Desperately seeking crucians.

With a title such as that you'd be forgiven for thinking I was in serious need of landing a lovely golden crucian carp. Well, I am and I am not, if that makes any sense. Really with where I live and the waters available to me, I could without shadow of a doubt go out and catch myself a crucian pretty easily, but the truth is that I only have eyes for one sort of crucian and it just happens that those are the hardest sort to catch round these parts as they are basically few and far between.

You see all crucians are not created equal... in my eyes anyway. In his well regarded crucian bible, 'A crock of gold: seeking the crucian carp', Peter Rolfe describes two distinct shapes of crucian carp; one, long and shallow which grows up in a relatively predator free environment and thus survival is not dependant on shape; the other, a classical round shaped crucian variant, that natural selection has determined due to its depth being to great too fit in the predatory perches mouth. The narrow variant is available commonly around the Midlands in quite a few pools including Snitterfield reservoir, which boasts an old population such as the one below and a whole new generation which was stocked few years ago to cement the reservoir as a top crucian venue for years to come.

The more rarer and archetypal variant though is much harder to find no matter where you come from. It is this disc-like crucian that I really wanted to catch this year, as a long time quest to actually catch just one of these special fish from Napton reservoir came to fruition and I landed four in one session last year. I honestly thought having finally done the impossible I might have satiated the urge, but the reality is that catching some has only made my need to catch them even worse. This picture alone has seen me return time and time again this year just for a chance to catch one more.

I have purposely kept away from blogging about the numerous failures to catch one of those golden pixies time and time again, as frankly I would have got very boring by now. Literally, I have spent half of my fishing time sitting on the banks of Napton mornings and evenings watching and waiting. I've spent so much time on there that I can tell some of the ducks apart merely by their demeanour. I've spent so much time sitting in silence that I've noticed that not only does Napton have a very shy population of water voles, but its stony margins are also home to bullheads which dart in and out of the rocks. As I've sat quietly waiting for my float to dip or rise so much as a millimeter I've seen plenty of Napton sunsets and now have developed a very keen appreciation for a good tench roll.

One thing I can say is the pest captures over the summer have really been great. Napton has so much more to offer than I ever thought in the past. The fish I've seen these last few months have honestly blown my mind. So much so in fact that I am already planning to have few sessions back on the venue once the weather cools a bit and the summer species go off the boil. Roach will be the target and why not when I've already caught fish to 1.10lb and pound fish have become very common. The Rudd to have blossomed in here and like their cousins, might continue to feed as the winter approaches. Saying that there does seem to be a few odd hybrids kicking around as well.

The tench sport was always regular this summer, but with the clear weedy conditions it has proved to be hard fishing in daylight hours in the margins at least. Evenings on the other hand have been madness, with catches of five fish one after another being the norm once the light drops and they find my carefully laid crucian traps. The tench have been so keen on my methods that sadly I've had to step up my tackle just to not get destroyed every time one comes along, hence I've fished probably a pound or so heavier gear than I would like to on such a venue. The rewards for that small compromise has been some lovely conditioned tench.

It wasn't until the other day that I strayed away from this crucian quest and with the summer ticking away I felt that sticking one in the net for this year's challenge was quickly passing me by. So with that in mind I did a session on Snitterfield reservoir to tick that box. Though that wasn't as simple as I expected it to be, as where the tench at Napton have proved very susceptible to my method the bream at Snitters were downright mugs for it. I spent a very hot and uncomfortable afternoon working my way through a good twenty of them and a fair few hybrids to conclude to stop feeding bait to encourage them. Half an hour bite-less proved enough quiet for at least one of the original crucians to drift in over the bream polished spot and put a pound and two ounces on my score sheet.

As I sat looking at my year planner at work a few days ago I realised that this little endeavor had consumed a large portion of the year and with a holiday fast approaching I had to draw a line under this crucian quest. So with that in mind I planned a final trip to Napton in search of gold. The only difference between this session and every other one before it was the addition of some very crucian carp looking bubbles emanating from the reed bed close to where I was fishing. They though came to nothing and my vigil ended once again with a streak of hard fighting tench before the sun set on my final attempt to catch those illusive Napton crucians.

Weirdly I don't feel the slightest disappointment in not actually catching one of Napton's bars of gold. I have actually really enjoyed spending all this time trying to pick a needle from a haystack. I can say with some certainty that I saw two crucians roll in a very specific place more than forty feet out from the bank and should I have been inclined I might have set up a feeder rig or something to try and hang one up, but I was not inclined, as doing so just feels little vulgar to me. Seeing those individual bubbles rising round the float and hitting that tiny bite before nervously playing a little circling giant is what I want and should it take me another decade to get that then I am prepared to sit and happily wait amongst Napton's reeds for it to come.

A Jobber's point collecting job.

When I decided to take part in this most recent fishing challenge, I said to myself it was always going to be a case of just doing what I wanted to do and collecting any points that came along as a result of my captures, unlike in previous challenges where I have gone off searching for specific points. My good intentions though lasted all of five minutes, after I decided to go on a point collecting mission and head down to one of my favorite sections of canal to try and catch a few decent examples of a few different species. 

The idea to go a fish the canal using some old school Sensas ground bait while fishing worms over the top had popped out of my brain goo a while ago.  As it's something I rarely do on canals nowadays I wondered what the reaction on this highly populated area might be. So after settling on a favorite fish holding area I plumbed my float up two inches over depth and baited a small area about a foot square with four hard golf ball sized balls of Lake black ground bait, laced with a few broken worms, and threw in one loose ball to break up on the way down. Then while that stewed away sending of waves of scent down the canal with the tow, I got comfortable.

I reckon worms must make up a huge proportion of small zanders diet as I regularly catch them on worm sections and because of that I wasn't surprised to see the first fish that pulled my float under was a sprightly little zander.

The next bite came not even minutes after the float had settled down to only the orange tip. A quick dip indicated the lob tail being sucked in and the float then slid away as something moved out of the swim. My light rod hooped over severely towards the water as I tried to man handle the fish away from my spot to the side of the swim so as not to spook any other still on my bait. It turned out to be a nice big perch. Wanting to weigh the fish I kept it in the net after unhooking it and nonchalantly just threw the bait out into the water. As I was faffing around with my scales I notice the rod nodding down towards the water. After picking it up I was once again playing a powerful fish and moments later a brace of big perch lay side by side in the net ready to be weighed.

I wished I had bought a keep net along as the sport had gone from zero to frantic instantly and I could just saved the weighing of the fish till the end. But having not bought a  keep net I just persevered and the next fish that needed weighing came along immediately after a quartet of pound perch. With no hint of an impending bite my float zipped under, I struck and straight away I knew I was playing a different sort of fish. With a dogged thumping fight I knew it was a roach and as per normal for this area it was a big one of well over a pound in weight

Before messing around trying to photograph the roach I took a moment to top up again and hopefully prime the swim. So two hard golf ball sized balls of ground bait went in followed by a single loose ball help spread the scent. It worked too, as first put in a small bream took the bait, followed by two of it mates up to nearly three pounds.

