The joys of fishing light.

My recent visit to Marsh farm has reminded me of how much fun light gear tench fishing really is. All too often I find myself fishing venues, or swims for that matter, that require me to use heavy set ups in order for me to constantly cast weighty feeders at range. Now don't get me wrong I'm not saying this isn't fun and it certainly is effective, but what I am saying is that the conduit of bite registration that is the buzzer, can remove us as anglers from interaction with the fish. When fishing a float however this interaction is just about at it's zenith and quite possibly at its most enjoyable.

The constant attention required of float fishing can more often than not enable you to see what is going to happen before actually happens. I think it is the focusing on the tiny luminous tip of a float and the surrounding few feet that draws us closer into the goings on in the water. A bubble or fizz, an oily swirl or a patch of colour in the water all serve to pre-empt the inevitable, or conversely, torture us to the point of paranoia over why we are not getting any bites when fish are obviously on the feeding whilst not eating our baits.

Then there is the language of the float, and that is a language that can be specific to any particular water. The myriad dips, rises and slides can indicate which species we are about to encounter before the rod even cuts through the air to finalise the deal. Ask yourself how many times you have watched a float dancing around on the surface of the water and before you have struck you have predicted out loud what the fish is.
I think that this visual translation is what makes makes float fishing so appealing to anglers. I don't think there is anyone who could deny that the sight of float coming alive after it has sat dormant for so long, is one of the most simply wondrous parts of fishing...

It's a hot afternoon and the sun seems the strongest it has been so far this year. Even sitting half dappled in the shade of two birch trees I am unable to totally avoid its burning rays. I know later in the day when the evening approaches the tree line behind me will offer me some early respite from the brightness and maybe to incline the tench to move, as most of the residents of this lake have melted away in the heat of the mid day sun.

One of the only signs of life on the lake come from the shoals of small rudd which ceaselessly move up and down the bank in front of me. They swim endlessly open mouthed gorging on microscopic morsels and every time they pass around my float it shoots up out of the water as they dislodge that tell tale shot from the bottom as they swim through my line in a cloud of silver gold.

Other than the rudd the only fish in sight are a pair of basking carp. Their black shadows betray them as the slowly cruise beneath the surface soaking up the suns warmth. Its the first time this year I have seen them bask here, but if the heat continues I know it wont be the last. I have often been tempted to try and thieve one from the surface, but the shear amount of water birds make that an impossible prospect, and today that as always it is only pipe dream.

My eyes focus back to the foreground and for a moment I panic and clamber my hand blindly for the cork handle of my rod. In the blink of an eye its hard to re-sight the orange float in the ripple. Eventually I spot it hiding between the light water of the skies reflection and the dark water a tree casts long across the lake and again I relax.

For hours I wait and even though nothing happens my attention never wains. I know a trap is set and also know it is set so fine that the merest of movements of that float would betray a fish. It is set so fine in fact that the tiny blue damsel which I can hardly see sinks the float down to a pin prick every time it lands on it. Half straining my eyes and half imagining it, I can see it barely keeping off the water as if stuck on a sinking ship. Then another blue damsel fly comes into its territory it chases it off, which causes my float to rise out of the water and every time I ready myself to strike until it returns and sinks my float back.

Not until the sun becomes hidden by that false horizon does the watery world begin to change. The rudd still gorge as they will well into the night, but the carp have gone. The water birds too have begun evening rituals. Canadian geese noisily take off  repeatedly circling the lake a few times before landing again and now a moorhen has appeared from the rushes and now clicks as it moves into open water. For the first time this year I can hear a cuckoo whooping in the trees on the other bank. The world moves closer to dark and the time is at hand.

The first fizz is slight at first. Nothing more than a hint of different water two feet beyond my float. Then it happens again further off to the right. I can track at least three different fish moving in a pod along the edge of my baited patch. They seem a little standoffish, only seem to wanting to test the water. Maybe the bright sky still perturbs them.
For over an hour I watch them linger temptingly around the free food. I was just getting used to the hints of bubbles when a massive patch of bubbles break the surface all at once in an audible fizz. Either the waiting has become too much for one hungry mouth or an interloper has just barged straight in head down. Now it is business time and my hand grasps cork ready to strike.

