A billion biting mouths and a PB.

I've been trying to get back into the swing of things at work for a few days now, but I am struggling. All I can think about is the sea and sea fishing. A week or more ago I was concerned with little more than what time I could be bothered to get up to go out sea fishing, or possibly at a push what sort of delicious bacon I should buy from the local butchers to eat for breakfast after I'd been sea fishing. You see my comfort of being in that nosily silent strip of shingle and sand at the very edge of the land just grows all the time. Right now I could, from a fishing point of view,  probably give up on rivers and lakes and give myself to the sea... and surely you understand why when it looks like this around dawn.

Mind you, saying that I am not so foolish as to think that it's all rippling sunsets and dawns. I saw first hand how violent it can be. A beautiful golden beach myself and JB have in past walked on was there last time we went east, whereas this time it was quite literally gone! And I mean gone!!! Some eight feet in depth and a few hundred in distance feet between the sea wall and high tide of pure sand was just stripped away. All that remained was a compacted shingle and mud base. The sea had been so violent when it reclaimed this beach that it tore three hundred pound blocks of stone off the sea wall and left a massive stretch of the coast unsafe to walk upon. As upsetting as it is to see the possible violence of the sea I do find it quite exciting and the openness of it also allows us anglers to be a little violent with it and give it some as well. Unlike fishing on some of our crammed inland fisheries, when fishing on the sea can really let rip! In fact you need to have a good go to get on the fish sometimes.

For once I hadn't made any effort to find out what if anything was onshore before I arrived and my first enquiry at the local bait purveyor really set the tone for the coming week. Quite simply after inflating his cheeks and exhaling he told me that there was lots of fish and plenty of action to be had BUT! hardly anything worth keeping. To any non sea anglers it might seem a bit alien. Although just catching is important the underlying aim of most sea anglers is to catch fish that are legal to take and in a few case ones that aren't. That was a hard thing for me to get my head round at first given the highly publicised plight of our inshore fish stocks. But given time I grew to understand that if every sea angler in the UK took every fish they caught they still wouldn't do one percent of the damage that a single trawler can do in a year. So as long as what they take is legal, which a very high number are not, it's OK.

Given my new information on the current catches I decided to have a tester session to see for myself what was around and so purchased myself a few hundreds grams of rag to how best approach what was around.

As always the guys on the ground proved right and after firing a three hook flapper rig loaded with rag not far beyond the low tide mark my rod tip began it's week long vibration. There was fish here there and everywhere and every one wanted my bait. When you get this sort of instant reaction sea fishing you know it's going to be a busy sort of week casting wise and I was glad I'd opted for a single rod, as fishing two in conditions like this gets expensive when you're buying bait.

From the off a steady stream of pouting, whiting and codling obliged and after only three casts I changed down to a two hook flapper to conserve bait as these plucky fish were consuming everything I could cast out.

Sure enough it was like there was a billion biting mouths out beyond the foot high waves and in the sea even the most innocuous little fish has teeth.

By mid week I was getting a little bored of the same size and shape of small fish and in the best possible way was getting a bit repetitive. One thing that had kept me amused was the flocks of Turnstones which work all along the beach I was fishing.  These tiny forgers spend all day doing as their name implies turning over stones looking for tasty crustaceans and insects to eat. Every so often they for no apparent reason all take to the air and fly in a circuit out over the sea like a group of fighter jets than land back maybe ten feet from where they took off. Only one time did I see them doing anything different and that was when a whole flock stopped their rummaging and simply went to ground almost disappearing from sight amongst the shingle.

I needed a change of plan to kick start me. So after hearing that there was apparently a few dabs showing amongst the other fish I decided to change bait and rigs to try and get amongst these prized eating fish. 

Now they might look pudgy and juicy, but the lug worm I changed to are not only are a little bit tougher than the soft rag worm but also are a good choice if bass are about in this area, and when also stale are reputed to be a very good dab bait locally.

The rigs to were swapped from multiple hook flappers to gaudy flat fish rigs with flashing blades to hopefully attract these predatory yet greedy little flatties.

