One Last Run. part 4

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

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

“It is quite possible my dear”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Up!”

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

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

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

“You’re a soppy old bugger George”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Peter have you seen it?”

“Seen what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Where are you going Peter?” called Johno

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hello, George” he relied joyfully with a smile

“I was having the strangest dream about lions”

“Lions!!!”

“Yes, they were running on a beach”

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

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

Thank you to both Jacky and Jeff. 

Without all of your help, advice and patient editing 

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

One Last Run. Part 3

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

One Last Run. Part 2

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“One, two... three!”   

One last run. Part 1

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

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

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

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

“Did you get any action today, George?”

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

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

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

“Yes, one double”

“Very nice young man”

“So I can come along tomorrow then?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I am sorry.”

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

“That they call you names.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Close encounters of the furry kind.

Prior to leaving for the weekend I made the hard decision to not do any sea fishing when I visited Suffolk. I suspected it could be a decision I might rue, but truthfully I needed a rest. Like many, my work goes the floods and ebbs and the months leading up to this mini-break had not certainly been a flood. It can be hard to admit as a normally highly dedicated angler, but the idea of standing on a north wind battered beach on a late November morning really held little appeal right now. So with a heavy heart I concluded to leave the big guns at home and opt to just take the easy option filling a few hours of free time closer to warmth, chasing pike and perch in the marinas near our temporary home.

The marinas to which I refer for most of the year offer consistent sport of all kinds and the broad  which they flank has a very good reputation for pike... big pike! With this in mind I took along two outfits. One capable of handling any essox from Jack right through Jill, and the other was just a general float outfit intended to fill the moments between runs. I have in the past made absolute commitment to pike fishing and on such occasions after a few action less days have found myself considering buying cheap rod and reel combos just too break the monotony. So rather than over commit, it seemed best to edge my bets and try to keep my options open.

I never intended to push my luck after arriving by chancing a quick session, but my when other half developed a migraine after a run in with some overly bright shop lighting, all that changed. Hoping to save the first day of the break, she headed for the darkness of a curtained bedroom to try and sleep it off. So I diligently did as I was told and cleared off fishing to give JB some peace and quiet.

The broad was interesting to say the least. With the north east wind ripping across the broad it actually had proper white horses forming across its breadth. The marinas were not much better as the entrances, though small, are positioned on the north side, thus allowing the dissipating mini waves to coarse right in. For piking the conditions looked spot on and excitedly I shot a sprat into a gully where I was sure a pike might lurk. In the meantime I began plying some casters into the clear water hoping focus the roach I was sure that would be sheltering in the marinas.The cut and thrust of it was I could not buy a bite for love nor money. In the end as dark crept in I switched to my ever faithful perch rig to try see if any obliging perch were around. Luckily two tiny Sargent's saved the day just as dusk fell. Walking away I was shocked at my struggle to find fish when I had been lead to believe these marinas were winter hot spots for sheltering fish.

The morning after the night before I was up well before dawn. After the shocking lack of bites I knew I had to try a locate some decent populations of fish to try and eek any modicum of success on any front. The broad could not have been any more different to the previous days incarnation; the waves were gone and in the moonlight the surface was like giant mirror in the freezing cold motionless morning air.

This was perfect for my needs, as even the tiniest movement would have easily been spotted. Over night I had morphed into something like a carp angler trying to locate signs of feeding fish in order to know where to set camp. A whole hour was wasted on this fruitless endeavour, as not so much as fish fart was spotted. In the end I had no choice but to just go for it in what I hoped might be a productive area. Having the day before seen how clear the water was I totally re-rigged using what I thought might be an inconspicuous rig that incorporated a small crystal waggler and virtually visible line.

To cut a long story short I kept mobile and over the next few hours fished four different marinas trying to locate fish. And truth of it is that for my efforts I had managed to catch a single perch. Thinking these perch might be my best option should I manage a second short session around dusk, I quite literally puréed a handful of worms and pre baited two spots just in case I got back in time for another try.

With the days currently so short it was only fleeting day trip before I was back. My other half is a truly good egg and is very tolerant of my incessant need to angle. So she duly shooed me off to try and grab a few hours before the sun disappeared behind the reeds. It looked spot on conditions as I trundled towards the waters edge. The mornings blue sky had be replaced by unbroken roof of grey which now retained any warmth built up by the sun. A slight ripple constantly wobbled across the waters surface and I knew if any fish were going to feed it would be tonight as dusk came in.

