Fish eye #5 Whiting

Small whiting caught from the North sea on a calm day.

Me the sea and April showers.

'Where there's water there's fish' I don't know if someone else said that first, but I said it the other day as I strolled towards a pedalo lined inch deep boating lake in a coastal park.

I should have taken advantage of Jacky's lack of faith in my statement and gambled payment of our impending Sunday lunch on it, because just as both our heads shadowed the water, hordes of what could only be sticklebacks darted out from the edge instinctively fleeing our possibly predatory shadows.

Like most, her automatic assumption was that there is no fish in any body of water, and it was much the same this morning as I stood sentry over the sea; masses of weekend dog walkers looked questioningly at me with slit eyes as they passed me by walking their gaggle of mongrels.

The fact is that yes, there are fish in the sea, and even though people generally don't see you catching them. there is a reason why most stalwart sea anglers cast into the surf. Admittedly they might not crawl up our lines but they are there trust me! Even so, just as that thought occurred to me on the beach, I too had my own doubts regarding the presence of fish where I was fishing; the tide was growing ever closer to my feet and as yet I had caught zero fish.

My cunning plan had been to arrive at the beach three hours before high tide, cast one of my irresistible juicy peeler crabs forty yards off the shingle into the low tide trench, where anchored to a spiky lead, it would hold fast until a wonderful silvery early season bass would perchance happen upon it. This resulted in my rod tip ether nodding like one of those nodding dogs in the back of a mk4 ford cortina or dropping back until the line drooped like washing line full of wet woollies, whereupon I would strike hard before playing the oceanic jewel into my hands.  I would admire it dutifully before slipping it back with the correct amount of reverence before nipping back for a beer back bacon sandwich and mug of steaming tea.

As always it never went to plan and both rods although regularly re-baited seemed to be cast upon barren water. As the time passed slowly and uneventfully my attentions had been drawn to what can nowadays be described as a rare phenomenon.

I had always thought that the ancient collection of beach launched one and two man inshore fishing boats with there flaking paint were relics of the past. But for the first time ever  I saw several of them hauled down to the sea by men wearing florescent waterproofs, who were now working them all along the coast in front of me.

Some processed what looked like gill nets, untangling their catches as they drifted along the tide. Others pulled crab or lobster pots from amongst the rough ground adjacent to where I was fishing. Though they all seemed to be doing something different their bond was evident and the camaraderie of those men of the sea was also extended by them towards me. Other residents of the beach were ignored. But I, albeit stranded on the land, was too trying to scratch a catch from the frugal sea, so as every single boat passed me by it's crew would hold up a hand or two in acknowledgement, and I would return the gesture with my own salute back to my cousins of angle.

It was as I watched a small blue boat drift from right to left that I caught sight of another group of sea borne hunters working the shore. Sea gulls of any sort always make great features to fish to. We have all seen those wildlife programs where gannets dive into the sea like torpedoes as unseen predatory pelagic giants force bait fish to the surface. Today though it was a much less exotic band that had caught my eye.

Ten to fifteen black headed gulls sailed effortlessly along the surf line searching slowly amongst the waves. Probably fifty meters away one broke rank which in turn caused all the other to loop back. A blink of an eye and I would have missed it. But at least half of them fluttered down to pick food from the water.

That itself peeked my attention and moments later they again dipped much closer. Both rods were reeled in re-baited and recast onto the same line as the feeding gulls.

Gnashing gnawing pin like teeth of whiting stripped the bait like piranhas. Though annoying it can quite often be a precursor to something bigger. For where there is prey there is predators. And I was right! As re-baited one rod the still fishing rod thumped once before dropping slack.

It is not easy reeling in anything over a pound with a trailing lead covered in spikes dragging in the shingle. The sucking and pushing action of the sea only compounds your problems. But once you feel that solid resistance you know for sure it ain't no pin whiting on the end of your line. When my first capture finally appeared flipping on the sand I was happily shocked.

The two most prised fish by UK sea anglers are as different as the seasons which they are respectively synonymous with. The summer belongs to the spiky silver bass and the winter can only be the reserve of the cod. With British summer time just about on our doorstep it was a schoolie bass which I expected to see on the end of my line. But instead it was a codling which I dusted the sand off as I walked back up the beach.