The float has risen and fallen many times by now, as multiple fish mooch around sucking in mouthfuls of fishy bait. But not one has been tripped up by my single grain of corn and now I wonder if they might be avoiding it. So, I wonder, should I make that change? I have fed nothing but highly flavoured crumb and corn. Looking down to my left I have two other choices with me. Tiny soft pellets which seem oh so small to me and a diced tin of salty spam which has stewed sweaty in the sun.

I decide I can't trust those tiny pellets so I reel in and bait up by pulling the hook through a finger nail sized cube and just twisting a little before bedding the nook in. The float and meat fly through the air  well beyond the action and I see the meat go into the water still on the hook. I dip the rod and reel hard to sink the line. The float stands very proud of the water and I envisage the fatty meat slowly sinking between those fish and as it does my float again settles until only the florescent tip shows.

Finally it happens! The float first dips as the bait is sucked in. It rises a little at first as the weight is taken of the line. Then as the fish angles back to chew and swallow it,s mouthful my float rises confidently to the point where those two tell-tale shots are way off the bottom, and the float comes four or more inches prone of the water before lolling to one side. In slow motion I watch the line pick up off the water and the rod move into curve in one seamless movement. Then that moment of  pause before panic sets in and the fish streaks off.

Now it's just a case of going softly as is always the case when the poundage of line is outweighed by the poundage of fish. First the long surging runs are quelled by a well set clutch. But once that is over it becomes a battle in the margins were my finger adds fine tuning to the spool and the arch of rod cushions the head shaking. The fight is nearly over once the slapping of tails is heard here and there. Until one final run ends in a gaping golden mouth and my net engulfs the fish I have sat vigil for hours for.

And later when it is dark and I lie in bed, I know the vision of that float rising will be relived again and again, whilst the picture of that perfect float caught tench will send me to sleep with a smile for sure.

sharks pups and south easterleys

With a nice breeze skipping from the west over the shingle behind me, and the intermittent cloud cover, it looked a fine sort of day to begin things. The tide had two hours of flood left until it hit slack water and the wind was combining with the lapping sea just enough to make me smile. Even as inexperienced as I am, I know that too little surf makes for clear seas and lethargic fish, whilst too much can halt fishing entirely  Hence today the early morning wind had the waves forming a thirty feet off the shore and the sea looked just about right to me.

My last encounter with sea fishing over six months ago had not gone well. Like all types of fishing there are good times and bad, and after many a good time I had fallen, flailing face first onto a bad one. The geography of the environment where beach fishing takes place can make it feel very black and white. By that I mean that more often than not it's a case of there is, or is not, feeding fish within casting range of the beach. So as I stood there with poised to cast with four ounces of lead swinging in the breeze waiting to tow my oozing bundle of peeler crab towards the horizon, I hoped this was not going splash down into fallow water... 

I sometimes think those moments waiting for that first bite of a trip are the most nerve racking, with the tone of the fishing ahead hanging in the balance. Then when that first dip rattle or bleep occurs the relief is palpable and you can relax knowing that all will not be for waste. It took exactly five minutes for my first bite to develop. The initial single nod widened my eyes immediately and called me to the rod, but my brain reminded me I wasn't fishing for winter dace and waiting to strike would be more beneficial in this scenario. Two more nods and then the rod was heaving over like Moby dick himself was attached to my line.

On one hand sea and tackle take away much of the fight of captures made in the waves, but on the other they add to it too. Most rigs drag lead behind on the retrieve as the sea seems to try and suck back fish as you reel them in. Even reeling in the smallest of fish can be a job in itself. My fish was pulling back and had as yet remained a mystery as it kited across the last few waves. Then a pointy nose appeared from under the last wave before a miniature fin was seen in the receding wave and the tone of things to come was instantly set.

Smooth hound pups are undoubtedly cute and their tenacity to consume baits you would have always thought to large for them is commendable, but the capture of one on my first cast usually means the sea bed would probably be paved with them. Frankly though, I needed the confidence boost a morning of catching these little sharks would provide, and I did enjoy it as one after another they searched out my single crab bait on the seemingly featureless sea bed.

By the time the tide had stalled, then turned, I had caught dozens of them at all kinds of ranges and happily the size of the fish present on this beach seems to be increasing. As normally they they average a eight inches long and maybe half a pound but several were four times this size. Though this could be down to them being veracious little critters, like this one which was determined to gum my finger or hand, which resulted in my rather perplexed look! 

