Winters coming

Robert has returned form a summer jaunt to the island of Antigua and it's surrounding islands, where he has spent the last few months in search of some very rare reptiles indeed. With him travelling down from the Cotswolds for the weekend visit there was no doubt we would be getting out for a session. We had already discussed the river, which he as well as I, had experienced was not on top form. After knocking a few ideas around we decided to check in on a section of canal that I have not yet visited this year. This perch paradise as far as I am concerned is amazing, and it can normally be relied upon to yield two pound perch or two. 

Although I have not spent any time on it so far, the need to check in now and again is always at the back of my mind, as in the next few years I have the feeling that this water will move from amazing to sublime. The only question is how long will it take for those twos to become threes!

For this trip our pairing was to become a trio. Initially the intention had been for a traditional up before light Sunday morning job, but the reports of a weather front coming in heralded a change of plan, and Saturday afternoon spent in the autumn sun seemed far more appropriate. The third musketeer on this occasion was Jacky. Normally her joining us on any fishing trips is reserved for the summer, but the civilised nature of the target area and a bit of gentle persuasion on my part coerced her to come along for the ride.

We stepped onto the tow path in the warm afternoon sun and really it felt like any other late summer day. But today was the autumn equinox and the nights just lately have begun to nip, so plenty of extras layers were stuffed into bags. After I had lead our precession along the canal to a suitable spot, we pitched up and set about business.

No high tech poles here, just powerful float rods and floats capable of suspending whole worms inches off the bottom. I had also brought a dead bait outfit along, to fish in a depression on the normally uniform canal bottom, which has in the past yielded zander.

It did not take long for my float to slide away as the first perch made off with my worm. Small but a perfect miniature of its fore fathers. It certainly stood a chance of becoming a giant too. Rob was next with a good sized perch which fought very hard with the last of its summer vigour.

All I could mange to start with was sub pound fish. But soon enough ripples of attention emanated from the top of my dead bait float which had sat dormant over the depression. A few more bobs and it began moving away towards the opposite side of the canal. When it had submerged fully my swift strike connected a small zander which also fought rather hard zipping around the canal.

There was no doubt the bites today seemed to come in waves for some unknown reason. After nothing floats would suddenly start dancing one after another. After more small perch and a tiny zander which liked the look of my worm, I pondered if the fish were holding close in and venturing out here and there. Dropping my rig close under my feet the float never settled before slipping away attached to my best perch of the day.

That fish back, the dead float again awoke. However my impatience this time got the better of me and all that came of that bite was a bare hook. The zander were in the swim and a couple of dropped runs later hooked a fish that really fancied a ruck. 

Even in the net, and as we got a picture it was mean and bristling. As I released it it made a right fuss, thrashing the water as it went off. I would not want to be anything smaller than six inches within a mile of that one.

Again the bites slowed and all that seemed bothered was the odd small perch or zander, until my dead line started travelling side to side. This was no fish, or it was at least no fish with fins. The crayfish had crashed the party and thought my dead roach was the hors d'oeuvres. A new bait bought a fresh run and this fish did not mess around. One bob and the float was gone. I so wanted it to be a good zander, but what we want and what we get are never the same thing. This fish was far too powerful for even a big zander. It was definitely a pike - not massive but still nice to see. Pike as far as I am concerned are the only thing that have suffered from the introduction of zander into our canals. There is no doubt less of them around compared to when I started fishing, but it is nice to see one come out of an area stuffed full of zander

All too soon the sun began to near the horizon and the air began to chill. The warmth of the day was gone, as was the warmth in our toes. Cold and hunger joined forces to shoo us away for the night and we packed up as the last vestiges of light burnt the horizon.

Walking back it seemed a different season entirely. The canal had fallen quite for the day and night beckoned. The sky now glowed a hundred colours; pink, cerise, coral, fuchsia, magenta and indigo. Almost too many to comprehend.

Smoke now curled from the iron chimneys of narrow boats moored along the still water. The wood smoke scented the crisp evening air as the people inside warmed themselves. We would not feel warmth until the car doors blocked the last bird calls of the day.

