Another trip to the Dove with my mates Rodders and Alg yielded a great result thanks to an enormous slice of luck!

A LUCKY BREAK!

Would ‘peg 18’ produce this week I wondered? After last week’s blank it was with some relief that I struck into a half pound grayling with my first chuck on the maggot feeder. I swung the fish in, grateful to have tasted action so early. A few casts later and the tip jagged again and a much better lady was hooked. Uh – oh, I’d forgotten to set up my landing net, sirry pirrock! I ended up beaching the fish a little downstream, a lovely fish of one pound six. I quickly corrected the oversight before sending out the feeder again. Checks over the walkie-talkie revealed Rodders with a decent grayling and a brownie of around two pounds and Alg with a solitary grayling in the half pound bracket. No blanks today then!

Every one then found themselves in a quiet spell with nothing to do but feed, cast and enjoy nature on an increasingly warm day. A kingfisher flew past before steepling high over the trees, a small fish dangling limply from his beak. A dabchick dived repeatedly in the margins, hoping to find a similar lunch and all along the bank the willows shone green and gold like a terrace full of Brazilian supporters.

It was some time before stabbed into action again signalling the start of a lively tussle with a short, thick set 4-6 chub, seeking refuge under the far bank bushes and twice finding sanctuary in weed beds before being guided over the rim of the net. Rodders had another smallish grayling before deciding to do a bit swim hopping with his float rod which yielded a few more grayling and a further trout. Alg too decided a move was in order, his new swim quickly yielding two more grayling. Early in the afternoon the rod tip pulled decisively round but I felt nothing on the strike and after winding in found the hook length was missing. It had snapped close to the swivel where the line had kinked after a few tangles round the swivel. I substituted good old fashioned 6lb Diawa Sensor monofilament for the high tech stuff and was soon back fishing again. As it turned out that breakage was probably the best thing to happen to me all day!

After a leg stretching mooch along the bank, I was ready to settle into the final hour or of the session. I noticed that the hook length had a knot in it. Really I should have changed it there and then but reasoned that as there was not much of the day left and with bites few and far between it probably wasn’t worth the hassle. Ten minutes later the tip pulled round and stayed round and the strike net with a sullen resistance that lasted a few seconds before some determined pumping on my part got the fish moving slowly but surely towards me. It felt like a really good chub but then suddenly the fish decided to belt off back from whence it came, dragging yards of line from the reel’s clutch.

“Oh no, it’s a bertie” I thought “I’m going to lose it on this set up”. 

I grabbed the radio and yelled “Bertie on!” into the handset.

More pumping had the barbel moving back towards me but predictably more line was torn off the reel as it headed under the bushes. I dropped the rod low to avoid snagging the branches, applied as much pressure as I dared and waited for the line to part. Incredibly the fish turned and came from beneath the bushes but immediately dived into a weed bed from which I extracted it a few seconds later. “At least it can’t be that big” I thought “or I would have lost it by now”.

A minute or so of impasse followed where neither I nor the barbel gained any advantage and then suddenly I could see it between the weed beds and grudgingly it came towards me. It looked to be about seven pounds. Sinking the net I tried to coax the fish over it but that only served to bring about the usual “Oh no you don’t” response from the fish and it took several attempts before it was finally engulfed in the mesh. As I lifted the fish onto the bank the walkie-talkie crackled into life

“What did you say Pete?” asked Alg.

Talk about delayed response! I outlined the news and just as I’d removed a pretty nearly straightened size 16 hook from the barbel’s mouth, Rodders appeared offering assistance.

Using my digital scales Rodders declared the fish to be ten pounds on the nose and turned it round for me to see by which time it read 10-1. I settled for ten dead, elated at only my second double. Photos were taken, the fish was returned and congratulations were gratefully accepted. It was only when I came to bend my straightened hook back with the aid of forceps when I rediscovered the wind knot in the hook length. God! I’d forgotten that. If I’d remembered it I would have eased off the clutch and in all probability lost the barbel in a snag. Why the line didn’t part, I have no idea. I have to admit that I deserved this fish a lot less than many I have lost in the past. I guess the river gods were feeling particularly sympathetic on the warm last day of October!

P.S. I hereby tender my resignation as President, Vice-president, Chairman, Vice-chairman, Secretary, Treasurer and ordinary member of the Bl***dy Awful Barbel Anglers Society.

I’ve just returned from our little group’s annual fishing holiday feeling somewhat downcast. Here is the sorry tale!

THE BL***Y AWFUL BARBEL ANGLERS SOCIETY ANNUAL REPORT

The society convened at Brobury House in pursuit of the noble Bertie although of course, we were trying to fulfil the main aim of the society by miserably failing to actually land the lauded target. The society members consisted of Mr P. Leicester (President), Mr R.M. Van Winsum (Chairman), Mr A. Coste (Vice Chairman), Mr P. Dean (Secretary) and Mr P. Hogan (Treasurer).

The first evening, quite naturally, was devoted to quaffing at the local hostelry after a hearty meal at the cottage. The following morning all and sundry departed across the meadow to wet our lines in the Wye for the first time, hoping fervently not to set our hooks into the mouth of any of the river’s barbel. Sadly, I have to report that on this very first outing, the secretary and vice chairman were forced to resign from the society for flagrant breaches of the rules by the landing of the forbidden fish, Particularly disappointing was the conduct of vice chairman, who banked TWO barbus, one of which was found to be a personal best of nine pounds five ounces. The chairman was not blameless in this incident and had to be warned as to his future conduct, having been found guilty of assisting by landing the said fish for Mr Coste.

The president was disappointed in the behaviour of the guilty parties but selflessly volunteered to take on the roles of the expelled members in order that the societies business could continue.

The following day were joined by Mr M. Dean who, while only fishing for the one day, was admitted as an ordinary member. Sad to report, the new member almost immediately disgraced himself by netting a five pound Bertie requiring his immediate expulsion! The resignation of the treasurer was also received on this second day with the landing of another golden flanked adversary. Once again the president agreed to take over the roles of the guilty parties.

Over the next few days, the disgraced members continued, quite shamelessly, to flaunt the rules ensuring that they could not be readmitted to the society on appeal. Despite the added pressure of the extra duties, the president continued to fulfil the aims of the society admirably. The chairman, obviously anxious to avoid exclusion from the society, manfully declined to land a barbel although two five pound plus chub were a worrying indication that he may have been cracking under the strain and so it proved when, on the last day of fishing, when he landed no fewer than three barbus and became the latest member to leave the society under a cloud. So ashamed was Mr Van Winsum of his conduct that he immediately took his leave from the Wye, heading home with his tail between his legs.

Mr Leicester continued valiantly to uphold the aims of the society but, under pressure from the heavy burden he had taken on, asked the society to accept his resignation only to be informed that he would be required to catch a barbel for this to happen. Unable to comply with this scurrilous request, the president continued to carry out his obligations to the society and was able to leave Herefordshire with his head held high having ensured the survival of The Bl***y Awful Barbel Anglers Society.

Reported to be a true and correct record of the week’s events by Mr P. Leicester (a.k.a. Old Whiskers), President, Chairman, Vice-Chairman, Secretary, Treasurer and Ordinary Member of the B.A.B.A.S

A BRISK OPENING DAY ON THE JUNIOR POOL

I was amazed when arriving at the Junior pool at six in the morning to discover not a single bivvy or indeed any other angler on the bank. For the first time ever the club had opened the water on May 1^st in a bid to beat the increasing problem of close season poaching. I was expecting the venue to be heaving but, for the time being, I had the place. Afforded such luxury, I decided to do a quick tour looking for signs of fish activity and relieving the banks of the odd bit of litter, before eventually electing to fish alongside a substantial bed of reedmace from the ‘apple tree peg’. More than an hour after my arrival, I finally lowered a size 16 hook baited with bacon grill into the water below five sections of pole. Before any action accrued a blur of vivid cobalt and tangerine announced the arrival of a kingfisher which posed prettily atop a fluffy reedmace seed head giving me the opportunity to fire off a series of shots with my camera. Unfortunately due to the shade of the nearby trees meant most of the pictures were blurred and only this one was remotely usable.

Steady baiting eventually drew in the fish and after missing the first three bites I eventually struck into a substantial fish which then proceeded to find refuge in a sunken branch before unhooking itself, leaving me to draw in and dispose of the offending tree limb. Action was quickly resumed with several tench between two and two and a half pounds testing the elastic punctuated here and there with the odd rudd. Then a ‘crucian’ of about a pound graced the landing net, probably not a true hundred percent crucian as there are a good number of F1 carp hybrids in the pool which have freely interbred with the original crucian stock.

Every so often I had to break off from the sport to check the permits of anglers who had at last started to arrive at the pool. Eventually there were five of us, including a dedicated carp angler. By now, as sport had slowed on meat, I had switched to corn which had brought a flurry of  ‘crucians’ mostly over the pound mark, a solitary tench and a good few more rudd along with a couple of roach. All the while I was being serenaded by a male blackbird from the trees above and when he departed to attend to some other task he was replaced by a more restrained but equally accomplished songster, a male blackcap declaring his right to the territory of a few square metres of tangled brambles and nettles below. When the bites on corn also waned, a final switch to expander brought me the biggest tench at three pounds nine and the biggest pseudo- crucian taking the dial scales round to two pounds fourteen. The picture below clearly shows that parentage other than crucian carp is evident in this fish although many would claim it to be a ‘cruey’. The fins are a dull rather than bright red, the scales brassy rather than bronze and the body shape is wrong. The dorsal fin to is the wrong shape although that is not evident in the picture.

Soon it was time for me to pack up and I estimate the session had yielded a catch of between forty and fifty pounds. The carp angler had only had a solitary fish of about eight pounds but everybody else seemed content with the level of sport they had enjoyed and for me this had been my third consecutive good bag.

Footnote: The next trip to Heesom’s pool saw it all go pear shaped though with only two smallish crucians to show for my efforts. You can’t win ‘em all!

Heesom’s Pool Wakes Up!

The car park was empty when the Missus dropped me off at Heesom’s at half past seven. The previous trip had been disappointing. I’d caught only six rudd in a full days fishing so I was hoping for better things today.

Excellent, the wind was blowing right into the top end, just what I was hoping for. I loaded up the trolley and set off for peg 29. The odd red ant was scuttling about so the first job was to tuck the jeans into my socks to prevent a formic acid attack on the old legs. The plan was to bait up down the side with pellet and fish with maggot straight out while the bait carpet drew the fish in. An experimental drop in with a pellet on the hook however, soon changed my mind when the float had barely settled before bobbing once and sinking below the ripple. Inevitably I missed the bite and the one on the second cast too. Third put in produced a confident sail away and this time I connected with a good fish which stretched the elastic before coming adrift. Three casts, three good bites, no fish!

Next cast though saw me guide a crucian of over a pound into the landing net after the typical spirited tussle and sudden capitulation. The next cast produced another pushing a pound and a half but then there was a short lull followed by a couple of missed bites before I found myself battling the first tench of the day, not a monster at under two pounds, but a pugnacious fighter nevertheless. Another quiet period followed the capture of a small rudd and I decided to try double red maggot on the hook but three casts and two small perch, one of which dropped off, brought about a switch back to pellet.The pattern continued with crucians and tench coming in ones and twos punctuated with the occasional bream. Each flurry of fish was followed by spells of inactivity but at the end of the day the tally stood at ten crucians to a pound and a half, seven tench with the best scaling three pounds six, four bream to four pounds four,  two small rudd and a perch.

Cheddar and hand carved ham sandwiches with cherry tomatoes provided sustenance on a pleasantly warm day (all it needed was a bottle of ginger beer to make it a Famous Five picnic). All in all a very satisfying outing I think. Welcome to happy bunny land!

THE TEME EXPEDITION DIARY 2008

Saturday 13^th September – Rotten Soddin’ Routefinder

Alg rings to say he will be a bit late and can I get a route from t’internet. I duly oblige with two from Routefinder, one including motorways one not. The Chariot arrives at last and is loaded to the gunnels with luggage, tackle and provisions for the week ahead and away we go.The Routefinder, for some unfathomable reason takes us through the middle of Wolverhampton and we find ourselves lost in the Black Country without a native guide! Luckily the Charioteer’s instincts click in and we eventually find our way to Clifton upon Teme via Worcester. Although the Severn was within its banks, Worcester race course looked more like a boating lake as we passed. Rodders greets us at the Lodge and after a swift unload we agree that we are in severe need of some suitable refreshment from a local hostelry. The Lion Inn, Clifton provides us with the said requirement and our mood mellows considerably.

Back at the lodge, a further infusion of settling-in juice dispensed from a few cans sees us mellowed to the perfect degree. We are persuaded by Danny the sheepdog to throw what remains of a plastic football for him to enthusiastically retrieve. This was to be a daily event which we were unable to refuse for long! Eventually I tear myself away from the canine pesterings in order to undertake the evening meal preparation (chicken in a Lambrusco and cream sauce) in a happy frame of mind. Clean plates testify to the quality of the meal or to erosion of the taste buds by the said liquid refreshment! In the morning we will sally forth on stage one of our piscatorial quest.

Sunday 14^th September – Pig Out!

After the usual restless first night in a strange bed, the happy band of three engage in the making of breakfast, stripped as we are of the services of our usual breakfast chef until Tuesday morning. Now I’m not a bad cook, even if I say so myself but I can’t do a good cooked breakfast and judging by the results of the combined efforts of the three of us neither can the Charioteer and Rodders. I did note however that in the tortuous process, the other two gradually and surreptitiously withdrew from the scene leaving me to carry the can for the culinary debacle that we forced down our throats!

Filled if not thrilled with the breakfast it was time to have our first bash at fishing. Al and I elect to try the former trout lake now turned over to a ‘specimen’ carp lake from which a couple of twenties had been taken earlier in the year while Rodders decided to utilise his Prince Albert ticket on the Teme. Before we set off however we were confronted with the sight of a large saddleback sow right outside the lodge door and guessed correctly that she shouldn’t have been there. There was nobody in at the farm and as I was looking for somebody to inform of the breakout I came across a guy with the legend ‘Dangerous Brian’ emblazoned across the back of his shirt. “You don’t look very dangerous to me” I told him. “I’m having an off day” was his laid back reply. Telling him about the escape of the porkers, for by now I had discovered a second miscreant pig in the orchard I learnt that he helped around the farm and he set off to see what could be done. Joining forces with Alg they soon had them ensconced in the sty. I think Al enjoyed the experience and it gave him the only opportunity to lay his hands on the only bit of female backside that he was going to get during the week. As to how the escape was effected was a mystery as the gate was securely shut. Perhaps they tunnelled under the wire or walked straight past the guards dressed as German officers!