The feeding spell only lasted maybe three quarters of an hour at the top of tide just before the slack water, but in that time many more baits succumbed to the ravenous whiting. A few over zealous ones even got hung up on my massive 2/0 hooks before two more identical codling thumped my rod tip over.

Comfort really is a matter of perspective. From whichever angle you look at it sitting next to a blazing log fire on a frosty winters day is comfortable. Comparatively standing on the edge of  the north sea as a brisk easterly pounds you with rain is always going to feel a little uncomfortable. Lucky for me I was wrapped up like a trawler man in a force ten. Wearing my winter garb in April had allowed me to feel snug as a bug in rug as the wind whipped up the surf.

Easterlys are a funny thing when you're standing this far east. South easterlys feel generally quite warm and can actually in my experience give sometimes gives some great days on the coast. North easterlys are an awful fast track to bad weather from the colder parts of Europe and never turn out to be a good thing. But today it was a weird mix of the two, which resulted in some pragmatic fishing.

My gamble to bring only one rod and fish a single large bait off the back off the emanating waves was proving not to be a good one!

As bites failed to materialise right until the very bottom of the ebb tide when I again cut into a shoal of codling. Adding three identical fish too my tally in a second tiny window of activity.

Beyond these small rewards I had to content myself by mocking the awful weather from inside my protective layers by peeping out of my hood with a wry smile.

The tide wipes away everything including any signs of yesterdays foul weather. The wind and rain had faded away as I perused the secondhand book shops and art galleries of the ancient market town of Beccles. I managed to pick up a couple of interesting old reads before I nearly fainted when I found an old copy of the perch fishers book priced inside the cover in pencil at £65. I remember at the time blowing a raspberry in disgust thinking I could pick it up on Amazon for a lot less. But I just checked and the cheapest copy was £127 so I kind of regret not buying it now.

The beach was different today. Between bands of harmless clouds the sun illuminated the sand invitingly. Though the invitation was pointless as I was already there and would of been even if it was not so inviting. 

My bucket was replenished with an lucky dip of crabs. By that I mean I had discovered that although all the crabs in my possession where on their way to being peelers some hadn't quite developed the shy and retiring attitude of something that was once hard and is about to go soft, and instead still had the attitude of the common garden chav waving their claws every time my hand went in the bucket. On top of that I had obtained some rag worm of equally bad dispositions which I intended bait up some old school paul kerry wire boom rigs with to try and tempt some flatties.

A fresh slate and fresh bait to burn I went amount my merry business in the now placid sea. As much as I wanted a bass this trip I can't resist fishing for the ever obliging dabs and whiting which attacked my baits soon after the lead gripped bottom. 

It was a busy evening all the way down the tide into the slack water. The hungry hoard was punctuated by codling ether thumping away at the rod or dislodging the lead. There was certainly a lot of fish close in which as always attracts predators and what turned up could not have been bigger!

It surprising how hard it is to take the picture of a two hundred pound seal. It must have taken over an hour and hundreds of attempts to catch this one But after following its course up and down the beach it finally popped up right in front of me and openly stared at me for five minutes from only twenty feet off the sand.

The sea sometimes scares me. It is powerful, really powerful! So much so that it destroys land. Those perfect pictures of calm seas that were popular in the eighties and those ambient sounds of seas sold in lifestyle stores are all lies intended to attract us to the calm foreshore, were when we're not looking, the sea will rise up and pull you in. It must take a photographer weeks just to capture  that perfect peaceful moment it time that will entrance people into buying his lie, when in reality most of the time it is imperfect.

I had waited all day for a window in the weather just to try and steal a few hours. The supposed 25+mph Easterly felt more like 60mph and it was under no uncertain terms smashing the beach up.

At the cliffs yes the white caps were evident but from so high up they looked like something from a model village. Standing in front of them as the wind provoked them they seemed a little bigger. Four feet bigger maybe!

My first proper thought that I shouldn't be here came when that seventh bad ass wave shook the ground under my feet. Still though I tried in vain to heave the 8oz plus bait full force into the sky. Making water a third less far out than normal.

The second hint came five minutes later when the correct combination of sucking tide and blowing wind floored my entire set up by pounding the bow taught lines. But I held fast and cast again before hunkering down behind a groin. From forty feet away I could feel the waves smashing the shore, smoothing rough stones as it did so and at one point the wind was so strong it literally held the water up the beach.

