Jeff's sunburn sparks old memories.

Its strange how seeing something totally random can cause the human brain to recall an age old memory from some long forgotten corner of your past. That certainly was the case for me when I saw a picture of a rather sunburnt Jeff on his blog the other day. Although I too have been sunburnt many times, this striking image evoked memories of an event from my youth which was a defining moment in my angling life, and definitely one that has influenced me ever since.

Young anglers who are not brought up with angling fathers or older brothers often find themselves as I was, confined to fishing waters within close proximity of home, or within whatever distance you are capable of cycling whilst heavily laden with fishing gear. These home waters if you would, I feel carry heavy influence over our angling futures. For me with the Coventry canal being my home water, it was inevitable that the hard fishing conditions of the terribly polluted rubbish filled canals of the late eighty's and early nineties would hone my angling skills towards me becoming a tow path scratcher.
Though the story I feel I must now share with you was not one borne of the hard worn tow path but one forged on a reedy banks of a distant village pond which is long since silted away from public view, and as far as I know  now exists only in the memories of a small number of middle aged men who once trod it's banks in their youth, it had just as much influence on me as the canals.

The story begins not at the aforementioned pond but much further away during a quintessentially British summer holiday at the sea side. I cannot remember what year it was or how old I was at the time and those facts seem unimportant, only the place itself and what was there is integral. That particular year my mother and farther had chosen to vacation late on in the summer holidays at Great Yarmouth. The excitement in our house had been building for weeks prior to leaving. When the day finally arrived myself and my younger brothers were wound to the point of insanity; giddy from the first view of the sea and entranced by the gaudy lights of the arcades lining the promenade.

A few days in our parents, with a gaggle of rowdy boys in tow, dragged us all the way from our camp site at the north end of Yarmouth to have a look around the main street full of sea side gift shops that connects the sea side resort with the actual town. To a fishing obsessed youngster, the gift shops that spilled out onto the pavement held no interest whatsoever, but whilst hanging around outside one tat shop waiting for the  rest of the family something caught my eye above the sea of multi coloured buckets and spades. It seemed to be a oversized fishing float protruding from one of the shop fronts. To be honest it didn't take much moaning for me to persuade my already bedraggled parents to move on in the right direction and soon I found myself standing in front tackle filled windows, above those tempting windows in foot high red letters was the awe inspiring words Pownells fishing tackle. Once inside my eyes lit up! the few local tackle emporiums back home were nothing like this wonderland. Every possible square inch was brimming over with fishing gear aimed at getting holiday makers to part with their hard saved holiday cash. For me it was no different and with my dad standing as any non angler does, near the door way with that unimpressed look on his face, I delved in. Most of the tackle was still well out of my price range at the time but after a while I came across a rack of Silstar telescopic roach poles that seemed to qualify for my meger funds. The smaller three meter versions held no interest and the six meter one was a few pounds too expensive, but if went for it and blew the whole £14 of pocket money I had saved the five could be mine.

After a consultation with my father I was reluctantly talked into returning at the end of the holiday if I had any money left to make my purchase. The subsequent days were torture as I spent the whole holiday living like some kind of monk as my younger brothers blew their holiday cash on frivolous things such as rock and arcade games right before my eyes. But I held strong and the day before we had to leave the pole was within my grasp. I tagged along with my dad on his early morning stroll along the sea front and before the shop even opened my excited face was peering through the glass trying see if there was still any left. Of course there were some left and in no time at all I had parted with my hard saved money and was marching down the concrete promenade carrying my brand new five meter midnight blue pole over my shoulder like a solider on parade.

Back home in deepest Warwickshire it was few days before I could scrounge enough cash to go and buy a packet of hooks which were desperately needed and a quarter of a pint of mixed maggots to enable me to test this deadly new weapon on the canal. The first few outings were a bit of a let down as only a few gudgeon and small perch fell into its expansive range; looking back now I see that fishing with five meters of pole and the same amount of line with a large float was probably no different to what I could have achieved with my red six foot fibre glass rod.

Few day before the end of the school holidays the news reached my ears about a pond which myself and my angling chums liked to fish. One of the older lads had finally waded into it and cleared out the pond weed that gradually choked it throughout the summer. The pond in question was simply known to us as Bulkington boys club. This demure little puddle was home to a population of what we always thought were crucian carp but now thinking back were more likely to be crucian gold fish hybrids, as they were always a bit too streamlined to be a thoroughbred crucian. Linage aside, they were total mugs for a tiny ball of  bread and on more than one occasion my friends and I filled a keep net with hundreds of them.