The journey back was a sight. All three of us were silent, as the amazing sunset stretched out before us. Only when the fluorescent glow of the city robbed us of the night sky did we speak, reality shaking us from our daydream.

Bogey barbel or burbot.

Anyone who reads my merry little blog will probably already know this, but for those who don't I will repeat it again to fill you in: of all the species of fish that swim in British waters and of all those which I angle after, my big time bogey fish is the barbel. I don't know what it is about them and me that doesn't go well together, but the fact is that we do not seem to mesh well at all. The list of incidents is far too long and torrid to go into, needless to say I often get the feeling it would be easier for me to try and catch burbot rather than a barbel.

This year I even took a membership for a club who have the rights to quite a large amount of the river Avon local to me which has a decent reputation for barbel, in order to maximise the time I could spend on the bank. I have intermittently been visiting the water here and there since the season began in order to try and get to know it in earnest for an autumn barbel campaign. This itself has not been without tribulations.

When I first ventured there early in the season for a probing session the conditions were perfect for fishing, but I was fishing blind in unknown water. My next foray saw me land two small chub before having a confusing run in with a barbel on a clearing river. Next time I went, I crept into a prime spot and began baiting the swim to try and pull them out of a snag and feeding. As I waited, I saw another angler approaching looking a bit peeved. Turned out there was a match on and I was in his swim. Even though the club match planner stated the match was on a different stretch of river it turned out they had claimed the full hundred and twenty pegs so as sixteen blokes could have a match. I was promptly shooed away before the lynch mob got hold of me. Things had not started well, but undeterred I was ready to go back for a session even though the Avon, like many rivers, is currently clear as glass and two feet down.

My previous visit saw me baiting a swim recommended to me by others as a barbel banker. The flow compresses into a run which emanates at the head of the swim to my right. Starting right under my feet and continuing down stream was a deep slack. The combination of these two totally different bits of water formed a crease which runs directly under a deep sanctuary of a willow where the barbel and chub supposedly hide out.

Knowing full and well I was going to have to tread very carefully here with the river being so low, I decided to a gentle approach would be the best option. No big leads here! A simple running rig with a 18" combi rig hook link. Few few inches of camo braid and the rest made up of 12lb camo soft steel. I wanted to be able to flick the rig in alongside the willow and for the flow to pull it under the snag. So I used the very smallest lead which would allow the flow to move it into the crease, where it should stop with the dissipating flow and leave my 10mm pellet amongst the loose bed of bait.

The other thing I had decided prior to even going, was to keep well off the pallets which the club have installed for comfort of their members. So I sat right back tight against and patch of stinging nettles to keep my presence well hidden.  I was so far back in fact that my rod tip was probably where most anglers fishing this swim would normally sit.

I dared not crash a bait dropper into the swim, and not wanting to make any disturbance with any big items like PVA bags, I fed the swim gently, one small pouch of hemp and pellets at a time, into the crease well above where I was fishing.  This I hoped would stir the chub into movement and hopefully spur any barbel along too.

It had all gone well and I got that distinct feeling you get that sooner of later that tip would bend round. Regularly the bait went in and the small fish I could see were enjoying the bounty. After carefully loading the catapult to again I took aim and launched another helping of  freebies into the head of the swim. Instantly the tip hooped round and somehow I got my hand on the rod to strike into thin air. It must have been a fish ether moving through the water intercepting falling bait or something spooked by the sound. Ether way I got the feeling that it may of been detrimental to my cause.

I carried on for a further three hours, but the day had grown much lighter and my tip had remained motionless. Though before moving off I had a quick cast with a worm. As the slack water under the willow screamed perch. Even using a barbel rig minus its lead, my free lined worm attracted the attentions of a one pound perch first cast. This was something well worth remembering when I return with my lighter chub outfit later in the year.

I walked the entire stretch making mental notes of any depressions, gravel runs and deep holes for when the water is coloured. One thing that struck me was the distinct lack of fish. Not one chub was sighted slinking away and no minnows or roach held in the edges, nothing!