The specimen lake yields a six pound carp very quickly for Alg on Aldi honey boilies too! You could tell though that the pool had been hammered with floaters all summer and the carp took biscuits freely from off the top from wherever I wasn’t fishing. Life’s too short to be made a fool of by smartarse carp so I elect to move to the top lake where carp in the one to three pound range are the standard fare with the odd quality roach and rudd turning up now and then. Floating mixers sort out a slightly better stamp of fish, up to five pounds or so but the artificial bread fools none of them and even the roach fry stop attacking it after a couple of minutes. Conned again! Al is concerned that not taking my chair, choosing to stand and stalk instead, will result in my dodgy foot playing me up.

Rodders returns from the Teme with only a single chub to report for all his efforts. Pork and pineapple Rogan Josh for the evening meal. Very quick and tasty.

Monday 15^th September – What a Swell(ing) Party This is

Alg was right. My foot is giving me severe gyp this morning. I can’t contemplate a river trip today so I stay on the farm and wait for the arrival of Paul and Phil as well as Bob the builder, an old neighbour of mine who has had a few days fishing in the area with his mates and is now set to join us for a few days more. Al and Rodders decide to stay on site as well and head for the specimen lake with a view to banking something to beat yesterday’s six pounder. It’s back on the upper lake for me where I can keep an eye on the approach road for the imminent arrivals. Another bout of angling yoga sees more carp fooled by floaters (except the imitation bread) presented close to the bankside vegetation. The teeming hordes of small roach were often a nuisance sinking the bait before the carp had homed in on it. Occasionally when a carp was landed, a substantial of quantity of the little blighters were scooped up in the net as well!

In the early afternoon I spot Bob the Builder’s tatty white estate cruising down the approach road and he spots and returns my welcoming wave. He quickly joins me on the bank along with his four mates who have come for look round before departing back to Greater Manchester. Introductions are made and a little banter is exchanged before they make their departure. Bob gets his gear from the car and is soon happily ensconced in the next swim and enjoying brisk sport using balls of pellet paste from golf ball to tangerine sized which sorts out the better fish. He declares himself thoroughly at home fishing in this style having endured blanks on the river with all of his mates except one who had lured a single four pound barbel. The Teme, it seems, is giving up her treasures with great reluctance.

Rodders arrives, fed up with the specimen lake which has yielded only carp below the pound to his float fishing approach. There are only supposed to be 35 larger fish in there so I can only presume that they have bred or the pool has been subject to surreptitious stocking. Eventually I decide to knock the fishing on the head and depart to the lodge to get the evening meal underway. It’s a beef and vegetable casserole in red wine tonight, and with six to feed, two casserole dishes are required. Paul and Phil arrive on time and we are now at full strength.

Tuesday 16^th September – The First Teme Assault

Everybody is thankful when Paul takes over the responsibility for producing breakfast even though his stomach condition precludes him from partaking in a fry-up. So bellies full we take off on our mission. Phil is under doctor’s orders to undertake only light angling sessions so he stays on site. Paul first, and then Alg and I head for Mrs Wicken’s Meadows although this has become a misnomer due to the fact that she has passed away since we were last there. Rodders and Bob the builder utilise their Prince Albert tickets and fish a bend on the opposite bank a little way upstream. As we suspected it wasn’t possible to drive down to the swims as the recent floods had turned a field of ready to harvest wheat into a morass of glutinous sludge, so a trek was required. When we arrived at the river we found Paul had claimed the hot peg at the far end of the field. This was the one everyone wanted to fish and had yet to deal a blank to any of us who had fished from it and Paul had already extracted a chub.  Alg drops into a swim about midway down the meadow. I couldn’t find a swim that I fancied (the river had certainly changed from two years ago. The floods seemed to have ripped out much of the cover in some swims and dumped arboreal debris in others making them impossible to fish).  One swim looks promising but my feet twice nearly go out from underneath me on my approach to the river and I would have to negotiate two very narrow greasy steps to land any fish from an almost submerged platform at the bottom. Mr Caution once again gets my ear and I decide against it. In the end I walk to the next meadow upstream and fish the first swim here down to a solitary alder which offered little in the way of overhead cover but  has been undercut to such an extent that it appears to be standing on tiptoe on its roots rather like the mangroves in faraway foreign swamps. The river is carrying some colour but rather surprisingly not the red Worcestershire soil colour but a sort of army vehicle green. Two rods today I think, one down to the tree and the other across towards the far bank. trouble is that although I’ve got the required roddage, I’ve only packed a single reel in my bag. Dolt! I set up a single rod and attach the hooklink that Ziggy gave me on our Dove trip, load up with pellet hookbait and a feeder dispensing 4mm pellet feed and downstream it goes. Minutes turn to hours with not so much as merest tremble on the tip. Pellets are swapped for boilies in three exciting flavours but they don’t excite the fish. As usual the wildlife provides a diversion on what is obviously destined to be a blankety-blank. To alleviate the monotony I undertake a trip downstream to find Paul has had another chub and a barbel in the five pound bracket. Later and still fishless or even biteless I checkout the boys upstream and establish that Rodders and Bob are struggling on the opposite bank. I decide to stay put and slog it out now. I’ve walked far enough today. It’s no use using the mobile to check on any further success, you can’t get a signal anywhere in this valley!

In desperation I decide to try that good old fashioned standby, Bacon Grill, on the hook, reasoning that it’s a good smelly bait in coloured water. I then lob a good dozen pieces as far upstream as I can and pray that they will have reached the bottom in time to trundle along the bottom close to the hookbait. Confidence though has drained from my body by now so I am even more startled than usual when the rod hauls savagely over as a barbel heads towards Worcester against a tightly set clutch. The usual dogged battle ensues but eventually sees me triumphant and a six pound thirteen ounce is laid on the unhooking mat ready for his photo opportunity. Damn! I forgot to pack my camera too!

This fish marks the beginning and the end of the day’s action for me apart from a single dink on the rod top and I give it best. Alg has had another chub and Paul too, along with an 8-3 Bertie. Paul elects to stay on a little longer, as it happens to no avail, while we head back to the ranch. Phil is still on the lake and informs me he has 93 fish. I marvel at his ability to keep count as he catches but then he reveals one of those click counter things in his hand. Sad or what? He vows to reach the 100 before he packs in and I mosey on back to the kitchen to get the night’s scran ready. Rodders and Bob arrive back and reveal their spoils (5 dace and one chub respectively). After what seems an inordinate amount of time to land the seven fish for his hundred Phil arrives back. Apparently every time he fed the fish were swarming around so much that he was getting loads of false bites which made it difficult to tell which indications to strike. To me that begs the question, should he have stopped feeding? Anyway soon we were tucking into minted lamb shoulder chops with honey and herb roasted vegetables. Luckily I didn’t  cremate the chops this time unlike last year when the Charioteer had a piece of charcoal stuck in his teeth for two days!

Not huge numbers of fish today but all river accounts are now open (except for confined to barracks Phil of course who has had a huge amount of fish but hasn’t opened his river account) and the rest of the week stretches before us.

THE TEME EXPEDITION DIARY 2008

(Part Two)

Wednesday 17^th September – Meanwhile Back at the Ranch

All that traipsing about on the riverbank yesterday has knackered my foot again and with great reluctance I pass on a return to Wicken’s meadows and instead keep Phil company at the farm. The Charioteer and Paul (aka as ‘Spartacus’) depart for the venue again while Rodders and Bob once again head for the Prince Albert stretch.

Phil informs me that there is a match on the lake so I take a look for myself. There are eight guys taking up all the left hand and farmhouse banks but none of them have keep nets in and all fish caught are immediately returned. Unless all these guys have Phil type click counters and are registering each fish, this is no match. A word with one of the guys reveals that they too are on holiday but touring day ticket commercials and not bothering with the rivers. It’s not something I’d want to do, but each to his own I say. In fact these fellahs are of wide ranging ability and it’s nice to see the more able members of the party take time out to help the less proficient to put more fish on the bank. Furthermore they are getting huge enjoyment from the session and there’s plenty of banter flying around.

Phil and I however are forced to fish the fenced bank, not that it’s any real problem, it’s just that we’ve got these annoying, fiddly little wooden platforms with not much room and the fence keeps getting in the way of operations. It takes a little while to get the fish going. I guess it takes time to draw some of the fish back from the other banks with all that feeding going on. Eventually however the fish are queuing up to be caught, in fact they are so keen to get at Phil’s bait that he has to hide behind his chair to put a piece of corn on his hook! I marvel at how happy he is to be hooking fish at such a rapid rate. It very quickly bores me and I start inventing ways of slowing my bites down. Ludicrously large balls of pellet paste are moulded onto the hook and then freelined on the bottom but then it’s a case of guess which straightening of the bowed line to strike at, which ninety percent of the time I get wrong. I wonder if the addition of a leger weight will make things easier but I can’t be bothered breaking my tackle down and end up threading a two ounce bomb on the line just because it’s the only one with a swivel large enough to slide over the eye of the hook. God, these prolific lakes are turning me into a lazy old so and so. If I were forced to fish them all the time they’d soon cure me of the fishing bug.

The bomb was stopped eighteen inches above the hook with a shot and the whole baited kit and caboodle lobbed about three rod lengths out, tightened up and fished with the rod in the rest at a forty-five degree angle, barbel fishing style. This produced barbel fishing type bites too with three foot twitches on the rod top! Many bites were missed but often two to three pound carp would put up spirited battles before succumbing. The rest of the day was spent alternating between this and floater fishing (an easy operation with my Heath Robinson quick change rig). Soon, once again, I tired of the easy fishing and got on with readying the evening’s fare, lime and coriander chicken wrapped in bacon leaving Phil behind on the bank with a tally of seventy odd fish.

One by one everybody arrived back. Alg was a tad brassed off because he had only banked a single chub from the ‘hot’ end peg. Paul had bagged a couple of chub, Bob a barbel, only around four pounds but he was happy and Rodders reported a couple of chub. Phil of course had caught a lot more fish from the lake. Meal over, an evening of fishing videos is enjoyed in the company of Roscoe, the elder statesman of the three farm dogs who often popped over to say hello and without fail, peed on Rodder’s car wheel as he left.

Thursday 18^th September – Spartacus rises above us mere mortals

Eastham bridge on the team is today’s chosen venue for the Charioteer, Spartacus, Rodders and myself while Bob kindly volunteers to take Phil to fish Larford Lakes. He’s been whittering on about them all week and we suspect that he wants to claim the Izaak trophy for the biggest fish of the week with a commercial carp. Shameless behaviour I say!

Although Alg and I set off a good twenty minutes behind the other two, we are surprised to see they are only just donning their boots when we arrive at the car park. The pegs next to the car park look spot - on as far as flow and colour is concerned but a bloke is occupying one swim and has only had a few chub, small ones I’m guessing by his tone. We set off downstream but I’m disappointed to find that a swim I fished the last time we were here is unfishable with water well over the gravel bar that provided such a comfortable station previously. We find Spartacus ensconsed in a very nice looking swim which I would have certainly dropped into had I got there first. A nice easy approach to a flat sandy platform with a good looking bit of water and a couple of trees providing features on the opposite bank. Alg finds an equally comfortable perch just round the corner some twenty yards below. Another twenty five yards downstream is a fairly easily negotiated access to the river but nowhere with enough room to set up a chair and I don’t fancy standing all day because that’s what knackers my foot, so I climb out again with the intention of going back to occupy  the remaining swim at the car park but halfway back I can already see that it has since been taken.

Turning round again, I run into Rodders who had somehow become invisible in his swim upstream of the others. He kindly offers to share it with me but after a quick shuftie I turn it down, thinking the flow is a bit fierce to make it a good holding swim for Berties. It’s back to the swim below Alg then. As I draw level with Paul, I can see he is about to weigh a fish.

Huzzah for Spartacus, what a fine angler he is!

I stop for some info on the catch, when his other rod suddenly slams over and an awkward strike sees him attached to yet another barbel.  Scrambling down the slope, I relieve him of barbel number one, firmly encased in the weigh sling and hold it in the shallows while he plays barbel number two. This is ridiculous, Paul has got two already and I’ve not even got into a swim yet! Both fish register seven pounds plus and we congratulate the captor.

As I have said, he’s not a bad angler but equally he certainly has more than his fair share of luck!

I depart to rather belatedly set up my gear but even before I climb down to the swim Al shouts that he’s in. Not a barbel this time nor even a chub but a bream of three pounds eleven. Even Paul, an inveterate bream hater, has to admit that it is a nice looking fish. At last I get set up with a single rod, the terrain is too awkward for two. I even manage to park my behind on my seat, folded down flat with a piece of wood under the front end to level it. It’s serviceable but not in the least bit comfortable but it’s better than standing all day. There then follows an interminable wait for a bite from anybody! A couple of uneventful hours pass when, to relieve the boredom I switch on the walkie-talkie and regale the lads with this little ditty to the tune of Que sera, sera (I was going to insert a voice clip with me singing it at this point but, mercifully for you, I can’t work out how to do it).

When I was just a little boy,

I asked my mother “What would I be?

Would I catch barbel?

Would I catch chub?”

Here’s what she said to me,

NO!

So it goes on. I run through every gamut in my angling armoury without any success. Rodders has moved in next to Paul but it is to no avail. Eventually a fish is caught and yes you’ve guessed it, it’s Spartacus doing the bagging.

He’s nothing but a jammy b******!!!

Then the lull in sport sets in again, not that it’s ever set out for me. A short walk is required to stretch my somewhat cramped calf muscles and it’s nice to see a comma butterfly resting on some parsley and there are a few dragonflies about too in the warm sunshine. Butterflies and dragonflies have been in short supply for the whole of this miserable summer. There are a few comma butterflies sunning themselves atop the parsley crop in the field and Rodders is apparently being courted by a male Common Darter dragonfly which repeatedly lands on his hand. These particular dragonflies are often attracted to pale coloured surfaces so I guess Rodders hasn’t been getting as much sun as the rest of us. He returns the insects affection by naming him Dennis (maybe there’s a Freudian explanation here as his wife’s name is Denise).

A return to my swim gives me fresh impetus and the decision is taken to cast further downstream, where a narrow nearside gully carries a lot of water around sandstone shelf shallows that cover over half the river’s width. I slightly overdo the cast and my rig lands on top of the shelf. I twitch the feeder back and the terminal tackle drops into the gully and the tip of the rod pulls round slowly in the strong flow but then keeps on going, dislodging the butt of the from the ground and prompting a hasty lunge from me to prevent disappearing into the river. It’s very like the pull you get when a large raft of weed fouls your line, only there is no weed coming down. In fact I haven’t seen any weed at all in the Teme throughout the week, floating or beneath the surface. A fish then? I’ll never know because just as the rod reaches its full fighting curve, everything goes slack.

Retrieving the line, I find the hook length has parted half an inch below the swivel and I suspect that the line has been abraded when I pulled the feeder off the sandstone shelf. Fishing on produces no further drama and I decide another leg stretch is called for. Just as I’ve settled myself behind Paul and Rodders, Paul’s rod becomes wildly animated as another Bertie snatches his bait and charges off downstream. In the ensuing battle the fish becomes snagged under the near bank but is dislodged without too much difficulty. By now I’m at the bottom of the bank and net an impressive looking barbel in a highly expert fashion. Well I’ve got to big myself up somehow in this episode! The weight is determined at ten six and we all suspect the competition for the Izaak is all but over.

