Happy little fishes.

After that jaunt down south two weeks ago looking for big crucian carp I have been left with what I think is a mild case of crucianobsessionaris. Seemingly I can't get the idea of those most gentlest and our only native carp out of my head. I had plum forgotten how much fun and how much I enjoy to catch these little pixies on warm summer days, and once I again cast after them I seem unable to leave it alone.

We are lucky here in the midlands as we actually have quite a lot of access to some decent waters that hold what to all intents and purposes are true crucians. I reckon I can think of at least ten waters within twenty miles of my house that contain them. Some are age old places where a few gnarled old giant,s which are the last of their line, and others have recently been stocked with thousands of bright little discs. One of my favourites though is a bit of a mix of the two. Snitterfield reservoir has had crucians present for many years but the controlling club, Leamington Angling association, have just recently augmented their numbers with a generous injection of new fish, a necessary action of which they should be commend for. You see for some reason the population had seemingly stalled. Whether it was time that got to them and they stopped breeding, or whether it was lack of suitable spawning sights or conditions I am not sure, but the fact was that no new recruitment was being seen in their ranks. So in went a batch of perfect true blood crucians and the effects of this may have been more far reaching than expected.

It was two years ago I think when I last targeted crucians at Snitters, and on that occasion I was fishing a few months after the restock. Now anyone who fishes this bleak yet inviting pool knows on average the water is very clear and on my the visit I now recall it was as clear as I have ever seen it. So much so that I could see the ledge over which I favour fishing. On this occasion after depositing a light bed of fluffy ground bait and a liberal scattering of pellets I amused my self catching rudd whilst I waited for the spot to stew accordingly. I had not even considered fishing the spot when out of the corner of my Polaroid covered eye I spotted movement close to my bait.

What I saw has to be one of my all time top ten fishing sights. A group of five of the larger original crucians slowly drifted along the ledge homing in on my bait and behind them was a massive shoal of tiny new crucians. Although only related by species, the little ones were learning the ropes from the old guard in what I can only describe as poetic passing of the torch.

That day I caught seven of the originals and three of the tiny new fish. The babies were little more than a few inches long and no more than two ounces back then. But by now I wondered how big they might have grown and what of those old fish. Had they all drifted away as old crucians seem to do or what? So Sunday I headed back half filled with the urge to catch crucians and half filled with curiosity to see how those new crucians have done in the last two years.

In the early hours I descend the road leading to the lake and hoped as I free-wheeled down the hill that one of the few pegs I love to fish for crucians here was free. Turns out they all were and so I set up stall in a particular favourite of mine where a weed bed fills the space between the bank and the ledge. For there is no more romantic vision of English summer than a float framed by lillies or weed as it fishes for crucians. I spent my summer holidays fishing like this as a child watching floats on baking days next to a myriad of weed choked ponds fishing for crucians, hence it is a love I think I will never die for me.

Time has passed since my youth and gone is chunky old rod that used to make my arm ache from casting all day, and ultra light piece of carbon nowrests on my knee. Though what I am using  to catch them is irrelevant to me as I become instantly engrossed by the tiny shard of orange float just holding above the water. The first two bites are missed they are that subtle. Then on the third I connected with a fish which straight away makes all the right moves. I love that surging fight crucians make in close quarters. There constant vibration as the move quickly up and down in the water betrays them instantly. So light is my line that I dared not lift this one out and so I overcompensate by netting it, and the first fish of the day is one of the new crucians.

These new fish have at a conservative estimate tripled in size in two years and are now perfect little crucians of around six ounces. Their bodies have grown deep and the silveriness of youth is replaced by deeper gold and hints of black like the older fish. If these fish continue in this vein then it wont be long till they make a pound, and hopefully the few fish with the right genes in their blood and what they could achieve size-wise, might make Snitterfiled the best big crucian water in the Midlands.

As the morning wears on many more perfect little discs of gold get caught and something else becomes apparent. They seem rather happy! I can't say I have ever seen this behaviour anywhere else other than at marsh farm which is also stacked full of crucians. But the still youthful little ones repeatedly jump out of the water all around my swim. Its not like carp whose breaching generally seems for a reason, and its not like the laboured rolling of tench and bream, its more joyous. Like they are doing it for fun because they are happy. I am sure there is some scientific explanation but to me right now they look like kids bombing into a swimming pool.

Around mid morning I am sure I bump off a better fish in a less productive half hour. After topping up the bait and switching to try and catch roach of the top for a while until I gingerly recast on the freshened spot and straight away something is interested. A slight rise and slighter dip is enough for me to strike whilst crucian fishing and on this occasion I was dead on. A similar fight to all the the others ensues but this one put a much better bend in the rod as it leads me a merry dance around the weed. Though it keeps very low in the water and out of sight I know for sure its a crucian. Then I spot it circling through the clear water and I can see its a good fish. Then when it slides into my net I realise it's a decent size fish for this venue and maybe a little above the average size, or is it....

For as long as I have been fishing this lake the old crucians very rarely make more than a pound and a few ounces. This one though is knocking on the door of two pounds. Now either I have by pure chance caught one of the biggest residents on my first session back, or maybe that injection of smaller fish has added a little competition to the older fishes stagnant lives. Having those new hungry usurpers gallivanting all round the place may have actually served to gee up the old fish and caused an inadvertent growth spurt late in life.

Later when the bailiff comes round to check tickets the subject was broached, and low and behold it turns out they do seem to be getting bigger. Though his stories of three and even four pound fish are a little hard to digest and the recent picture of a three pound plus fish that emerged may hint at some guestimated weighing. But nonetheless, this long narrow strain of crucians might well be getting bigger and that thought alone is more than enough to make me start planning one last mid week foray back, to make further float fished enquires into the matter.

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.

Fishing in a winter wonderland.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.