So the rest of the week I worked hard trying to search out a few dabs amongst the hungry horde. I would love to say it was instant success but it wasn't and with only a day and a half left I finally found what I was after.

You know when you have a flattie on as the rig seems to drag even worse than normal. I can only assume it's the bottom hugging profile of the fish that causes the receding waves to force your rig down as it's retrieved. But eventually I saw that white underside roll in the surf. I only got one but it was worth all the effort to find that single different species amongst the others.

The unplanned finale

Friday morning came all too soon and almost poetically I ran out of bait towards the end of my mornings fishing. I wasn't that bothered as even with a bit of a lull mid-week I had actually had a really enjoyable time and for once it had had been catching all the way through the holiday. Even travelling back to my temporary home I was happy to finish at that point, so I was thrown a bit off kilter when JB said she wouldn't mind spending one last afternoon by the sea.

With this free and totally unplanned finale on the cards I decided that maybe this was the time to gamble for a big fish. All week I had persisted with the small stuff though on at least one occasion I had suspected a bigger fish might have snatched like a pike does at one of my tiddlers as I reeled it in. There had to be something big around feeding on this bounty of small fish. So that in mind I made and investment and picked up enough peeler crab for a few hours fishing that afternoon.

The beach was still sunny when we arrived but the wind had turned slightly from a westerly to a north westerly and was tearing down the beach. Straight away I thought our last trip to the beach was going to be a tough one for JB. With no form of shelter we headed towards one of the sets of groins which divide the beach hoping one of the bigger pilings might afford some shelter. Even curled up behind the post on my seat the wind was battering JB so once I'd sent a bomber rig out clipped up to a 6oz lead I did the chivalrous thing and perched myself on the top of the post to deflect the wind round my better half.

The first cast yielded naff all apart from gnawing teeth stripping my bait away. But the second produced a alright codling which despite its' small stature managed to dislodged the lead and slacken off my rig totally.

I have had for a very long time one of those wonderfully simple bite indicators sea anglers some time use. Basically it comprises a crocodile clip a spring and small bell that are all soldered together. Given that I was a bit away from my rod and not exactly paying attention as I sat on the post I decided to clip this indicator on to inform me of any unseen hits.

I was shocked when the little bell started tingling away after twenty minutes. I looked up to a sight I am not used to sea fishing. My rod was bending over quite extremely for a beach caster and the butt was rising out of the sand as something tugged hard on the line. It was about then that I nearly turfed JB off her seat before I proceeded to do that thing cartoon characters do when they seem to run on the spot unable to get purchase on the floor.

Thank god I got there before it came off and when I lifted the rod I felt the lead breakaway very easily. But even with the lead free I could feel a large amount of resistance. I will openly admit I've not caught that may good fish sea fishing, but I have caught enough to know they ain't easy to get in. The way I can describe it is imagine you hook a three pound carp on light tackle; it's not a roll over fight and you have to think about it. Well add the tide trying to tug it back and pulsing waves tugging on your line the whole time and you're about there.

With a slow and steady pressure my prize was gradually coming in. Saying that, I did have to follow it along the beach as it kited against the tide. I was well away from original position when I saw a flash of white in the wave and that convinced me I had a bass on my line. But then it rolled over in the next wave and I saw a mottled golden back and the following wave deposited high a flapping proper cod at my feet. The rod was dropped and I went after it like a kid after a mudskipper before the sea grabbed it back.

I did have a set of scales with me and could have weighed it but I was more concerned with getting a photo of it. I couldn't put an accurate weight on it but just for the sake of it I reckon it was around four pounds and certainly a new PB. Luckily there wasn't any other anglers close by as what I did next would have flipped them out... I let it go! Sure I could have bonked it on the head and eaten it but we'd already been to Marks to acquire tea, and anyway I would have done this fish a disservice if I'd tried to fillet it. So hoping to bank a little karma I sent my new PB cod back to swim another day.

The luckiest cod in the north sea.