The next day I rode to meet up with my companions for the day, two cousins who were strangely enough both called Lee. The first was a lad called Lee Spencer of whom the only thing I can really remember was his family's sand coloured Staffordshire bull terrier that could sniff out a chocolate bar hidden in any pocket and was partial to tearing of that pocket off to get to it. The other was his cousin Lee Gibson, about whom I remember two odd things; that his party trick at school was lifting up his shirt and rolling his stomach muscles up and down like a wave to freak out the girls, and his name spelt backwards was eel nosbig, a fact of which he was very proud.

For a group of young lads laden with fishing gear it was a long ride from Bedworth to Bulkington in the half light of morning, but soon enough we found ourselves free wheeling down the worn track across the scrub field towards the bramble surrounded pond. There was only ever three places to fish around the edge. The first two were long narrow swims through the dense weed which although productive were guaranteed to claim a precious float or two, and the other was ours and every other boy anglers favourite - a large open bay were the weed had been cleared and was capable of accommodating three or more kids. The day began the same as always with a manic rush to set up. No sooner had one of us had got a bite the others would begin to ask 'how deep are you fishing' or 'how big a ball of bread are you using'. Once the sun rose high in the sky the fish went mad and by midday the keep net would be well stocked. Dinner was always the same, we would club in any money we had and one of us would ride into the village to obtain a bag of chips and a bottle of happy shopper lemonade, then race back so we could all fill excess slices of bread  with the steaming chips and make bank side butties that were washed down with the sickly pop.

By late afternoon we were all feeling a little frazzled as the sun took its toll on us and the catch of now gulping fish in the net. It was decided between to heave it out and release them to prevent the floating up which had happened before. It took all three of us to drag the bulging net from the water. The sight of all those golden fish was like a hoard of  pirate treasure pulled from a long forgotten ship wreck. We always counted them back in and made claims to each other on whose the bigger ones were. With the net emptied we set about catching again but as always the lower the sun sank on this little pond the ferocity with which the crucians took our baits began to dwindle. As always our attention span dwindled along with the bites and casting became more frequent.

Up until now I had been fishing parallel with the others in the centre of the open bay with a vast amount of line laying on the surface even though with a single swing of my new pole I could comfortably land my second hand quill float and bread bait on the weed line. I had been a reluctant to do so as the float I was using was my favourite and the thought of losing it was unthinkable, but boredom took over and I eventually plucked up the courage to make the cast. The weight of a larger than normal blob of bread carried the float to within inches of the weed line with a satisfying plop. None of us had ever fished that close to the dreaded weeds edge and all three of us were focused on the float as the sun went off the pond. By the time it moved the my mates were packing up. Unlike the normal harassing bites of the golden crucians this time the float lifted clean out of the water before just disappearing. All day I had been having to strike quick and hard to pick up all the excess line on the surface but this time I never even got to strike before the pole was severely bent over. My screams quickly attracted the attention of my buddies from the task of tying there rods to there bikes. The first Lee there immediately stated "he's hooked the monster!" I should at this point explain his comment! Like with all ponds, lakes, canals and river that are frequented by young anglers there are always storeys of tackle smashing leviathans and no different to any of these places the Bulkington boys club pond to had it's own monster. No one ever knew what it was or had ever seen it, but not a summer would go by without the rumours that some unlucky lad had hooked it and been dragged nearly into the pond before his line had snapped. But this time it was different because it was not rumour; I had actually hooked and was still attached to the monster.