Heading down the stretch I made my way to a  swim where I had spotted a shoal of chub on my last visit. Now I say swim in the loosest possible reference. As this was little more than a hole on the bank side vegetation. I do not know what anyone else calls it, but I call it the jungle.

You can barely poke a rod in and can certainly only lift it enough to strike, but the swim contained fish and I was getting a little desperate. And although chub were not what I hoped for, a tussle in the undergrowth would no doubt satisfy me today.

I watched between twenty and thirty chub drifting in and out of the dense snag for half an hour before I crept in with a baited rod. After waiting for a gap in the fish I swung a worm out into a clearing on their patrol route before slipping back away from the bank. The first pod of chub swung round in front of me and the head fish dipped towards the bait, then shot off like a bullet scattering the rest. The next two lots ignored my bait totally. Thinking they were not seeing it, I next tried flicking the free lined worm in front of them. This proved exactly how twitchy they were. When fish flew in all directions when the worm sank before them.

After letting them settle again, I redeposited the worm tight to my own bank just within sight and sat back a to wait. I remember thinking at the time how could chub be so wary at this time of year, when in the winter they are, lets be honest mugs for any free food that lands in front of them.

Ages passed before they reappeared and shoal after shoal passed over my bait. Then as a shoal of six or more fair sized chub came into sight. A fish broke rank sank down and my bait was gone in one quick gulp.

My deft strike was met with sheer hell. Fish went in every possible direction and the hooked fish powered towards the snag as I pulled back. Then it did something I have never seen a chub do ever, and came flying out the water shaking its head. This was no chub! it was jack pike pretending to be a chub.

I can't for the life of me figure out why a little pike was hanging out with the chub or why they would feel comfortable in its company. But as green is green it was swimming amongst them and ate my worm fair and square.

After releasing that stunning fish I left feeling half dazed and perplexed. Why were all those chub so wary. The best I can come up with is fishing pressure combined with predators and clear water has resulted in them  spending any day light time deep in the snags where it is safe. Needless to say I will be thinking twice about going back before it rains a bit and colours up the water. Or maybe I might even consider going burbot fishing instead.

Catching the smallest fish using the biggest bait.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The sea.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I had caught what is now my official ruffe PB.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Lake #14 and a little bit more to finish.

Ever had something stuck in your mind, like the annoying first song your hear on the radio in the morning that you whistle all day? I for one am quite prone to getting images stuck in my head. Like the time a few years ago when I saw a pure white Koi swimming along the upper Avon. That fish was my white whale. Like Ahab I became a little preoccupied with the thought of catching it. Which I never did! But at least it never dragged me to my death as the whale did old Ahab.

The little weir pool hooked me when I cast into it. In all the years I have peered into it, I never thought it could hold so many wondrous fish. In only two or more hours it's secrets bewitched me. If catching those little tench was not enough to do so, what I saw definitely was, and may well become, my new white whale.

Along with a pair of small carp and an odd bream, I spied a big tench. Now the carp were by my estimation maybe 5-8lb, although carp weights can be hard to truly assess. Rock hard running water carp will weigh more than a flabby commercial cyprinus any day, but these looked around that weight. The tench I saw with them had a quarter more length, but was no where near as rotund. At a guess I suspected it may of been a five pounder, but the constant mulling of my mind had me pondering the possibility of a larger weight.

I had no choice, I had to go back. So even with a myriad of other possible angling scenarios that I could have embarked on this bank holiday weekend. My heart wanted the little weir pool. 

This time I had kit more akin to winkling winter chub, and also I had enough worms to last the entire day when I stepped into the wood and followed the trail round to the head of the weir pool.

Looking into the water through polarised eyes, I could not see so much as a tiny roach in the early light. But sometimes it's better not to see your quarry, as there's less distraction that way. 

I wanted to get some bait down and try and focus the fish into the one deep area at the centre of the run, but this had to be very subtle. So I began to sprinkle red maggots into the run ten at a time and held off casting for the first half an hour so as not to disturb the occupants. After only half that time I was desperate to make a cast and had to remind myself to hold fast.