I went straight to the baited spots and settled in. I had purposely baited the two areas so as I could fish them from one spot, thus removing any need for a time wasting moves. The broad had swollen up with the tide through the day and now I had an extra three feet of water on top of the mornings depth. My float fished pike rod was cast just onto the slope of the boat channel that ran along the centre of the marina in case any patrolling pike should come along. That set I went about searching out my pre baited spots. 

The first half an hour passed away quickly with no more than what I would call half a bite. I was beginning to think it was about to be a total wash out when something big swirled right at my feet. I stared intently a the fizzing patch of disturbed water expecting to see the flaring gills of a pike. That was all I needed to make moves to reel my dead bait in and reposition it right next to the bank. My pike rod was actually on my left hand side out the way of my float rod and so when I picked it up I had to pass it from one hand to the other. It was as I did this that I heard the water splash again. Instantly I stopped what  I was doing. After uncrossing my arms looked down past my feet and came face to face wiht not a pike, but an otter!

I just stared at this perplexed looking furry faced critter and it stared back. For a moment I thought if I moved it would just disappear but as I slowly lowered the rod to one side it just looked at me unconcerned. Now I took my chances and reached into my bag for my camera which was positioned just under the unzipped flap. In the time it took my damn camera to make that beboopboop sound the very relaxed otter sauntered along the tyres which prevent moored boats from hitting the concrete bank, sat down and began cleaning its paws. Still not bothered by my presence it went about its business as I manoeuvred myself to try and get a good shot.

It's surprising how hard it is to get good shots of these fidgety creatures. Being in such a flap just to catch a shot I never thought to flip my camera in multiple shot mode and instead tried to just get as many as I could manually with that irritating processing pause between each shot costing me valuable time.

After allowing me only moments to get one decent shot of it about to dive back, the otter slid almost silently into the water. With it gone I just sat in shock thinking, did that just happen. Then from behind a row boats I heard a big splash and ripple soon emanated into open water. I knew the chances of me getting any bites now was about as likely as me winning the lottery, so I concluded to retrieve my gear and go off and see if I could get any better photos before the light went.

For the next forty minutes I followed the otter all around the marina as it dived again and again working its way methodically under the boats. Once I had it targeted I actually found it very easy to track, as when they are under water otters seem to send a constant foot wide stream of fizzing bubble up to the surface. Every now and again a head would pop up and I'd try to snap a shot which ultimately ended up with me having some twenty or more shots of where the otter once was. However I was surprised to see how little the fellow actually caught. Assuming I am correct in thinking that otters have to surface to eat, this one caught a single roach of maybe two ounces and found what I can only assume was a small bunch of zebra mussels in the entire time I was watching it.

It was boredom or lack of quarry that seemed to inspire it to move on and this resulted in my second really close encounter. Quite relaxed and really not bothered by this camo clad beast that was staring, it wandered straight up a boat ramp to within feet of me, before turning tail and wandering off down the path.

It looked like it was about to dive back in on the opposite side of the marina but then suddenly veered off . After rolling around under a speed boat drying its self off on the concrete it just got up and tootled off into the buses close to the marina.

After my excitement had died away later in the evening I pondered the encounter. I know that on small/medium big fish rivers it seems likely that otters have undoubtedly had an effect, and that on unprotected carp fisheries it's like an all you can eat buffet for them. But on these massive open water ways I suspect life is not going to be as easy as grabbing an overfed carp from an over stocked fishery. The otter I had seen was having to do a lot of work for very little return and I truthfully think that it and others present will make little difference on such a massive waterway. In no way did I actually ever think that this otter might be responsible for the poor fishing. In fact quite the opposite! It actually showed me there were fish hiding away in the marinas, just that my tactics seemed unable to catch me any of them.

With one last chance I seriously went hardcore to catch some fish. Float boxes were turfed out and the lightest float I had was threaded onto my line. Scratching around I located the smallest size hooks I had and the bread bin was raided. Then at first light I gently plumbed up the very area where I had seen the otter close to the boats, before half throwing and half spooning two handfuls of bread slop in. I had no choice but to actually fish bread punch. Yes, me, the one of the agricultural rig, fishing slop and punch in a desperate attempt to catch fish. Anyone who has knows me knows that me fishing punch is like a gorilla riding a really tiny little bike! But what the hell, needs must eh?

Lo and behold it damn well worked. After only moments of that tiny speck of bread sinking, the float dithered before half dipping and bang, a little roach.

I have never been so happy to catch a little roach as that one, and it didn't stop there either. The next three hours saw me doing a rather convincing impression of a match angler. Constantly trickling in small amounts of bread slop to cloud the water with shower of tiny particles kept the roach moving. The float was barely still and even with me hitting only one in five bites I managed to build up a respectable amount of precious silvers.

