be a reflection of how fishing all over the UK was once. Luckily for us we happened to be going in the honeymoon period when coarse fishing is allowed.

But before we got to the main course we had arranged an appetiser session on the Dorset Stour, where we hoped we stood a chance of connecting with big chub or roach on a stretch that Keith and Jeff had fished earlier in the year.

Men our age shouldn't get as excited as we had, and upon rendezvousing at Andy's early Saturday morning, we were all noticeably twitchy. Though excited as we were, there was a cut of  reality about the mood. We had all heard the previous two days weather report for the south. Combine this with the spiking river level on the Stour and we where unsure of what we would find upon arriving.

Journeys in good company rarely drag by, and the constant conversation lubricated the passing of time till we finally crossed the old bridge spanning the Stour. The sight we caught fleetingly in the half light was not good. Unlike our sluggish local rivers I believe the Stour has a respectable flow even without 24hrs of rain filtering into it. On this occasion I think the best description of the flow would be raging, rising and possibly rapidly.

A quick walk of the stretch and it was agreed that we were here now and we would fish, then see how we got on by lunch time when the decision would be made to abandon session or stick it out.
To me the main channel of the river looked horrendous, but several slacks on our bank seemed the best option to maybe tempt something seeking sanctuary out of the main flow. So I set up next to nice looking spot where the bending river caused the flow to shoot out diagonally from my left leaving a nice crease and subsequent slack for me to fish.

Maggot, we had been informed, were the bait for this bit of water, but whacking shed loads of maggots into it didn't feel right on the day. Luckily for me in the bottom of my bag was a bait tub full of lobworms which I had chucked in as a back up bait. The idea that the rising water would wash any unsuspecting worms into the river was enough for me to stick with them all morning.

A split lob cast into the crease weighted by little lead swung into the slack and bites came quickly. Six small perch succumbed in quick succession before a felt a solid fish on. Although I felt it and was sure it was a fish it doubt it felt the searing bite of my hook at all.

After this the worm line petered away and the river rose. I had already moved back a foot or so but the river constantly crept towards me lapping at my feet and after four moves I found myself six feet further from the river than when I started.

I was just considering a fifth move up the bank when my two companions arrived  to discuss what to do. With the river rising fast, the fishing was getting harder and we were all suffering. The decision was made to head over the the Itchen to give the free stretches a go and see how the water levels had been affected, in anticipation for the main event.

When we arrived the river looked to be higher than normal, with that constant bank to bank flow associated with chalk streams, but held a very muddy colour, which I for one had never seen on this river. Honestly it didn't look too bad to me. The locals on the other hand seemed a little worried about it. Comments such as "oh it ain't been this high for ages" spilled constantly from their mouths as they seemed genuinely concerned that an impending flood approached. For those of us that live near to river such as the Avon, Trent and Severn are used to the water being over its banks, and a bad flood is when caravans come flying down the river smashing into bridges; not when the there is some danger the water may reach the top of the bank.

We did however fish and of all the things that made the fishing hard, I think be far the biggest factor was the lack of clarity in the water. Although I must say that in my experience the free stretches of any river get hammered senseless. Hence the fish ain't stupid!

Lined along the banks with the locals we gave it our best shot and for my part an hour in I hooked a good fish which I suspect was a trout, but whose teeth severed my light line moments after I hooked it. I stuck with my line running along the opposite bank and fed constantly with maggots, and as I nattered to Jeff who had just arrived, I hooked a good chub which held on the opposite bank and thumped away until the hook pulled. That second loss really hurt, especially as I knew those bites were at a premium right now.

I plugged away all afternoon until my arm ached from repeating the same cast time and time again. Andy and Baz ambled along the bank as I approached the last few pouches of maggots. The time for the off neared and tired from my constant casting, I offered my rod to either of them whilst I had a smoke before packing away. Andy took the rod and began casting whilst I fired out the remaining baits. Would you believe only moments after I fired the very last few of grubs into the water and stated that was the last of the bait, Andy called out 'fish on'. After a decent fight in the powerful flow and instructions being called from many sources the net was slipped under a nice looking chub of  2lb!

Day one had been a real test for us, fishing two out of sorts venues. But things were looking up. Adjacent to my swim was a level board and as I fished away I noticed that not only had the water level fallen by several inches, but I could also see the numbers below the water as the river cleared.