The man has sold his soul to the devil. A plague upon him, his house and upon all of his children. May he rot and burn in hell for all eternity!!!

Er! Sorry about that, I don’t know what came over me! I’ll be alright when I’ve had my tablet, really I will!

Nothing more is caught and we head for the lodge. Discussing Paul’s catch in the car, The Charioteer says that he couldn’t see what he was doing differently, apart from spraying his pellets. Suspecting a devastatingly powerful barbel attracting flavour, I ask in all innocence,

“What with?”

“A catapult” comes back the laconic reply, accompanied by a quizzical sideways glance, and we both burst into fits of laughter.

Phil and Bob return from Larford with the news that Bob has had carp up to sixteen pounds while Phil bemoans the fact that he lost one that would have easily won the Izaak and has had to content himself with single figure fish. It looks as if Bob has secured the Izaak

An evening meal of pork in cider and bramley apple sauce, the apples plucked straight from a tree in the orchard, was enjoyed before we departed for a few jars at the New Inn. When we walked into the pub we were met by the extraordinary sight of a pool table piled high with airguns and a target shooting contest going on inside the building. It seemed like a bit of ‘Deliverance’ moment and I was tempted to go outside again to see if there were a couple of country hicks playing banjos by the door. Fortunately our group weren’t herded into the car park and given a minute’s head start before being pursued by a gang of trigger happy locals bent on a little sport!

This was the last night before we are once again reduced to three and the talk turned to the Izaak. Bob immediately rules himself out of the running, although his sixteen pound carp was easily the biggest fish, because he feels as a guest and not a regular member of the group, he should not be part of the contest. With three of us fishing tomorrow, the competition was live and running and it is decided to hold an Izaak presentation night at some point in the near future, after the holiday

Friday 19^th September – The final day back down to three

Bob, Phil and Paul, damn his eyes (another tablet please nurse), have departed so it’s back to a badly cooked breakfast before the final assault at Wicken’s Meadow. My foot, thank goodness, is not giveng me any pain today, so it’s a river trip for me again! Both Rodders and I would like a crack at the end swim so we agree to toss for it and inevitably I lose. Two anglers are already on the stretch one occupying the swim I had decided I would fish and I find myself back on the swim in the upstream meadow. With the requisite number of reels this time, it will be a two rod campaign. Bacon grill meat bait is fished down to the tree and pellet is cast straight out towards the opposite bank. Here we go again, an interminable wait for any sort of indication. Once again nature’s answer to street entertainers keeps me awake and reasonably alert. A kingfisher frequently visits the far bank bushes and demonstrates that it is indeed possible to catch fish in this particular piece of water. An intermittent breeze produces the most extraordinary sound effect from the leaves of line of Lombardy poplar trees. It sounds as if an army is on the march on the opposite side of the river.

News from the other meadow informs me that Alg and Rodders have had chub and that Rodders has lost the first barbel he has hooked this week. As the only non-catcher of the day it’s time for me to change tactics. Nothing complicated, just swap the rods over so that the pellet feeder rig is downstream and the meat across. Half an hour later and bingo, over goes the top of the pellet rod for the first time this week and it’s heart in the mouth time until a short deep bertie is enveloped in the net’s mesh. At eight pounds four, it is my best fish of the week. Rodders comes to do the photographic honours but quite honestly, my less than photogenic mug detracts from the beauty of the fish and the picture of it on the mat looks much better. Once again the river gods decide that this single fish is adequate award for my endeavour and withdraw the chance of any further piscatorial action on the day. Eventually I get the message and pack up. Rodders has landed two barbel in the 4-5 poud bracket and Alg too has managed to bag one at the death, only three pounds eleven, but a barbel none the less which means everyone but the lake bound Phil has tasted a little of the barbus action on the holiday.

The last night is the traditional chef’s night off so we repair to the Lion Inn only to find that, for this week only, they regret they are not serving food. Somehow we don’t fancy the New Inn, perhaps we feel Friday night may be live target night, but really it’s because we’ve been told it’s expensive. It takes a bit of time to find another pub but eventually we find ourselves in a half pub, half library establishment that sells donated books to raise funds for the local air ambulance service and also, thankfully serves food. Having finished our chosen meals, I’m gratified to hear the other two’s verdict that it was the worst meal of the week, not counting the first day breakfast I presume. If you want to ensure being fed on future holidays it’s as well to keep in with the chef! I purchase a book by one of Barbara’s favourite authors as a present for her on tomorrow’s return home and we round the evening off with a few games of pool and pleasant and wide ranging conversation.

The following morning is the scene of fervent cleaning activity before handing back the keys of the lodge secure in the knowledge that the lodge is pretty much in as good nick as we found it on our arrival. Farewells are exchanged with Rodders before Alg and I depart for Cheshire, via the M5 this time and avoiding Wolverhampton! This year’s expedition is over, time to start planning for next year I think.

Post Script

A couple of weeks later the presentation of the Izaak award was held at a pub in Holmes Chapel. I stood in for Phil (the previous year’s winner) as the presenter as he had tickets for the theatre that night. After handing out the verbal accolades to the jammy toad, spawn of the devil, disciple of Beelzebub (No don’t bother with the tablets nurse, the drugs don’t work anymore), I invited him to bend over to receive the award. Don’t worry Paul, we still love you so long as you don’t win it again next year!

With the opening couple of weeks of the season behind us, I thought I’d regale you with an account of my first session on the Junior pool and very enjoyable it was too ………….

ON THE UP AFTER A CRAPPY START

Up at four, no shave, just quick ablutions and off to the bottom cistern (or junior pool or lad's pit take your pick, they are all the same water), only I'm on Shank's pony and it takes me twice as long to get there as it used to. When I finally do get there the air turns blue. The bank in one swim is absolutely covered in CRAP, lager cans, food wrappers, luncheon meat and sweetcorn tins and two disposable barbecues. It took me half an hour to clear it all (three bags full) and I had to leave the barbecues for a long while because they were still hot. I was furious!

I think it is down to non members arriving after dark, feckless youths probably chased away from the parks and public benches by the police and finding new hangouts to spread their filth and while they are about it doing a bit of poaching as well. Wish I could get my hands on them. Calm down Pete you're getting apoplectic!

Eventually I start to set up and soon I'm fishing a short pole sideways down the bank close to some overhanging branches with a small cube of meat on a sixteen hook. The float buries straight away and a pristine six ounce roach is hurried to the net followed closely by a half pound golden rudd and after a missed bite, a pound and a half tench pulls the old hydroelastic a bit before succumbing. This one has lots of red patches mingled with the green, probably due to spawning activity. More rudd (silver, golden and a rare red one) follow along with more pristine roach, a couple of smallish tench and a small Fl carp. Then, as the float dives away again, I strike into what at first seems a reasonable crucian which I steer away from the branches easily but then it livens up a bit and I think average tench, but when I give it a bit of stick to get it to the top and swallowing some air the fish suddenly goes ballistic and now I think I'm latched into a carp. Eventually though when it surfaces I can see it's a good tench and after safely netting the tinca, the scales are produced to reveal a weight of 4-14 and a p.b. (desperately wished it to be a five but the scales don't lie).

A couple more tench and several silver fish are hooked before sport begins to slow and I decide to set up a rod to present floaters to the carp but there is nothing showing. I grab my net and move round to the reedmace bed against which the wind has blown a belt of scum and sure enough, several carp are lazily cruising beneath it. A few freebies soon arouses interest and in goes the baited hook after a few fruitless inspections of the bait by the fish one suddenly decides to grab it but ejects immediately. At last one snatches and runs and a firm strike puts a decent bend in the rod which immediately straightens when the hook knot comes undone. I'd forgotten the line was fluoro and had tied the wrong knot. Furious with myself, I tie on a new size 4, this time with the appropriate knot (a Palomar knot in case you’re interested). Before long a six pound common makes a mistake and after a seriously good scrap from a comparatively small fish the net engulfs it. It takes a good fifteen minutes before the carp are back but soon another positive take sees me hooked into a much more ponderous fish but also a considerably bigger one which the Fox barbel rod tames pretty quickly. She weighs in at 14-14 (desperately wished it to be a fifteen but the scales don't lie). It's still the biggest carp that I've had for quite a while however.

Soon after I call it a day and after the long walk home I feel in need of a bath. Before immersing myself I hop onto the bathroom scales. Oh no, that can't be right, but it is (desperately wish I was lighter but the scales don't lie!).

 I kicked off this season’s campaign with an all-nighter, fishing for this delightful river’s chub and elusive barbel and here is my account of the session.

DOVE DELIGHT

Things were definitely not looking good. Rodders had taken me upriver to meet Trebor who had been fishing from the season’s off right through until four o’clock the following afternoon and as yet had not had a sniff despite swim and bait changes. He told us that Big L had caught a chub but that was it, although someone on the opposite bank had caught a few chub, the prospects looked grim with, by mutual agreement, a low river and a bright sun and a near full moon to come when darkness fell. Even the common tern that was patrolling up and down the river had come up with nothing in four dives. If highly competent regulars on the river were struggling, what chance had I got? Never mind I told myself, with Rodders, The Charioteer and myself meeting up for a full night’s session on the Langridge’s stretch of the Dove near Uttoxeter, it was to be more of a social affair.

Before we even picked our swims we sat for quite some time chatting and swapping banter but then Rodders and the Charioteer started comparing pictures of their respective ‘in progress’ kitchens. Honestly, have they no sense of occasion?

Time to pick a swim and The Charioteer suggested that we share a gravel bar at the bottom of the horseshoe while Rodders fished the swim above, a pitch with some form it would seem. Trouble was, I didn’t fancy the gravel bar, telling Al it looked more like a trout swim and set off to fond something more to my liking. I settled for the swim I fished in the freezing fog back in the early months of the year and after a little work a path to the rather overgrown ‘beach’ was cut out. While I was back to collecting my gear, no lesser personages than the Chairman and Vice-chairman of the Dove Valley Angling Association, Bob and Barry respectively, visited us. After being introduced by Rodders we were soon in conversation about the angling prospects. It was at this point that Barry offered to show me what he considered to be the nearest thing to a ‘banker’ barbel swim on the Dove, a small bay on the far bank flanked by bushes, with a backdrop of dead branches about twenty yards above the cattle drink. As we watched a barbel flashed twice below the surface which was enough as far as I was concerned to clinch it as my new choice pitch.

As I transfer my tackle to the swim Rodders decides to while away some of the remaining daylight hours trotting with maggots and Al settles himself on the gravel bar After some deliberation I decide I would be more comfortable on top of the bank rather than on the ledge some three feet below and set up my chair with the back legs folded down and the front legs extended only a couple of inches. The rod rests were planted on the ledge before I set about my customary leisurely set up. A phone call from Rodders tells me he has caught a chub of about four pounds. At last I’m ready to go and my first cast sends a feeder rig with a 16mm halibut pellet on the hook in a graceful parabola to land in ‘position A’, in the bay just above the barbel bush. The lad has still got it! At least until the next cast which falls wimpishly short of the target area as indeed does the next cast but then I find my range and the feeder hits the spot nine times out of ten. A second feeder rig this time with maggots is sent down and across towards the cattle drink and I hope that this rod will provide some amusement with small fish while I await an indication from their bigger brethren. Before I see any action Rodders visits along with a guy who had fished for an hour or so in my original choice of swim. As we converse we alerted by a shout from The Charioteer to the fact that he has a good fish on and we all set off post-haste towards the gravel bar. By the time I’ve huffed and puffed my way to the swim Alg has a ‘bertie barbel’ in the net, taken on one of his red boilies. After weighing the handsome beard at seven pounds ten photographic honours are carried out before the fish is returned. It just goes to show how good my estimation of a swim’s potential is.

Right, now I’m the only one of our trio not to have caught so it’s back to the bay for a seriously concentrated assault. The maggot rig is the first away when the quiver jags sharply twice and a half pound grayling is soon on the bank. Well it’s a start and at least I’m not blanking. Next cast and a similar bite sees a similar fish on but he comes off at the net. Another cast and this time the tip slams round and I’m connected to something that sets the tightly set clutch ticking as a good fish powers away downstream only for the hooklink to part at the swivel. With the low water level and bright sun earlier in the day, I had decided to use a low diameter hook length and I’d paid for my stupidity. A proper hook length of eight pound Sensor is incorporated into the rig and another size 16 Animal eyed hook is tied on. An immediate bite gets me a nice grayling over the pound mark and this is quickly followed by a two pound trout which leaps and crashes all over the swim before being netted, with difficulty in the dark. Almost as soon as the next chuck hits the bottom the rod lurches sideways out of the rest and after a dour tussle a four pound chub extends the purple patch. Everything then goes quiet for the next twenty or thirty minutes leaving me time to reflect on my first encounters with some ‘proper’ fish from the river.

Rodders appears intent on a combined leg stretch and chat but before much of a conversation can ensue, the rod tip nods before pulling decisively round again. The zizz of the clutch and semi circle in the rod tells me a beard is making its powerful initial bid for freedom. Rodders drops down on to the ledge and takes the net as I struggle to steer the stubborn beard away from the line of bushes on the far bank. Before long though the fish begin to see it my way and when Rodders switches on his headlamp to aid an efficient netting operation, we can see it coming side on toward us on the surface. She still has enough fight in her to make to dive a couple more times for the bottom with a great slap of her tail before at last being enfolded in the mesh. She weighs in at six pounds fourteen and after the obligatory pictures, given the awkward height above the water, Martin generously takes the fish down to his swim for release where she swims off strongly after a short period of nursing in the edge.

Back at my swim, I decide to dispense with the other rod after an unholy tangle of the terminal tackle. It had after all produced nothing despite fishing and feeding close to the bush with both pellet and boilies. A second chub completed the tally for the darkness hours, a longer leaner fish than the first that turned the scales at four ponds seven. For a couple of seconds it had me believing that it was another barbel, ripping a few yards of line from the clutch before quickly capitulating and sliding over the net. The grey finger of dawn heralded a slightly disappointing dawn chorus and my fish account closed with a trout of about a pound and a small grayling.

Rodders went walkabout with a feeder rod to take a lovely two and half pound trout and a good grayling before we all decided to call it a day (or should that be night?) and pack up. I elected to take two trips to get the gear back to the car. I wondered why I take so much gear. I could have left a mountain of bait at home and relied on just a couple of pints of maggots.  Judging by the stuff that actually proved effective in putting fish on the bank, most of my equipment could have been left behind too. This morning my back, shoulders, legs and feet all hurt. Two days later and my body clock was all over the place and I still felt knackered despite ten solid hours of sleep, so was it all worth it? You bet your sweet bippy it was!