In little over an hour I had amassed a very nice catch, that any match angler fishing a canal match would have happily swapped this catch for his right nut I know. After the last bream it turned into a perch finale until the sky clouded over. I think my feeding of broken lob worms over the ground bait kept a few lingering around and every so often one would nip in to have a feed. I quickly figured what the perch really liked was taking the worms falling through the water, rather than picking them up of the bottom. Once I'd clocked this I was constantly lifting the bait up and dropping it down. By doing this I kept busy right up until home time catching another twenty or so fish topped off with a very nice near two.

Apart from amassing a weight of fish that would have won a match on pretty much any canal, I easily totted up a few points for the challenge whilst having thoroughly enjoyable evening. I reckon I might do a few more of these point collecting forays through the year, especially in the late summer when these perch should be in prime condition and maybe that bench mark two pound roach might be a little more attainable.

A leisurely start.

Just lately I've been a little more reserved when out fishing. Previously I would charge forth into the dark, desperate to get on a particular swim to execute my preconceived plan. Now I am in no doubt that this gung-ho attitude has paid me back in spades, but I am also sure that in doing so I have passed a million roses I should have stopped to smell, if you get what I mean. Maybe it's an impending change in my life that has done it, but I have inadvertently begun to appreciate things a little more lately.

This 16th for example was far more sedate than normal and certainly ended up being a little more satisfying than its predecessors. Though I must say that having an entire estate lake to myself might well have added to my Zen-like state as I ambled leisurely along its banks and wandered through its wood pondering a cast here or there.

I've never seen this particular lake in its full June glory and I must admit it was a total shock. Through the autumn and winter the lake itself seems practically barren against the outlandish Gothic back drop. Now though in the summer, the lily festooned pool makes the Capability Brown bridge seem almost dowdy and no angler in their right mind could focus on the stone work, when from beyond peeps siren like lily pads floating on what must be fish laden water.

Even in my relaxed state there was still bit of a fly in my ointment, by way of the poor clarity of this normally gin clear water. The previous weeks deluge had filled the stream that fed the lake full of mucky water and I had the distinct feeling that this would prove detrimental to pulling a few lures around, as the pike in this pool are definitely sight hunters. Even with enough time for the rivers and the stream that feeds this pool to clear, the main body of the lake was stained by the murk suspended in the water. Maybe a week or two later it would have cleared, but for this June 16th at least it would seem I was going to have to make do. But! Saying that it's not that hard to make do with a place like this.

Initially I did actually sit for a while under the leaves of an acorn tree and cast a worm alongside a small patch of lily pads where I'd seen what I was convinced were tench bubbles rising. Two bream and nice roach later, the early cloud had burnt away and with it any chance of hooking a virgin tench. Not long later I sat on a bench which gives an impressive vista of the water and pondered... 

I was not in a rush and not inclined to frantically chase after anything, so instead I sat and watched.  With little more than birds and trees to distract me I watched the water and quickly what was going in the muddy water became clear. Directly in front of me a small predator, either a tiny jack or angry perch was chasing fry in the shallows. Towards the centre of the lake a huge shoal of rudd or roach lipped away at the surface, scattering every time the shadow of a bird passed over. Up at the place where river entered the lake and ran clearer I could see fish scattering every now and again, indicating that pike were held up there and that was probably where I should fish. Time and time again the fish broke the surface, scattering out of the water to try and escape. I must have watched from up the lake for ages before my trance was broken by the wondrous sight of a huge forgotten golden carp leaping from the water. I knew there was carp in this pool, but never suspected them to grow quite so large given its shallow depth.

I stalked round trying to spot that carp in the muddy water, but the lack of visibility hid it very well. In the end I found myself peering into the pads at the top of the lake where loads of pike were hanging under the pads in the shade. First cast with a small silver diving plug and the water erupted as a jack swiped at the lure, missing by inches. Next cast got hit by a different fish which barely weighed more than the lure. After combing around a bit I got a savage hit just as the lure wiggled by a small weed bed. This fish though only a little bigger, went mental, clearing the entire swim of fish as it did. 

I suppose it might sound odd, but at this point I walked away, and by walked away I mean, I went home. Previously on the first day of the season I've been out before sun up and home after sun down and truthfully I have felt burnt out by lunch time. Not on this occasion though! After stopping off to have a look at the river at a few stretches on the way back I went home had a civilized meal, shower and hung out with JB until the sun got low in the sky. Refreshed mentally and physically I then spent the rest of the day catching loads perch on the Oxford canal just to fill my soul with even more first day joy. And as if to end the day on a perfect note a big old Sargent snatched my chartreuse paddler grub as it dropped back to bottom on what was to be my last cast of the first day.

The Lake #28 This consistency is starting to unnerve me.

Honestly I have never seen anything like this on this lake. Coombe has been and will be again a harsh and fickle mistress. I have known it give so much and then take it all back again and again. But right now I find myself having to use a word that I never thought I would use in reference to Coombe pool fishery. Consistent! I know I will probably regret that as I've probably cursed my run, but Coombe right now is very consistent (holy crap, I said it again). It's been so consistent (that's three times!) that my sessions are becoming a blur and I find myself having to make notes to retain information and combine two or three sessions into one write up as I am fishing there so much.

Only forty eight hours had passed before I was again in the southern lily swim. I know I've been fishing in this area a lot as most of the banks side wildlife has become oblivious to my presence. The rabbits don't even run in panic, the normally twitchy moorhen that lives in the reeds won't even give me a second look and a grass snake slithered right over my feet the other day and may have winked at me as it did so.

Like me the tench were once again around and after causing a little commotion baiting up they were soon well aware that dinner was served. Although the wind wasn't playing big a factor, the lake did for some reason seem to be towing hard tonight. Luckily I still had the heavier rig set up  from the last outing and that was soon cast just beyond the lillies. I had to wait for an age sitting on my hands for the fish to actually come onto my spot , which was an uncomfortable situation as the sky was clear and the sun was reflecting off the water up into my face. Eventually it sank below the trees and on the now golden surface the tench were sending up signs that I was about to have a visitor.

I missed a proper sitter of a bite somehow. It was the real deal as well, fizz bob lift the works. After toughing it out through the glare I was livid, but I hadn't caused a disturbance and that was the important thing. Then within a quarter of an hour the float shot up I struck and the fish went for the pads. Some how I turned it, then I shot out into the lake like a bullet and rinsed me out totally. Now I was kicking myself and my swim was surely done. I don't know why I cast again but I did. Just as the light really began to go I saw signs that a fresh batch of tench were drifting along the lily bed.