You would think after a week of fishing at least once a day and sometimes twice a day I would've been done. Well I wasn't! Even hankering back to the sea from as far away as you can get from in this country I had plans afoot to kick off my tench fishing season with a warm up session on Ryton Sunday morning. All I can say about that is that it turned out the tench rigs still work, the new alarms are all good, my tench rods felt like casting match sticks after using a beach caster for a week and I landed a couple of these which is always a good way to start a new campaign.

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.

Catching the smallest fish using the biggest bait.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The sea.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I had caught what is now my official ruffe PB.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

14 days in the east

'The trees grow yellow and burnished gold, the morning has begun to nip and again I find myself in the east'

My love affair with this flat country where our land slides away into the sea has changed as I have grown older. The attraction of the reedy waterways has diminished only to be replaced by a child like curiosity of the ever eroding sea, which laps away at the land slowly threatening to reclaim it.

I think the challenging nature of the sea is what attracts me. On the broads I know I can catch silver flashing roach or dark brown bream with relative ease. But the sea... the sea is never constant! Species come and species go, the wind can move only a few degrees and all can change. I suppose the only thing that remains the same is the fact that the tide will rise and the tide will fall. This itself I find a source of amazement. Standing in front of of an endless sheet of water which either grows closer or slips further away with every wave is daunting. Once this mass movement of the ocean has been realised the thought that what causes it is planetary in size suddenly makes me feel very small.

A question of bait is something we anglers often find occupying our minds. Weather it be to flick out the humble worm or a pinch of bread, or which fly should best suit the current conditions are questions which go through our minds well before we set foot near water.

With the sea this is no different and well before leaving I diligently studied local catch reports to try and ascertain what may be on the menu for either me or the fish. As per normal, research produced nothing more than a mixed bag. So with no real angles by which to angle standing clear I will only find out by trial and elimination.

I feel sorry for squid as everything that swims eats them! However they too eat their far share, so maybe my sorrow is unfounded. Everything likes a calamari ring - myself included - and pound for pound they are by far the most cost effective way to find out what or whom is on shore; they are perfect for the job in hand, rather than throwing expensive rag or lug into the crab infested waters only to be reeled back stripped away. So squid is always the first thing I obtain on arriving at those seaside tackle shops that differ to those back home.

How much fun can you have with 75p worth of maggots and a handful of magic berries in the tail end of a hurricane? The answer is, surprisingly, a lot.

The first day of our break had begun well with a probing session on the break water, which had confirmed that although the whiting had arrived, the bait stripping pin whiting horde were as yet absent. But this was all the good that this day had to offer. No sooner had the tide begun to ebb away that it soon became one of the worst days of my life as I found myself returning to the Midlands to make a very tough decision.

My third trip down the A14 in three days had left both physically and mentally battered. The tail end of hurricane Katia now whipped thirty plus mile an hour winds over the flat landscape and I was in no mood to battle it out with the sea.

My first relaxed meal and a hot bath later Jacky urged me to head out, even if only down to the broad with a bottle of cider in hand. Quite honestly I hadn't planned for this type of fishing but I really needed to just switch off and relax. To the hardcore bunch of Geordie match anglers whom had taken residence on the tip of the marina with more gear than the drennan England team, I must have looked a proper holiday noddy in my shorts sitting on a deck chair with my bottle of booze and half a pint of maggots rattling round in the wind. I could tell by their looks of disdain as they passed by that they thought I was just another holiday chancer.

But it ain't what kit you've got it's what you do with it counts!

Sheltering as best I could inside the marina fishing in a space between two boats with Jacky sitting next to me immersed in a book I put away a slew of  perfect roach and perch up to 6oz and even the bootlace eels turned up enticed by the grand total of 75p worth of grubs that I flicked into the wind regularly.

From my vantage point behind the boats I could just make out the moans and groans of the Geordies of how bad the fishing was and not at one point did I hear those favoured words of ' that's a nice fish' proving my point exactly. Happy and relaxed once again my break could begin after a slight sputter at the start. Oh and as for the elder berries as roach bait... I personally think its a bit of a white elephant.

Walking across the area where it's not quite beach with an air of urgency in my step to get to the shore, the sun was beating down on me. Out of the wind behind the cliffs and laden with tackle I wove in and out of all the strange plants that exist in this salty environment. Anywhere else I suppose it could be called dunes. But here it's mostly shingle not sand, so really I have no idea by what name to call it.