NOT BRISK SPORT BUT A PLEASANTLY LAID BACK DAY

A car parked in the corner told me that, for once, I was not the first at Heesom’s Pool when Barbara dropped me off on her way to work. Peter Knight and son were the early birds who were setting up on pegs 4 and 5 as I passed on my way to the far end of the lake. Pleasantries were exchanged before I continued my journey during which I caught a kingfisher leaving its nest hole on a quest to catch more fish for the hungry brood. After some tricky negotiation of the tackle trolley around the tree roots on the rapidly narrowing path, I eventually reached peg 29 at the apex of the pool. Moving  a piece of rotting wood in order to level the platform released a horde of annoyed red ants, always a hazard on this peg, so I tucked my trousers into my socks to minimise the risk of stinging formic acid on my legs before setting about tackling up.

With a light wind blowing directly into the corner on a delightfully warm morning my hope were high for a few encounters with some of the pool’s tench population so I chose to use strong red hydroelastic with my pole and a fairly beefy rig to bully the fish away from the tangle of dead branches near to which I intended to present my bait. I was hopeful of some early action with the tench, my favourite sillwater fish. With a 4mm expander pellet on a 16 hook I lowered the bait into the water on four sections of pole and lobbed in a couple of small balls of 50/50 mix breadcrumb and fishmeal groundbait and a couple of dozen feed pellets and then sat back to await a bite. Yellow flag iris and buttercups together with the pink foxgloves and campions and blue periwnkles studded the banks with colour. Parties of mixed tits with newly fledged young in tow searched diligently amongst the branches above me for insects while every now and then a recently emerged blue tailed damselfly would undertake a hesitant maiden flight. It was just as well nature had provided so much to enjoy as more than an hour elapsed before the float gave the first almost imperceptible indications that there was some interest from fish some six feet below it. Another ten minutes had gone by, during which several strikes had failed to connect with a fish after what had seemed pretty positive bites. Then at last I managed to hit one and the elastic slowly emerged from the pole tip as a skimmer of around a pound chugged sluggishly around the swim before hitting the bottom of the landing net.

For a while that was it and I told Bob Hughes when he visited during his morning walk with his Jack Russell terrier that I was disappointed with my apparently poor choice of swim. He assured me that as yet, none of the other anglers he had spoken to had tasted any action which made me feel a little better. With the strengthening rays of the sun though I felt my chance of any tench action was rapidly diminishing.

Eventually however regular bites started to come albeit with a lot of them missed. The fish I did manage to hook were mainly skimmers in the twelve ounce to two pound bracket with the odd crucian between eight ounces and a pound for good measure. When Frank came a-calling at quarter to three to stretch his legs after his bites had faded, I related my disappointment at the tench no show and just then the float slid firmly away and a strike saw the pole take on a firm curve and a copious length of elastic stretched from the pole tip as I side strained like mad to steer it away from the snags. A mass of fine bubbles erupted from beneath the first of the large dead branch before the fish finally saw it my way and turned back towards me.  The tug of war that followed finally culminated with the olive green beauty sliding over the rim of the landing net. A lovely looking female of just under two and three-quarter pounds, she looked as if she had received several coats of clear varnish as she regarded me from the bottom of the net with her small red eye. The next two fish were tench too, a little smaller than the first but both scrappers to the last. Three tench in 15 minutes but then the tincas were gone and it was back to skimmers with a half pound roach and a small rudd adding variety.

With sport having slowed and the sun’s warmth my eyelids started to droop, this soporific state being accelerated by the wood pigeons’ soothing calls. The bow waves of a couple of cruising carp however soon shook me from my reverie and I hastily set up a rod to present chum mixers on the surface. The leviathans, one of which looked to be over twenty pounds, scorned my efforts to snare them but instead slurped in the odd freebie just to rub in my ineptitude. Eventually they drifted away and it was back to the pole for the last hour or so. I had run out of drink and developed a raging thirst so for much of the remaining time I fantasised about cool pints of foaming lager. I packed up and Barbara picked me up at the gate at a quarter past six.

It had not been a frenetic session but I calculated that my final bag had not been too far short of thirty pounds. Altogether a very pleasant, relaxing day and after a quick wash and brush up, a ham, cheese and mushroom omelette with chips and salad rounded the day nicely (accompanied by a couple of pints of cool foaming lager of course!).

How many times have you spotted a big fish or even a shoal of big fish and resolved to get one on the bank only to find that, despite your best efforts, your quarry has been singularly unimpressed and your target has proved to be mission impossible? You might just have well tried to catch a ghost!

FISHING FOR PHANTOMS

Many is the time I have been tantalised by a big fish coming into view seemingly begging me to have a cast at him but frustratingly has refused to succumb to every temptation I have then put under his nose.

In their own way these encounters have been just as memorable as the days when I have managed to bank notably big fish. So let me tell you about some of those days of unforgettable failure.

The question is where to start? Let’s start with some carp encounters. Some time back I fished the Capesthorne Hall lakes occasionally. One day my buddy Martin rang me to tell me of some very big carp that he had discovered in the lower lake, two of which he had hooked but unfortunately had lost. He suggested that I came along on his next trip to see for myself.

We waded into the lake, pushing through the marginal reeds until we reached a tongue of open water studded with clumps of water lilies. We then laced the bottom with handfuls of corn, cast in our lines and waited. Eventually the carp turned up but they seemed uneasy possibly a result of two of their number being hooked the previous weekend. Through the day odd fish would drift in and out of the swim just yards away. They were all well into double figures, some certainly were over the then magic twenty pound mark, but none were willing to get their heads down and feast on the copious yellow grains. Occasionally one would perform half hearted nose along the bottom which sent up little puffs of silt like small cumulus clouds but for the most part they would disinterestedly drift in and out of the swim with a disdainful swivel of an eye in our direction. On one occasion the listless loop in my line straightened suddenly when a scared carp picked it up on its dorsal fin and shot away in panic but as far as action was concerned that was it and after several absorbing but frustrating hours we packed up.

Some monster carp over twenty pounds in Hawkstone lake, Shropshire, were in contrast, quite willing to intercept the slow sinking bread flake I offered them, sucking it in with great relish. The trouble was that they were feeding in the members only section of the pool and as I wasn’t members of Wem A.S. I couldn’t fish for them!

One place I could fish for carp was on our own Barnton & Frodsham A.C. stretch of the Weaver. Next to the overflow sill on peg one you could find some very good fish indeed. The weather had to be hot and it helped if there was an accumulation of floating rubbish against the projecting sill wall. Steady feeding with pieces of floating crust would then bring some hefty fish to the surface, enthusiastically slurping down the offerings. Some of these fish were well over twenty pounds and seemingly devoid of any caution. Obviously I expected to get among these bold fish with little difficulty once the season opened and here was the rub! Once the season did open these brazenly bold carp were nowhere to be seen and not once did I manage to raise a carp to the surface when I was allowed to fish for them. I caught the odd chub and even a stray rainbow trout but the carp had vanished. I did accidentally catch one of eight and three-quarter pounds but on float fished corn presented on the bottom for bream but the leviathans that I so dearly coveted never gave me a sniff of a chance of banking one of them.

Talking of bream, I have come across some pretty impressive slabs as well that have proved to be equally difficult to get on the hook as the carp. Certainly the biggest bream I have ever seen, those residing in Quoisley mere, South Cheshire have proved to be amongst the most visible and yet impossible of all my angling targets. In the seventies the Angling Times featured a group assault on the bronze bream record on an unnamed Cheshire Mere which my fishing mate, Martin and I recognised from the pictures as Quoisley, a lake we had fished occasionally and by and large unsuccessfully, for pike. The record wasn’t broken but a good number of very impressive slabs were amassed, some in the 11 pound bracket I seem to recall. That was it, we had to have a crack at these fish so the boat was booked and plans were laid.

We decided on an overnight session with an assault over a generous bed of groundbait. What we failed to appreciate was that our perception of the amount of groundbait needed for such an exercise (about 10 pounds of breadcrumb) and the reality were oceans, or at least lakes apart! When we reached the boathouse the first thing we saw was a dead bream bigger than anything we could have imagined but in an advanced state of decay and definitely very smelly so we didn’t satisfy our curiosity by weighing it. We rowed the boat out into the lake and deposited our groundbait at what we reckoned would be on the shoal’s patrol route (the Angling Times had mapped this – the fish apparently took a figure of eight course around the pool).

Darkness fell and Quoisley took on the eerie primeval air that it always seemed to adopt when light levels were low. The night passed without a bite to either of our rods and was uneventful apart from me almost jumping out of the boat after I turned round to see a flat headed dinosaur sticking its neck out of the water immediately behind us. It was in fact the oar we had stuck into the mud to which we had tied the boat for increased stability! But for Martin grabbing my belt I would have suffered an unplanned nocturnal ducking. Then, as dawn’s pale fingers crept slowly over the lake, we saw them. Great dustbin lid sized fish were porpoising beyond where we were casting, breaking through the mirrored surface with barely a ripple. We couldn’t reach to them from where we were so we pulled up the anchor and rowed the boat toward them but they managed to keep their distance and just as quickly as they had appeared they were gone. Of course we fished on but without success. We may have caught the odd small perch, I can’t remember now but I do know that I have never seen such huge bream before or since.

Big roach are elusive wherever you fish and the biggest I have caught was just half an ounce shy of one and three-quarter pounds from the canal at Saltersford basin where, for a short time there were some very big redfins to be had. The biggest roach that I saw though were in the River Teme where I was fishing on the first day of a new season. I had enjoyed a day of roving offering freelined or light legered baits with a modicum of success, catching a few chub up to two pounds and it was after landing another modest chevin that I spotted a dozen or so dark shapes drifting across the river in mid-water at an almost imperceptible rate. Their fins were barely moving with just the small stokes of the pectorals sculling them very slowly along. Roach! Big roach, with the smallest being at least on a par with my big canal fish and most considerably bigger than that!

The slow procession came to a halt at the edge of a slack a little downstream and I could clearly see their glowing red fins and gill flaps opening and closing. I was going to have to have a crack at these fish!

Before I had a cast I felt that I needed to introduce a steady stream of ‘tasters’ in order to get them to feed confidently. The first thumbnail sized piece of squeezed breadflake fell well short of the target but the second hit the water directly above the nearest fish. The mid-afternoon sun enabled me to watch the progress of the flake as it zig-zagged through the relatively clear water. Although it passed within inches of the snout of the a roach it produced no sign of a reaction from that or any of the other fish and progressed undisturbed to the bottom where I could just make it out. It suddenly became animated and chugged jerkily upstream indicating that a minnow or some other small fry had decided to try and make a meal of it. All of the following offerings were similarly ignored by the big roach and even the fry seemed to lose interest leaving the bottom studded with pieces of bread. A switch to loose fed sweetcorn was treated with similar disdain and just added to the abstract art form that was assembling on the bed of the Teme. I had tried to avoid maggots for fear of attracting minnows but with nothing to lose I eventually turned to them. Once again it was as though the roach didn’t see them as they dropped through the waterand once the grubs were below their intended target these more manageable mouthfuls were seized upon by hordes of small fish. A short time after this those big beautiful roach decided that, as they were not hungry, they would excuse themselves from the dinner table. Their leaving was even more leisurely than their arrival and they just very slowly sank deeper in the water and drifted down and across stream until the tail fin of the last fish disappeared from view. It was almost as if they had dissolved! Almost unbelievably the biggest roach I have ever seen came and went from under my nose without me ever having a cast of them. There wouldn’t have been much point in trying. If they weren’t going to look at my loose offerings they certainly weren’t going to be tempted by a baited hook.

Finally, to finish, I’ll recount a couple of pike encounters. I’ve not actively pursued old esox much and the few pike I have caught have been pretty small but I have come across some pretty big pike from time to time.

One memorable occasion was on a visit to the Severn at its confluence with the River Teme. I was after Barbel and quickly caught a couple early in the session before everything went quiet. This was quite usual on the Severn and I kept to the usual routine of filling and casting my feeder about every ten minutes waiting for the barbel to return. This had continued for an hour or more when, while my feeder was skipping across the surface when being rapidly retrieved, there was enormous swirl and the ‘plastic pig’ was seized by a good sized marauding pike that put an alarming bend in my quivertip rod. After a few seconds the predator relinquished its grip and the feeder, now with a few more holes in it, was refilled and cast out once more. The next feeder retrieval once again drew a strike from the pike, this time much closer to the bank and for the next few minutes a battle ensued, with much tail slapping and showers of spray which only ended when the feederlink snapped just as I was readying the landing net to receive the fish.

It was at this point that it occurred to me that it might be a good idea to actually have a go at hooking the fish. Not only would it put an end to the disruption to my barbel fishing but it would certainly be the biggest fish of the day if I banked it. The trouble was that I wasn’t really equipped with the right gear to tackle the monster. I substituted an Avon top on my rod for the quiver tip and employed a spool of eight pound breaking strain line on my reel (the strongest I had with me). A search through my tackle box yielded a single wire trace which together with a shallow diving pike plug and an Abu Toby spinning lure provided the total armoury at my disposal. Still, it would have to do!

I decided to start with the plug and attached it to the swivel on the end of the wire trace. I cast it in all directions, wound it back at different speeds, jerked it, stopped it and generally worked it in the manner recommended in all the manuals and hooked only weed. Changing to the Toby made a difference, I caught much more weed! Eventually, having raised absolutely no interest from my toothy adversary, I returned to my barbel fishing and guess what as soon as I wound back the feeder it was grabbed by the pike! It was very quickly released this time and that was the last time that I crossed swords with it. It occurred to me that if I had attached a treble hook to a feeder and used it as a lure in the first place, I might actually have bagged the invader in my swim!

I didn’t even fish for the pike in the second of my encounters. Again it was on the Severn, this time near Bridgnorth while on our annual fishing holiday. The swim in question was at the point of a gravel bar at the junction of the river and what amounted to no more than a drainage ditch but at its mouth widened to a few yards. Paul Dean had been fishing for barbel with a quivertip rod and while waiting for bites he fished with a float rod catching small chub, dace and perch. It wasn’t long before the activity attracted the attention of a very large predator and every hooked fish was followed as they were wound in. The pike’s tactics changed and it waited until the fish were returned before launching an attack. One unfortunate chublet was practically taken from the hand as it was slipped back in and Paul was drenched with spray as the turned away in an enormous swirl! Obviously it was felt that this fish would be a sucker, ripe for the catching, but attempts with wobbled and static deadbaits by Paul and with spinners and plugs by his son Martin were ignored by the pike. Eventually they gave up and the fish wasn’t seen again on that day. Two days later I was giving the same swim a crack for barbel and had failed to attract a bite after several hours fishing when suddenly a shoal of silvery small fry erupted through the calm surface of the slack. A huge bow wave then cut through the spreading ripples as an obviously large fish moved from left to right just a few feet in front of me. I considered, for a short while, setting up a pike rod but was keen to concentrate on my barbel fishing as the week had so far been disappointing in that department. I decided to see if the pike would show again before I made up my mind. No more movement was seen for quite a while until suddenly there was a surge of activity in the mouth of the small stream and a formation of small bow waves moved rapidly up the brook with once again, a large pike in close pursuit. The small fish continued to forge up into the increasingly narrowing and much shallower waterway and soon the pike’s back was out of the water and great clouds of silt were sent up as the predator ploughed through the muddy bottom. It was at this point that it seemed to realise that the quest for this particular food was over and not without some struggle it made its way back into the main river. My own quest for the pike was also fated when I found that although I had brought a pike rod along, all my pike terminal gear was back in the caravan and the urge to catch a barbel was too strong for me to take the time to go back for it (i.e. I was in lazy sod mood).