It got to that stage when you can hardly make out your float through the dark I waited so long. My patience was rewarded though when my float just slowly lifted and lay on the surface. Lucky it did do that as if it sank I really don't think I would have spotted it there was so little light, were as the white quill lying on the surface was easily seen in the dark. My strike was met with no venomous run but instead by dead weight. A big humped back appeared lolling around around on the top. It was a bream that wallowed in and as I dragged it toward the net I realised that this ancient scabby old slab was only the forth one I had caught this season from this supposed bream mecca.

It might seem that I was not that happy in the picture which honestly I wasn't, not because I had only caught a slimy old brama but instead because I'd just seen the state of my net and knew the combination of all that snot and my nice hot car would make the journey home a little special. After the that I decided that if the bream were around Id be better off leaving it for tonight and so baited up the north swim and headed of whilst there was still some light in the sky.

Within twenty four hours I was back on the previously baited northern spot with the sun again blazing back up off the surface of the lake, probably irreparably damaging my retinas. I may have mentioned before that this year theres been a bit of a weed explosion on Coombe. In most places there is some kind of weed, be it patchy or dense. My spots that I have been repeatedly baiting are smooth as a tiled floor. The fish are obviously repeatedly coming in whenever there is fresh bait on and truffling around so much that no weed seems to be able to stick around very long.

Once again I topped up a with a reasonable helping of my special and favourite ground bait laden with casters and other goodies. Strangely I did no see a single sign of feeding fish anywhere along the patrol and certainly not where I was fishing. That was until my float did that happy little dance I am becoming addicted to seeing and I found myself playing another classical summer estate lake tench.

There were other fish around in the swim though; I know that because I saw the bow waves and disturbed water they caused as they exited the area. With one under my belt and a now vacant swim I decided to spend the few hours I had left checking out a new area one of the carp anglers I have become friendly with tipped me off about.

I know this chap very well as he too spends large proportions of time on the lake in the summer after the monster carp which seem to go uncaught for ever on this weird water. He told me that whilst fishing a margin spot that had been good to him in the past he was getting plagued by tench. I knew he wasn't in the swim as I walked past it earlier that evening so tonight seemed just right to see if anything was in that margin.

A quick look out through the over hanging tree proved a waste of time so I opted to just go for it and sneakily placed a couple of balls out with my pole cup before swinging a bait over the top. Truthfully I just wanted a sign that something was moving in the swim and so I waited for any kind of something to happen, and it did! And it certainly wasn't what I expected to see as I will explain next time...

The lake #25 Oh how I hath waited

I've felt rather in limbo for a month or more prior to the bell tolling on a new fishing season as I suppose many of us do. It's not that I haven't fished either as I have been enjoying fishing a rediscovered water and doing quite well conditions considered. Though what I have been doing in some ways could be described as filling time, and in all honesty as I have fished one water I have been betraying it by thinking of another as I did.

The lake has weighed heavy on my mind for the longest time you see. Not many hours have passed since winter faded away that I haven't thought of it. In quiet times when my mind has been set free by some arduous and repetitive task I have allowed my self to slip full-on into dreams of it. The odd thing is although I am motivated by the fish it holds, it is more the lake itself which draws me in. Even thought I have walked its banks since I was a child, it is these last few years that I felt myself becoming more entwined with it.

I suppose its this magnetic attraction that seems to have developed, combined with my insatiable need to get to know it all over again this year, that inspired my plan for the start of this season. It must have been March when I conceived to spend the opening day there. Then with that decided I concluded, why not go the day before and spend the night, which naturally morphed into a couple of days and nights. And that was it, my season was to open with fifty or more hours in the company of Coombe pool.

Even with plenty of planning and forward thought I really had little idea of where I might fish, and after last years debacle of there only being one free peg on the grassy sea of the Lindley bank, that wasn't probably a bad thing. The day had finally arrived and after a whistle stop father's day morning run I loaded up with a few days worth of provisions, shelters, sleeping bags and the all important fishing tackle then made the short journey which I knew I would be making many more times these coming months.

As always that first look over the grassy slope that leads down to the secluded bank was mouth watering. Unusually though there seemed to be a general lack of anglers frequenting the reed lined pegs. Being as the first day of the season this year fell on a Monday rather than a Sunday, the mob that descended last year had obviously not turned up or possibly the general low capture ratio had maybe deterred those naive enough to think this is a runs water.

Having already had a bit of a wander round a few nights before I was well aware that the previous weeks rain had coloured up the main lake somewhat, and that the mild winter just passed had not been bad enough to curtail the weed, which is rampant in some areas of the lake. The little amount of info I already possessed was pointing me towards a bend in the private bank where the coloured water of the main lake and the clearer water meet, and also where the weed thins.

I settled for a familiar spot that has in the past been the sight of a few big hits for me. The great thing about this area is that it by just walking a couple of pegs either side you get a full view of the lake and as this session was as much about finding out what was going on as it was fishing, this spot seemed the perfect place to set camp.

It's quite odd really getting all set up, pitching camp and then having to sit behind rods that are ready to do what they are made for and having to wait seven hours to cast out. This time however did give me ample opportunity to cast a light lead around and garner a better picture of the underwater landscape in front of me. Bar a few random tufts of weed there was only one serious weed bed in the sea of silt in front of me

After pinpointing a spot I liked better than all the very other similar areas and drinking several cups of tea with my nearest neighbour, I made my move to bait up. I had been out the corner of my eye watching and waiting for the resident wildfowl population to do one. With the last of the sneaky tufted ducks forced away with a few trial casts of my mini spomb I went about spreading a few kilos of pellet, crushed boilies, hemp and chopped boilies around a reasonable sized area. I really wanted to imitate random balls of ground bait so instead of just filling up the spomb with loose bait and creating a carpet. So I squeezed each load into a ball before putting inside the little white rocket.

Then it became a case of waiting and waiting. With no baited lines in the water I was free to mooch around as I liked and in several swims I watched patches of wonderful tench fizz rise to the top. In another swim a shoal of roach the size of a tennis court moved back and forth on the surface changing direction every time a jack pike struck from beneath. In my own swim I watched as a couple of bream rolled off my bait just as the sun dipped behind the trees. It was the thought of those rolling fish that I had running through my mind as I curled up in my sleeping bag and watched the sky go from blue to purple through the door of my shelter.

Even though I wasn't expecting a lot it was only too easy to conjure the vision of a shoal of hump backed slabs cruising over my bait maybe with an odd tubby tench mixed in for good measure. Luckily for me the exertion of shoving my laden barrow over some of the roughest banks in the county helped me slip off for a few hours sleep before my alarm would wake me again ten minutes prior to midnight.

