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.

My heart belongs to the sea.

It was always going to be tough this weekend and I knew it. I had awoken early to the sight of frost powdering the car. This felt like someone pushing me down as I struggled to get get up. You see for the last week or so my vim or vigour towards fishing has been... well, lacking. Truthfully I miss the rivers and although I am going through the motions and I am in need of some contrast. I need to get away! Luckily I am going away in little under five days time towards the edge of our island to once again fish the biggest and ultimate venue the sea. As I wrote that I just thought of something... although we think of seas as individual entities they are actually just one massive body of water that surrounds all land. So yes it is the biggest venue here on planet dirt.

What got me onto this topic was this: as I froze my protrusions off in the savage wind, the sun mocking me by burning away at twenty seven million degrees Fahrenheit whilst I froze in clear sight of it, I fell into a trace as I waited for a run, and watched the small breakers at the end of the wind lanes down the bank.

It was almost as if I could hear the waves breaking on the shingle. That was it. Watching for rolling fish was forgotten and I was off in la la land day dreaming of heaving lead over the horizon towards shoals of sparkling silver bass and golden cod.

As with all dreams they end only too soon and I know you will expect me to confirm a heart thumping run but no, the alarm screamed not, instead my bobbin jiggled up and down as if some annoying bream had sucked up my bait and was wallowing round in a numb panic, as they do. And that's when it hit - me the lake I was fishing is rumoured to only contain around ten to fifteen bream. The last one caught if I remember rightly was a mere double... Trust me the thought of that got me moving. My strike met no sack fighting fish but throbbed instead as if I had hooked something of the silver variety.

It turned out to be a female tench of around three pounds whose fight was as insipid as her outfit. I did hope to snap the little darling but after I had stowed her safely in the net and put her gently on the mat, she found just enough energy to perform a single flip into the air and back in the lake leaving me looking like a numpty.

After that I tried desperately to get back into my day dream but like those times when you are woken in the middle of a wonderful dream and are unable to get back to sleep, I could not get back to dreams of the rolling waves.

Later after a visit from Keith and his son Max I was considering a nap when my right hand rod did one. Half way through the fight with a tench my other rod seemed to wake up. At first I thought the fish had gone through the line but the moment the tench slipped over the rim of the net the other one sparked off.

This felt very odd indeed. It was powerful but not, if you get my meaning. It was kiting round all over the place and that made me suspect maybe a larger male tench was on the end of the line.

When it rolled on the surface it clicked straight away. The carp in this lake are freak shows! They are an odd stumpy strain whose single common trait through the ranks is a short stumpy body type. Most look like they have consumed a beach ball, and when I pulled this one out it was no different.

Lying side by side on the mat the little carp made the little tench look quite big, but the tench although unweighed was no way over two and a half pounds. Macabre interest made me quickly weigh the carp at just under 4lb.

I couldn't stop looking at this weird thing and the more I did the more it looked like a perfectly scaled down big carp. As I know how much carp anglers like to name their catches so I am going to take this opportunity to name this one. So from this day forth it shall be know as 1:10

After that bit of excitement I recast and willed the alarms to sound one more time before I went home and moth balled my coarse gear for a while, dusted off the beach caster rods before stripping the old line of my reels in earnest .

3 Days on the old red eye.

I love tench and I love them for many reasons too. For me they are the most strangely attractive fish that swims in our waters. Dark greens to black and golden yellows are all set off by that bright red eye, which I for one cannot look at enough. Not only is it what they look like that makes me love them so much, but what they stand for. It's simple! They are the banner men of summer. Carp and bream can both be caught all year round but old tinica tinica disappears over the long cold winter. Sure a rare one gets caught in the cold but most stay hidden in slumber. I have read numerous old tales where savage winters and constant ice have destroyed entire lakes by suffocating all other fishes except tench. Their survival seems always attributed to their supposed habit of burying themselves half in silt and mud. Lying dormant until they are the only ones who remain and then the tench phase of that lakes life cycle can begin.