A little dejected we headed back to the digs to freshen up for a nice meal and a few civilised tipples before getting to bed early in order to get a good nights sleep ready for day two.... After waiting an age for our meal we did finally enjoy some hot food, and then when all the others arrived at the pub the couple of beverages turned turned into a serious session, with the drinks were going down like lizard eggs, leaving every member of the rowdy group drunk senseless. One at a time we fell away. Keith had unusually fallen silent in a stupor in the corner. Jeff especially was a sight to behold at two in the morning with one eye open and the other shut, gargling away in some seeming strange tongue that sounded a little infant like. After making generous contributions to the Irish economy Baz disappeared after the single word statement of 'bed'. And as for Andy, the best we could figure was that he was locked up in a dungeon under the main house wearing a gimp mask by now.

Less than fours hours later alarms sounded and some very peaky looking chaps fumbled around attempting to get sorted as they muttered away to themselves. A cooked breakfast plus aspirin later we found ourselves standing at the bottom of the lower Itchen fishery, still looking a little worse for wear.
The main concern for all though was the state of the river. It had dropped by close to a foot overnight and seemed to be clearing, but all of us still had apprehensions after hearing Sash's tales of woe from his session here the night before.

After we all went our separate ways I strolled upstream towards a ugly swim which has on every previous visit produced the goods for me. This time I fished it from the opposite side of the river to avoid the full force of the river smashing into my lines. A couple of exploratory casts with an empty feeder confirmed the rig would hold on the edge of the main flow. The next cast went out with a baited hook and feeder full of red maggots. Instantly the tip rattled with the attentions of hungry minnows then fell still before smashing round violently.
The fish held deep before beginning what has to be one of the most insane and heart pounding fights I have ever had. It shot upstream zig zagging, before turning round and ploughing down the current in a run than hammered the clutch on the reel into an inaudible sound, before exiting the water shaking its head side to side. After several smaller runs across the river I was treated to the fish tail walking against the flow. The whole time this was going on I held on for dear life attempting to keep it away from every patch of streamer weed and all other weed beds it ventured near. After two failed attempts I finally slipped her into the net, gathered my breathe for a moment and let her rest before I pulled out the net to feast my eyes on my fish of the trip and a new PB.

The fish it would seem were feeding and straight away my worries that the trip could be a total wash out were quashed. A steady stream of small grayling and gudgeon followed before another big fish thumped my rod tip. This had to be a good chub and it did what chub do best and bored its way straight into the closest weed bed. Even with a huge open bank to walk in and attempt to change the angle, I could not shift it from the dense weed and inevitably the culprit escaped as I tried to free the rig.

A couple of more aggressive bites ended in my hook being severed from my line and I knew it would only be time before a trout came my way. And they did in the form of three small 1-2lb brownies who had fallen under my maggoty spell.

It may sound odd as I was catching, but I forced myself to leave the first swim. Quite honestly I could have sat there all day but more swims beckoned, and the next intended swim I had heard on my last visit was reputed to hold some very big roach. After tossing a few handfuls of bread mash well upstream I squeezed in and flicked in a small pinch of bread. Twanging bites came instantly and after one false strike I hooked a small roach not more than 6oz.

Two more followed but after that the bites evaporated; on this fishery its just a case of moving onto the next swim to plunder different fish instead of waiting for bites to come again.

I headed up to the mid reaches in order to met up with the others for lunch. Arriving an hour early I settled in a fast run close to the hut. Every cast of the feeder I reeled in a small grayling. I must of landed twenty plus fish but not one was more than a pound in weight.

When the others arrived it was evident that the previous nights debacle had taken its toll and everyone in our little group looked knackered  A brief and quiet lunch consumed we again went our separate ways. Myself and Jeff strolled back down the river where we both fancied the weir pool.
I stuck it out all afternoon on the maggot feeder hoping a constant stream of grubs may entice first the smaller residents, and maybe signal any barbel to the presence of food. The small chub, gudgeon and grayling did arrive but the nothing bigger showed at all and by mid afternoon I was running on empty as was everyone else.The day drifted away as did the fishing and in hindsight stopping in the middle reaches would probably been a better afternoon choice but I made my choices with a very tired brain.

It was well before dusk when the idea of leaving early was thrown into conversation and we all agreed sticking it out till the bitter end seemed fruitless considering how the fishing had declined through the the day.

Truthfully the weekend did turn out to be a slight anticlimax for a lot of us. Though I must say that in my opinion we all may have got more from the second day if we hadn't gone so mad the night before, ending up fishing with half our brains turned off.

For me though the trip had been more than worthwhile with me knocking chub off  left right and centre and even with hard conditions to contend with, still catching loads of grayling and small trout. Oh and of course that PB.

After so many run ins and losses with this species on this venue, I finally at long last, with the help of my John Wilson Avon quiver rod, a bit of luck and after a very memorable fight, landed my first proper size Atlantic salmon of a little over 9lb, using a method which would have most tweed clad salmon anglers sneering from behind their handlebar moustaches. But I don't care because it was an amazing and truly beautiful fish that I felt privileged to hold in my hands

Commercial success.