Thinking back now I was exactly right about me regretting not doing some sea fishing, but I did manage to relax whilst still catching some fish in the end. As an angler I know I am are meant to be a venomous hater of the now demonised otter. But I have to say that  my close encounter where I could practically smell the fish on ones breath actually has to have been the highlight of my trip away. Even more controversially I have to be thankful for it turning up, as had it not I would have never had known there was actually was some fish present.

On the verge of obsession

I have of late found something creeping into my mind, although creeping may be the wrong way to describe it! Wriggling, slithering or drifting may be more apt, as the protagonist has no legs. Often in moments when I find my mind free of day to day distractions I dream of a clear corner of some beautiful fantasy pond surrounded by ancient low hanging trees. The last of the evening sun illuminates only the thinnest strip of the silty bottom as tiny silver fish flash over it. Under the trees in the mass of tangled roots something stirs in its dark dank layer where it has laid still as the sun passed over head until the air cooled and the light faded. The pangs of hunger and a thousand nights of habit push it forth into the open water. Confidently it glides into view. In the last shadows it appears grey, but as its sinewy body moves towards that last strip of light, its true colour is revealed. It is green, like no other fish bar the Tench, but long and thin in shape, like a snake. Her eyes seem black as coal, but it is not sight that drives her on, it is something else… She can feel what she seeks somewhere and out there something panics. Under the round lily pads a small roach struggles to remain upright. The open wound on its side is fatal. Only a few hours ago it swam strong in unison with its shoal mates when from nowhere the heron struck! A fraction higher and it would have all been over as it became a tasty meal but as fate would have it, the sharp beak that had been the demise of so many others only stabbed instead of grabbed. In a moment of panic, survival had sent the little roach zipping into the sanctuary of the weed where death now stalked it. Time was always on the eel’s side as she meticulously searched the small pond until the telltale vibrations grew stronger. Smell now took over and the scent of fresh flesh filled her senses and belied the location of what she sought. Directly below she gently reaches up from the bottom before she snatches the roach in a single bite and sinks slowly back into the weed; the roach’s life ended.


My thoughts of eel are borne of something more than a simple want to catch eels, but of a more competitive need this year to behold a monster. I have for the last decade at least held more than a passing interest in this much maligned species. Up until my late teens our paths had never once crossed. But when they finally did I found myself not looking at that wriggling mass of slimy green entangled in my line with disdainful eyes, but with more a look of intrigue. As with most anglers, my first encounter came whilst fishing for something else, or rather anything else. Unlike others my reaction was not anger; I did not just cut my line leaving it to die, instead I took the time to struggle on and unhook this newly discovered oddity. As with most first experiences they are highly affecting and it was settled: through my life as a Brother of Angle I would be no hater of the eel.

It was deep in the cold winter when my research began. By night I trawled books and the internet. Even as I fished blankly through frosty and snow covered mornings waiting for single bite my mind harked back through hundreds of stories and sessions to try and find every tiny fragment of information of past captures and wondrous tales of lost monsters.

Like all anglers I have my own fables of big eels, be they my own experiences or others passed on by fellow fishermen. A good old friend once told me how on one of those club day trip fishing matches to an old estate lake over twenty years ago, one of his fellow competitors hooked what he described as ‘something huge’. After an age fighting the unseen monster he finally got it to the surface whereupon he laid eyes on an eel thicker than his own arm. His desire to land it and quite possibly win the match, were diminished somewhat upon the realization that it was only an eel, and he pulled for the break freeing it back to the depths.

On that most special of days, June 16th, some years ago I myself landed a rather large river eel whilst fishing for chub using lob worms at the end of a weir pool. My first thought of the unstoppable run was that I had hooked a good Barbel that had been lurking in the slack water. But after getting pulled from one side of the river to the other for a good while I finally slipped the net under a perfectly formed river eel of over three pounds. The same year I made a late September pilgrimage into Wales camping with a lifelong fishing companion. Three days in we found ourselves fishing the rarefied glacial lake Bala. Through the day we’d struggled to land even a couple of the tiny perch which frequented the shallows of this gin clear lake. Later that day whilst in one of the local shops chatting to elderly shop owner she mentioned that the lake contained plenty of eels. This was more than likely a ruse to get us to buy some of the many pots of red worms she had randomly stacked in a dusty corner of her shop; it worked for as the sun dipped below the mountains and the moon rose we both sat on what seemed like the top of the world and stared at the florescent lit rod tips waiting for them to tremble as an eel made off with our magic beans. It was a perfect tall story in the making if only she hadn’t been absolutely right. We caught plenty of small eels and as the last of the libations drained away I hooked a much larger eel of nearly a metre long, albeit rather slim.