Soon enough that brown mass of open appears, then my eyes spot the breaking waves and I am here for my first real chance to stand toe to toe with the sea with nothing between us.

I arrived purposely at the bottom of the ebb tide for I know this area fishes well now. I also think I know what is here and how I suspect it will go!

I begin to fish as planned, just as the tide begins to flood in again bringing fish with it. On one rod I hold out for a monster with a whole hardback crab I collected this morning from Lake Loathing. Whilst on the other I run the gauntlet fishing mean rag worms and strips of feted squid.

Somewhere in the still gusting wind I spotted the tip rattle in a different way to general wind and tide action. Somewhere out there something has found my bait. If casting 6oz of lead into a gusting wind wasn't hard enough reeling it back as the tide forces it onto the bottom is really tough. But I feel the faint throb of a fish.

These are not the annoying pin whiting but big keepers if I so wanted, but alas I do not. The evening creeps closer and the fish switch on in the churning sea, then it soon becomes one or two a chuck. Interspersed with the big whiting the odd smooth hound pup takes a bait or two. At only ten inches long they are frankly rather cute and I even land a starry smooth hound pup somewhere amongst the veracious whiting

The tide now races quickly up the beach and I find myself having to move further in land to avoid everything getting swept away. Upon arriving Id noticed that the high tide mark was higher up the beach than Id ever seen it before, as this morning it hit 2.9m. The highest of this month of September so I should move right up to the tide mark at the top of the beach.

I could carry on doing this all night but the moon has appeared on the horizon and my stomach now grumbles.

Just one last whiting before hunger drives me back across that unnamed land towards the car which will carry me towards warmth and sustenance.

My exploration of the industrial edges of lake loathing has been a long time coming and quite honestly I do not know why! Today I ventured further past the boundaries of where I have ever bothered to look before. With an obstinate Jacky in tow, who felt she had cruelly been tricked into some silly folly of a walk away from the quaint idles of civilisation, we passed through the Victorian tunnel which had for so long been my boundary for some unknown reason.

Stepping into the light again we were confronted by a wall of boats. Some afloat, others high and dry. To most it would appear to be nothing more than a waterside junk yard, but to me it was strangely beautiful and defiantly intriguing. Every square foot contained boat upon boat. Massive rotting hulks, ancient yachts and even a few surprises.

Hidden away behind a barbed wire clad fence I spotted this MTB boat from WWII which when I got home and researched it, it turned out to have an interesting history, which included transporting Churchill and Eisenhower to inspect the D day invasion fleet, acting as the rear admiral Wake - Walkers flag ship after HMS Keith was sunk by a Stuka bomb at Dunkirk and also starring in several films including 'The Eagle has Landed' after being renovated after a twenty year stint as a house boat on the broads.

http://www.mtb102.com/

Every possible space had some kind of fantastic colourful old boat in it and the clear blue light made it look even better.

Peering between boats the still waters are full of tiny fish which look to be ether baby bass or mullet. Even a few red and white Blennys living a horizontal life on a wall came close to the surface to investigate dust dislodged by my hands from the edge of the stone I  was leaning on. This place is alive and hopefully at the end of the alleys I will find the place I seek to fish.

As we continue on I come across a sight I wish was contained to this salt water environment instead of the lakes and rivers back home. A pair of cormorants where they should be.

Finally I do find what I was looking for on this exploration; confirmation that the wide open beach area I had seen on Google earth was in fact accessible and fishable too.

Though we are far from the sea we still get caught out by the tide. As we head home we find our route here has been cut off by the rising water.

Luckily unlike getting stuck under some dangerous cliffs where the RAF would now be fetching us the flood is easily bypassed by crossing two lanes of man made danger.

Like most I am guilty of forgetting how good some baits are. After spending my fishing time this morning exploring. Which I have to say was by no means a waste! I spent the rest of the day in the bustle of holiday makers. This left me with only a tiny window in which to fish . With no time to get to the sea I grabbed a rod nipped out the door to hit the broad. Upon opening my bait box expecting to see writhing maggots I found my  grubs had very inconsiderately pupated into caster. Undeterred and with only a handful of shells in various states of pupa I went anyway sending Jacky to the pub for much needed refreshments.