Two days later I had had enough of smooth hound pups and was considering new marks further south. It just happened that early one morning as I drove towards one new area a road accident had closed off access to, that I diverted to a totally different bit of beach. Kessingland beach is a serious competitor for the most easterly point of UK and common belief in this area has it that in the next ten years it will gain enough ground to depose its close neighbour of this title.

After trudging across an endless sea of shingle I for one did not find hard to believe that Kessingland will soon become usurper to Lowestoft's crown. The bank of pebbles I had to descend down to the quickly sloping sand was nothing less than epic. Quite literally I had a small house sized bank of constantly moving shingle jutting up from the sandy bar where I stood at forty five degrees that ended in nothing but sky.

That first morning was certainly to be eventful. Bites weren't easy to come by and the few that did appear were nontheless from more smooth hound pups hanging out way beyond the sanctuary of the bay where most of their relations were residing northwards of. I was considering making a move when out of nowhere my rod really bent over shaking violently as it did. My instant thought was I had found my holy grail and a bass had found my bait beyond the surf... But I was mistaken! 

The culprit really made me work hard to get it towards the beach and if it was not for the definite sideways movement I would have certainly said I was dragging in a clump of weed. By now the tide had begun pulling and that made a hard job worse, but my careful persuasion came good in the end. It was almost reliving to see my bright red line become my orange shock leader and when it finally passed through the top ring of my rod I knew I was about to my hands on a decent prize. Expecting a good bass to appear as the waves receded I was shocked when a rather much larger smooth hound of of maybe five or more pounds materialised. In a total panic I rushed forward to grab it just as another wave came in. Being a trainer wearing landlubber I backed off not wanting to get wet, only to see the fish get pulled back out to sea. I stupidly grabbed the only bit of the rig to hand which just happened to be the lead. A lesson was quickly learnt. Turns out me pulling from the lead end of the line and the sea pulling back too, as well as the shark thrashing around is basically to much strain for two feet of even 30lb mono line to bare.

I felt the line crack the instant it went and for all my vain effort to try and grab hold of the little sharks tail it was gone back to where it came from, leaving me staring at the waves where it had once been. I did re-rig and try again but that was my shot for the day gone in the blink of an eye, leaving me regretting not just holding onto the rod instead of grabbing at the prize.

I stewed all night on that loss and brewed new plans to return to the same spot early the next day to try and set the record straight. But as always the weather had something to say on that matter. At four thirty I woke, dragged myself wearily from my warm bed and set about brewing some tea. Cup in hand I drew back the curtain to be met by the sight of the blossom on the cherry tree outside our digs blowing across the lawn like snow. Overnight night the wind had swung round from the south-west to the south-east and had increased power by three or more times.   

Not to be perturbed I headed out any way. All the way there I tried to measure the strength of the wind by various objects. Yes that bush is bending over alarmingly and yes that wind turbine is moving quite rapidly but I am sure I might get a few casts in. Wrong! Very wrong! Incan honestly say that I did not know that wind over sea moves twice as fast as wind on the land, so what according to the land lubbers weather forecast is a 16 mph wind gusting to 25 mph on the beach, is a 32 mph wind gusting to 50 mph.

The sea was smashing up the land. Waves rose well off the beach and as far as my eyes could see in the sand filled wind, the water swelled and throbbed as the wind wound it into a frenzy of white water.

I don't know if it was stupidity or just the curiosity to know what it felt like to cast in such conditions that made me do it, but I dug my tripod deep into the sand, baited a hook and fired the biggest lead I had out into the surf. That cast was a third the distance of what I am capable of and took less than a minute to break out of the hold it had and roll back up the beach. That cured my curiosity pretty quickly and sent me back home for the entire day in one single cast. Though with the wind behind me the walk back to the car was one of the easiest I have had, I must say.

Reports that the bass had shown up on the more northern coloured beaches had me head away from Kessingland and back to my old favourite jolly sailors mark in Pakefeild the next day. The locals being present was a good indicator of the sport changing too. I even saw two borderline legal bass in the bucket of a father and son pair just down the beach, but for my part all I could find amongst the seeming bass brimming sea was more and more starry smooth hound pups.