With the fishing season long gone I always turn at this time towards my old favourite the tench, which on a few select lakes dominate. My first foray onto another pit last time out was in my opinion a little premature, and resulted in a failure which dented my confidence momentarily. 

I have a grand plan for the summer and for this grand plan to stand a chance of working, the rigs I use must be honed fine as fine can be; the venue for my summer plan takes no prisoners and any bites must be converted at all costs. So not only am I using this official off season to get in some well appreciated tench fishing but I am also getting used to these new rigs and practising fishing at range, which is another must on this new venue.

Day 1

The sand pit looks great. A lot of the banks have been cleared over the winter but soon enough the brambles will be again hindering casting. The wooded bank is my destination and I knew even before I got here that the wind would be blowing right to left, coming in from the north east. The tench in this lake seem to feed well in certain areas when the wind whips up the lake, so I settle on a swim that allows me to cast right to the start of the ripple which will hopefully carry the scent of my bait across most of the lake.

I am not baiting a big patch in the hope to get a horde of ravenous tench on it. Instead I am probing fishing small patches of bait tight to my hook bait, using the theory that a group of fish may chance upon it as they saunter along the top of the bar I am cast upon.

Low and behold it works and my first run of the day starts with a single bleep before the alarm goes wild and the spool spins out of control. At distance everything feels massive for a moment but soon enough it turns into a  pretty standard size female of around 3lb.

Over the years I have fished this water I have realised there are two distinct strains of fish which only differ in one way; colour! There is no size or shape difference, just colour. The dark green fish and the washed out fish. Why there should be these two different I can't fathom. I originally suspected two differing stockings, but they seem to be all ages of both strains and of both sexes. The split does seem weighted more in the favour of the dark fish, but the differing strains still remain a mystery.

 Chuffed that my rig is working, I cast again back into the general area and soon after the other rod hurtles off identically to the first. A single bleep, then beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep!!!

This hookup ends badly when the fish throws the hook in my right hand margin. Perplexed I repeat the ritual to cast again. I was right to be perplexed! The next two come off as well and doubt now creeps in over these new rigs. With four runs and only one converted into a fish I rack my brain for the fault in the rig and how it's going wrong. Luckily the bites tail off and gives me enough time to think about the problem.

The penny drops when I realise that every fish has been lost as I apply side strain to stop them getting into a snag to my right. There is nothing wrong with my rig, it's when that rod goes low that they come off. Instantly I see the problem: I am using a self hooking rig with a short hook link and a barbless wide gape hook which has a shank not much longer than the point. It is almost a circle with a piece missing. When I hold the rod low it reduces the amount of hook point penetrating, so when the fish turns it can flip the hook off quite easily.

The answer is simple; keep the rod up at all costs thus keeping the hook embedded as deep as possible. This itself we all know is easier said than done as when a fish dives into something you have to try and pull it out. To stop this issue is stupidly simple. As I am fishing at range, time is on my side, so I simply steer the next fish into open water whilst its out in the lake by pulling towards the snag, which automatically sends them other way.

It works a treat and the next three fish hit the net with total confidence and everyone becomes a winner.

Although most of the fish are a little under the average size it would seem the past winter has done them no harm  as every one is in perfect condition.

The last fish of the day comes as I linger as we all do on the bank. All my kit is  packed away apart from both rods and the indicators on which the rest and my net which is next to them. I stand between the packed and unpacked willing a rod to go off one more time. 

Just as I reach for the left hand rod to go the right one beeps then squeals...

5.9lb is a bit more like it.

Day 2

This is a stolen session no doubt. With crappy weather coming in later in the weekend, Friday is designated a day of gardening. First I dig and construct two new beds at the end of the decking where a super kitsch row of privet are to separate wood from grass, before planting a neighbour-blocking pear tree to complete our mini orchard. Then I help Jacky plant a few other things before diving into the huge pile of reclaimed wood destined to become raised beds, which I hope will be done soon enough for them to be filled with earth and planted with my autumn favourites, pumpkins.

All that done and I drop the bomb. "You won't mind if I nip out for a short one would you" ........ "Thanks B.  Any chance you would drop me off?......"