You would have thought with such a build up, all the weeks of planning and the general excitement that I would have been of of bed like a shot. Well that wasn't exactly the case! It was real struggle to get back up from my slumber in truth. Stumbling round in the dark with a savage case of morning mouth in the middle of the night I was glad I'd made the effort to get everything ready before settling down for a kip. My rods were clipped up so all I had to do was extract the hook links which had my baits attached from the glug, attach them to the quick clips and bait the method feeders. The memory of the cast were pretty much hard wired after making it so many times the day before. Both rods went out like a dream dead in line with my far bank markers and hitting the line clips just right. Not seconds after the last rod was in the rest and the buzzer switched on the kettle that I had set boiling prior to casting out began whistling. In the dark I sat watching the the lake through the dark sipping a brew on my bed. I knew nothing would occur straight off the bat but it seemed more than right to at least watch for a little while before retiring to bed. I fell asleep twice sitting up, tea in hand, so with the last of the tepid cuppa gone and the tawny owls hooting I turned on the my receiver and went back to sleep for a while.

It was an massive forty minutes before the red LED close to my head lit up and the stuttering bleep woke me. By the time I had slipped on my shoes something was slowly but surely taking line from the spool. My first fish of the 2014 season crossed the cord of my net at approximately twelve fifty and it looked just as shocked as I did by all accounts.

After the initial fish my night became a rather up and down affair and by that I mean every time I got a liner the receiver would sound and I would sit up in bed and wait for a few minutes waiting for a fish toddle off, which it didn't, and then I'd lie back down a fall asleep immediately. Out of the stack of liners I had between one and four in the morning I was agog that I only landed one other bream.

If I described the night as perplexing than the day I could refer to as barren. Once the sun hit the sky the liners stopped and all activity ceased. The only thing moving anywhere on the lake was the huge shoal of roach which had divided up into several smaller shoal which now danced around all over the surface with predators in tow.

 Knowing there would be no action through the day it was nice to have some company by way of  a couple of carp anglers new to the lake. The day passed easily chatting out the pool and other waters as we supped copious amount of tea. It was on my way between my peg and the powwow that I encountered a small squirrel. I saw it shuffling around in the grass at first and then thought nothing of it. As I passed a second time I found it sitting eating what looked like field mushroom. Even with me standing gawking at it the obvious youngster didn't seem bothered by my presence. In fact I was able to go right up to within a few feet of it. Whether it was just a confident little fellow or whether it wasn't a mushroom but rather a toadstool with psychotropic effects, the little squiggy just stayed put and carried on munching his fungi. It was around all day searching out more fungi and soon enough we started calling him Jimi Hendrix because he really did seem to be in a bit of a purple haze.

Jimi Hendrix

Night two made night one look amazing and to be frank I got the distinct impression that even though I had waited till the quietest part of the day to top up my swim with a second barrage of bait, nothing seemed in residence at all. I woke in the early and still dark hours and recast just to make sure every thing was ok with my rigs. Then after that repeatedly recast every time I woke up. By breakfast time I was done with the swim! I knew if I carried on all flipping week long topping up the swim sooner or later a big hit of action would materialize, but two days in one spot was already to much for me.

I pondered what to do with my last ten hours on the bank as I ate breakfast over looking the lake. One of the new carp chaps who was fishing round the bank had left and having seen so much activity in his swim the night prior it seemed the perfect spot. The camp packed away I settled down in the dappled shade under the trees to fish off my barrow with just the bare essentials not packed up

As I wasn't fishing at range a small tree in the swim afforded me the rare opportunity of being able to see right into my swim went the sun was at the right angle. It was surprising to see that although my buzzers were quiet for the most part fish were actually regularly moving in and around my swim. I saw both bream and tench from my vantage point as they cruised past. But not one even stooped so much as a millimetre to investigate my free baits. Seeing those fish moving around around in the clear water served to confirm that fish in Coombe rarely feed out of the dusk till dawn period of the day.

My last afternoon on the lake was spent sitting on my unhooking mat leaning against a tree lost in the pages of a book, which truth be told is a much better way to spend a sunny afternoon rather than being at work. Even as I pondered the lack of action in the final twenty four hours I felt no ill feelings in relation to spending so much time by the lake as I had learnt so much about what, when and where. And now I was back involved with the lake I knew it would be that long until I was back to take full advantage of my new found knowledge.

Attack of the killer bream.

All he wanted was a quiet idyllic day of crucian carp fishing on a lake deep in the Warwickshire countryside. Little did he know that his dream would never come to fruition as no pellet, no bread flake and  certainly no session is safe from the rampant shoal. Ravaging the shallows and deep alike, spreading slime as they mindlessly chomp, no bait could avoid detection in ATTACK OF THE KILLER BREAM!!!

What more can I say to start with than "you can't choose what you catch!" We can all say we are going to go fishing for this or that, but at the end of the day you can't stop all species bar the one you want to catch from eating your bait. From the moment I arrived a Snitterfield reservoir this weekend just passed I think what was going to happen was set in stone. The swim I fished was a very reliable crucian haunt and I fished as I nearly always do for crucians by potting out a small quantity of highly quality ground bait laced with dampened down micro pellets. However the moment that cloud of ground bait formed and began to fall softly to the algae covered bottom it must have been like a sensual siren ringing the senses of every bream in the vicinity.

I could even say that I was fishing in what by most anglers standards was not a particularly breamy area of the lake, as I always fish no more than four feet from the bank just where the visibility disappears. It was just a case of no other possible outcome. After letting my bait stew a while and walking once round the lake I returned to my peg baited my tiny hook with a single soft 6mm pellet and gently swung it tight onto the slightly fizzing area. As I waited and watched the day-glo antenna of my pole float, just off the end of my rod a single small bubble rose to the surface before popping, as they often do when crucians are around. Then right on cue, the antenna rose and the float shouldered up as if by design a crucian had lifted the weight off the tell tale shot that cocked my float. My swift strike however contacted not with a fish that instantly vibrated in circles but instead hung in the water like a dead weight before plodding off banging its head.

If this was a crucian it was a British record that had no eyes. Every day it was a bream! as was the next and the next, the one after that was a bream as was the one that followed that and that and that  and so forth. Turned out less than a quarter of a pint of ground bait and a few pleps fed every half hour could keep a large and constantly replenishing shoal of bream going all morning.

Although catching bream in Snitters is by no way unusual, catching so many this close in is. Normally I might catch one or two in a morning but to have queueing up practically in sight was a bit odd. But saying that, there might be a simple explanation which this picture will illustrate.

Every single fish was showing signs of getting ready for a bit of Abramis amore. Put simply I get the impression their fervour was largely relative to their preparations to spawn. Truly I believe their general rampant nature was do to them trying to get in peak condition to splurge out the next generation of mindless munchers. But whatever the inspiration for this feedathon the fact remains that the delicate little crucians I so wanted to catch could quite literally not get anywhere near my bait. Even standing little chance of hooking my target fish it really was quite a hectic and enjoyable mornings fishing landing bream after bream and going home smelling of that quintessential hum, 'odour le slime'.