Eventually the time came, and rather than trot a float down I flicked out a tiny link ledger with only two swan shot as weight. It barely made a sound as it broke the surface and only enabled me to just hold tension on the line in the flow. The first taker of my lobworm obliged immediately. My seventh mini tench from the weir pool was the first and two more followed before the forth strike hit something very solid. In moment of sheer madness a much bigger tench rolled in the centre of the pool and freed itself from my hook instantly. 

I had to calm myself as I sat firing more maggots into the run waiting for the tiny swim to settle down. That fish looked about big enough to be the one I had seen, and I had just lost it! Again I swung the rig out and settled back to see what effects this short lived fight had had on the swim.

A tremble of the rod tip followed by a hoop and again I hit something solid. This fish bored deep towards the reeds at the end of the run. But low hard pressure turned it around and it then charged across the swim towards me. I saw it shaking its head under my feet angry as hell at being hooked. Time and time again it ploughed around the pool but my resolve held and a decent tench was in the net.

I was sure this was not this fish I had seen originally. Not massive, but fighting even this three pound fish in the a tiny pool no bigger than your average car is a nerve racking pass time.

After this a string of small perch preempted a second coming by the micro tench brigade, and my tally of tinica reached twelve. The sheer amount of tench trapped in this pool was unreal and more was still to come, and not by way of a leviathan either. To the left of the pool is a shallow sandy bar where the the flow bends slightly with the natural curvature of the river and the pressure dissipates. Quite often shoals of roach or rudd are seen passing over it. Today the shoal looked different for some reason. Both roach and rudd in this clear pool have bright red fins and this can be clearly seen in the gin water; these fish however were very dull and moved in absolute pure unison. After reeling in my rod, I crept right into the thicket to try and get a closer look. Peeping from between the grass I could see exactly what the were; twenty to thirty tiny, finger long tench. Although it is perfectly feasible that as surface dwelling fry they may have washed over the weir I was beginning to suspect that maybe they were pool bred. This place was beginning to blow my mind.

What happened next was a proper shock. After sitting on a cast for an age, I received a couple of slow taps on the rod tip then nothing. Thinking I had been cleared out I lifted the rod to re bait and found myself snagged solid.  I had ether cast over an unseen branch or a small perch had probably dragged my bait into one. All I could do at this point was pull for the break. After locking down the clutch I walked slowly backwards shielding my face with my had in case a couple of flying swan shot should crack me upside the head. I was expecting a snap when I suddenly felt the dull slow movement of whatever I was attached to moving. Then something kicked and I was fighting a fish. Straight away the fight gave its identity away. It was an eel, and a strong one at that. As eels go this one was almost well behaved and just tried to swim backwards for a few minutes before I slipped it into the net, where it promptly went absolutely insane. Luckily the hook was right in the corner of its mouth and a quick twist from a pair of forceps had it unhooked. It wasn't a huge but still weighed in at 2.5lb. But importantly it was the right sort of eel... Anyone who has ever read anything about eels know there are two different head types found on our native eels. The first is the narrow snout and small mouthed type which feed predominately on invertebrates. But this was the other wide mouthed variety. Which are mainly predatory fish eaters, and are most associated with becoming big snigs. 

This was definately going back in the lake, hopefully trapped there for forty years or so, growing massive, hidden in the weeds eating passing roach.

My patience was about to truly be tested when a small jack pike moved into the swim scaring off every other resident and proceeding to grab every worm I cast in. Twice I hooked it and twice its surging fight and sharp teeth bit me off. The third time it was not so lucky and I hooked it right in the scissors. This jacks days lording it over the little weir pool were over. Up it went to the lake were it would suddenly be a small fish in a big pond.

A few more small perch and the forty lob worms I had taken were gone. My feeble attempts at fishing a Medusa's head of maggots on the hook just attracted all the little silvers, who where having a party since the pike had been relocated. Roach, rudd, skimmers and some hybrids that were an combination of the three, battered my bait senseless.