If any place in England could lay claim to being the ancestral home of Anguilla anguilla it has to be the Norfolk broads, a place which holds a dear place in my heart. I have caught more eels here than on every other water way I have fished combined. On one of my first visits to the broads I fished a tiny reed lined bay on the river Ant at How Hill just after a horrendous summer storm. The ravenous Rudd couldn’t get enough of my maggots as I landed one after another from the shallow water. Upon striking one bite it seemed I had found an unmoveable snag, until it moved that was. My poor light float rod bent double for an age until I landed the culprit; the shortest fattest eel I have ever seen lay regurgitating my maggots in the bottom of the net. Weighing an amazing two pounds plus it was only as long as the cork handle of my rod, but was thicker than my wrist by far.

My favourite story of all came from a great friend whom is sadly passed. John, whilst fishing for carp on a very modern commercial fishery, struck into what seemed to be a massive Carp whilst float fishing luncheon meat on the bottom. The battle was one of sheer legend as for over an hour he followed the fish up and down the bank. Eventually he began to get the better of the fish but not before a crowd had gathered to watch, which included the bailiff of the fishery. Eventually it surfaced and what thrashed on the surface scared every angler that watched. It took two changes of net to find one big enough for it to fit in, but when it was finally landed the creature was a sight to behold. Eight pounds of eel as thick as a cricket ball lay on the grass. John himself referred to it as monstrous and others have since confirmed this. Upon asking the bailiff why a eel should turn up in a stocked carp lake, he came clean and admitted that the lake was not built originally for carp fishing but for the farming of signal crayfish and once the crayfish business had run its course the lakes owners decided to convert it to a carp pool. The only problem was how to get every last annoying crayfish out. The answer was to stock five small eels which in only a few years rid the lake of crayfish and then disappeared, until now.

It’s perfectly reasonable to assume that any of these eels still exist in the same waters where their tales were born. Although by now their instinct to breed or just move on may have driven them down some long forgotten stream back towards the sea, all that remains of them etched into the memories of the fishermen who encountered them. Chasing old stories may be a foolhardy endeavour but they still serve enough of a purpose to inspire me and drive me on.

With information collated, soon enough plans began to form and venues began to stick out. Though I feel on the verge of obsession I find myself unable to commit due to my yearly rotation through a long list of species of which I travel, as the year does through the seasons.

The criteria for possible targets were heavily influenced by that rarest of specific anglers, those who actively target the reclusive eel. These brave men dedicate themselves to what can only be described as the hardest specimen fish to catch in the land. They are like their quarry, secretive as ghosts and seldom seen; to catch a truly big eel you must seemingly fish like one, only coming out at night.

However, some generous anglers of anguilla have openly shared their knowledge and this is what has guided my choices, along with a few other factors of my own constraints. In its simplest possible form I have three types of water of which to choose my target.

Still waters seem to offer the greatest chance of a really big eel, however times have changed since the majority of eel fishing literature was produced. Nowadays any lake which has seen even a paltry twenty pound carp landed becomes the focus for carp hungry crowds, and ends up its banks lined with rod pods and bivves. Getting on a suitable lake with under a few months research is hard and costly. A few lakes for me fitted the bill but again the travelling distance only makes repeat visits difficult and expensive. So for me lakes were an ill fit if you would.

Rivers on the other hand, though accessible, are heavily populated by immature eels. These streams harbour relatively high numbers, but do not possess the means to entrap an eel for the length of time needed for the specimen to age, and thus attain weight I dream of. This leaves me only one true style of venue that suits my needs.

Strangely over the years canals have proved a perfect type of water for small eels to populate, and an even more perfect prison by way of their many locks which retain an eel long enough for their need to spawn to be hampered by winter. As I live in an area abundant with canals - which coincidentally just happen to be as far from the sea as you can get in England – these man made waterways are the forerunners as the most likely body of water to yield a good eel competition.

A venue chosen, it comes to this; how many hours of my life can I dedicate to the cause? Far better men than I have offered themselves whole heartedly to chasing this ghost like species and in their writings have openly concluded that a very low return rate is to be expected when searching for big eel. There is some common advice: firstly, nearly all waters in the UK will contain eels, whether intentional or not, as they have a mysterious way of appearing from nowhere; second, given that eel fishing is as about popular as going to the dentist, it is unlikely that the casual angler will be aware of their presence, save from the odd accidental capture; and finally and most importantly, the more eels you catch from one place the smaller they will be. So the theory is, the more blank sessions, the bigger the eel.

So into the darkness I go.