Turns out my lack of moaning and hard work paid off, because within the hour I was back in yesterdays spot and the same rigs sploshed in at range.

My luck at getting out was not however reflected by the weather. The wind had swung round and now a freezing wind chills me and the lake from the north west.

Luckily I did hold and release one small female back into the lake, but after that the only action seemed rather half hearted.

Day 3

Saturday there was no fishing as my good friend Rob came down from the Cotswolds. Himself a keen angler he was quickly roped in to come back the next day with me to hang out and act as camera man.

I could not believe my luck, the same swim was free and I knew Keith had fished it the day before and bagged a load of fish. Three days worth of bait was enough to get me walking a bit quicker than normal to get it.

This time I had brought some red maggots just in case the tench didn't fancy the bigger boilies. Same spots, same ground bait, but two different hook baits to feel them out with and I stood and waited. Something under the water had caught my eye on my last visit. Unable to resist I got the net in hand I grubbed around until I scooped it out.

The first year I fished this lake I spotted one of these carving up the bottom as it headed off into deeper water. This ones moving days were well behind it but it was full of bloodworm and some other unknown creepy crawlies. What did amaze me, was what had caught my eye was in fact the pearlescent patch in the centre of the shell and the sheer size of it. Alive this thing must have weighed over a pound.

My first run did not take long to turn up and the ripping run and hefty bend in the rod initially indicated a possible bigger fish. Half way in I realised it was in fact one of the crazy crew.

Great big fancy black fins and an attitude to match. Yep two pound maximum of mental case male tench.

Four more followed. The first two falling to the maggot bait then as the day warmed the boilies became the winning bait. Again though the fish seemed smaller than average, but in great condition. It took time for the bites to materialise but when they did it went exactly the same way every time. Single beep then onto a screaming alarm and spinning reel, then keep the rod high and in they come. After that initial spell of doubt I now know this rig will be coming along for the summer campaign on the harder venue as it works a treat.

After Rob chipped off back into the hills, the lack of sleep from the previous night's fish-talk took its toll, and I nodded off in my chair with my hood up. I must of looked hilarious to anyone watching when the right hand rod melted off. I went from asleep to awake instantly and for what seemed like an age my feet failed to get purchase on the floor in a rather comical way. It's a pity Rob had left as I know it does make him laugh when I am not concentrating, get a run from nowhere then and end up diving at the rod in some stupid manner!

Impossible to avoid the inevitable.

The elation of my last session has now passed and all that remains of that high is stored in the cold computerised world. Occasionally though a warm memory creeps back and I smile with satisfaction as I picture it again.  

I have been in a ponderous mood all week and the question now, is what next?  How could any other experience stand up against it, other than smashing another personal best. So I find myself asking where can I go to catch say a 12lb bream or a 10lb tench, and then I answer myself and say 'don't be so bloody stupid Everitt, you know from this position the only way is down'. So the answer right now can only be to either accept second best and be satisfied with the forgettable, or gamble it all again with the chance to win big. 

With little or no wish to capture hollow spawned perch, the next targets in my cross-hairs are the aforementioned bream and tench. The latter of which I worry will still have sleep in their eyes and mud covering their buttery bellies. But still I cannot change tack, for the wheels are in motion and to the Tench pit we go.

Warm days have been here enough for me me to think I have an outside chance, but clear overnight skies see that when I wake frost clings to my lawn, and I make that noise a plumber makes before he tells you it ain't cheap. Again still I worry that we are going down the wrong track. My mood swings though as I read from the eye burning computer screen that both bream and tench were taken from the pit yesterday. So on we go over the top like soldiers from the great war destined to succeed or fail.

We arrive in the dark and are set up soon enough to enjoy sunrise which never looks better than when it is over misty water. This picture alone makes taking the gamble worthwhile, for I have forgotten this as I overwinter fishing rivers on grey days.

The sight of a green tench launching itself clear of the water not long in gave me hope. But my experiences of bright days on this pool which is so clear as you can see the gravel bars with the sun at the right angle, is that the chances of bites once the sun is up are minimal.