The next day with my fishing gear still set to crucian and JB entrenched in the dirge of a world snooker final that was O'Sullivan vs Selby, I took the chance to grab a few hours on another pool after the little golden fellas. This pool however has a slightly different yet still fishy problems. Unlike the bream dominated snitters this venue has more carp, a lot more carp! And not only gear smashing sort either. You see although it does certainly contain true crucians, it also has goldfish and not just the orange buggers ether, its got the naturalised ones as well. Hence, even if a massive thoroughbred crucian was to be caught in it every purist would poo-poo it instantly. But anyway I wasn't about to be making any record claims any time soon and was instead after a bit of golden fun in the cleanest possible way.

For tactics it was pretty much a repeat of the previous day fishing. Plumb, pot, stew and cast. It took a bit of time to get a reaction but after a few casts and a change of bait I did provoke a typically crucian sort of bite. However even after acting very much like a crucian carp the first fish turned out to be a naturalized fan tail goldfish.

With tiny pinches of bread flake fished an inch over depth producing regular interest I watched my float dance around figuring it was only going to be a matter of time and numbers before I routed a crucian from the usurpers. But once again it was not to be and even landing regular imitators and a couple of tackle testing carp the closet I came to what I sought was well best described as having doubtful lineage.

I am not about to give up though! Right know I am trying to hold off tench fishing as I plan to do a bit more of that later in the year back at Coombe once the season starts up again. So for the next couple of months I am going to try and dedicate as much time as possible to fishing for those golden little pixie carp and not just because I want a big one, but more because I just love fishing for them.

Effective vulgarity wins over artistic romance for me.

I suppose that right now I should be regaling a tale extolling the virtues of fishing a pristine chalk stream using a beautifully crafted centrepin reel and of how the line flows from the spool like silk, before my vintage style hand made topper float is pulled from sight by a lady of the stream. But I can't! I simply can't, as the truth is I tried to fulfill this romantic notion that I had created in my head and failed dismally. It wasn't that I didn't try and it wasn't that the fish weren't there, because they were. It is just a simple case of I am no trotter! and the worst of it is that I have the technique and the skills to send a float sailing down stream smooth as I like.The bare fact is that after very little trying on my part and only a few finger sized fish, I discarded the artistic and embraced the vulgar. Within an hour of arriving on the river Itchen my float rod was set aside and a forty two gram block end feeder crashed into these hallowed waters shattering the tranquility forever.

By playing to my strengths and fishing a way I felt more comfortable I turned what I felt was going to be a bad morning on its head instantly. I picked a swim no angler trotting in their right mind would fish, loaded an almost gross feeder full of wriggling goodness and let rip. Straight away dividends was paid; every cast the tip rattled round attached to one of the hordes of grayling nailed to the opposite bank.

I think to say the water was shallow and clear was an understatement. As I was fishing a deeper gully on the exit of a bend far across the river, I had a huge shallow mound no more than a foot deep which extended so far from the bank that I reckon not many anglers would have bothered with this one. But temptingly all across the shallows if you looked hard enough you could see small to medium sized grayling holding in indents and behind patches of weed.

I  was happily enjoying regular sport from grayling, but  I knew it was only a matter of time before another interloper shoved in, so I wasn't disappointed when I struck and something silver shot from the depths like a cruise missile. Every time I see this happen I am always amazed. Trout anglers pay a fortune and invest huge amounts of time to chase sea trout on rivers throughout Wales and the South, often failing to catch one for huge amounts of time, and here I am lobbing maggots out wholesale and the damn things can't get enough. Six of these deranged fish took my baits in the first swim alone and everyone made such a fuss it was unreal.

"The worst day on the Itchen is like the day of a lifetime on any other river" someone said to me the other night regarding this river and he is exactly right. This was exactly why we upped sticks and left an area that was producing constant bites and insane amounts of fish. We hadn't travelled all this way to just catch loads of average sized grayling and a few sea trout. We wanted to catch something special and with the Itchen setting such a high bar for what is special, it was a case of getting onto the area that is capable of producing such a fish.

With that in mind we dropped down to fish the gin clear run off the weir pool. I have fished this area a few times before and have only ever caught trout and grayling, but I do know from other sources that it contains some very special fish. Though what I already knew hardly prepared me for what I saw. At the tail of the run where the bottom shallowed towards the surface, a shoal of two to three pound chub hung in the flow. Two to three pound chub aren't that special you will think, and you're right, but they provided a handy point of reference against which to size the other inhabitants of this area.  One of those monster chub looked to be at least twice as big as the little two-pounder, so was maybe five to six pounds. The other one was markedly bigger than the other! So conservatively could have been seven plus even in late summer condition and it wasn't even the chub which were that shocking, it was the roach.

Three roach all over two pounds repeatedly circled along a very specific route, stopping behind various clumps of weed to rest intermittently. At first I thought they were immature bream like the ones that were hanging out in a slack upstream but soon enough their red fins became obvious and they morphed into roach. It was Andy that bagged this swim and as we watched the roach and chub, two huge koi carp rose from the weeds to make our eyes bulge even more. Not wanting to possibly detract from what Andy hoped to do I headed off above the weir to fish what I consider to be both the best and worse swim on the entire fishery.

The M27 swim is where the oasis-like feel of the Itchen and reality collide. It is by my own admission the noisiest swim I have fished ever. The east bound carriageway thunders constantly over the river on the fish-able side and between the sounds of wailing engines and truck sidings flapping in the wind, you can barely hear yourself think. Add to that the fact that every truck that passes by quite literally shakes the ground for hundreds of feet and you have a very strange experience involving a beautifully river and the UK transport network.

Though as bad a place as it is, there is no doubt that it is a fish magnet. My theory is that the constant thunder of traffic, shelter of concrete and deep run all serve to make a very safe haven for resting salmon and shoals of everything alike. Once ensconced the feeder was dutifully filled and swung into the flow. The first fish to oblige were just mediocre grayling, but soon enough the tip hoofed round and a real dirty fighter was on the line.

This very long and lean chub did everything it could to get into every weed bed in the entire swim but patience wore it down and eventually it went into the net, where it did the oddest vibrating I have ever seen from a chub. That fish released upstream I again cast to the exact same spot and this time I never got the rods on the rest. If the bite was savage and sharp the fight was unbelievable. I at first thought I'd hooked another salmon but an amazing cartwheel jump revealed a big brown trout was the culprit.

After the trout the swim seemed to die a death, though this did coincide with the sun being at its highest. It was around then that I got the call from Andy who had been persevering with those infuriating chub and roach. He had on the float hooked and lost the biggest of all the chub in the weir run off. I know the feeling he just gone through only too well. You hook a huge fish in very pacey flow and the damn thing just holds flank on, with the whole pressure of the river on it before flicking its tail and sticking far too much strain on your very light outfit.