Sitting on my deck chair I was happy. I was even more happy to see the resident roach loved the tiny casters even more than I remembered they did. Every cast produced flashing silver. Why the hell have I neglected to to fish with caster for so long...

Sometimes you just can't force fish to feed. This morning I woke very early and it was still very much dark when I peeped out the curtains. The moon still shone bright and clear framed by the stars as I stood in the early chill.

I struggle to sleep well in a non ergonomically designed bed crafted by swedes nowadays, and subsequently every time Jacky moved so much as a muscle I woke. Well before the alarm sounded I was up. If at home and going to the river Barbel fishing or something else I would have just gone. But here in unfamiliar territory  I waited for the light and sat with a mug of steaming tea catching up on my notes. As I did I periodically looked out of the window and watched as the sky change from midnight blue to sapphire before I left.

My first foray out today was to continue my investigating of Lake Loathing. This time rod in hand searching for the elusive mullet. Passing again into the silent graveyard of ships the dawn made it look unbelievable and I am beginning to love this strange industrial backdrop.

The tide was well out so this gave me chance to look for scoots below the low water line in the mud, which could betray the sifting actions of feeding mullet. After slipping around on the damp sea weed for a while unable to see a thing I decided to change tack and cast out some leftover ragworms into the deep boat channel in search of flatties whilst I scanned the flat shallow water for bow waves.

Six crabs later, close to the only boulder on the flats two bow waves appeared on the surface so I crept into position bread in hand to try and develop some feeding action.

Mullet are supposed to be the most infuriating fish in the sea to attempt to catch and this turned out to be exactly true. Time and time again they drifted in and out appearing and disappearing like ghosts amongst the bladder wrack over an area of twenty square feet and nether one consumed a single morsel of bread before I left, rather perplexed.

My second outing of the day saw me head to a very well renowned mark on the golden sands of Gorleston. It's a beach I have long fancied. Largely to do with the unusual feature of a wreck being within casting distance of the beach. To any angler having such a prominate feature nestled in the middle of nothing but snag free sandy bottom it is far to much to resist and my early afternoon arrival coincided with at least ten other blokes all with the same idea. But sadly the fish were much as they were this morning; unobliging.

I cannot deny that two trips without so much as a scale to show for my effort had me feeling a little down. Undeterred I pushed my luck and chanced a third to try and make something of the day. With Jacky along for the ride I returned to a normally reliable mark. I spent the next three hours casting long and short very much in vain. With the sun again sinking below the cliffs over my shoulder, desperation saw me put more and more welly into my cast in a bid to attain even a few more feet when finally my tip rattled twice.

Two mediocre whiting proved enough for me on a dire day, so I cut my losses and left.

It may seem that the fish may be holding off the beaches during the day only venturing in under the cover of darkness.

Something has changed. The tempestuous wind has calmed, the sky's are bright azure and an air of cold seems to have taken residence over the east. Although disruptive and awkward conditions to fish in , it would seem the wind had its advantages, stirring up both the sea and fresh water. Its warm blasts seemed to provoke the waters residents at the start of my trip, now it has gone and I find myself wishing it would return.

Over the last few days I have dipped my toe in every possible scenario available! Casting lob worms under every boat for miles in search of perch. Blasting rag, lug and squid towards the horizon from the beach and concrete have all proved a little fruitless.

Oddly the answer has come to mind as a result of the maligned little roach, whose feeding had decreased markedly in just those few days.

This morning whilst anticipating that sacred tradition of Sunday dinner I snatched a few hours and sought a sunny corner to ply the roach with maggots. Only two bites came my way. The first resulting in me trying to untangle the untangle-able mass from around my rod tip and the other produced a small but poignant silver roach.

What should make a simple roach so special was not what it did or how it looked, but how it felt. Swinging it to hand it looked exactly the same as every other roach I have ever caught on the broad this past week. But the moment it hit my hand lighting struck my mind. It was freezing cold!