For  I don't know how long I stood sideways on bracing the pole against the savage runs whilst Lee and Lee both gave useless advice on how to keep it out the weed. The whole time all I could think was 'my poles gonna snap any minute' After an age it stopped diving into the weed line and began circling round in the bay with all the force of before just minus the weed. My only hope was to walk back wards keeping the line taught as it neared the bank. The first time one of the others saw the tail splash we all went into melt down as even though we had a landing net we never had cause to use it and which had resulted in a serious lack of net pole on our part. A few frantic minutes of discussion and between them Lee and Lee agreed to screw the net onto a bank stick to try and land it. With both of them crouching at the bank I eventually walked backwards enough for the net to finally slip under it. Putting the pole down I shakily staggered towards the now silent Lees who were still staring into the pond. All I could see in the net was a large dark shape calmly resting under the water. At the time I remember feeling a bit let down as this was the thing that had beaten some many of my peers. That was until we finally lifted from the water and laid on the grassy bank. Unfolding the net I was met by a sight I hope to dear god I remember on my death bed. In the folds of the net lay a foot long dark green fish with a bellie the colour of egg yolk and a tiny red eye's. Straight away I knew what it was, but in my wildest dreams I never thought I would ever catch one it was my first ever Tench. My companions were even more amazed than I as we peered at it lying on the grass. Tracing the line back to it's mouth I found my tiny size 20 well inside along with at least six other hooks which had obviously not been tied on as well as mine. Doing the diligent thing we removed mine and as many of the others as we could though one hook was very overgrown and rather than try and remove it me snipped off as much as we could with a pair scissors. Holding it in the waters edge in the net I watched as it began to kick again before finally releasing it. For many years afterwards I regretted not having a picture of it but now I know it doesn't matter as I only have to think back to that day and I can picture it perfectly every time.

And why should the sight of Jeff's patterned torso remind me of this fateful day?!

After riding home in the cool evening air - with very smug smile on my face it must be said - I walked indoors and was met with a shriek of horror from my mother...I was beet red from my head to my ankles, apart from where my shorts and socks had blocked the burning sun. As I sat in the garden on the cheap white plastic garden seat, eating my leftover tea whilst my mum dowsed me with aftersun, the occasional twinge of pain would momentarily wake me from my tinica trance. This was soon forgotten though as I again remembered that beautiful green and yellow fish.

Looking out of the void.

As I have not posted anything over the entire Xmas period I feel I should take the opportunity to wish you all  a belated Merry Xmas and a Happy New Year. But if like me you took part in much merry making, this is probably rather unnecessary as it will only serve as a reminder that over the holidays you probably consumed a little too much and drank rather more than you should.

The holidays this time proved for me to be a rather up and down one...

Xmas eve was the closest I have ever got to the realization of a little dream of mine, of getting out fishing for a few hours on Xmas day. Though a day early it was still well received. However the results on this little stream adventure with Jeff were a little lacking on my part, as from the plethora of tiny bites I only converted one into a fish which gained freedom shortly after leaving the water.

Xmas day itself was one of the ups and this year Jacky certainly put herself into the premier league of present buying by getting not only a subscription for the Angling Times and a new digital camera but adding something that I think no other women in the world could come up with - two bite indicator covers! And for the right bite alarms no less. What a gal.

Though my merry Xmas day was about to become a little marred when upon going out to the car to head over to my parents for the day the car would not start due to a flat battery.

A few days of celebrations later I teamed up with me old mate Rob for a session on the Avon after roach. Though I was pleased to be out and see that the perma snow was now disappearing the realization that the snow melt was now chilling the water to a lower temperature than it had been when there was actually snow on the ground, knocked any chance of catching on the head. Out of seven anglers fishing the stretch only one fish was caught and it was not me what caught it.

The following night I joined Jeff, Pete, Andy and a few others at Keith's house for a celebration of iron and heat in his garage. All the anglers present pushed the conversations about angling to the very edge and made any non anglers realise that along with heroin and alcohol, angling is a bona fide addiction. For my own part I had a great time although my consumption of plenty of tequila beer and my home brewed moonshine may have been verging on excessive.

The next down came after on my return home from work in between Xmas and new year. After pulling up outside the house in the car and turning off the stereo I heard an unnerving knocking coming from the engine area of the car. After stopping and trying to restart the engine the little bugger would not have it at all. Early next morning a visit from the RAC man confirmed further inspection of the timing belt was needed at the local garage .

With no transport it looked as if my fishing was done for, until a call from Andy asking if I fancied a trip back to Stratford after roach and him taking pity on me and offering me a lift meant I was back on the up. That was until after about an hour of fishing when the local rowing knobs turned up and proved that everyone else apart from anglers seem to have no respect whatsoever for other river users. Nether of us could keep a cast out longer than five minutes as time and time again they rowed up the river two or even three abreast. Andy manged to bag a few bream to a decent size but with rage building up inside I could not obtain any kind of rhythm at all and spent most of the session on the verge of explosion.