Had I more worms I would have stopped on indefinitely. But trying to hook small stuff on a tip would drive anyone mad. But as I packed away I did realise that I had landed seven species from a swim no bigger than a snooker table and carried on with my re population of the lake with small tench to boot.
Then just before I left I spotted the two resident carp doing there rounds around the pool followed by not only the one big tench but two. The carp carried on off along their route but the two tench stopped side by side on the bottom facing me. I could see there yellow down turned mouths clear as day as they just sat there mocking me as I had literally no bait to cast at them.

Sadly at this point my relationship with the lake must go on hold. I have had an amazing time being monogamous with this fickle water, and the things I seen have been nothing less than revelations. No matter what anyone says about the state of the fish populations, I have seen with my own eyes what lies beneath the surface and held some of them in my hands. But for now my neglect of the Avon weighs heavy and the babbling water calls to me. So the next month or so will be spent sitting on its banks with hope that a barbel and a few zander will come my way.
I cannot rule out the odd session back on the lake here or there, although for now I keep telling myself I won't be back until the green leaves of the trees turn a hundred shades of Autumn

The Lake #13 Giving a little back

The Lake like many English waters of its type, is formed by use of  stream and valley. And this means that at one place a small amount of water will flow in, and at another will flow out via some form of dam. On the lake these areas are out of bounds to anglers. One because it is deep inside a nature reserve, and the other because they simply don't want it to become a regular peg. But over the time that has elapsed since I dedicated myself to this water I have become very well acquainted with the bailiff, and have discussed these two areas with him in depth. Thus after a little coercing he agreed to grant me permission to fish the small stream beyond the little that weir spills water out of the lake, on the strict instruction that anything I caught was redeposited back into the lake. If anyone was to ask me about my fishing this supposed out of bounds water, I was to tell them it was solely for restocking purposes under his permission.

What has caught my interest the most during our discussions are the tales of  big perch that supposedly drift in and out of the deep hole in the centre of the pool. As I have yet to land a single perch this year from the lake. A big clear water perch seems quite a attractive proposition to me.

I went to the lake early Sunday morning with the initial intent to angle for tench along the lillies which line much of its banks, and upon arriving in the half light I had a peg in mind where I had seen one huge fish in shoal of many half its size. This though is a popular spot, not only with the tench enthusiasts but with the carping fraternity who annoyingly seem to use it not to fish the near bank where I have seen a fair few carp, but blank fishing the far one. Every time I try to drop in on this tasty area it always seems to have inhabited for five days by another angler. Sadly today was no different. But happily it was an old chap with parallel thoughts to my own. I stopped for a chat where he confirmed he was to angling for something of the green variety, but as yet had seen no action of signs of life.

Moving on further round the lake I came to my second choice spot and settled in. The morning passed with very little activity all over. Only a single but sizeable tench rolled six feet off my bait and the float sat perfectly motionless for more than four hours against the pads. I knew the lake was off sorts today and the rising sun I knew would only compound things. So although I was not my main aim of the day I saddled my gear and headed off further round into the woods to give the little stream a cast or two.

Being such a tiny little swim I wanted to cause as little commotion a possible. So set up a tiny clear chubber float with little more than two feet between hook and float. One test run through to confirm no unseen snags revealed a clear run of about eight feet before the stream shallowed with silt. It was a perfect miniature weir pool

What else could I ply my hook with other than a tasty lobworm to tempt a big Sargent. I always split my worms in two hooking one half in the split end and the other vice versa. The way they move through the water when hooked like this is totally different to a whole worm, and has the added attraction of the juices flowing out down stream with it.

Swinging the float out into the centre of the weir, I watched the worm drift down through the clear water until it disappeared out of sight. The little power of the tiny stream caught hold and pulled the rig slowly and steadily along until half way down the pool when the float reached a snaggy looking tree, then dipped once before pulling away on a forty five degree angle and I struck into a solid resistance. At first I felt the right sort of jagging up and down in the water and automatically suspected a perch. But as I coaxed it upstream I got a shock when it reached the clear water near my feet.

It was no perch but instead a tiny tench, which I could see turning from side to side diving towards the bottom.

Of all the fish I would have expected to catch trotting a worm in this tiny pool, this was not one of them. I quickly dashed through the trees back above the weir and released this perfect little croaker back into the lake from where he came.