A moment of sun created a perfect rainbow out over the sea which seemed amazing to my wind battered eyes against the black sky.

It was not long after this that I reeled in to refresh my bait to keep the trap fresh for those surf loving bass. It was an effort just to reel in and as I did the tide literally was sucking my rig back until it went solid as a rock.

Snapped up it seemed pointless and I turned tail blown off the beach with my tail between my legs.

I am not a true believer in common sense. This is mainly because if I was, half my fishing would be down the Swanny due to it being too wet or too cold. But the previous days conditions had seen me sent packing from the beach and the idea of wasting another load of bait on fruitless endeavours was a no brainer. Instead investigation was on the cards of a strange sight not far away from where we slept.

No one in the world protests quite like us English. It is ether a case of standing firm on a picket line wearing donkey jackets whilst police charge us down on the command of a hated woman of blue, or quiet objections that the rest of the world would find far too subtle to believe it was actually a protest. 

This one however is nether... and I do know what is about before anyone asks.

"A man bought a piece of land from a farmer who had in the past operated the said bit of land as camping/ holiday park of sorts. But after selling the land to the new owner at a very reasonable price he jacked up the price that he wanted to allow the new owner to use his access road.

All was not lost though as the property had a second access point through it's neighbouring  business which was a holiday park. Only problem was that they refused access to as they thought it may damage their business should cars be passing along their access rod all day long. Hence the local council refused any permission to build so much a barbecue on the land."

Brassed off the owner decided to get his own back on both his neighbours by doing this...

As a protest goes this is one of the best I have seen. A field sparsely dotted with coloured old caravans. Pure genius! In fact I now find myself wondering is it a protest or actually large scale installation art.

The field of caravans (or art) is located at the start of a raised path along one of the largest marshes on the south broads, and I have to admit to having never gone any further than the fish-able area of it. But as today was unfish-able it seemed a great opportunity to push on and see what was down this yet unexplored track.

We had not walked fifty feet before we spotted this muntjac deer and her somewhat shyer mate  having an afternoon snack in the field beyond the coloured vans.

A new acquisition to the shallow marshes was this massive old hulk run aground in the silt, where sooner or later it will rot away or be claimed by the reeds.

With more bad weather on the horizon the black clouds above gave an eerie mood amongst the whispering reeds as we tracked the shallow dyke that drained the land.

Two days with little action left me with an air of urgency to again cast upon the waves before I journeyed inland back to the centre of the country away from the sea for the summer. 

In an act of desperation I did the one thing I promised myself I would not do and headed to the harbour wall seeking shelter from the wind in order to get in maybe just a few last casts.

Although the skies were now clear and blue the wind still caused the surf to still nibble at the soft shores of the east, my only option was to swing baits tight to the huge concrete structure on which I stood to attempt to scratch a bite.

It was quite apt that the very first fish I caught from the sea should save the day for me. The stocky pouting can, like the whiting, strip hooks clean in seconds and quite often find themselves put in the pest category by most sea anglers. But for me after two days of being hounded by the sea and being unable to fish they were like manna from heaven. Every perfect pouting that reached my hand was thanked with the ultimate gratitude before being strategicly sent back too the water between strafes of cawing sea gulls. 

One last cast into the surf I thought was beyond my reach as I left that harbour wall in the morning. But whatever gods were controlling the weather decided one last cast was in need to lure me back and as if by someones bidding the wind just dropped away mid afternoon. Having bait to use up is no good way to reason another session, but pity was taken as was the opportunity offered.

This was to be a bitter sweet goodbye session for me. I still lay no claim to be a master of the sea - if anything I feel to be in my apprenticeship as a sea angler - but every time I visit I learn something new, and this time I learnt that the sea is quite often like a moody teenager prone to mood swings. One day calm as a summers day then moments later stirred up in a fit of rage. It is easily influenced by its friends such as the weather and the tides. But most of all, it is sometimes ultimately rewarding and gives up its treasures with gratitude, whilst the next day it seems barren and its rewards you nothing more than wet feet.

I did catch but felt no need to pull out the camera as it seemed like a private moment between myself and the sea at the end of an up and down week; once again even though I know I will be back soon, I felt reluctant to leave.