Still immobile I ventured out onto the local trickle early Monday morning just for the sake of getting out, and much as before I got copious amounts of bites and only landed two tiny blade roach for my efforts.

So now with four poor trips and no transport I find myself residing in what I can only term as an angling void.

Though trying to make the best of things here in mid winter I have turned to literature as my salve and have reread a few old favorite books in the hope of inspiring myself for the new year, as well as looking back through my blogs from 2010 to see what I have achieved. When faced with all the pictorial evidence of what I have caught I was more than pleased with the huge amount of good fish I have landed over the past year, and especially happy to have the sessions come flooding back into my mind when prompted by what I have written about them. Seeing how, when and where I caught particular species has helped me form up a few  ideas for the new challenge this year and I find myself suitably inspired to get going again.

Whilst trawling through a old book I came across a interesting theory on an anglers evolution by a great English angler and writer who suggests there are three stages to an anglers evolution. The first is where a new angler only is only concerned by catching fish, whatever size or shape. The second is where the angler has now become more concerned with catching big fish, and the third is where the angler becomes not concerned by catching or how big the quarry is, but by which method  it is caught.

In my current contemplative state I began to wonder where on this angling evolution I currently find myself?

The first stage was well passed many years ago. The second sounds a bit more like me but I do often think to myself that certain captures would seem a little more special if done by a differing method. So in answer to my own question I find myself towards the border between wanting to catch big fish and wanting to do it in a special way.

Over the next twelve months I hope to try and introduce a little more of the idyll into my angling and try and calm the excitement that makes me almost run to the bank like a desperate child. In some aspects of my angling I want to forgo technology and in others it will remain. But more than anything else I want to enjoy my angling a little bit more. With the new challenge not forcing me to go after species I would not normally bother with, but instead focusing on catching bigger specimens, how and when we want to do it, the prospects for the new year ahead look much brighter. So much so that this void I find myself in no longer seems such a dark place but rather a planning stage for some great upcoming adventure where I am the putting my plans in place for the sparkling rivers and deep dark lakes of England and the secrets that hide within them. 

Method in my madness

Standing looking out over the garden munching my bowl of fruit and fibre I mulled over the conversation I had only half an hour before with a sleepy Jacky, that I may have been insane going out in this freezing weather. Funnily enough I had had a similar conversation with Keith regarding the destination for my intended Sunday morning session, where he to had confirmed that my sanity may be in doubt!

After scraping the snow and underlying frost from the outside of the car I began the annoying task of scraping the inside of the window screen too, before grabbing the minimal kit I had sorted the night before and making my way out into the white void that is currently Warwickshire.

My venue for the day was a tiny tributary of the Avon that I have often thought about fishing but never got round to. The reason I had suddenly made the decision to head to this trickle was solely down to me hearing that some good roach had been caught last winter down stream, and as Jeff has helpfully passed on a little of his roach obsession to me I had to give it a go.

It was to turn out to be a day of firsts for me; the first time I had fished this new stretch and the first time I had been sitting next to a river with it actually freezing before my eyes. It took me a while to figure out what was going on as my rod tip kept pulling round then dropping back as if I was getting a drop back bites. After striking a couple of times I noticed a small clump of ice on my line at the exact point where the line was penetrating the surface film.

What was happening was that the ice would build up n the line until it formed a tiny sheet of cat ice in the wake of the line, when it got to big to support its self the thin sheet it would snap off and drift off down stream causing my tip to fly back much in the style of a drop back bite. But what else can you expect when you're fishing in minus seven degree temperatures.

After fishing some ten plus swims I got my first bite of the day from exactly the fish I expected. A little chub of not much over a pound had found my tiny pinch of bread after being attracted by the smallest feeder of liquidised bread I have ever cast into a river.

It was only a short while later on when it's bigger brother or sister found my bait another five or so swims down stream. This one however caused me some serious problems largely due to a large sheet of ice between me and the open water I was fishing in. It is a rather disconcerting feeling to see your line grating on the edge of a jagged sheet of ice six feet out from the bank and the fish that is attached to the end of that line is clearly visible only two feet out from your under the ice. When I did finally get it out into the main flow the second problem arouse, my three metre landing net pole which I thought would me more than adequate for the trip only reached to the very edge of the ice and after already landing one chub my frozen net head itself was airing on the wrong side of weighty. In the end I had little choice but to smash the edge of the thin ice with the frozen head to enable me to land the dark 2lb chub.