Two moves to try and search out hiding fish proved fruitless and I feel the gamble is lost. No fish will come my way today or anyone else's either. So what to do but sit back, let the spring sun warm my face, and drag back that memory for another cheeky smile.

Commercial success.

A few weeks ago I made the hard decision that with a trip to the coast looming, joining the rest of the crazy crew on a jaunt to Hanningfield reservoir was financially unfeasible for me. It turned out Baz from Return to Ryton was in the same predicament, so I suggested we get together on the weekend in question for a perch session on one of the local commercial fisheries on my hit list.

My previous midweek trip out had actually been to check out this new lake and as I had bumped off a good Sargent early on, it seemed the rumours of big perch may of had some credence. So this seemed to be the perfect place for us to spend our Saturday searching for something special.

A week of bright sunny skies meant my confidence was not high. Even though the lake in question was far from clear. The sun had hampered even the small perches feeding in the week but when I awoke Saturday morning half the country was shrouded in fog and it seemed fate was at hand.

After Baz picked me up and we had one small disaster where my much needed net was left outside my front door, we finally arrived in rural Warwickshire and drove between newly planted fields towards the fog cloaked lake.

It was quite eerie making our way to the lake. The fog as always dampened all sound and all I could hear was the occasional ribbet of toads from the reed beds where the spring orgy was well underway.

On my last visit I had fished only one rod over a bed of chopped worms and prawns. This had lead me to keep swapping from one the other as hook baits, as when fishing worm I felt I should have been fishing prawn and vice versa. This time though, even knowing how hard it is to fish two float rods and watch both floats efficiently, I went for identical rigs with a different bait on each one and fished them a meter apart.

This was not easy as I had opted to fish the most awkward swim on the entire lake. The slight breeze blowing onto my rigs meant they had to be fished eight inches over depth to hold bottom. But they were under tension, so even the slightest bite was detected. So that problem turned into a bonus. 

It was the overhanging tree that hung so low that I could not even raise my rod which caused the most problems. All casts had to be flicked under deftly from my right and all strikes had to go out the same way. The casting I knew would not be a problem but in the panic of a fight I worried I could find myself tangled on the branches. A few hits at slight bites from silvers worrying my baits got me on the right track soon enough.

The glorious fog was not going to last all day. So with that in mind both Baz and myself worked hard to make the most of the lack of sun, but all too soon I could feel the rays burning away our cover.

I like to think any change can help when you aren't getting the right bites and even when light levels go from good to bad, fish sometimes feed just as that light changes. 

If I learnt one thing last year fishing for perch using floats on the canal, it was what a bite from a good perch looks like. At least that's what I thought when my float did a little bob before sliding off. But what I was attached to felt like a small carp trying to bore into my own bank. With my trusty new John Wilson Avon rod bent nicely I confidently pulled the little bugger into open water where it rolled once before I went white as a sheet and scrabbled for the net. I forgot that the rest of the world existed! Only one thing mattered - getting this fish in my net at all cost. Everything held, I managed not to flap and she was mine.

With it safely in the net I stood shaking and whistled over to Baz. I knew it was new PB before I even lifted it from the water, but I never expected the sheer size and girth of it. I have to thank Baz at this point because my composure had just vaporised and whilst I held the net in the edge he organised scales and cameras.

When I picked up those scales with a bulging carrier bag hanging beneath, I could not have put a weight on it. The moment the dial moved, it went confidently round to 4lb.

On the mat it looked like it could eat the flipping scales, it was that big. Still it had no anger in it like perch sometimes do, and for the life of me I could not get that fin to stand proud but that did not matter to me as I had a fish in my hands that most anglers go there entire lives without catching.

The thickness of this fish was probably around five inches and a six ounce roach would go in it's mouth no problems. In fact I remember thinking clearly at the time that two golf balls would easy go in it's mouth, it was that big.

Neither Baz or myself had ever seen a perch like this in the flesh and I wonder if I ever will again. After taking  loads of photos she was treated with the utmost respect. I crouched on the waters edge cradling her gently in the water as I took one last look before she swam back under the bank.