Every other before it had unnoticeabley warm, but this one was as cold as it was silver. The roach last week feed like voracious summer fish, but on the other hand this was if anything a winter fish, shy and torpid.

As I sat watching the motionless float this theory snowballed. On the sea the summer species were only just lingering round whilst the winter favourite the whiting are only just turning up and nether seem to be able to make up their minds whom should be on shore as yet. On the broad the cold clear nights sap away the daytime heat chilling the water and the fish.

As I walked away from the broad still mulling over my realization I stopped and spoke to an old angler fishing a vintage fibre glass rod and ancient quill float. Most of what he muttered was gripes but one thing stood out 'Winters coming' and he was right! If the previous week was the last of summer then here in the east this would be the first real one of autumn, which heralds only one thing; the impending arrival of winter. 

Tonight I again stand on the shore with the idea in my head that since the seas have calmed the biomass now moves in a different way. So I too must change tack to accommodate capture. I had loomed around the house until the point where I'd annoyed my better half and she had almost demanded I leave her in peace and go out.

Its still light and I know any fish interested will be situated right at the zenith of my casting range. But this does not matter for I am armed with new rigs dedicated solely the the art of distance. 6oz  breakaway leads and short clip down rigs should attain dizzying distance until dusk when the horde will march upon the breakers inshore.

It takes a few errant casts before I hit the zone hundreds of meters out. It's amazing with so much mono line stretching out over so much water that bites should  register at all, but they do! What is also surprising is the average size of the fish too, every one is just about a keeper.

My second line searches for straggling flatties with wire clad boom rigs making the worms dance around the bottom attractively. But this had been totally inactive till the sun disappears.

Even though I am well on the fish, common sense kicks in when dark clouds form over head followed by lighting jumping under the clouds. Looking round I can clearly see the highest object for a good long way is my rods, so I step away for a little while until the mini storm passes just in case any bolts should search for ground.

I watch the storm as it passes out over the sea and it grows bigger. Its like watching opera building and crashing before my eyes. Standing there facing the ocean you can see 180 degrees of the entire world from my spot and things that seem massive on the land get put in perspective over the sea.

By the time I return to the rod and re bait the fish have moved in by half a cast with darkening sky and they are feverishly hungry, my bait dwindles and new players now join this performance.

Cute but still a shark; these miniature starry smooth hounds seem to hang out under the whiting and their bites are so violent they can be seen from the water line thirty feet from my rods.

A satisfying few hours proves the fish of the sea to act like those in my native river, waiting till dark for their tea.

As I did the night before, tonight I probe for eels. The reedy broad seems lacking nowadays. In years gone by they could be so persistent that they would send bream anglers home moaning. Now however the tables have turned and the bream now annoy me as I try to catch an eel.

After scaring off a huge mullet which I'd found resting amongst the bladder wrack in the shallows of lake loathing I'd searched every nook and cranny to locate more, but I couldn't find a single one. Diligently I'd baited a few spots with mashed bread which still sits there now as I write dejected. I need some salve. So back to freshwater I go armed with worms and squid. With forethought to this session I cobbled together odd starlight's and float rubbers to produce shonky night floats.

Wrapped up in my warm winter coat I sit in the inky black watching two blue strips bob around in the ripples. A few small perch have already fallen for my tricks and now a hint of something sniffing my bait moves the float a little.

The resistance is tenfold to the perch but this no flipping eel, which gives itself away with reverse swimming. This is big but it comes in like an old sack. It has to be a Bream...

On my third consecutive outing I sat on a convenient bench as the sun dipped towards the reeds in the west. As per normal the small perch were first to root out my crudely presented half a lob worm before something rather special snaffled my bait. At first glance I thought yet another small perch wriggled on the end of my line but closer inspection reviled otherwise.

'With a hint of violet in it's eyes. Transparent yellow in colour with mottled spots down it's sides and serrated gill plates. This bastard brother of the perch is rarely seen nowadays and when it is many believe it is just a dower perch. But I know who it is. He is the pope or Ruffe . whichever you care to call it. Time spent chasing him has giving me a discerning appreciation for this little fish I call pope'

I journey north to test the water. Rumour has it that big smooth hounds hang round up until late in the summer in a sandy tidal trough between Scroby sands and the land. So I find myself at Caister on sea fighting the dreaded red weed . 