I felt lucky to get a couple of bites on such a harsh day never mind land two nice little chub from a new river that is little more than a drainage ditch. But the best was still to come... I had explored a load of fruitless swims over a huge amount of river and I was about to give up when I came across a swim that looked like nothing more than a deeper run of darker water amongst two reed lined banks. Thinking this would be my last swim I swung the feeder into the centre of the run and watched the flake sink under the pressure of the flow. The tip rattle instantly but in a different way to the chub bites. The bites were fast, sharp and impossible to hit but after waiting and waiting something at last pulled the tip round enough for me to strike. Catching  the sight of silver flashing under the water my heart thumped at the prospect at finally finding what I was looking for!

It was no monster by anyone standards but at ten ounces it was perfect example of a small river roach.

For me this fish is more special than any five pound chub I could have caught. I have discussed a certain topic with a few of my fishing buddies recently that I feel this fish falls into it. We so often catch fish that are immature that are tossed back as tiddlers But in my opinion when a fish, especially roach, reach maturity they start to look different. Not in a bad way but almost in a way that if an artist was to paint a specimen roach it would look like this and not like the little blade roach we flip back without even a second glance. The same thing seems to happen with perch when they develop that huge humped back and you know that they now have the potential to grow big. In some species this maturity is obvious, such as bream  turning from silver to brown, whereas others such as carp, barbel and tench all look the same small as they do big.

For me this is a very special fish and judging by the amount of interest I was getting in this swim there may be others that could break that magical 1lb barrier or even more. So I will be back! hopefully very soon.

The winter and Leam blues

Every year about this time I begin to get the same feeling regarding my fishing; I suppose you might call it winter fishing blues or, on the other hand, you could call it a plain old mood 'cos I can't go and do what I want to. This feeling normally happens when fishing options - where to fish and what to do - get narrowed down by the onset of winter. Like many of my fellow bloggers I find the only option I have to fulfil my fishing addiction is to turn to chub fishing on small streams. I don't mind a bit of chub fishing here or there, but faced with no other real options it becomes quite a bind, and the prospect of doing nothing else for another month or so makes me start looking at the price of golf clubs on ebay. The situation this year has been compounded by my eagerness to plan for next years fishing challenge before the new year sets in, to enable me to bag the seven to ten new PB's I reckon I will need to win. This has resulted in me formulating a list if target species, venues and times of year in which to target them! So already before Xmas is even here, I am dreaming of warm summer evenings watching ripples emanating from a piece of peacock quill or baking behind a set of buzzers waiting for a screaming run. But back in reality at the top of my list for the new challenge the words chub, Avon and January bring me back with a slap...

The weather had eased off a bit toward the end of the week and with the feeling back in my toes after my last outing, I agreed with Rob to go on a exploring session with him to a river I have ignored purposely for a long time.

I don't know what it is about the river Leam in my home county of Warwickshire but it just does not excite me at all. I have heard rumours of good fishing here and there, I have had the odd session on it every so often, but every time I walk away from it I never get that feeling that I want to rush back. To be honest I have always seen it as the poor relation of the Avon with it's almost static flow and smaller fish. I am sure that it could be great in its own ways but it just doesn't wet the appetite enough for me to dedicate enough of my time to find out. Which is a real pity as in places its a real stunner...

    

Carrying only a tiny bag filled with a selection of baits, one light quiver tip rod and a landing net, Rob and  hopped over each other through some of the most savage scrub the English countryside has to offer. After  a hour or so, whilst running a stick float through a nice glide, Rob drew first blood with a nice chub before missing a couple of bites. The upper section we were exploring was all new to me even though it has always been on my Leamington angling club book. I have fished the lower half of this stretch but normally only when the canal nearby has been frozen. 

Bites were hard to come by but finally after moving back down to the bottom of the stretch I located a shoal of fish prepared to engage my morsel of bread. After forty minutes of tiny bites I did manage to contact with a fish. The disbelief that I had just spent all that time trying to catch a nano dace that wouldn't even be big enough to use as a perch bait shifted me on. 

It was much the same in the next swim as my rod tip trembled constantly before out of no where a real bite appeared. Watching the line zig-zag all over the river, seeing a flash of silver; I swear I nearly pooped my pants as I dared to dream it was a big roach! But only too soon a pair of big white lips appeared at the end of the landing net.