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...

The older Dan and the sea.

"Every time I cast into to the sea I find myself falling further under it's spell. Nowhere else feels like it; It's alive! Each visit reveals more of its ever changing environment and the species that are present at any particular time of year. The tides intrigue me the most. I hope to one day understand them. Though I believe I, nor anyone else for that matter will ever truly understand them. But most of all each time I go my passion grows and I know for certain I will be back, for I am drawn to it."

After an early journey east we unpacked and got settled in our accommodation on the Suffolk Norfolk border. It wasn't long after the last thing was out the bags that I was off with Jacky in tow to try and source some free bait for the week ahead. Before leaving home I had heard via the blog grapevine that the crabs were on the moult and I fancied my new crab trap might obtain me a few from the structured waters of  Lake Loathing which was conveniently a five minute walk away.

I know the clear shallow waters of this salt water lake are rife with crabs, but would I be able to nab a few? No was the answer to that! Crabs I caught, but were any of them peeler's? Were they heck! In three hours I'd bagged three hard backs and lost two more who were clever enough not to enter the net.

I am no expert at distinguishing a peeling crab from a hard back but I soon discovered the difference. The moulting crab which are referred to as peelers are shy and retiring due to their soft bodies, whereas a hardback is the hooligan of the Crustacea world, nipping anything that draws too close.

My crabbing attentions were soon lost when I sighted a pair of large mullet circling some pilings nearby. Both were close to ten pounds and both thought my vain attempts to get their attention with a strip of squid cast out under a float were comical. A fact confirmed by their ever seeming smirking lips.

- My first proper session came first thing Sunday morning when I dared to venture out into the by now horrendous 30 mph south west wind. I arrived at Pakefield beach early to fish the end of the flood tide and down the ebb for a few hours.

My first cast was pitched full force straight out in front of me and splashed in twenty metres to my left. This was by no way going to be an easy session! I endured only an hour of battling with the wind as it tore my rods down and put so much of a bow in my lines that it dislodged up to 8oz of lead from the bottom.

Not wanting my first trip out to be a total loss I upped sticks and headed up the coast to try the more sheltered waters of Lowestoft harbour. The outer wall was even worse than the beach, but fishing into the mouth of the harbour afforded me enough cover to at least hold bottom.

The change of venue had made no difference to my catch until I dropped a much shorter cast close to a tidal defence barrier. After only minutes the tip rattled the went over and stayed bent over. My hope that good fish my take interest in my bait was vilified as the beastie pulled back. As I reeled it towards the wall I kept hoping I would see a flash of silver in the water until I got the distinct feeling this fish was swimming backwards!!!

Damn right it was! My first sea bound eel was swung in at about a pound, it was followed quickly by two more, the best being 2.1lb. If dealing with a eel is not hard enough try adding three snoods, a heavy grip lead and a gusting wind mixed into the equation.

After this I did add a couple of small whiting but the biggest stir of the day was caused when I threw the eels back in, much to the dismay of some eastern European anglers; one quite literally threw his arms in the air whilst cursing me in some foreign tongue.

- My next session was due Monday afternoon and I had even roped Jacky in for a trip to the beach but we only got as far as the cliff top car park before I set eyes on the now tempestuous sea and thought better of it.

After making a hasty retreat I did what any self respecting angler would and went back to holiday diggs and spent the afternoon waiting out the weather in the steaming turbulent waters of our hot tub.

I waited and waited and waited a little bit more for the wind to calm and finally at that time just before the light went I nipped to another mark called the Rifle Range for as I described it to Jacky "to get in even one good cast". Just before the dark crept in and during a evil shower of rain my freshly bought peeler crabs did the trick as the left rod began to nod in the failing light.

In the surf I potted something silver flash but as it came up the beach the rig seemed to still be dragging badly until I spotted a something flat and dark flapping close to the lead. My first double shot of the trip produced a small whiting and a nice flounder.

To be honest that was enough for me. I was cold and wet and with no form of shelter on the beach it was time for the off, satisfied with a single bite for two fish on a day when even the locals were rather absent from this popular mark, There was was only one way a true English man can warm himself on such a night.

A cup of tea and cream scone!