Not long after this I too dropped down to the weir and fished above him. Though honestly I should have known better with all the bream around in the swim. From the moment my rig went in those dammed bream knew the food was around. Their whole demeanor changed and I watched time and time again as they circled round my bait picking up freebies. It was not them that I wanted but the single large roach that had broken away from its companions and joined up with the bream. But that was never going to happen! The moment I looked away the rod was nearly wrenched into the river by a rather dozy bream. It was however very interesting to see what happened when the hooked fish panicked. The shoal broke up flying in all directions, only to reform and wait off down stream the roach included. By the time I had unhooked the bronze bugger and released it away from the swim, the damn things were back on the spot, head-down like nothing had happened.

By late afternoon I was done trying to avoid the bream whilst picking out a single roach and was a bit lost for what to do. I was tempted to fish the barbel swim but not having any gear suitable I gave it a miss. With only an hour or so left I decided to just return to the motorway swim and sit it out for another chub or a big roach on the bread feeder. Putting my bank sticks back in the previous holes I settled into the worn swim thinking it would just be a case of whiling away my last hour watching a motionless tip in a used up swim.

First cast the feeder touched down on hard bottom and I put the rod down. Moments later the tip slowly bent round as if a huge clump of loose weed had snagged on my line. Anyone who has ever fished a chalk stream will be familiar with the massive chunks of weed which randomly come down like icebergs through the day and dislodge your rigs constantly. Picking up the rod I gently began to haul back my rig only to find the weed hugging the bottom and moving up stream some serious intent. It was a little surprising that my weed clump had suddenly turned into a mystery fish. Having seen carp in this swim before and from it's laborious fight, I suspected I was about to get turned around and spanked when a carp woke up, but no it just plodded around until it saw a weed bed, where it dived straight towards. Even more surprising was the fact that could stop it and my five pound line held. Maybe it wasn't a carp after all. With no salmonid acrobatics and it being far too big for a roach, identification was simple. It was a chub and a good one at that judging from its length when it rolled on the surface. With nothing but clear water between me and it the result was a forgone conclusion. With another decent chub in my net is was made up but when I went to lift it over the reeds the net pole began bending worryingly and I soon found out why...

This chub was in a different league to the first. It was around the same length but with a head bigger than my fist, shoulders to match and it seemed twice as thick as the other one. I think the term I used to Andy when I gave him a call to come help photograph it was 'Goliath'. Seeing the size of it I was shocked to find it only weighed 5.7lb but like all the fish we had caught it was very lean and still in summer condition. 

From examining the fish we both agreed where it was lacking body mass was in its stomach. This one like the other had a lot of feeding to do before winter, which makes sense as for months now it had only been non nutritional fly anglers on the beat. Given the overall size of this chub I think realistically that it could easily pack on a pound to a pound and half before Christmas. Which could make its top end weight close if not seven pounds.

The pictures we took didn't really do the fish justice but that was down the fishes poor behaviour. I'd rested it for a good while before the photos as it seemed very dazed and that consideration came back to haunt me as you can see from my top behind the fish.

The chub was a fine way to end an already productive trip back to the Itchen, but I wont deny that the sight of those giant chalk stream roach is burnt into my mind and I still can't believe that neither of us came remotely close to hooking one. It is as I said before, the Itchen like many Southern chalk streams, set such high bars for what is a good fish that a fish of a lifetime back home is just an average fish on these wondrous rivers.

Thank god that weeks over.

I think I have lost my mojo of late. It was inevitable that it was going to happen as after a high always comes a low. Three times I have fished in the past week and each time something has not been quite right in all honesty.

Chasing bubbles

We have all done at one time another and undeniably sometimes it pays off. But chasing bubbles if you think about it is quite possibly a futile pastime. I mean yes, there are times when those attractive bubbles that you see dimpling the surface of the smooth surface can mean nothing but a fish is causing them. Like when tench are hard on the feed and vast clouds of tiny bubbles break the surface all at once making an audible fizz, or when you can actually see a carp rooting round on the bottom sending large blooping bubbles up to the top. But these few examples of fish-related bubbles although specific are probably quite rare. Consider how many bubbles rise on even a tiny pond through the course of a day, never mind through a prolonged period of warmer weather and soon you realise that of what we see hit the surface, probably less than twenty percent is fish related.
The possible origination of any one bubble that defies gravity in itself is massive. Ignoring the overly romantic idea that most of us anglers have that bubbles are fish falling for our infallible rouses, the fact is that any one of hundreds of possibilities are the cause of a bubble. Most can probably be attributed to the decay of previously living matter, whether its the relatively quick breakdown of last years leaves or the long term breakdown of silt, it is more than likely this that is responsible for the majority of what we see.

It was this temptation which I fell foul of when I last visited the lake. Arriving early evening I found which I assumed to be fish feeding all over one area of the Coombe and yes, in a what I can hardly describe as a  minor moment of misjudgement, I foolishly spent an entire evening casting to what I was convinced were feeding fish. It wasn't until the sun dipped behind the wood on the far side of the lake and the shadows grew long that the bubbling petered away that it clicked; the dropping water temperatures reduced whatever was causing the gases to rise from the silt leaving the water like a mirror and me feeling kind of foolish.

Trash fish harassment

I have heard the reference 'trash fish' used colloquially by some American anglers more and more since the Internet has broadened our angling horizons, and from what I can tell the reference refers to fish that are considered to be second class or a nuisance. Although I would never agree that any fish is better than another, I could not possibly deny with any clear conscience that ocassionally I find some fish a nuisance when fishing for another. So it is through clenched teeth that I use it.

Sunday after some well needed rain I, like many others, skipped happily towards the river thinking high temperatures combined with a higher water level and coloured water would mean the Avon's Barbel population would feed with the gay abandon of a kids in a sweet shop. Frankly they probably did somewhere in the river, just not where I was fishing. But I must say at this point that even if they were there and did feed, chances were that they never got near my baits as the local bream population had become rather stimulated by my bait and antics. It hard to be ungrateful with a bend in your rod but on this occasion I did a pretty good job of it! As time and time again those snotty brown buggers hung themselves up on my rig, and even with a respectable daytime match weight to my name, I could not help but think of this a failure of a session, hence no pictures.

Not one thing right! 

We all have bad sessions when you can't do a dammed thing right, I know. But knowing that does in no way stop us from beating ourselves up when it happens. Hence on a slightly detoured trip I found myself a guest on a stretch of the Avon which has a good reputation for barbel fishing, that was in prime condition and even worse was producing multiple catches of barbel on that very night...

You all know the sort of session I had. It was one of those ones where you just can't settle. Where the next peg along looks better than yours and when you do move you find yourself thinking, was I better off back there? My tactics didn't fit and nether did my attitude considering the time constraints. 

I must have fished five swims between seven and ten and not one did I feel I fished well. Worst of all I got the distinct feeling that in at least two of the afore mentioned swims there was certainly fish. In those cases I reckon my atom bomb antics may of alerted any fish present to my presence. Every cast I made seemed to end up in the wrong spot or go in hard and my teeth were left cold time and time again from my incessant inhaling of air.