I must have sat, rods out the water smiling like a goon for ages before I snapped round and thought, what the hell do I do now. I just caught the biggest perch of my life and it's only ten in the morning.

Then the most insane thing sprang to mind! Who's to say that the biggest one in the lake. So I spent the rest of the day hunting for something bigger. Honestly...

I did actually hook and lose a smaller fish of maybe 2lb, which on any other day would have had me screaming but not today after having held a true giant.

All day I kept flicking on my camera and looking through the pictures, as I have done ever since. On the way home we chatted. I won't go back to this lake until autumn when they are feeding up for winter. And when I do I will follow up another tip off I got from a local, regarding a second hot spot on the lake where the capture of four fish over three pounds in one session was meant to have taken place.

The man from Del Monte he say No!

I would like to say before going onto the main topic of this blog that my impromptu mid week session at a tranquil and deserted commercial fishery after a big sarge was a sobering experience! 

About an hour into the fishing on this immaculate pool that is reputed to hold some staggering perch, I hooked and played a good fish which from the one glimpse I got of it, was somewhere in the big category. Just as I got to the 'grab the net' point in the fight, it made a twist which sent my hook and float flying out the water like a missile from a submarine and made me feel rather sick.

So, onto the main topic of this tale. I continued chasing after another giant perch from the same swim even though what was supposed to be a hazy spring day soon became a bright sunny one. 

With the horrible thought that my one chance was wasted ringing in my head I persevered. When my float bobbed again just like a perch, then slipped off, I thought my luck was again in. This turned out to be a small skimmer, which was followed by another, then another, then another. It would seem my chopped worm had today not attracted carp but a shoal of slimy immature bream. The next one I caught seemed different to the rest for some reason, so rather than tossing it back I took a closer look.

Bigger than normal eyes and peachy pectoral fins. Could it be...?

Did this pool contain an unknown population of silver bream? When the bailiff came round for his money I asked all the right questions and confirmed that yes, they stocked some silver bream as well as bronze bream. I did check that we were on the same page, and he again confirmed that he meant silver bream not skimmer bream.

But rather than get myself all het up thinking I had just landed a silver bar of rocking horse doo dee, I took some suitable photos weighed it at 10oz and let it go. Then caught another of 1.10 oz and nearly pissed my pants.

It was hard not to get excited about a possible 55% of the record fish. But again I took the close up shots and released it.

The rest of the session passed without a any more possible silver bream and without anymore big perch encounters. I did however catch several smallish perch and noticed some of the male fish exuding milt all over my hands, meaning that they must be just about to spawn which will scupper the perch fishing soon. Also I was amazed at how small of a size perch seem to be able to breed at. One of the milting fish was under an ounce, which did seem rather odd.

The next step was to get the possible silver bream checked out by the man who knows. Some call him the man from Del Monte, others call him Gongoozler extraordinaire. I call him Jeff Hatt off of idlersquest  

Yes folks, you can always trust a man who wears a carrier bag on his head and points at trees.

Whatever you care to call him his number one hobby is fishing and his number two hobby is silver bream identification confirmation.

So the morning after I sent Jeff a full picture of each fish and a head shot as well and awaited his experienced verdict. For my own part I had gone back to the pictures repeatedly since taking them and once on my computer I had myself compared them to previous captures documented on line and had myself sown the seeds of doubt. Truthfully to me they looked like nether silver bream or skimmer bream.

The man from Del Montes email confirmed my already growing suspicions. They were not silver bream but some form of bastard hybrid of god only knows what.
The lake in question does contain roach, rudd, bream, supposedly silver bream as well as all possible connotations of hybrids within those true species. This is were the problem lies. Not only are we talking about telling the difference of a silver bream from a skimmer bream but also the possibly that it could be a hybrid of two thorough bred parents or even possibly  the product of twenty years of cross breeding and contamination of gene pools. So I reckon trying to catch a pure fish from this pool would be an absolute waste of time.

Although I kind of knew in my heart they did not seem quite right I was still a little disappointed by the verdict. It would have been very nice to bag a PB silver bream twice in one session, but on the other hand I am happy I offered it up for confirmation, as I at least know for sure they were not silver bream rather than living with my own doubts should I have not.