For two hours I have stood next to my rods casting randomly to check if the weed has piped down as the slack water approaches. My first few casts resulted in collections of weed bigger than my own head. So I wait and watch seals hunt out in front of me. They curiously pop their heads from the water looking over at me as if to check what is was up to. A pair of diving birds dive repeatedly in the same area so there are fish around. If only I could keep a bait out I might stand a chance.

The land behind me is just as interesting as the sea in front. The dunes and  brightly painted buildings remind me of Hoppers paintings of landscapes and I am sure he would have appreciated this forgotten little hamlet by the sea.

The tide has stopped now and the weed it would seem has sunk to the bottom. So I squeeze in a few casts before we must leave and land a single fat flounder close to the shore.

Spending your penultimate night of your holiday sitting next to a huge lake in the dark pulling pencil sized eels from the murky waters as they regurgitate rancid half chewed  maggots all over you may seem a rather unsavoury pastime to most. Personally I found it rather a wheeze!

It was a warm and still night, the lights from the other side of the lake extended right to my own bank unbroken across the mirrored surface. I could hear an owl hooting from some trees beyond the marsh to my left and bats still skim the surface of the water chasing unseen insects.

Ever since I had liberally deposited handfuls of red magics only yards in front of me my glow worm of a float had danced merrily around in the dark. The eels were out and on the move. But oddly the first confident dip of the float produced not an eel but a fish that had my heart thumping.

A hard and dogged fight where I had to pull hard to keep the culprit off the rusty old posts that framed the swim I was fishing ended frantically when in the beam of my torch I saw a huge silver flank. My god I hoped it was a big roach. But brown fins and half to much of a anal fin dampened me down. As this fish was quarter bream and three quarters roach.

A near two pound roach would have made my decade, but a near two pound hybrid only makes your hour. After this a few more perch and another Ruffe came along before the bottom of the broad began to seethe with tiny eels. I lost count of how many I caught before my towel grew claggy with slime.

When I returned home common decency dictated I should remove my trousers and coat before entering so as not to offend Jacky's nose with my putrid stench of eel slime.

Myself and the North sea nearly parted on poor terms. Timing and conditions I have figured mean as much to the sea as they do on clear rivers far inland.

My mid afternoon arrival coincided with the rising tide, which should on most days be a good time to fish as the shoals push inshore to feed. But the sky was like a dome of pure azure for as far as the eye can see and hardly a wave broke on the shore at all. For summer species this would not be out of the normal but as there are few of them around and as the winter species hold off till dark it did not bode well.

All would have not been lost if the conditions would have stayed this way, but just as I clipped on my first rig a savage onshore wind whipped into action. Dashing my hopes of the maximum cast I would need to perform to get get my baits anywhere near the fish.

It's hard to stand and watching time tick away as you know full well the fish will come closer later in the day when you should be packing ready to go far away from the brine. A bit too far that any lover of the sea would feel comfortable about. 

I held out as long as I feasibly could and as I did the crabs claimed all but six of my remaining rag worms. Only half looking at my rods I was already planning a dower Finnish to this tale. But then I caught tiny movement of a rod tip from the corner of my eye that looked nether like wind or wave and brought hope. Could they be moving in early tonight? It went again before I reeled in empty hooks. For the few last casts I gamble on fully loaded hooks and eureka a lovely fat whiting.

Of all the king rag in Britain the two I saved till last are the king of kings. On the hooks they look preposterous, but this is it there will be no 'just one more last cast' as I am out of bait.

On that last cast the sea giveth more than enough for me to feel happy about and temptation for me to need to return again keen. 

Another whiting, but a big one, the best of the trip just as the sun falls and I must leave.

And I do leave, happy and thinking when shall I return...

Back in middle England a few of my rods looked sad from neglect. So I push my luck and sneak out in the wee small hours just to make them feel better and see if they still work.

And they do...