The next run through was an mirror image of the last. The bait sank, the flow caught the rig and in the exact same spot the float dipped away and I struck a solid fish. Holding it in the flow I thought to myself 'it can't be' But it was! A second little tench, that if I hadn't just put the last one back in the lake would have had me thinking it was the same one. This one too was transported back over the weir and as I walked back I pondered the rarity of these captures. On some heavily coloured commercial just stocked with tench its not unusual to capture small ones. But on old lakes like this one they are like ghosts until they are two pounds plus and here was me with two in two casts.

It didn't stop there ether over the next hour I picked three more identical ones out, trotting my worms past that snag before I spotted two fairly decent carp drift along the edge to my left which dragged my attention away. Add to them the masses of rudd and roach I had seen once the sun squeezed through the trees and I realised how many fish had been washed over that weir when the water was up over the winter.

The tiny tench eventually dried up and around then I fancied a more static bait might give the perch time to find it. So I flipped over to a single swan shot paternoster as a change. Low and behold a string of small perch responded to this move, as well as a couple of over eager Rudd to about 8-9oz who gobbled up my huge baits.

By now I was causing quite a commotion in this tiny patch of water, and the inevitable had to happen. As I reeled in another small perch I watched as a small jack pike confidently follow it up the flow before snatching it right at the last moment and turning back down the pool. The fuss this thing caused as I tried to get it in had to have freaked out every fish in the vicinity before it finally severed my light line.

It did go off for a while. But my final bite using my last worm connected with a certainly larger fish which charged all around the little pool like a maniac. The biggest tench of the day on my last cast using my last worm. At two pound tops it would seem a poor fish for a lot of venues but by this little streams standards it was monster, and mint to boot.

Walking away from this interlude bait-less and half covered in slime from wrangling with those bars of soap, I had a certain smug feeling knowing that I had given something back to the lake. The likelihood is that if those fish would have remained in the stream they could have been easy prey for any of a plethora of predators and come the winter, high water could have flushed them off to god knows where. Back in the lake I fear I am by chance unlikely to run into them again. But if I do see them in some years time there could be a very good chance of them being five pounds or more with all the natural food available.

The Lake #12 In honour of pretty things

For weeks I have watched the lake. My eyes freed from concentration of the float have roamed over this epic sheet of water for signs of life. In my past experiences here I have always feared maybe this lake lacked population. But now I know better. For the fish are there, and to see them you just need to know when and where to look.

Groups of tench can be seen around noon as they slowly pass between lily beds in the clear water. At dusk massive shoals of roach dance along the reed beds rippling the surface on it's eastern shore. Regularly a pair of monstrous carp who have no mind to feed, drift mid water in front of one particular spot. These are just some of the sights I have seen in this constant relationship between myself and the Lake. Though it is another which brings me here.

Pike! The lake is full of pike! I have had a few run ins with them so far. Most have been accidental, others  accidentally on purpose. One has a story which I must save till later in the year, when the cold is here and we sit in front of warm fires recounting such tales. But for now the things I have seen inspire me to spend a little time in search of that most viscous version of essox... the summer pike.

Considering current rules and regulations of the lake has forced me to reveal an as yet unknown secret. Hidden away in a draw behind bags of bait and piles of tackle are several boxes stuffed full of......

Yes, you've got it, lures! I love 'em in a very odd way. I suppose the only comparison I can make is my fetish for lures is like a woman's for shoes. I know I don't need them, but they're so pretty I have to have them. And the insane thing is that I hardly ever use them and I know it.
But for the first time since I began writing this blog "the lure of angling is going lure fishing"!!!!! 

Part of the inspiration for this was what I witnessed whilst taking the psychological slap a little while ago. Not only did the lily beds harbour multiple micro jacks, but at one point I watched a scene that only Sir David Attenborough could have narrated; small pike flying feet out of the water, shoals of flashing silver roach fleeing into the air for safety, and  the swirls of bigger fish grabbing jacks.

The itch to plug the depths has become too much to resist, and so the other night I headed down to the wooded banks of the lake to fire lures out into the void and try and tempt a jack or two from the weeds.