- The next outing saw me return back to Pakefield with a freshly acquired store of crab to chuck into the brine. Before this session I had put two and two together and realised that as the crabs were moulting and the best bites I'd had came on them  that the fish may be a little preoccupied with them and other baits may prove fruitless.

I was right! My first chuck onto a much calmer sea didn't take long to get rattled, resulting in a nice plaice and it didn't stop there. For the first time ever on the sea it was a bite a chuck. Not one cast failed to receive attention of some kind.

The next customer was a nice flounder

Followed by another

And another

It was real joy to see what seemed like healthy population of flatties really going for it and not one of the was caught any further than thirty yards of the beach. It was great fun and luckily I had Jacky on hand to bag some great pictures of em all.

- On the Wednesday I turned thirty four (I think!) and as always my first choice of what I would like to do is go fishing. I had pre planned this trip to head down the coast the the uber quaint Southwold to try these hallowed waters for the big bass that supposedly exist there.  

Conditions looked great, the sea looked great, I was in a good area and I had a bucket full of crab how could it go wrong, but it did! I couldn't buy a bite and nether could two other anglers further down the beach.

Like every other angler I can take a blank here and there, BUT! I do not take the birthday blank well, if at all.

By 5pm I'd fished the last part of the flood tide, the slack and two hours down the ebb and had absolutely nothing to show for my efforts bar good case of wind burn. At this point I had to do something and made the snap decision to head north wards back to fish a more reliable mark.

After dropping Jacky off I rushed down the to Pakefield to try and make the best of the day.

The sport here wasn't much better and soon I found myself in a Mexican stand off with the north sea. It wasn't yielding and I wasn't leaving till I felt the wet slap of fish on my hands.

Finally after what seemed like hours the tip trembled and I struck. Again for the second year running I landed a single fish on my birthday. A perfectly formed plaice.

After this I cut my losses and left, calling in to pick up a bit of ironic supper on the way back!

How could I not?!

- By Thursday I had figured that most of the areas I had been fishing the last few days fished best from the slack down the ebb tide, so I waited till evening to take the last of my peelers on a day trip to flattieville.

There is no more punishing place than the coast in bad weather. Caught in the no man's land between the land and the sea. On land the differing pressures effect the weather and as it meets with the open and more consistent pressures of the sea it seems ether collide with it violently or get sucked out to sea speeding up as it does. 

It had been sunny all day but the weather report had indicated a weather front would move eastwards into the evening and it did just after my second rod was cast. The sky darkened and the wind picked up stirring a healthy swell.

The rig of my left rod held well under the crashing waves but my right one even with a heavier lead was being pulled by the receding tide and kept get deposited back on the beach. With it now pouring with rain it was struggle to get it to hold at any range. But it seemed to work to my advantage a little as this was the first rod to go when a nice flattie grabbed the moving bait as it passed it.

It didn't take long for it to find a second and as I was baiting up to recast, the still fishing rod went mental. It literally hooped over instantly and was lifting off the rest before I was to my feet.

I was straight away into something better which really gave me some stick in the fast falling tide. The weird thing was as it neared the surf it seemed to be swimming in two separate directions, and it was.

A flash of silver confirmed it. Bass! Not one but two. My first ever double shot of bass scored for a rough sea whilst soaked to the skin.

An absolutely stunning a pair of beautiful schoolies one of about a pound and a half the other just under three. I went home that night as high as a kite and happy as a dog with two.... peters.

- After the highs of Thursday I could have stopped there but I still had bait and Jacky fancied the beach so what could I do but fish. The weather was good, the sea calm and I was happy.

It was no red letter day. More a good bye for now to the sea, but I did manage to eek out one last flounder on my very last crab which seemed a good way to end a great trip east. 

- That should have rightfully been the end of this one but, whilst away and having a pocket full of birthday pennies, I made pilgrimage to one of the fast appearing Angling Direct stores, which are spreading over the east like a case of acne on a teenage boy.

I went with the express purpose of obtaining a new umbrella to replace my still unretired one, but....

And here it is!

Yep you got it they didn't have the umbrella I wanted so I settled for a gleaming new pair of  Korum KXi 60 freespin reels.

Like anyone I could wait to use them. So I did before the sand was even off my feet. And how did they go on the first run out?

Well.

Very well!

6.6lb tench first cast. :)