In the end and on the verge of just leaving I opted to just go up to a swim near the exit of the fishery and camp out in the simplest of swims and wait. Considering how badly I had done and how loudly I had gone about it I saw no harm in switching from lead to a feeder. Frankly it made no more noise than any of my other rigs had entering the water and after waiting half an hour until my white rod dip began to merge into the dark my tip bent round. It was no barbel that took pity on me but instead a chub of less than two pounds. That was it for me; I was very, very done.
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Looking back now I could happily remove 26th of July - 3rd of August from my fishing life. But then again maybe I shouldn't! Its true that when we have these runs of bad form it makes you feel pretty crappy but conversely when it comes good after a bad spell it always feels that much better when it ends. After all, if its all good you stop appreciating what you've got when you have it all the time. So a little perspective can only be a good thing. That's the way I am looking at it anyway and roll on next week.

Catching the smallest fish using the biggest bait.

Almost a year ago to the day I was sat next to a massive sheet of water behind two rods baited with worms. My intended quarry that day was the declining eel. But before an eel could find my bait and after the marauding perch disappeared off wherever they go, a little fish picked up my bait. That capture of that little yellow fellow really stoked a passion.
I had forgotten how much I appreciate the capture of these fish, each one always a surprise. After this I wrote passionately about them, but as always my intent to fish again for the humble ruffe was shelved once home in favour of more glamorous fish.

I did however promise myself that one day I would make a concerted effort to fish for them again. I say again because once before myself and three others nearly drove ourselves over the brink of sanity trying to track them down in our local shire. I even under took a journey with Jacky in Norfolk to try and locate a broad where I had encountered them before, only to fail miserably. But his time I had conclusive and up to date evidence of their existence in a body of water, which by happy coincidence I would be holidaying at.

If you were to mention to most that the aim of your fishing whilst away was to chance upon the smallest most maligned fish that swims in that particular lake, they would probably think you mad. Facebook alone is filled with proclamations by anglers that they are heading to a far away venue to capture a new PB or any other of the myriad expeditions we anglers undertake. No one goes away trying to catch a PB ruffe or even tries to catch them, do they.

This I think is where the problem lies. Unless the memorable capture of any fish is not punctuated by a photo of a slime soaked angler cradling some giant as it spills from between his or hers fingers, it would seem it just not worth doing. Though there is a few which dedicate time towards small fish. Dennis Flack is one. He currently holds three UK records all of which are mini species. Another is Mark Everad, whose book 'The little book of little fishes' was like petrol to my smouldering desire to angle after ruffe. I know there must be others who do this too. But it would seem that unlike the more popular aspects fishing which are rammed down our throats daily by the angling media, that the hunting of mini species is a truly underground.

How do you catch a ruffe? Frankly what is written about specifically targeting the diminutive ruffe can be written on the side of one. Prior to leaving I had as much as one can, researched the topic of angling for ruffe with little results. Being a minor species it would seem that they are not worthy of fishing for. Aside from the afore mentioned book by Mark Everad and a few snippets on the web, only Falkus and Walton seem to have dedicated much time to put pen to paper regarding the species, and sadly the majority of what both have written seems directly aimed at the taste and consumption of the poor yellow fellows. Though who would want to eat a ruffe is beyond me. 

With little to go on I knew before beginning that this was going to be a voyage of discovery compressed into a short space of time! But luckily my target area was a medium sized marina aside a massive broad lined by reeds. This would act as one huge feature of which I was not going too, but fish within.

Like most anglers, my automatic assumption was that small fish equals light gear. After all we live by that unwritten rule to give our quarry a sporting chance. So naturally I began using light lines, small hooks in conjunction with an super sensitive float. Bait was the only thing I or anyone else seemingly had a lead on, as what lead me to this point was the previous capture of a trio of ruffe using worms to fish for another species.

Initially my thoughts had been to fish a pole with the obligatory light rig attached. But before setting foot out of  the Midlands I shelved this idea due to the cumbersome tackle involved, instead opting to use a 13ft light float rod and a super sensitive Drennan still water dart float.

My first outing onto the broad in search of of ruffe was by all accounts successful. A liberal helping of chopped worm did its job and attracted instant bites. Time after time the orange tip of the float slid away as ether a small roach or perch gobbled up my single dendrobaena hook bait. After catching a quantity of fish that would not only satisfy a match angler and probably win a match, I received a slight dip on the float before it traversed the swim left to right. My first transparent yellow ruffe was landed and the quest was on.

Another soon followed but my excitement to keep a shoal in the swim by topping up with more chopped worm proved a detrimental decision. More freebies went in and the roach and perch again turned up on mass.

Even though my elbow now ached from action I could not help but think that my success with other species was proving to be my downfall with my quarry. Pondering the problem over ale away from the bank I ran through the session. My rig although successful did not discriminate any species. In fact so sensitive was it that should a passing roach fart, the float would dip. Previous experience told me that although small in stature the ruffe is a bold biting fish seemingly unconcerned by fine rigs. So the drennan dart was gone and replaced by a much less sensitive 4BB peacock waggler.

The 2lb hook link attached to a fine wire size 18 hook soon followed that, to be replaced by a size 12 specimen hook tied direct to my 3lb main line.

Bait was my next thought. The single dendrobaena worm was easily and readily consumed by any fish that swam in water I was fishing. So that was replaced with a section of lob worm which I hoped would at least deter the small roach, thus reducing the bites by half, but did seem totally preposterous at the time.

The following day I put these new ideas in to practise in conjunction with a new baiting attack. The first day the initial helping of chopped worm attracted a lot of fish but the ruffe had not shown until the bites from the other fish had stopped. So going with this theory I baited a single large shot of worm at the start of the session and fed no more.

It worked and the pest fish turned up. Happily no small roach got in on the action but a few larger ones pestered me early on, and they were followed by a mass of annoying perch which I concluded would not be avoided at any cost...

After the intial action subsided I sat back thinking that now was the time when all others had lost interest, that a shoal of scrounging ruffe may appear. Intermittently bites that seemed correct appeared. Single dips followed by travelling floats. Just as if someone was skimming across the bottom with my bait in its mouth. The only thing now was I could hook one for love nor money.

As I re baited with a section of worm, it occurred that although the big baits were getting interest, the way I was hooking them through one end meant that unless the entire bait was consumed the hook stood a fifty percent chance of not being in the right position. So the hook was moved into a more central position...

and pop! First cast, Mr Ruffe was in hand!

Two more followed that morning giving me the distinct impression I was on the right track. Big baits and a strict feeding routine, combined with heavy rigs fished over depth seemed to winkle out the ruffe from the mass of hungry roach and perch circling over their heads. 

Landing a forth just before I finished and strolled back home with the scent of beer back bacon filling my nostrils, I felt this idea to actually spend some time ruffe fishing was not seeming so mad after all.