So there you have it, catching a specimen is undoubtedly a memorable experience but not catching a big fish can be truly unforgettable too. I am sure that some of you may have similar recollections so why not let us know about them?

I’ve reprised this seasonal story for those of you who may have missed it last year and it saves me from having to write another one!

  CHRISTMAS WISHES FOR CHRISTMAS FISHES

Ben was over the moon. He knew his Uncle Steve had got him the fishing gear he had asked for even before he had ripped the wrapping paper from the packages. Mind you it would be hard to disguise the profile of a fishing rod. A square box contained a reel which his uncle had already loaded with line complete with a spare spool also loaded but with sturdier line. The third package, when opened, revealed a box divided into compartments with all the bits and bobs he would need for his angling expeditions. Ben’s eyes shone with delight as he examined the selection of floats tipped in a variety of bright fluorescent colours, the packets of hooks, a container of shot and other fishing requisites. He couldn’t wait to get started!

When his uncle and Auntie Jane arrived on their usual Christmas day visit, Ben enthused over his gifts and then moved on to what was, to him, the most pertinent of questions. “When can we go fishing Uncle Steve, tomorrow?” “Now you know that we’re all at your gran’s house for lunch tomorrow” his uncle chuckled “ Perhaps we could give it a go the next day though, if the weather’s anything like decent”

The trouble was that the weather had been far from decent over the last few days and every morning the canal had been adorned with a thin layer of cat ice across its width. Although this had disappeared with the help of the odd boat travelling along the cut, the water had lost much of its colour which was not conducive to good fishing. The forecast was not too hopeful either, so it was with some relief that Steve greeted the onset of mild south-westerly winds on Boxing Day afternoon which continued through the night accompanied by persistent light drizzle. The following morning was mild with a watery sun occasionally appearing through a veil of cloud. Steve had opted to pick Ben up at 11 o’clock start, figuring that the latter hours of daylight were usually more productive in the winter months and productive was what he desperately wanted this session to be. This was Ben’s first real fishing trip although he had taken him for a couple of short minnow bashing sessions in the brook the previous summer using a garden cane rod and small red worms from the compost heap for bait. He caught loads of minnows too which had lit the blue touch paper of his enthusiasm and fired his enthusiasm for fishing.

At the house Steve’s sister greeted him. “Sam has been ready since 8 o’clock, he can’t wait.” Steve grinned and replied “Well we be off then Sam.” “I’ve done a flask off coffee for you and made some sandwiches” His sister told him. “Not turkey I hope” chuckled Steve “I’m sick of turkey.” “No” she replied with a grin “Cheese and onion and Ham and pickle.” “Oh, there’s some Christmas cake and a couple of chocolate bars as well.” “We won’t die of starvation then” said Steve “Thanks sis.”

“Come on Uncle Steve” interjected a very impatient Ben “It’s time to go.” So off they set on the ten minute walk to the canal. An animated Ben bombarded Steve with a series of questions about their prospects and tactics all the way to the towpath. “You can’t fault his enthusiasm.” thought Steve.

On the towpath, Steve thought the cut was a little too clear for the prospect of good fishing. In these conditions he would have normally have started on bread punch but thought that technique was probably too difficult for a novice. He opted instead for a squatt and pinkie attack and showed his eager young pupil how to set up the rig for this approach. After introducing him to the intricacies of plumbing, he showed him how to hook a pinkie and finally Ben was ready for his first cast. His uncle told him to keep the bale arm of his reel closed, thinking it better to restrict his attack to a rods-length so that any loose feeding would be easier for his novice angler.

Basic though it was, Ben’s first cast was good and his uncle scattered a dozen or so squatts and a couple of pinkies around his orange tipped canal crystal float, followed by a walnut sized ball of groundbait and the pair sat back to await results while sipping hot sweet coffee and demolishing the sandwiches. The wait unfortunately, was protracted and more than an hour passed without any indication of a bite. More casts were made, another small dollop of groundbait was added and further doses of loose feed were introduced to no avail. Steve detected small signs of despondency in his nephew although his concentration hadn’t faltered and his technique remained surprisingly good. He was worried that if Ben blanked his undoubted enthusiasm for angling would be flattened. Feeding a bold robin with pinkies helped relieve the tedium of a motionless float but watching a kingfisher dive into the canal from a tree branch opposite to catch a fishy meal just served to rub salt into the wounds of their own ineptitude. Steve knew what the problem was. The clarity of the water coupled with its low temperature made the fish reluctant to bite. He was desperate for a boat to come along and muddy the cut to stir up the fish and get things moving. As if to answer his prayers, a steady ‘phut-phut-phut’ alerted him to a narrow boat rounding the corner just down from their pitch. The man steering the boat, throttled back and gave them a cheery wave as he passed which the pair returned. Cumulus clouds of orange-brown mud were thrown up from the bottom which dissolved into an even veil of colour in the water “Right Ben, lets see if that has stirred ‘em up at all” Steve said with renewed hope in his voice. Sure within a minute of recasting and putting a little more feed in Ben’s voice piped up excitedly “I think I’ve got a bite Uncle Steve!” Sure enough the orange fine plastic insert of the float had sunk to its very tip and was moving steadily sideways. “Strike Ben strike” Steve shouted with what was probably a bit too much urgency, for Ben swept back the rod, completely failing to connect with the fish and tangled his rig around the tip of his rod. Fortunately the tackle was quickly sorted and back in the water after replacing the ragged sucked pinkie on the hook. As soon as the rig had settled, the float was away again and this time Ben’s strike connected with a surprised gudgeon finding itself leaving the canal like an Exocet missile and being deposited in Steve’s lap. After unhooking the fish Steve placed into his nephew’s hands and looked on with pleasure as he examined his prize with eyes almost as goggled as his capture. “Glad my wish came true when I pulled that wishbone on Christmas day” thought Steve. “Glad my wish came true when I pulled that wishbone on Christmas day” thought Ben, but “Wow!” was the only comment that escaped the boy’s lips.

“Come on Ben let’s get it in the keepnet and catch some more.” His uncle urged. Ben needed no second bidding and the bites continued apace with several more gudgeon, a few small roach, a couple of hand sized skimmers and a single four ounce perch, which pricked Ben’s finger during its transfer to the net, followed. Ben’s technique improve with each fish and soon his strikes were controlled enough to ensure that they had a chance to fight a little before being pulled from their home.

“Why don’t you set up a rod and we can have a match” Ben suggested to his uncle. “You catch a few fish and all of a sudden you think you’re Bob Nudd” mocked Steve but he pulled a 4 metre whip from his holdall and attached a pre-prepared rig from its winder. Soon he was ready to start.

“Right, whoever catches the most fish from now, wins” Steve pronounced and with that threw in some groundbait and a few feeders and cast in.

Ben needed a hand from his uncle only twice in the following hour when fairly deep hooked fish required the ministrations of a disgorger. Otherwise he fished with remarkable efficiency and caught another seventeen fish before the failing light called a halt to the proceedings. Steve’s float remained undisturbed throughout despite a fine display of rhythmical casting and feeding. Ben was a little cocky by now but he stopped taunting his uncle when it was suggested that he might not take him fishing again.

Back at the house, Ben couldn’t stop talking about his trip and couldn’t resist telling his mum about how he had thrashed his uncle in their impromptu match. Mum smiled at her brother. “Thanks for that Steve” she said warmly. “My pleasure” he replied as he went out of the door.

“Thanks Uncle Steve. We can have another match next time if you like” called out Ben. “OK Ben” replied Steve.

“But it won’t be so easy next time when I actually put some bait on my hook” he thought to himself, smiling broadly.

OH, HOW THE MIGHTY HATH FALLEN!

Regular readers of Old Whiskers (are there such people I wonder), may just remember the story ‘The Christening’ from last year in which I described what is definitely the pinnacle of all my time as an angler when I finally landed a double figure barbel to fulfil a dream of many years. This event happened on the annual fishing holiday that I take with some angling buddies of mine and secured me not only the ‘Isaac’ trophy for the biggest fish of the week but also the title of ‘The Cid’ which is held by the captor of the biggest barbel amongst us. So it was with much anticipation that I looked forward to this year’s jaunt on the River Wye in Herefordshire, a place that yielded quite a few barbel to all of our party a couple of years back. Nobody fished on our Saturday arrival day instead we toured the extensive grounds of the large house in which Rose Cottage was situated, visited the river for a quick reconnoitre, prepared tackle for the next day’s assault and generally settled in before strolling down to the local pub where we sank a few pints of the excellent bitter and enjoyed a meal.

Bright but maybe not so early the next morning we scoffed one of Paul’s superb cooked breakfasts before wandering down through the grounds, out through the gate at the bottom and across the meadow to the riverbank. With my lucky fishing hat perched on my head and sure that the angling gods would smile on me as it was my birthday, I felt confident that I would soon be battling with a hefty barbel or two. I was so confident in fact that I elected to fish in a swim that had yielded nothing the last time I fished it two years ago. It had looked to be a good fishy swim then and it looked a good fishy swim now. Throughout the day I saw dragonflies fly and watched kingfishers fish but I didn’t once see my quivertips quiver and at six I packed up fishless to head back to the cottage for the preparation of the evening meal (bacon wrapped chicken fillets, steamed broccoli, sugarsnap peas, carrots and boiled potatoes followed by cherry Genoa cake and fresh cream).

Rodders came back from a swim way down the river to report three barbel to 7 pounds 4 ounces and three chub in the four pound bracket. Paul had caught five chub including a personal best five pound ten ounce fish from the same shared swim and Phil reported three barbel all taken after 7.00 pm, the biggest a personal best at eight pound twelve, which made him hot favourite for the Isaac. His catch also included a very distinctive fish with a good portion of one gill cover missing that was in Rodders’ catch earlier in the day! Alan joined me in the biteless club. Monday and once again we breakfasted well before repairing to the river. My confidence had been replenished by the knowledge that my chosen swim had produced well on the previous holiday and once again my lucky fishing hat was perched on my head ready to work its magic on the itinerant barbel. All the features were still there with overhanging bushes on both banks and I guessed it wouldn’t be long before a ‘beard’ took a liking to my hook bait. I tried halibut pellet, two varieties of boilies and meat. I saw woodpeckers peck wood and wagtails wag their tails but I didn’t see the curve of my rod’s pound and a half test curve. A blank again and ditto for Al. Phil returned to report a 7 pound thirteen barbel and a pound chub. Rodders had nowt worth shouting about and Paul caught more chub. The evening meal of pork in a cider and bramley apple sauce with Chantenay carrots, cabbage, green beans and boiled potatoes followed by treacle tart and custard brightened my mood a little though and a visit to the pub brightened it further. There was always tomorrow!

Tuesday dawned and the grey sky reflected the level of my confidence. The lucky barbel hat was donned but this particular punk didn’t feel very lucky and as it turned out, the feeling was right as the river’s ripples rippled and the glide glided but my hook didn’t hook anything. Nor did Al. Martin and Paul travelled to the Letton estate a little upstream where Paul bagged an eight pound six ounce barbel that had looked every inch a double until it was put on the scales but Martin’s scant reward was a single minnow. Phil at it again in his favourite swim with a barbel, only four pounds nine this time but he added a couple of chub of three pounds one ounce and four pounds just to rub it in. I prepared the evening meal of minted lamb chops with honey and thyme roasted root vegetables, cauliflower and potatoes which would have been superb except that I forgot the chops under the grill and was alerted to the fact by strident beeping of the smoke alarm. The meat was renamed char grilled minted lamb chops and they weren’t too bad except for Al complaining for a couple of days afterwards about some charcoal stuck in his teeth. Not only were my fishing skills found to be wanting but now my cooking ability was being called into question too. Once again solace was sought in the local hostelry.

On Wednesday I decided that desperate measures were required if I was to taste any action at all. The maggots I had brought down, just in case, were retrieved from the bait fridge and I chose a swim close to the cottage fishing over a slack into some streamy water. After a couple of casts with a swimfeeder filled with the fat white grubs I started, at last to see some sharp rattles on the quivertip and soon dace in beautiful condition, mostly in the four to six ounce bracket, were being landed. It was nice to get a bit of action albeit not really of the kind that I had in mind at the start of the week. Midway through the session I got a much harder thump on the tip and a quick strike found me attached to something a little bigger. The fish made a beeline for a large sunken tree under the near bank and despite leaning out as far as I dare to apply side strain, I couldn’t prevent the fish finding sanctuary amongst the roots. Cursing under my breath, I decided my only option was to pile on as much pressure as the four pound breaking strain line would allow and hope for the best. The fish miraculously popped out from between the roots shot over the top of the sunken trunk and was quickly bullied into my landing net and guess what, it was a barbel! Not a very big barbel at around a pound and a half it was true, but a barbel nonetheless. Perhaps the lucky barbel hat’s powers were beginning to work! More dace followed and although I was hardly ecstatic about my catch, I felt a little better. My other rod incidentally, baited with halibut pellet, attracted not a single bite. On the culinary side things improved too and the braised steak in red wine enriched gravy with a selection of steamed vegetables followed by strawberry sundaes drew appreciative comments from my mates. Rodders, Phil and Paul stayed close to the cottage too, fishing the meadow swims. The day’s results were discussed over the meal. Rodders blanked, Paul had chub again, but once again Phil topped the catches with a six pound eight barbel taken close to the road bridge. Al broke his duck by taking a chub of around four pounds and was, like myself, relieved to have caught something at last.