Spending most of my time sitting low and still surrounded by a plethora of kit being the norm, results in me feeling somewhat naked with the frugal amount of tackle needed for a session of fake wanging. But even as I looked at the single medium weight American style outfit my good friend Rob had brought me as a gift from Canada a few years ago, and the small bag of lures, I knew keeping it light was the key to covering maximum ground in this game.

As for lures, I learnt long ago when I did this a fair bit that it is best to only take a few select lures and work them well, rather than take a whole box and be repeatedly changing. Having studied the topography of the lake in detail over the past few months decisions came very simply by way of anything that floats or does not dive deep.

The weed free frog - With it's key weed guard and semi buoyant nature this little lure works slowly under the surface, and is great for pulling through and along the edge of lily beds

The top water mouse - A true surface lure, this little fellow just buzzes along the surface making any sneaky old jack pikes think they are about to get a free meal. But this one has a surprise for them by way of a  double hook which becomes very prominent when the soft lure is bitten.

The Svenson shallow runner - This is one of those lures that actually dives surprisingly deep when cranked hard, but pulled slowly it holds around 3ft and the rattling wiggle combined with the semi reflective paint job has proven deadly in the past for me.

The Shakespeare shallow pike - I will not deny how crude this looks, but looks can be deceiving. The cannibalistic character of the pike has made this slow and distressed moving lure top scorer in my team

The twin tail jig - I love plastics, mainly because they work in so many different ways and situations. Whether its reeling them back slow and deep, fast and shallow or jigging them up off the bottom and letting them fall, they make a million different movements and can normally be relied upon to scratch a hit.

As excited and prepared as I was, it seemed on the day the lake was far from in the mood. The banks empty, I worked my way through a third of the lake swim by swim and cast by cast, searching every weed bed, nook and cranny, and all I had to show for my efforts were two follows and zero hits.

A chance encounter with the bailiff informed me that the majority of predators seemed to be following in hot pursuit of the bait fish that were last seen in the shallow bay back where I had begun earlier. 

With little light left in the day I immediately headed back rushing along the bank, missing swims I had already earmarked for return visits. Upon arriving I knew it would not be long until light faded and I could see the rings of topping small fish all over the bay in front of me, but no signs of attacking predators.

My third cast was slashed at by a small pike whose flared gills could be seen quite far out in the clear water. Two repeat casts, and he hit the lure hard before spiralling from the shallow water like an angry tarpon shaking his head. I actually saw the lure fly out of it's mouth as it arced through the air. This was the sort of action I was after.

A while later a cast on a skeletal old branch in the water, grabbed me a second hit. But after zig zaggin around, the second small jack found his way back into his woody home and me snagged tight. I have always hated the thought of leaving a fish snagged up, no matter how small they are. So given the shallow depth of the water I decided a bit of a paddle might not be so bad. The first step into the edge and my left foot went sank right below the ankle. Wading was not an option! I did not like the idea of pulling for the break, but it seemed my only option. Clutch locked up, I tightened down and began walking slowly backwards. Lo and behold the snag moved. The branch was no where near as big, or deeply dug in as I thought. My hopes of landing snag and fish seemed very real now. Closer and closer the snag came in at a snails pace, until finally it was within reach of my hand. How gutted was I when I pulled the slimy silt stinking branch out, only to find that the little bugger had pulled the 'old leave the hook in the snag and get off trick.'

The next fifty casts reaped not so much as a single tinkle, and after trying all my shallow lures I ended up throwing out the twin tail and retrieving it at a monstrous speed. I never thought anything would have a go at such a fast travelling lure, but about ten feet from the edge a fish darted out and grabbed it just as I was about to lift it from the water. As always with summer pike I got real value for money. Jumping out the water and long darting runs, the works. The fight you would have thought came from a much larger fish, but when I eventually calmed it down and slipped the net under, it revealed the hardest earned, yet perfect little tiger of a jack pike I have landed in years.

Although I have caught pike from the lake literally twenty times this ones size. The capture of this miniature preadtor really made all the effort worth while, and it certainly won't be so long before I dust of those boxes of pretty things again.