The sea.

Time spent close to the coast must at sometime be spent casting into the the surf. And as I have become very partial to the odd pendulum cast here or there, it was inevitable that sooner or later I would feel the lap of wave upon toe.

Sadly though my monitoring of the catch reports for the area prior to arriving revealed it had been a torrid summer for the sea angler. Zero swell and nondescript conditions had resulted in only the most dedicated anglers that were prepared to spend all night on the right tides, staring at rods tips illuminated by lamps, reaping a few sole here and there.

Even knowing what was in store for me I still offered myself up to the sea. Wall to wall blue skies and blazing sun greeted me. The beaches although well populated by people were suspiciously lacking in anglers. I felt like a gooseberry standing staring at my rod tip as sun bathers bathed and kids made sand castles alongside me.

Jacky, however, loved it. Normally when I am enjoying myself throwing lead towards the horizon, she finds herself sheltering in a tent smiling through gritted teeth as I enjoy the bounty of the sea. This time the tables were reversed and she reaped the rewards of a late summer, relaxing on the beach as I thrashed the water to a foam trying every possible way to scratch a bite from even a crab. I even brought a lure rod and a selection of shiny lures along to chance a bass in the blue waters. But this only resulted in sun burn from my normally hidden feet being exposed to the savage sun.

Of three sessions where I fished into the sea, the highlight was when, from nowhere, an Apache gunship swung low onto the beach  and tracked along the coast only a hundred feet or so over head. I would have run off down the sand like some scene from a action movie imagining he was strafing rows of bullets into the sand, if I weren't so intent on getting a picture of it as it passed overhead.

With little sport to be had, relaxing became more of a focus, and the time when I appeared to be staring at the motionless rod tip I was more than likely thinking of ruffe fishing and associated things.

Back on the ruffe hunt  I was now catching them regularly and as with always my thoughts turned to weights. I had all along being weighing all the ruffe I landed using my flyweight scales and as always they were proving unreliable as best at these low weights.

An average one like this could weigh anything from half to three ounces which I knew was not right!

Though with my familiarity I had begun to examine and photo them quite closely. In doing so had not only developed a sore patch on my left hand where there spiny gill plates grated on my palm. But I had begun to see the myriad of patterns in their skin and the intensity of violet colour in the eyes, which differed from fish to fish. 

With a good average catch rate developing, I decided to invest in a set of digital kitchen scales capable of accurately weighing my captures in ounces and drams. This proved enlightening not only to the weight of the fish, but to how useless flyweights in their lowest measurements.

This has been a readily discussed topic amongst myself and my good friend Jeff over the years, especially when dace season arrives in late winter. The addition and comparison of the new scales against my fly weights has for me proved that they are totally unreliable below the five ounce mark due to their internal mechanism taking a certain amount of load to initiate. BUT! once that five ounce barrier is broken they are actually quite accurate.

Every ruffe landed now went through the same routine of being weighed and photographed, much to the amusement of any other anglers who were out chucking feeders into the broad chasing bream. 

A giant among tiddlers The broad was shrouded in early morning mist as the sun rose on day five and after walking the three spots I had been targeting plus a few I was considering. I settled back on the area which had so far produced the best results. Even though it was no looker of a swim.

I knew the sun would soon burn the mist from the water and facing east, my eyes would not last long staring  in that direction, so this needed to be a quick one.

With limited time and a fare quantity of worms left over I went for a big hit. Depositing at least the half a pint of chopped worm into the swim around my float. Moments later the rod was hooped over and the line cut across the still surface. This was no ruffe for sure. The dogged fight hinted towards something silver and I suspected another pound plus roach of which I had already landed several of had nobbled my bait. When it shot up the surface and I caught sight of a large silver flank my heart thumped. The next time it came up and dived it succeeded in freeing itself much to my disappointment. One of the old chaps who spend their summers living aboard there boats ventured over having seen me lose the fish, and smirkingly asked if it was good one. My confirmation that I had lost a good roach prompted him to inform me that the marina had produced roach of two pounds in the last few years. Which although hard to believe, might not have been that far off the mark as my best so far had been 1.4lb.

Putting the loss behind me I endured a string of perch before the swim again went dead. As per normal the lack of other fish gave the ruffe time to sneak in for scraps and two small ruffe soon obliged. The next quiet spell lasted ages before my float dipped, then actually slid away. Immediately I suspected the perch had drifted back in and the fish on the end of my line pulled back as much as something this size can. I was being very nonchalant, until what I was convinced was a small perch turned into a big ruffe. Almost embarrassingly I swung it straight into my chest quickly so as not to lose it.

This bar far the biggest ruffe I had ever caught, or seen for that matter. I knew from a previous check of the UK record list that the current record stood a 5.4 oz and this one was about to reveal exactly how big that record ruffe must have been.

Weighing 2.4 oz on the scales it did not look that big, but in my hand it seemed huge. Six and half inches long and totally different looking from all the others, this one stood a chance of being the mother of all them all.

I had caught what is now my official ruffe PB.

The next day I came down to earth with a thump. After landing three fish including the new PB I could not find a single ruffe. Over two different sessions I rotated through four swims and all I could land was flipping small perch. Even when they stopped feeding the ruffe were very much absent. I got the distinct impression that was it. On tidal lakes when the level drops low, which it was doing this month, the fish sometimes push out from the edge of the lake and it can take days for them to reappear.

An angel saves me. On the final day the wind kicked up and I knew the sea would swell. Knowing this would be my best chance of catching anything off the beach I headed seaward to try one last time for even the smallest whiting. Again I walked away after failing to entice a single nibble from the desolate north sea, even after chucking some primo bait at it. It was Jacky, the gem that she is, who as I stuffed rods into bags, that suggested that I might squeeze one last session in as she packed ahead of the journey home.

Moments later I deposited the last of my free offerings into the broad, sat back with only three lob worms left and sipped a bottle of beer  as I watched my float.

It was a close call as two worms worth of bait went down perches throats before a ruffe turned up. It wasn't a PB shaker but still made the top three at 1.7oz, and was very welcome.

With only two thirds of a worm left I clung on till the very end, and after landing a final perch on my last bit of worm, I recast the chewed remains of the bait I had delicately disgorged from it's mouth. Just as the sun hit the reed bed behind me the float bobbed and drifted slowly to one side.  My last cast on my last bait landed my last ruffe. I carefully photographed it and took one last look, before flipping it back.

I watched the sun set over the water as I packed up and mulled over the last few days. After baiting up with over a kilo+ of free offerings, and using over a hundred and twenty lob worms as hook baits, I had waded my way through hundreds of small perch, a handful of semi decent roach and few skimmers, to land sixteen ruffe.

I suppose to a lot of anglers this would qualify as the most unbelievable waste of time, but for me I loved every minute of it, and it may well have pushed me into a new facet of specimen hunting forever.