Thursday saw me decide to drop into the swim below the one I fished on Wednesday and using similar tactics, more dace were hooked plus a few bleak. I actually got a rap on halibut pellet too but it wasn’t a very savage rap and was probably attributable to an over-ambitious small chub. The powers of the lucky barbel hat were definitely in question again. Back in his favourite swim, Phil got amongst the fish in good style with three barbel, all taken in the early afternoon in bright sunshine and a couple of chub, one of which gave him a second personal best of the week at five pounds one ounce. Paul was again got into some action with chub. Rodders had little to report but had quite an interesting time feeding maggots to big chub that felt quite secure in an inaccessible hidey hole and gobbled up the free food with great enthusiasm while being filmed with a video camera. My chicken in a lambrusco, cream and mushroom sauce with broccoli, cauliflower, chanteney carrots and corn on the cob was voted best meal of the week and was followed up with bowls of rice pudding. In the pub that evening we got a chance to talk to Trevor West, co-author of ‘Quest for Barbel’ (wish I’d taken my copy with me so he could have signed it) and he told us that his barbel catches had been down this year , probably due in some way to the high rainfall and fierce floods of early summer. He also told us that he had landed an eight pounder on the Teme that day and had lost a double at the net. I was tempted to declare that I lost most of my doubles at the net too but decided that I should keep that crack to myself. While in the pub I was the victim of probably one of the oldest practical jokes in the world when Rodders nicked an ‘Out of Order’ sign from a toilet door and surreptitiously stuck it to my back which the whole pub seemed to find hilarious. Personally I thought it showed remarkable disrespect to ‘The Cid’

Friday saw Alan and I take a trip out to Letton where we shared a swim with a herd of cows. We felt the warmth of the sun and the gentle breath of the wind but didn’t feel the powerful pull of a hooked barbel. In fact we enjoyed (if that’s the right word), the by now familiar, biteless session even when I switched to a maggot feeder. Phil changed tack completely and trotted maggots in a swim well down the river and enjoyed a superb session catching quality dace, chub to three pounds, salmon parr, small trout and a good one topping a pound and a half. Rodders trotted too and had dace, small chub, bleak and perch, the best one pound twelve ounces. Paul fished Phil’s favourite swim which once again produced a barbel, this time seven pounds three ounces along with a perch of a pound. The final evening meal of the week, a pork and pineapple curry with rice was demolished along with various bits and pieces of puddings left over from the week. We then repaired to the pub for the customary final evening drink and presentation of ‘The Isaac’ to the captor of the biggest fish of the week which passed from my possession to, needless to say, Phil and deservedly so. Presentation ceremonies over we reflected on the week’s events and then the conversation turned to the possibilities for next year’s holiday. Wherever we go, I hope that my fishing fortunes shine a little brighter (and yours too Al). All was not lost for me during the week however and I have learnt a few valuable lessons.

1) I am probably a better cook than angler.

2) Don’t get too focused on a particular species. You could be missing                                               out on some enjoyable fishing.

3) Good company can provide considerable compensation for poor results.

4) Lucky fishing hats are unreliable and are prone to developing faults.

Postscript:

I have been out twice to the Severn at Atcham since the holiday. The first time I wore my lucky fishing hat and caught a three pound plus chub and lost a good barbel close to the net (probably a double naturally). The second time I decided not to don the ‘lucky’ headgear and was back in the land of blanks again. I leave you to draw your own conclusions!

I wonder if you have read my accounts of this season’s all night fishing trips. They have produced quite respectable if not spectacular bags of fish and I thought they were worth reporting and perhaps be of interest to our members. But with angling being the sport it is, there is always the flip side of the coin when things don’t go exactly to plan……………

I’VE HAD BETTER NIGHTS

With a decent weather report and moon phase (not too bright), I set off for peg 52 on the Weaver looking forward to a few nocturnal hours on the bank and hopefully an impressive bag of fish. I’d not fished this peg at night before but it has produced a fair few chub to a reasonable size this year for Ian Fewtrell who had bagged them on hemp while fishing for roach. I assumed with the onset of dusk they might be joined by some bream and it seemed the peg would be a fair bet for some good sport. I was delighted to see there was a fair flow on the river with a visible ‘crease’ in line with the outermost tip of the trailing branches of tree upstream. Furthermore a fish flipped on the surface just downstream, not a big fish but enough to encourage a surge of confidence.

With my gear installed on the comfortable if not roomy peg I set up my pole and attached a suitable rig. After a careful plumbing and depth setting operation I fed a ball of groundbait and a handful of corn and with a single yellow grain on the hook, cast in. I had to remove some of the weight from my rig when I found the float pulled under too easily as the hook tripped over the river bed. I soon had everything working to my satisfaction and settled into a rhythmical casting and feeding routine. After about ten minutes the float tip drew smartly under the surface and after a short fight a chub of about 14 ounces was drawn over the net. The next cast saw the float sail away again and a 1½ pound chub battled spiritedly before it too graced the bottom of the landing net. With two chub in two casts I was certain that I was in for a bumper catch. How wrong can you be? A further hour and a half elapsed without a single further bite and with the light fading fast I decided to up sticks and move to a favourite bream swim downstream.

By the time I had organised myself in the new pitch it was dark and a starlight was cracked and secured onto the top of my float. Bites were still hard to come by and when the float did finally submerge positively, it turned out to be a small roach, followed some time later by another one. Things were not panning out as I thought they would and I decided to fish two sections further out but still the fish did not show despite apparently ideal conditions. Then the float sunk not from a bite, but from the hook finding an obstruction on the bottom and the rig pulling under in the flow. Whatever the snag was it was solid and pulling left and right with the pole failed to shift the hook’s hold nor did adding sections to pull from beyond the snag. I had rigged up with pretty hefty line, as always for my night sessions and didn’t want to risk breaking a pole section so I opted to pull for a line break. Unshipping sections as I pulled in a direct line to the snag, I was just about to grasp the power top two that would enable to get a hold on the elastic when disaster struck. To my horror, the top two flew from the pole and catapulted at speed into the river. By the light of my torch I could make out the end of the sections sticking out at an angle from the weed bed some way out from the bank. After a short period of consideration I came to the conclusion that I didn’t really fancy wading in without adequate footwear on a bottom of mud of unknown depth in the dark. With that I decided that I didn’t fancy moving swims again either so I packed up and made my way home. Like I said I’ve had better nights! 

Footnote:

I returned to the river the next day in the hope of recovering the lost sections. The choice as I saw was to wade out and risk a floundering in a muddy river bottom or to use my weed rake on a rope to try to snag the sections and haul them back risking cracking them in the process. It was almost a relief to find that in fact I had no choice for there was no sign of them protruding from the weed bed. I guess that under tension from the elastic they had been drawn gradually into the river. The rake it would have to be. After a number of drags through I managed to snag the sections but they came free and it took a few more goes before I got them again. This time I managed to get them in, even negotiating them through the weed bed but, right under the bank, they came free again. The raking had clouded the water so much I was unable to locate them and I had to wait until the murkiness dispersed before I could see the yellow bush on the tip. A litter picker grab enabled me to grasp the sections and lift them onto the bank entirely undamaged. Furthermore I also spotted my pole float drifting in the margins and retrieved that as well. Jammy or what!

                                 GRUMPY OLD ANGLERS – PART TWO

(Claim Jumpers, Tackle Tarts and Everything Else)

Having had a pop at specimen hunters and matchmen in part one, I now turn my bucolic glare on angling in general, so brace yourself for another unremitting session of whinging and moaning from this particular well past his prime old git.

Pleasure anglers, they’re a happy band of inoffensive gentlemen who wouldn’t upset anyone if they could help it, are they not? Don’t you believe it! Some of them can irritate the hell out of you with consummate ease.

Claim jumpers

Claim jumpers are a parasitic breed. You’re sitting there enjoying really rather good sport when a character who hitherto had been unsuccessfully fishing the other side or the other end of the lake suddenly ups sticks and plonks himself, uninvited, next to you less than five yards away. Ignoring your glares, he casts his rig to within a foot of yours followed by an enormous cannonball of heavy pudding groundbait that rocks your float like a coracle in a hurricane thereby ending your bites by scaring every fish out of the area. The trouble is, I have been guilty of claim jumping myself, albeit at a much younger stage in my life, while fishing with a mate. The move was made under the guise of swim sharing so that we could have a good chat but we both knew my motives were entirely selfish. To his credit he remained my mate. For this Roderick, I sincerely apologise and offer the following advice to any would be claim jumpers:

Don’t do it. It never works and could ruin a lasting friendship or even lead to an unplanned swimming session.

Ear Benders

This is a complaint of nearly every committee member I know. You have just got into your stride with a few fish in a rare fishing session (You know how it is, too busy with maintenance / administration / writing for the website etc. etc.). Then along he comes, your friendly waterside visitor with a cordial enquiry on how the fishing is going. Nowt wrong you may think and you’d be right but after your equally cordial response to his question, he then follows up with an unsolicited but very long tale about his latest fishing exploits and your concentration on the float begins to drift and you miss a couple of bites and then your rhythm as he rabbits on about some fantastic rod, pole or reel he has just bought. By now you are fishing like a complete novice and at this point he delivers the final coup de grace to your session by moving on to complaints on how the club is being run. How one lake or the other is completely choked, how there are too many matches on a pool or too many boilies going into a pool (depending on the angling persuasion he follows). You invite him to attend the next committee meeting to air his grievances which he says he will (but never does). By now any semblance of you personal expertise in the piscatorial art has disappeared and job done your verbal assailant moves on. With considerable effort you gradually get your angling back on track over the next hour or so and have just started to catch fish again when from somewhere behind you hear the dreaded words “Caught ‘owt?”

Now we don’t mind anybody talking to us, as members of the committee, about any matters that may be concerning you about club affairs but leave it until we’re packing up or give us a ring at home or contact us via the website forum but please lads, give us a break, not while we’re fishing eh?

Weight Guesstimators

My spellchecker is underlining ‘guessstimator’ in red to tell me that it knows of no such word. It is my name for anglers who never weigh their catch but confidently declare them to be several pounds over their real weight. A few years back after checking a member’s permit at the junior cistern, I enquired about his catch for the day and he beamed as he pronounced he’d had a brilliant day with big crucians and a tench over seven pounds. Telling him it would be a great story for the website, I asked if I could see the fish, a request to which he happily agreed. He pulled his keepnet out and I peered in to see a tench of perhaps three pounds, three and a half at most. I gave him this opinion which he disagreed with so I offered to weigh it on my scales for him. He declined my offer, saying that he had scales of his own in his box but later in the day he returned the fish without weighing it, obviously preferring to delude himself rather than find out the true weight of his catch. Over the years I have seen ‘six pound chub’ (more like three pounds). Twenty pound carp (struggling to make double figures) and even a ‘record gudgeon’ of one and a quarter ounces although to be fair this was a junior angler and he did ask me to weigh it for him on the club’s match scales.

So if you want to claim your catches are of specimen proportions don’t be a guesstimator, weigh them first preferably in front of witnesses and then start boasting!

                               Look at this gudgeon. It must be at least half a pound!

Tackle Tarts

In truth there is a little bit of a tackle tart in all of us. Who hasn’t got a tray full of floats, most of which we never use? OK all you out and out carp anglers, I know you don’t own a lot of floats but you know what I mean. There are however people who presumably have far too much money who must have every new bit of angling frippery, regardless of its degree of usefulness. These guys I label as tackle tarts. They are harmless but they really do need to get a grip. One of my fishing holiday mates has the affliction and if he reads this he will know it’s him I’m talking about so I won’t name him to save embarrassment. He has to travel alone to the holiday destination in a big 4x4 because his vehicle is so full of tackle that he barely has room for his clothes. Needless to say most of this stuff never sees the light of day on the bank. I mean, what is the point of catapult covers? He will defend this by saying it keeps his catapults in good condition and saves him buying new ones, but the covers cost more than a new pult and anyway all that is usually required is new elastic or pouch so I repeat, what is the point? I bet if someone came up with catapult cover covers (to stop catapult covers getting dirty), he would buy some! When it comes to packing up at the end of a session on our fishing holidays, who is the last one to leave? You’re right my mate the tackle tart because he has to zip his chair, his catapult, his scales and his disgorger into their own bespoke carry bags. Alright, I lied about the disgorger.

He is a good angler though, as are most of the tackle tarts I know. If only they realised that they didn’t need to spend half as much money to still be good anglers.

REAL ROD RAGE!

Angling Litter Bugs

Up to now all my comments have confined to tongue in cheek remarks about the foibles of what are, by and large, a good bunch of chaps but there are things that really get my back up and bring my blood pretty close to boiling point, what you might call rod rage. Angling litter bugs are a thoroughly reprehensible stain on our sport. These morons think it is OK to bring their food, drink, bait and tackle to the waterside and then scatter the packaging and worse still discarded line, often with hooks still attached around them, leaving on the bank when they depart with absolutely no thought to damage they are doing to the environment. What they find so difficult about popping all their garbage into a bag and taking it home to deposit in a bin is completely beyond me. They wouldn’t like it if I were to come and drop all my garbage in their gardens would they?

Doggie Doos

Sorry about the twee heading, I could lapse into the vernacular here but this is a family website. If I chose to use the popularly used term I could put my foot in it and this is the trouble of course, I‘m always putting my foot in it and horrible stuff it is too. When I was a nipper, a long time ago, dog pooh was a much more environmentally friendly substance being white relatively odourless. It very quickly dried in the sun and became crumbly and somewhat resembled muesli. It didn’t smear disagreeably all over your shoes if you accidentally trod in it. This was because the beloved family pet was fed on bones from the butcher. Nowadays of course their diet is much richer and the waste product is so much more unpleasant which is why responsible dog owners now clear up the mess their pets make according to the legislation. The people I have an issue with are those that think it is OK to sneak off after their dogs have done the necessary and leave it for the unwary to soil their footwear, bike wheels, pram wheels etc with. Just as bad are those owners who scoop it up, pop it into those blue plastic bags seal them up and the hurl into a hedge, leaving an unsightly parcels hanging on branches leaving them looking like Christmas trees from hell. Now at my age, with my tolerance level at an all time low, I think the punishment should fit the crime and any dog owner found committing such misdemeanours should have their noses rubbed in the offending material and then get fined the requisite sum of money. I can’t see it happening though.

         Alas, a thing of the past!

Right with that lot off my chest I think I’ll quit before I have an apoplectic fit but one final thing occurs to me. It’s about time that the different branches of angling all started to sing from the same hymn street. Matchmen, specimen hunters, pleasure fishermen, we’re all anglers. We just like different types of fishing that’s all and we should be trying to get away from the ‘us and them’ attitude that seems to pervade our sport. Let’s see if we can get by without the “Matchmen are just a gang of tiddler snatchers” and the “Carp anglers just doss in bivvies. Why don’t they go camping if that’s what they like?” You know the kind of inter-factional sniping that goes on. So come on guys, next time you run into an angler from ‘the other side’ give him a hug (Alright maybe that’s going a bit too far but you know what I mean).To anglers everywhere, love and peace.

If there are any fellow grumpy old anglers out there with their own gripes to air let’s hear from them on the site forum. There’s nowt like a good moan to make you feel better

                                                   THE NIGHT SHIFT

I love my night fishing sessions, it plays havoc with your body clock but hey, I get some of my best catches in the hours of darkness. You may have read of my unsuccessful attempt at fishing the prebaited swim on the Weaver on the opening weekend of the season and it was a month before the conditions allowed me to actually fish through the night on the pitch in question and even then the river was going through a fair lick. I elected to fish with the pole at 6 metres and by using a heavy float, enabling me to keep the bait down in the strong flow, I was just about able to cope with the conditions. The first fish was a four pound bream which gave a good account of it self and this boosted my confidence for the night ahead. The bites however proved to be very sporadic, the fish coming in ones and twos with long intervals between the spells of action. By the end of the session I had landed 12 bream between 1½ and 4 pounds, four roach and once again the inevitable solitary vegetarian eel that took a liking to the sweetcorn that I used throughout the night. I estimated that I had bagged about thirty pounds of fish. Not as much I had hoped for but not too bad in the circumstances and I was reasonably happy with the outcome.