A nice 3lb chub was enough to put a smile on my face but just imagine what my face would have been like if it was a 3lb roach.... 

As I write this something just occurred to me from deep within my addled memory! A few years ago on this stretch not far away from where I caught this chub, Rob and myself spotted an epic pike lying in the edge waiting for a tasty chub to swim by. Now that is something that might tempt me back to the Leam in the next month or so...

Even Eskimos wouldn't bother

This mini ice age we seem to be enduring at the moment is really starting to grate a little. So much so that the other day I began trying to find out exactly what is going on with the weather here in freezing old blighty. What I found out was rather interesting... Usually in late November and December most of our weather comes from a westerly direction off the Atlantic, which although it tends to be a little wet holds the colder weather from northern Europe off. But this year there is some kind of storm circulating in the Atlantic which is preventing the westerly winds from keeping us nice and wet and is instead actually pulling the snow, ice and general freezing conditions right over us; hence we have got the weather we normally receive in January and February a whole six weeks early and the fishing is just about XXXXXX!

The two months leading up to Xmas is normally my busiest time of year at work and I find myself working most weekends and taking a day off early the following week to get a little fishing done. Sadly for me the only day I could get off turned out to be the morning after one of the coldest nights since records began at a shivering -12 Celsius, with a predicted day temp of a balmy -6 Celsius. I won't lie and say that as I passed over the river my arse was squeaking a little thinking it might well be frozen over. After parking the car I walked down to the river through the freezing fog and a wall of white to see the river was still flowing, although against the white back drop it looked practically black. Opposite me my fears were confirmed as in the slower areas on the opposite bank ice had formed a good six feet out into the flow.

My first job once in place was to try and thaw my already frozen landing net from its flat profile and refreeze it in to a more usable net like shape. A task which took all of one dip in the river to defrost it and one whole minute hanging in the much colder air to refreeze again so solid it could support itself.

My target species for the day was the humble roach which earlier on in the year I had landed a respectable 1 1/4 lb specimen from this area of the river. Ever since I have had a burning desire to have another go at them to try and increase the my river pb to a little closer to the 2lb mark.

I did want to run a bait through on a stick float or waggler but even Keiths tip of using glycerine on the rod rigs wouldn't have stopped the ice forming in them, which Rob found out later when he had a go on the float after he turned up later on. I instead went with a feeder rig to knock that infuriating ball of ice out of the tip as I cast out each time.

After a fruitless time fishing maggot I was suprised when after changing  to bread as a hook bait my rod tip sprang into life. The bites were sharp and fast and almost impossible to hit but it was only a matter of time before I began to connect with them.

The roach weren't very big at all but on a day like this any bite or fish were very well received no matter how small. After finally connecting with one and casting out again all went quiet, which turned out to be the trend all day. The fish would build up enough confidence to move onto the bait, it would then take ten casts where they nipped off the bread before I connected with one then they would disappear for up to forty minute before it all started again.

Around midday the fog lifted and the sun popped out and although the temp came up the bites ended for a good few hours.

The fish didn't come again until about an hour before dark and when they did it went on for about an hour before they totally switched off as the temp dropped right down again. I did kind of expect them to feed right into the dark and I felt that this would be my best chance of a bigger example but the best I managed all day was maybe 5oz.

I did again fish a second rod with a large bait over the river against a snag  in case anything bigger might have fancied an early winter snack. But the only thing this rod produced all day was a very impressive 5mm thick  collection of air frost on line and a rather strange noise when I tried to reel it in at the end of the session.

Although I never got anything decent I was more grateful for any action from even the tiniest amounts of fish on such a harsh day. I was also glad that when I got home and checked under my socks where I once felt my feet used to be that all my toes were still there and none had snapped off as I walked back to the car. 

Winter is well and truly here.

I am not getting the time to fish at the weekends at the moment due to family commitments and other things so I am taking any opportunity to get a weekly fix that comes my way. So with a  day off I got back on the river for a day session on Thursday, but not before Jacky aired her concerns about my sanity for heading to the river for the day on the coldest day of the year so far. With night time temperatures below zero and day time temperatures around one degree Celsius with possible snow showers predicted, I took nothing to chance. By the time I had donned all my fleece layers and my winter suit I felt like I was wearing an inflatable sumo suit.