The report that tipped me off about the bass too also put a shining gem of information into my head. Apparently about a mile south of the area where I had lost the better smooth hound was a very rare and productive feature which is considered to be a banker spot by the locals. Now I have been fishing this area for a few years now and have never heard a thing about it but and adventure to find this sacred spot was just the sort of thing I was well up for. So the next morning I again was up before first light and slipping out the door to go and investigate, even though I knew full well it would be low tide when I arrived.

It was hard walk over loose pebbles through the dunes and half way there I came across the collapsed remnants of a pill box built to defend against the German invasion if it had ever come. Standing three hundred feet from it with maybe five hundred feet to the sea it's hard to imagine anyone could have crossed that bit of flat open land and made it to the other side alive even if the Germans did land on our shores. I nipped up to have a look from its point of view and standing on the very top of it I could see other relics of world war two sea defences along the coast and inland, which showed the full extent of how much of a key feature this particular area could have played should the war have gone another way.

It seemed more like five miles before I finally sited a small building on the horizon. Then as I neared fences and rocks became visible before I finally found myself a the mouth of the Benacre sluice. 

Features on the east coast are rare and this sort of feature is probably the only one of its kind for a very long way. The Benacre sluice is essentially the mouth of a river. Like many places on the east coast the land is just about level with the sea and thus sea defences are needed to stop high tides claiming back that land. But rivers flow to the sea... So where this little trickle meets the tidal defences it has a pumping station and sluice to carry the water up and over the barrier.

When in use at high tide the sluice dumps out the contents of the river built up over the low tide into the sea, creating a small but prominent feature which is said to attract fish from miles around. Standing on the beach at low tide I could even see where the water entered the sea and the combined forces of both formed and trench where they flowed together.

It is not easy to see in the foreground but if you follow the dark trench further down the beach back up you can see the differing shade of pebbles at the bottom of the photo. The only difference between the beach and the trench is that the trench has no sand whatsoever in it were as the beach is a mix of both pebbles and sand.

Intrigued by this new found feature and with the tide now turned I made camp higher up the beach so as to have a go on this spot, even though I was going to be fishing at the worst part of the tide. I did suspect it was going to be a real waiting game so after making a cast I left the rod fishing whilst I mooched around close by investigating the area further.

From the rocks at the bottom of the sluice I could make out the full picture of how it has and does influence this mark. Directly in front of the rocks I could make out the skeletal remains of a predecessor. It looked like before the brick and rock sluice had been built a wooden one had been used and the random spikes of  rotting wood that appeared jutting out of the waves got me wondering how far out they went. On closer inspection, and by closer I mean standing on, I concluded that the old river beds lack of sand to fill the spaces between the pebbles made for a very unstable bit of beach. The first foot I put onto that narrow swathe of pebbles sank about a foot into the single and really made me step back rather quickly. I now knew this was to be avoided when walking down to the surf to cast.

It was as I returned to my rod that I spotted it nod a couple of times before bending over. By the time I had got on the right side of my tripod the line was fully slack and lying on the beach. It was so slack it took ages to pick up the line and make contact with the rig and when I finally did the wondrous sensation of a good fish vibrated back up the line. As always it was a real effort to drag fish back towards the shallower water but thankfully the tide was right now actually helping my in my efforts for once. The fish was moving hard to my right and as it did my vision tracked the line moving in the direction of the wooden remains of the old sluice. My instant reaction to put more pressure on the fish I think may of made things worse, and no time at all I found myself snagged solid.

I had only made one cast and by some modicum of luck I had hooked probably my best ever sea fish and now I had snagged it up on the only flipping bit of rough ground on the entire beach. I tried every trick I know to try and free it; changing the angle, slackening off and slow pressure - none of it worked. I even just put the rod down in the hope the fish might somehow pull the rig out but nothing. In the end I had not choice but to pull the break. Sea rigs always go in the same place, just above the shock leader, and the little pig tail of curl indicated this to be the case here.

I was absolutely gutted that after discovering this wonderful place I had on my first trip here, and on my last session of the trip, lost what I can't help but think was a good bass, even though I knew full and well there could be some nasty stuff hidden out in front of me. Worst off all was it was my only chance too, as after re-rigging and risking the same cast again and again not another bite was forthcoming that morning.