Last week, in the company of my mate Al, I sampled a night session at Heesom’s Pool for the very first time and very enjoyable it was too. I fished four sections of pole to two lines down the side, one with 4mm pellet and the other with meat. Bites came throughout the night with one or two lulls which I filled by imbibing coffee to help keep me reasonably alert. If anything the meat line proved more productive, producing all but one of the eight or nine tench to three pounds that I hooked during the session. Pellet on the other hand seemed to attract small roach, adept at paring the bait off the hook while giving bites that proved very difficult to hit. Lots of crucians came to both baits ranging from little four inch jobs to lunkers over a pound. A good few skimmers were hooked too along with a ‘proper’ bream of about three pounds. Al fished a waggler on a rod, choosing corn as his preferred bait and had a much bigger percentage of skimmers in his bag than I did. A couple of decent bream, crucians and a single tench also featured in his catch along with roach. Oh, and we each had one of those chunky gudgeon that turn up from time too. I weighed my fish in two lots and the scales revealed the first weight as18 pounds 2 ounces and the later weighing as 12 pounds 11 ounces time. A few more pounds of crucian were added while my net was drying and I guess the final total was about thirty five pounds. Al estimated his catch at around twenty pounds.

One small rat chugged through the water between our pegs on occasion throughout the night and at two in the morning, what was apparently an alarmingly large rat swam past but then quacked, revealing itself to be in actuality a nocturnal female mallard. Alan’s scary moment came when he turned round to see a large pair of malevolent eyes that turned out to be no more than the reflective bands on the lifesaver ring hanging on a tree behind him! Happily these mild frights though didn’t detract from what we both agreed was a thoroughly enjoyable session.

I reckon I got a pretty reasonable return for my efforts on these two trips and it won’t be long before I’ll be venturing out for another outing in the hours of darkness, which will hopefully prove to be just as rewarding.

Late evening at Heesom’s Pool

                                 GRUMPY OLD ANGLERS!

(Part 1 – ‘Speccies’ and Matchmen)

Has anybody watched the TV series ‘Grumpy Old Men’? In it a number of TV celebrities in advanced middle aged moaned about anything to do with modern lifestyles. They didn’t cover angling though so this particular grumpy old man has decided to cover this omission and believe me I, to my dismay, have discovered plenty to whinge about! It’s not just me though. I’ve consulted with fellow old angling gits from inside and outside the club and have come up with this list grumbles, complaints and probably unprovoked grumpiness about our sport.

SPECIMEN HUNTING

A specimen hunter isn’t the kind of guy who goes out for a couple of hours fishing. Find him in your favourite swim on the lake and it’s quite possible that he will still be there when you go back a week later, unshaven and definitely only approachable from an upwind direction. Apart from this, what can we find to moan about our intrepid big fish seeker? Well quite a lot actually.

Trophy shots

Why do specimen hunters think anybody else will be remotely interested in their trophy shots of big fish of any species? You’ve seen one picture of a smirking idiot holding a twenty/thirty/forty pound plus carp and you’ve seen ‘em all! The only people who derive any pleasure out of these pictorial ego trips are the captors themselves. Don’t agree? Well let me tell you that even your best fishing mates, regardless of any congratulatory noises they may make, will feel jealousy coursing through their veins. So to see endless trophy shots clogging up the pages of the angling periodicals that could have been turned over to really interesting articles seems to me to be a criminal waste of editorial responsibility. Before all you matchmen begin nodding your heads in smug agreement, as far as I’m concerned the same goes for pictures of bulging match winning nets of bream and roach too. The only exception to this subject of my tirade is, of course, the photo of me holding my specimen double figure barbel that has graced the web pages of this site which I’m sure you will agree have drawn excited gasps of wonderment from all of you!

Yes, yes we’ve all seen a double figure carp before

Bite Alarms

There’s nothing worse when you’ve settled down for a peaceful session by the lake than to have your reverie suddenly shattered by the beep-beep- beepety-flipping-beep or buzz-buzz-buzzety-flaming-buzz, depending on the tone he has settled on, of a carp angler determined to screw every last ounce of sensitivity from his infernal top of the range all singing all dancing bite alarms. Then every few minutes when the merest zephyr of a breeze or even the air current from the wings of a passing dragonfly sets the damned things off at the top of their considerable volume range, thus ruining my spell of quiet contemplation. What’s wrong with you guys? Can’t you just watch a visual bite indicator such as a cylinder of foil or the top from a Fairy liquid bottle? Oh I’m sorry, you’re asleep most of the time aren’t you? Well then could you just set the sensitivity so that it only goes off if a fish actually picks up your bait and the volume to a little less than that which could bring the walls of Jericho? It would be much appreciated.

Equipment Mountains

Whatever happened to the days when blokes used to go fishing with all their stuff in a small wicker fishing basket and a rod tied to the crossbar of a bicycle? These days specimen hunters take their stuff down to the lake from the back of their 4x4’s in a wheelbarrow that looks as if it should be pulled by a team of dray horses. Not only that but the operation usually involves multiple trips what with bed-chairs, bivvy table, television, mini fridge for the beer and boilies and all. One day I fully expect to hear “B*****ks, I forgot the rods” from one of these modern day Bedouins when they’ve finally set up a base camp that should have been, strictly speaking, the subject of a planning permission application.

Camouflage Gear

I went into a tackle shop the other day looking to buy a camouflaged fishing suit. The owner said he had just bought in a new batch into the shop but the trouble was that they worked so well that he couldn’t find them! My apologies for that recycled joke and actually I don’t really have a problem with suits and bivvies but the lengths that some speccie hunters go to with their camouflage gear is verging on the obsessive. I mean, I’m sure from their vision perspective that fish wouldn’t in most cases, be able to see the angler’s feet so what is the point of camouflaged boots? Lots of other equipment is being sold with completely unnecessary camouflage livery usually with a premium price attached too. I’ll tell you what though, I’ll bet these camouflage freaks are leaving lots of stuff behind on the bank when they’ve packed up and gone home.

MATCH ANGLING

Now for the matchmen who occupy the opposite end of the piscatorial spectrum. They don’t care how small it is so long as they’re getting it regularly (Oh dear, we seem to be turning into ‘Carry On Fishing’ here). They might have been reading the rantings above and chortling “quite right” to all or some the above but there are axes to grind about their branch of the sport too.

Equipment Mountains (See also Specimen Hunting – Equipment Mountains

Whatever happened to the days when blokes used to go fishing with all their stuff in a small wicker fishing basket and a rod tied to the crossbar of a bicycle? (I’m getting a touch of the déjà vu here, can’t think why) These days matchmen have to have a trolley to transport their ridiculously large pile of gear twenty yards from the boot of their 4x4 to their swim as little as twenty yards away. Why? Because they can’t be bothered to sort out their stuff to take only what they need for the trip, so they’ve got rucks of tackle for feeder fishing Severn barbel swims as well as what they actually need to pole fish the carp puddle they are actually visiting! So what about the box that holds all this paraphernalia?

There’s no disputing that a well kept box is a thing of beauty with its beautifully organised winder trays and all, but with that plethora of metalwork, legs footplate, feeder arm umbrella arm etc, when they are stood in the water well out from the bank, they look for all the world like oil rigs. One day I wouldn’t be at all surprised to see a fountain of black oil as a matchman finds a ‘gusher’.   

‘Unfishable’ Swims

A bit of a matchman speciality this one. The bloke having made his draw comes trailing back to the match organiser bleating about his swim being unfishable and demanding a redraw. Often the obstacle to his ability to successfully fish from the peg turns out to be no more than a few nettles or even a bit of long grass! You wouldn’t catch your average specimen hunter being so easily overawed by nature like this. He’d soon have his pitch flattened and his bivvie erected. He wouldn’t let a bit of aquatic weed deter him either but many a time this natural phenomenon has elicited squeals of protest from a matchman.

Not all of them you understand. I once watched one intrepid fellow win his section in a big Weaver open although the surface of his swim was solid with duckweed on his arrival. He just stuck the lower few sections of his pole together and used them as a boom to hold back the duckweed. He fished breadflake in the clear area he had created downstream on the top five sections of pool and put together around fifteen pounds of bream. So there you are all you moaning minnies, time to get a bit tougher, it’s a jungle out there!

Weigh-in Conmen

Pity the poor scalesman at the end of a match. Some competitors seem to think it is part of game to harass him as he tries to read a quivering needle or a fluctuating digital reading, trying to con him into giving an extra few drams or grams to the weight. I’ve even seen them brushing the net in order to pull the needle round that little bit further.

Reading the scales is a difficult enough job, especially on a windy day, without persistent haranguing from the guy whose catch is being weighed.

Not all match anglers are prone to this behaviour. When the club held a big open on the Trent and Mersey canal to celebrate its Golden Jubilee I was weighing in one section and had suffered the usual pressure from quite a few of the contestants when I came to Kevin Ashurst, an England international with an individual gold and three silver world championship medals to his name. I carefully read the dial and called out the weight and asked him if he agreed. Without looking up from packing away his tackle, he simply replied “Whatever you say mate, you’re weighing in”.

Now if a World champion can act with such good grace, I’m sure lesser mortals can if they really tried.

(Incidentally his weight brought him a second in section.)

 ‘Two pound’ ten pound carp

 Question : When is a double figure carp not a double figure carp?

Answer:    When it is caught in a match that is governed by a bloody silly maximum                    weight for an individual fish rule (usually two pounds).

This abomination was thought up to appease match anglers who couldn’t stand the thought of their net of easily tamed tiddlers being beaten by a single great lump of a fish that probably took its captor an inordinate amount of precious match time to bring to the net. Well I’m sorry I just can’t see the justice in this idea. Surely if an angler sets out his stall for big fish in a match he is taking a big risk of blanking, but it is a risk of choice and if the gamble pays off, good luck to him I say. I know that in some cases this rule has been applied only to carp so you get the ridiculous situation of a three pound bream or tench counting as three pounds but a three pound carp being registered as two. Talk about angling apartheid! I’ll tell you what though maybe I should open a slimming cub where no matter what the scales read the members could never weigh more than ten stones. I could make a fortune!

I don’t know why you bothered to get a photo, it’s only two pounds!

Please don’t take it too much to heart if you feel that you have been unfairly targeted in any of the above whinging. In part two, I’ll be having a pop at pleasure anglers as well as casting a jaundiced eye over more general angling topics. I’ll also tell you the things that really make my blood boil!

                                               PIKE POTENTIAL?

I don’t know how many pike fans we have in the club, but it seems to me that we have a venue in our stretch of the Weaver that isn’t being exploited. A recent journey along the bank revealed two dead pike towards the top end of the length near to the new bridge over the brook, one of about four pounds and the one pictured above which I estimated to be in the 10 – 12 pound bracket. A couple of years ago a fish in the region of 15 pounds was floating close to peg 36. We know that there of plenty of prey fish in the river so it is likely that there are a good number of pike to take advantage of the food supply.

So come on you Esox enthusiasts, there could be some brilliant sport for you to discover at Anderton!

         PROSPECTING FOR GOLD – DIGGING OUT THE BIG CARROTS

Finding something new to write about can be difficult after a while. These days I seem to be spending more time writing about fishing than actually pursuing the piscatorial art. Surely I will be running out of material soon but it is surprising where inspiration can be found. I was scoffing a forkful of carrot batons, part of my evening meal, when the idea for this piece struck me. So far I haven’t done anything on Golden Orfe apart from a very short article about their presence in Heesom’s Pool. Alas their tenure in the lake was short lived and the handful of these beautiful creatures residing there disappeared after only a few years. They do after all advertise their presence to predators with their gaudy livery. The late Colin Willock, when describing the capture of a rare orfe from a pool near London, writes that it glowed like an amber traffic light in the water in his book ‘Landscape with Solitary Figure’ and declared they were asking for the unwanted attention from pike. The fish at Heesom’s Pool only ran to around the pound mark but they featured fairly frequently in catches and were not too difficult to tempt. I remember catching the same orfe, one of the last in the pool, twice in less than an hour.

Some years ago now the ‘carrots’ in Lymmvale became the focus for my attention for a while. When I first visited the pool there were thousands of them. In the margins were large shoals of fingerling fish, the sort you often for sale in water gardens for £1.50 each and they were voracious little sods, snaffling the maggot on your hook if you let it accidentally dangle in the water before you cast out. A little further out, just beyond the first drop-off, you would get the shoals of two to six ounce fish which were pretty easy to hook but soon bored you especially when you could see fish in the one to two pound class four or so rod lengths out. These were much harder to fool taking loose fed maggots eagerly as they fell through the water but turning away from the one on your hook. I found that by pausing for a while without feeding would sometimes induce an orfe to take the hookbait after it had settled on the bottom. Hold back the feed for too long though and you would see the fish drift out of your swim.

Then there were the monsters, fish above three pounds that on hot days would bask on the surface right out in the middle of the pool, for the most part out of harm’s way.
There were fish caught out there occasionally on leger rigs by anglers after the tench but this was usually more by accident than design. I never caught one of the mega-orfe until they regularly started to move closer in a couple of seasons later. By then they had grown too and now we had fish of 4lb plus within easy casting range of a fairly light, slow sinking float rig. That wasn’t the only method of tempting them. One afternoon I watched a guy catch two orfe well over four pounds on 18mm boilies fished on the bottom just three rodlengths out. For me though an on the drop float rig with maggots was my preferred option.

Any session on the pool would start by float fishing to the bottom with a waggler rig shotted with a number of evenly spread No.8s and No.10s with the No.10s towards the hook end of the set-up. Some initial groundbait would be introduced and the swim would then be loose fed with maggots every cast with more fed in between if the interval between bite was prolonged. The early action invariably came from small orfe and tench with the addition, in later years after being introduced from the drying up stock pond, tiny carp. I once caught 67 of these critters on one maggot (it was an experiment). The bigger tench would muscle in later, often taking maggots high in the water. Sometimes there would be the occasional surprise appearance from a barbel or a grayling both giving as tremendous a tussle as they do in rivers. I’m afraid I’m not a fan of stocking lake with river species and the inordinate of time it took for these species to recover, especially the grayling, certainly places doubt on the wisdom of such policies.