Beauty and the beasties.

This past weekend I took my second step into  the commercial  perch fishing scene and quite honestly I can't make up my mind if it was a success or not!

Like many before me I have already started looking at your average £7 a day carp puddle with squinted eyes. My ears are open listening for those sacred words whenever I am in the tackle shop, hoping to hear one of the match men that hang around on a Saturday utter something about a whopping perch.

Then the other day whilst talking to a acquaintance of mine, who likes to spend his weekend wearing matching Preston innovations gear,  he mentioned that during some of the winter matches on a water he had fished, bonus perch up to four pounds had topped up several winning bags of blade roach. This was more than enough information for me plan a trip over to this popular venue.

The  only time I could spare this weekend was Saturday afternoon and with cloudy skies on the horizon and showers expected it seemed the perfect conditions. When I arrived at the featureless fishery with it's distinct slabbed swims I did stop for a moment with my hand on the car boot and ask myself, did I want to do this as it looked busy. But I had made the effort to drive there and if I backed out now I was too far to get to another lake in time. So I stuck with and headed towards the tip off pool.

When I got there I did not really have much choice of swims as thirty of the thirty three were occupied by serious men sitting on fishing boxes that would have given a transformer a chubby, throwing method feeders at the islands. The few free swims that were left as the did not give a clear cast to the island so were ignored but they did however appeal to me. Reed lined corners of which one had a all the scum of the lake collected in it and that what I went for.

After baiting up with a few handfuls of chopped worm and red maggots I sat back to watch the soap opera around the lake. I don't think one of the other anglers knew I was there dressed in green keeping off the sky line, whilst they all yelled to each other at the top of their voices.

Holy crap! I thought my luck was in when my float bobbed a couple of times before slipping away. There was that pause for a fleeting moment when the hooked fish computes the resistance and you have no idea what it is for a moment. But then the reel went into overdrive as a carp headed out into the lake. It did not take to long to subdue a pale and rather deformed near double, and neither did the next five or six. By now my presence in the corner had been acknowledged, as it would seem I had caught seven more carp than anyone else this afternoon.

By the third visit I thought I had sprouted a extra leg as I seemed to be the new attraction of the fishery. 'Wot you gettin em on mate?' was the standard question and they all seemed agog when I told them worms. I get the feeling that they thought I was using some new hightech bait developed in a laboratory by Japanese scientists that cost fifty quid a bag instead of the much maligned worm.

The cue of minging carp attracted by my dirty clouds of chopped worm sinking through the water seemed endless and they did not get better looking. Most looked like they had taken a swift right from Mike Tyson as they were stocked into the lake and one was the spitting image of Pete Burns. For those of you who don't get that reference follow this link http://igossip.com/gossip/Britsn_giggles_pete_burns_plastic_surgery_15_Minutes_Of_Fame/1349209

I thought the string of damaged fish would never end until I hooked and landed  this...

What a stunner!

I don't understand for the life of me how this was even in the same lake as the other fish I had caught. The only explanation must be that it had only just been introduced because it was perfect. Golden flanks slight red tinge to it's tail and it's mouth looked untouched by hook. I felt bad putting it back in the lake knowing what will undoubtedly happen to it. It would of been far better off if I would have tucked in my top and drove it down the nearest bit of canal.

As the light drew in it only got worse - the carp seemed insatiable. I did consider moving to one of the vacant spots, but every angler that left did the same thing and dumped any remaining bait in front of their peg before they left, which I knew would only serve to attract more carp onto it and maybe away from me.

By dusk I had landed no less than seventeen carp all 8 -12lb, and that's when it hit me. I had not got a single bite which I thought could of been from a perch. But I had just easily landed over a 100lb of carp in just over five hours on a bait most of the other anglers on refused to believe I was using. Maybe I should look into one of those qualifying matches for Fish 'O' Mania because 25k would be very nice and I would not look that much of a Muppet dressed in camo hiding behind a bush whilst all those match men sit three foot in the air in gaudy colours would I ?