A few weeks ago I made the hard decision that with a trip to the coast looming, joining the rest of the crazy crew on a jaunt to Hanningfield reservoir was financially unfeasible for me. It turned out Baz from Return to Ryton was in the same predicament, so I suggested we get together on the weekend in question for a perch session on one of the local commercial fisheries on my hit list.

My previous midweek trip out had actually been to check out this new lake and as I had bumped off a good Sargent early on, it seemed the rumours of big perch may of had some credence. So this seemed to be the perfect place for us to spend our Saturday searching for something special.

A week of bright sunny skies meant my confidence was not high. Even though the lake in question was far from clear. The sun had hampered even the small perches feeding in the week but when I awoke Saturday morning half the country was shrouded in fog and it seemed fate was at hand.

After Baz picked me up and we had one small disaster where my much needed net was left outside my front door, we finally arrived in rural Warwickshire and drove between newly planted fields towards the fog cloaked lake.

It was quite eerie making our way to the lake. The fog as always dampened all sound and all I could hear was the occasional ribbet of toads from the reed beds where the spring orgy was well underway.

On my last visit I had fished only one rod over a bed of chopped worms and prawns. This had lead me to keep swapping from one the other as hook baits, as when fishing worm I felt I should have been fishing prawn and vice versa. This time though, even knowing how hard it is to fish two float rods and watch both floats efficiently, I went for identical rigs with a different bait on each one and fished them a meter apart.

This was not easy as I had opted to fish the most awkward swim on the entire lake. The slight breeze blowing onto my rigs meant they had to be fished eight inches over depth to hold bottom. But they were under tension, so even the slightest bite was detected. So that problem turned into a bonus. 

It was the overhanging tree that hung so low that I could not even raise my rod which caused the most problems. All casts had to be flicked under deftly from my right and all strikes had to go out the same way. The casting I knew would not be a problem but in the panic of a fight I worried I could find myself tangled on the branches. A few hits at slight bites from silvers worrying my baits got me on the right track soon enough.

The glorious fog was not going to last all day. So with that in mind both Baz and myself worked hard to make the most of the lack of sun, but all too soon I could feel the rays burning away our cover.

I like to think any change can help when you aren't getting the right bites and even when light levels go from good to bad, fish sometimes feed just as that light changes. 

If I learnt one thing last year fishing for perch using floats on the canal, it was what a bite from a good perch looks like. At least that's what I thought when my float did a little bob before sliding off. But what I was attached to felt like a small carp trying to bore into my own bank. With my trusty new John Wilson Avon rod bent nicely I confidently pulled the little bugger into open water where it rolled once before I went white as a sheet and scrabbled for the net. I forgot that the rest of the world existed! Only one thing mattered - getting this fish in my net at all cost. Everything held, I managed not to flap and she was mine.

With it safely in the net I stood shaking and whistled over to Baz. I knew it was new PB before I even lifted it from the water, but I never expected the sheer size and girth of it. I have to thank Baz at this point because my composure had just vaporised and whilst I held the net in the edge he organised scales and cameras.

When I picked up those scales with a bulging carrier bag hanging beneath, I could not have put a weight on it. The moment the dial moved, it went confidently round to 4lb.

On the mat it looked like it could eat the flipping scales, it was that big. Still it had no anger in it like perch sometimes do, and for the life of me I could not get that fin to stand proud but that did not matter to me as I had a fish in my hands that most anglers go there entire lives without catching.

The thickness of this fish was probably around five inches and a six ounce roach would go in it's mouth no problems. In fact I remember thinking clearly at the time that two golf balls would easy go in it's mouth, it was that big.

Neither Baz or myself had ever seen a perch like this in the flesh and I wonder if I ever will again. After taking  loads of photos she was treated with the utmost respect. I crouched on the waters edge cradling her gently in the water as I took one last look before she swam back under the bank.

I must have sat, rods out the water smiling like a goon for ages before I snapped round and thought, what the hell do I do now. I just caught the biggest perch of my life and it's only ten in the morning.

Then the most insane thing sprang to mind! Who's to say that the biggest one in the lake. So I spent the rest of the day hunting for something bigger. Honestly...

I did actually hook and lose a smaller fish of maybe 2lb, which on any other day would have had me screaming but not today after having held a true giant.

All day I kept flicking on my camera and looking through the pictures, as I have done ever since. On the way home we chatted. I won't go back to this lake until autumn when they are feeding up for winter. And when I do I will follow up another tip off I got from a local, regarding a second hot spot on the lake where the capture of four fish over three pounds in one session was meant to have taken place.