Turns out Jacky was spot on and I was insane! After six hours with a freezing northerly wind in my face all I had to show for my efforts of throwing a feeder all day was one single tiny dace which I never bothered to photo as it would have been an insult to the camera for getting it out. Towards the end of the day I was really thinking of jacking it in.

As I am not a God fearing man it would be considered hypocritical of me to say I was praying for a change in my fortunes, but even though I wasn't praying my prayers were certainly answered when the sky turned black one whole hour before dusk and moments later the rings of rising fish were all over the river.

A message from someone maybe!

As if by magic the rod tip sprang into life and in the last hour the fish really switched on in a feverish feeding frenzy. To say it was a bite a chuck would be an understatement because before the feeder had even hit the bottom it was like there was a queue of fish waiting to attack the hook bait. Strange thing was that they were all roach between two and six ounces and every one was an absolutely perfect condition clear water fish.

Though I was enjoying the now unstoppable run of fish and had landed thirty plus little roach on the trot time was ticking away. Soon I found myself thinking that universal anglers thought 'just one last cast'; the one last cast didn't produce anything and I began packing up. Though I did have a gambit up my sleeve...

I had up until now neglected to mention that I had cast out a sleeper rod baited with an inhuman smelling gob of my secret cheese paste next to a snaggy overhanging tree on my own bank at the start of the day. Although I had received no attention on this line I had re baited it twice through the day and now as I packed up it had become the focus of my attention. Whilst putting one rod back in it's bag I thought I caught glimpse of a slight nod on the sleeper rod. Dropping everything I moved into position and watched intently. Two more nods registered before the tip slowly pulled round and I struck into a solid fish that was desperate to get under the tree. It didn't take long for me to catch sight of a huge pair of white lips in the twilight. That faithful winter feeder the chub, had found my bait and was now safely in my net. It did not look that big in the water but on the bank it seemed to grow as I unfolded the net mesh around it. At 4.7lb it totally validated my sitting on the bank for seven hours waiting for it in freezing weather.

   

Winter wonder

Although my persistence paid off this time the realisation that winter is well and truly here reminds me that it's about time to rethink my tactics and target fish for the next few months, as winter has arrived hard this year and if the last one is anything to go by it could be a hard and lean period all round.

A bit of skill and a whole load of luck.

I met up with Keith and Jeff on Tuesday night  for a bit of a social session in the area where Jeff has been creaming out the predators on the canal. Jeff has heard on the tow path grapevine that a huge pike has been caught near by and with the plethora of Zander and pike he has landed here in the last few weeks on his quest for a big Zed, I could not resist but to go over there with the aim of bagging this monster and join in on the fun.

A long day at work meant I was never going to arrive until well into dark after practically shoving Jacky out of the car as we passed the house. Soon enough I found myself wandering through the murk trying to locate the others in the black shrouded canal. After locating them I found they had not had any interest and were ready to move to another spot up the canal. In the new spot six rods went out into the dark and our vigil began.

I love these social session for two reasons; firstly standing round chatting and pooling information on species, venues and tactics, secondly having six rods covering a whole area of water with three pairs of eyes means not a lot gets missed thus increasing all of our chances of catching.

Jeff drew first blood with a chunky PB Zander of 5lb that will certainly be a big fish for the future. After settling back into our routine after the fish we watched intently for the next float to go. Whilst all of us were watching one of Jeff's floats for a supposed movement I neglected to check mine and upon turning back it had gone.

My strike was at first met by sluggish but solid resistance and I suspected a decent Zander may have been the culprit. That was until whatever is was broke the surface and realised it had been hooked where it promptly woke up after feeling the cold night air. There was a bit of debate as to what it was, but three head lights focused on it confirmed a pike which ran me and Jeff a merry dance, as he tried to net it and I tried to steer it much to Keith's amusement. I did not think it was as big as it was until Jeff heaved the net out of the water when the girth was revealed.

Safely on the soft grass I flipped it over to see my tiny hook holding on to the smallest flap of skin just outside the scissors of it's mouth. At fourteen and a half pounds it was well received and really made my night in the freezing cold  very worth while.

After this we didn't last very long in the freezing November night air and soon enough we found ourselves sitting next to an open log fire in the local pub with a pint in our hands.