Although it was bitter pill to swallow at the time I now have a slightly better understanding of this mark and even though it is a while away, I am returning east later on in the summer. I am sure with a bit of planning I will find myself on this mark again, fishing a better tide when hopefully the sluice is pumping and those bass are hanging round looking for tit bits.

The Lake #10 A serious & stinky psychological slap

Having what you believed to be true for as long as you can remember suddenly proven totally wrong by someone else is a hard thing to stomach. But when you see it yourself with your own eyes it is a real psychological slap. Especially when the repercussions that emanate from it reverb backwards through your life, making you see how many hours you have fruitlessly waiting for something that will never or probably ever happen. Well this happened to me on my last visit to the lake.

At 5.30 am the lake in no uncertain terms looked the part. Mist rising, the bright sun shrouded in low lying cloud and rippling fish as far as the eye could see. After finding the target area I fancied occupied by a bivvie filled with a snoring man we pushed on round the lake under the arch in the trees until the sun shone directly in our faces. With handles still cutting into my neck and hands I watched several good fish rolling at range. This was definitely the place for me.

My swim could not have looked more perfect but as I set up I kept getting the odd whiff of something highly unpleasant. Even after checking the soles of my shoes for something bad and seeing nothing, I was absolutely convinced I had somehow brought this stench up the bank with me. But the smell seemed intermittent at best and it would not be until later that I discovered the source.

I got cast out just in time to see several nice tench roll out in front. This only served to boost my confidence that before the sun got too high in the sky, a few fish may grace my net. Sitting behind two rods I waited with baited breath, although it's a good job I wasn't holding my breath, as nothing happened! I have seen this before and heard it from others when fish repeatedly roll and porpoise at dawn and dusk and never really get on the feed. The setting plus fish and not catching it was absolute torture.

The dawn was gone before I got my first sign of interest by way of a quick aborted take. Not long after this patches of bubbles rose all over a massive area in front of me. Bubbles we are taught are a sign of fish but! I myself have fallen for this one many times before. Rotting plant matter and just general gas escaping from the bottom of the lakes can do a brilliant impression of fish, especially when the temperature changes early in the day and your mind makes you believe. Only when you see them rising and fizzing up through clear water with no fish causing them, do you realise that you have been chasing bubbles. Though there is those times when it is undoubtedly fish, and when the area down to my right burst into an audible fizz I had to get my lift float rod out and cast a bait over it.

The rest of this fruitless session was spent hovering over that rod with nothing to show for my effort but two slight dips on the float. I did eventually figure what the awful smell was as I watched the float. Hidden in the edge under a tree was the half chewed bloated corpse of a pike. Every so often the breeze would send a whiff of this stinking corpse up my nose, forcing me to spend much of the morning with my face stuffed in my top.
As the sun got higher in the sky the clarity of the water became apparent. With my Polaroids on I could see the bait on the bottom under my float and the area seemed barren of fish although surprisingly clear of weed.
With the decision made to leave I decided to make my way slowly back whilst using the waters clarity to my advantage and checking out some areas I fancied fishing.

What I saw as I mooched back shocked me to the core. Standing in the correct angle to the sun I could see practically half way across the lake, the water was so clear. Weed patches, clear patches and bars all plainly obvious. One area I have spent many many hours fishing had a bottom that looked like the surface of a car park not the bottom of a lake. Amongst lillies which I had always assumed created a thick canopy to shelter fish, I could see the silted up bare bottom. How many hours had I wasted targeting these places over the years all for nothing! For at least a quarter of the lake the only life forms seen in the water were snails and pencil sized micro pike.
In water this clear I could have spotted a two ounce roach at fifty yards, but there was nothing at all as far as the eye could see. I know that under the cover of darkness that fish would stray back into this part of the lake, and that if I was prepared to do any nights here I could probably catch, but the realisation that this was more than likely the answer to why in the past myself, and many companions, had suffered so many demoralising blanks in this picturesque bit of water.

But this has got me thinking that most of the fish population, of which I know there is a large amount, must get pushed into quite confined area up near to where I had fished on this very session which could well work to my advantage this coming weekend.
Spending so much time on this one venue really is letting me see it in every possible light. Only a few weeks ago the entire area that on this occasion was clear was heavily coloured and quite probably full of fish, whereas now the suspended particles have settled leaving the the water clear and barren.