At some point in the proceedings the big orfe would invariably appear, huge orange phantoms that suddenly materialised from the left, right or below, never many of them just one, two or three hoovering up the maggots as they were falling through the water.
This was the signal to shallow up the rig, rearrange the shotting with just three or four micro shot spread evenly down the line and keep up a relentless feeding regime of about a dozen maggots every 30 seconds or so. The rig was cast out each time the loosefeed went in, which after a while took its toll on the wrist and arm. The constant stream of bait kept the fish patrolling back and forth through the swim and you could see them sucking in the loose feed twisting and turning to intercept the grubs but usually turning away from the one that contained your hook. Often the bait would be sucked in while still in clear view but blown out again in an instant just as you struck leading to a tangle round the rod tip. With all the loosefeed snapped up they would often then follow the bait down and then lightening fast dips, bobs and curtsies of the float would signal the same was happening out of sight. Usually it was just a case of waiting for one of the orfe to make a mistake signalled by a rare sailaway bite. I would like to say that when the strike set the hook then the fireworks began, but I can’t. Playing a big orfe was like hauling in a large wet sack; indeed bream are turbo-charged by comparison! You didn’t go after big orfe for the fight though, just the challenge of actually hooking one or two. When I say one or two I mean that literally for I never managed to catch more than two of these really big orfe in a session. I do know though of other anglers who were much more adept at the method and could put together bigger bags fish than that.

Later I found that by using a pole with a short line I could dramatically increase my chances of hooking a fish but by this time the number of orfe in the pool were suffering a steep decline and were appearing in the swim much less frequently, so consequently my catch rate failed to improve. I only used a 1.1lb hooklength on the pole rig to maximise my chances of a take and used No. 4 elastic through the top two sections of the pole. Now you would think that a 5lb plus orfe might give you some trouble on such a light rig but as I pointed out before, the resistance they put up can only be described as pathetic. On being hooked they would pull slowly towards the bottom for a few seconds before giving up against the force of the elastic and being drawn back up again where they would flop about on the surface while being brought towards the waiting net. The only difficulty encountered was the amount of elastic pulled from the pole because of the sheer weight of the fish. This meant that you often had to ADD pole sections to avoid dragging the orfe’s body out of the water with the inevitable consequence of a broken line.

The picture above shows my buddy Martin (aka Rodders) with a substantial orfe from Lymmvale. He actually pulled out one of over 7lbs which would have beaten the British record at the time. The trouble is that he didn’t actually hook it but somehow managed to lasso it around the root of its tail. Being the honest chap that he is, he didn’t consider that he landed it by fair means and therefore it wouldn’t be right to lay claim to the record even though nobody witnessed the unorthodox method of capture.
Lymmvale of course provided a series of record captures over quite a few years and, I believe, still has the honour of providing the current record. I think these really big orfe have now died off and it remains to be seen if recent stockings will attain the awesome proportions of these former leviathans.

It would be nice to see a few carrots in Heesom’s Pool again but they would have to be large fish to avoid falling prey to the perch and cormorants. I fear the cost of stocking fish of this size would prove prohibitive with no guarantee of them providing sport over a sustained period of time so I guess the capture of big orfe, for me, will have to remain a fond memory.
 

A hush fell over the assembly as he entered the room, for they knew The Cid was amongst them.He could charm the birds from the trees and the fish from the waters.
This they knew, for his powers were legend!

THE CID DYNASTY

                                                               El Cid

I remember it all started late one evening halfway through the fishing holiday on the River Wye in September 1999. It had been a tough few days with the river level very low after a long and very hot summer. Nothing much had been caught in the first few days except a few small barbel and we had been forced to scale down our tackle to catch those. The lads had disappeared some way down the river in pursuit of a number of good chub and barbel that they had spotted in a rather inaccessible swim. Paul, ever the intrepid adventurer of the group, was going to lower himself down a high steep bank on a rope.  He then proposed to fish from a tree trunk leaning out over the water while the others acted as spotters and ghillies. Now I had been to see these fish and not having a head for heights, had found the expedition somewhat traumatic and more than a little arduous. So I had elected to fish closer to the cottage in a very clear and shallow piece of water over clean gravel with a sparse weed bed that I reckoned fish might move into towards dusk. I was right too, and enjoyed a spectacular battle with an eight pound barbel that ripped all over the swim and stripped half the leaves off a near bank willow sapling under which it had sought sanctuary. A little later I was comprehensively smashed by another fish.

Paul and entourage returned as the light was beginning to fade bringing the news that the extreme angling session had resulted in a few decent chub plus a barbel albeit a fairly modest one. The story of my capture of the biggest fish of the holiday so far fired the whole group up and soon we were all strung along the meadow swims in the hope of more bites from the mighty barbus. Within a very short time, the news that young Martin Dean had caught a nine and a half pound barbel right next to the bridge reached my ears which represented a new record for our group, surpassing my previous record by four ounces.

Now, for some reason that completely evades me, it was decided that for this historic capture Martin should have the title of ‘The Cid’ conferred upon him. My investigations show that the other Martin of the group but known to one and all as Rodders was the instigator of the title bestowal It is, by the way, pronounced for our purposes, ‘The Seed’ and has its roots in the story of ‘El Cid Campeador’, an eleventh century Spanish nobleman who conquered and ruled Valencia who is afforded heroic status in cinematic portrayals. Rodders was apparently extremely impressed by the film, starring Charlton Heston in the title role. Evidently the presence of Sophia Loren, who provided the romantic interest playing Jimena, had the most impact on him (I’m surprised the lad didn’t go blind years ago). It has to be said, El Cid receives what can only be described as mixed reviews from historians and has acquired a more villainous status from some. It is true however that ‘campeador’ means champion and is therefore not entirely inappropriate for the holder of the biggest barbel recorded within our little circle.

For two years young Martin claimed possession of the title. As there were no designated duties attached to the role and being the laid back young fellow that he is, no duties were undertaken. If the burden of being our spiritual leader at such a tender age was causing him any strain he showed no sign of it. Two years later though he was deposed from the position by a personage no less than his father! Once again the annual fishing holiday was the stage for the coup and once again I was remote from the scene of the capture. Paul and ironically his son had stayed close to the car park while Rodders, Al and I had undertaken a considerable ‘yomp’ along the banks of the Severn at Atcham. We had all landed barbel when the news came in via the mobile phone that Paul had landed a barbel of 11lb 5oz. Wow! One of us had finally landed a double figure ‘beard’. We were asked if we wanted to come and view the fish. We declined on the grounds of ethical fish treatment but I think the fact that we were idle sods and didn’t fancy the long walk to the car park and back had a strong bearing on our decision too!
               A stuffed sturgeon?

Back at base-camp the epic story was told and retold but as the photos (taken by his son, the deposed ‘Cid’) had been shot with a film camera and not a digital, we did not get to see a picture of the fish until it appeared in the Angler’s Mail the following week, after which I informed the new incumbent of the title that I thought it looked remarkably like a stuffed sturgeon. I can’t repeat the answer I received back. Anyway, the new ‘Cid’ had no difficulty in shouldering the burden of the duties attached to the position as there were still no attached duties and during his five year reign he found no reason to designate any responsibilities which suits me because in 2006, I found myself, totally against my expectations, succeeding to the title.
I won’t go into the details here because the account of the capture of the 12 pound 7 ounce monster can be found in Old Whiskers 1 under the title of ‘The Christening’. If you haven’t read it yet I urge you to do so because it’s a damned good read, I know, I wrote it and must have read it a dozen times since at least! I can’t resist popping in the picture of the fish below.

                                         An even bigger stuffed sturgeon
 

I don’t know what it is about our fishing holidays but all three title winning barbel have been taken on these annual jaunts although the competition is not restricted to them. Anyway the only responsibility I have decided to undertake is to try to ensure harmony within the group, not a difficult task given that they are all thoroughly good chaps. The other guys decided though, on the last day of the holiday, that The Cid should have an emblem of his position. I wouldn’t mind but they came up with a broken, rusty old spade that they found close to the holiday cottage and foisted this dubious artefact upon me. Despite my best efforts to forget ‘The Sceptre of the Cid’ on the day of our departure, Alan rumbled my ploy and made sure that I bore my trophy home.

I don’t expect to remain as ‘The Cid’ for long as I have a weird premonition that one of us is going to bag a thirteen pound plus barbel this year. Perhaps this power to foresee the future comes with the title and should be added to the little piece of self indulgent whimsy that prefaces this piece. I have a feeling too that Rodders will fill the position as he is the only one of us to have caught more than one double. To date he has four under his belt with the biggest at 11lb 2oz, all taken from the River Dove.
I won’t mind one bit, whoever it is who next takes over the mantle. In fact I hope Rodders, Al and Phil all have a crack at being ‘the Cid’. It will mean we will have all had the taste of capturing a truly memorable fish and they will come to understand the difficulty deciding what to do with a rusty shovel!

                                     A CHRISTMAS FISH

Ben was over the moon. He knew his Uncle Steve had got him the fishing gear he had asked for even before he had ripped the wrapping paper from the packages. Mind you it would be hard to disguise the profile of a fishing rod. A square box contained a reel which his uncle had already loaded with line complete with a spare spool also loaded but with sturdier line. The third package, when opened, revealed a box divided into compartments with all the bits and bobs he would need for his angling expeditions. Ben’s eyes shone with delight as he examined the selection of floats tipped in a variety of bright fluorescent colours, the packets of hooks, a container of shot and other fishing requisites. He couldn’t wait to get started!
When his uncle and auntie Jane arrived on their usual Christmas day visit, Ben enthused over his gifts and then moved on to what was, to him, the most pertinent of questions.
“When can we go fishing Uncle Steve, tomorrow?”
“Now you know that we’re all at your gran’s house for lunch tomorrow” his uncle chuckled “ Perhaps we could give it a go the next day though, if the weather’s anything like decent”
The trouble was that the weather had been far from decent over the last few days and every morning the canal had been adorned with a thin layer of cat ice across its width. Although this had disappeared with the help of the odd boat travelling along the cut, the water had lost much of its colour which was not conducive to good fishing. The forecast was not too hopeful either, so it was with some relief that Steve greeted the onset of mild south-westerly winds on Boxing Day afternoon which continued through the night accompanied by persistent light drizzle. The following morning was mild with a watery sun occasionally appearing through a veil of cloud.

Steve had opted to pick Ben up at 11 o’clock start, figuring that the latter hours of daylight were usually more productive in the winter months and productive was what he desperately wanted this session to be. This was Ben’s first real fishing trip although he had taken him for a couple of short minnow bashing sessions in the brook the previous summer using a garden cane rod and small red worms from the compost heap for bait. He caught loads of minnows too which had lit the blue touch paper and fired his enthusiasm for fishing.

At the house Steve’s sister greeted him. “Sam has been ready since 8 o’clock, he can’t wait.” Steve grinned and replied “Well we be off then Sam.” “I’ve done a flask off coffee for you and made some sandwiches” His sister told him. “Not turkey I hope” chuckled Steve “I’m sick of turkey.” “No” she replied with a grin “Cheese and onion and Ham and pickle.” “Oh, there’s some Christmas cake and a couple of chocolate bars as well.” “We won’t die of starvation then” said Steve “Thanks sis.”
“Come on Uncle Steve” interjected a very impatient Ben “It’s time to go.”
So off they set on the ten minute walk to the canal. An animated Ben bombarded Steve with a series of questions about their prospects and tactics all the way to the towpath. “You can’t fault his enthusiasm.” thought Steve.

On the towpath, Steve thought the cut was a little too clear for the prospect of good fishing. In these conditions he would have normally have started on bread punch but thought that technique was probably too difficult for a novice. He opted instead for a squatt and pinkie attack and showed his eager young pupil how to set up the rig for this approach. After introducing him to the intricacies of plumbing, he showed him how to hook a pinkie and finally Ben was ready for his first cast. His uncle told him to keep the bale arm of his reel closed, thinking it better to restrict his attack to a rods-length so that any loose feeding would be easier for his novice angler.

Basic though it was, Ben’s first cast was good and his uncle scattered a dozen or so squatts and a couple of pinkies around his orange tipped canal crystal float, followed by a walnut sized ball of groundbait and the pair sat back to await results while sipping hot sweet coffee and demolishing the sandwiches. The wait unfortunately, was protracted and more than an hour passed without any indication of a bite. More casts were made, another small dollop of groundbait was added and further doses of loose feed were introduced to no avail. Steve detected small signs of despondency in his nephew although his concentration hadn’t faltered and his technique remained surprisingly good. He was worried that if Ben blanked his undoubted enthusiasm for angling would be flattened. Feeding a bold robin with pinkies helped relieve the tedium of a motionless float but watching a kingfisher dive into the canal from a tree branch opposite to catch a fishy meal just served to rub salt into the wounds of their own ineptitude. Steve knew what the problem was. The clarity of the water coupled with its low temperature made the fish reluctant to bite. He was desperate for a boat to come along and muddy the cut to stir up the fish and get things moving. As if to answer his prayers, a steady ‘phut-phut-phut’ alerted him to a narrow boat rounding the corner just down from their pitch. The man steering the boat, throttled back and gave them a cheery wave as he passed which the pair returned.
Cumulus clouds of orange-brown mud were thrown up from the bottom which dissolved into an even veil of colour in the water “Right Ben, lets see if that has stirred ‘em up at all” Steve said with renewed hope in his voice.

Sure within a minute of recasting and putting a little more feed in Ben’s voice piped up excitedly “I think I’ve got a bite Uncle Steve!”
Sure enough the orange fine plastic insert of the float had sunk to its very tip and was moving steadily sideways.
“Strike Ben strike” Steve shouted with what was probably a bit too much urgency, for Ben swept back the rod, completely failing to connect with the fish and tangled his rig around the tip of his rod. Fortunately the tackle was quickly sorted and back in the water after replacing the sucked pinkie on the hook. As soon as the rig had settled, the float was away again and this time Ben’s strike connected with a surprised gudgeon finding itself leaving the canal like an Exocet missile and being deposited in Steve’s lap. After unhooking the fish Steve placed into his nephew’s hands and looked on with pleasure as he examined his prize with eyes almost as goggled as his capture. “Glad my wish came true when I pulled that wishbone on Christmas day” thought Steve.
“Glad my wish came true when I pulled that wishbone on Christmas day” thought Ben, but”Wow!” was the only comment that escaped the boy’s lips.

“Come on Ben let’s get it in the keepnet and catch some more.” His uncle urged.
Ben needed no second bidding and the bites continued apace with several more gudgeon, a few small roach, a couple of hand sized skimmers and a single four ounce perch, which pricked Ben’s finger during its transfer to the net, followed. Ben’s technique improve with each fish and soon his strikes were controlled enough to ensure that they had a chance to fight a little before being pulled from their home.

“Why don’t you set up a rod and we can have a match” Ben suggested to his uncle.
“You catch a few fish and all of a sudden you think you’re Bob Nudd” mocked Steve but he pulled a 4 metre whip from his holdall and attached a pre-prepared rig from its winder. Soon he was ready to start. “Right, whoever catches the most fish from now, wins” Steve pronounced and with that threw in some groundbait and a few feeders and cast in.

Ben needed a hand from his uncle only twice in the following hour when fairly deep hooked fish required the ministrations of a disgorger. Otherwise he fished with remarkable efficiency and caught another seventeen fish before the failing light called a halt to the proceedings. Steve’s float remained undisturbed throughout despite a fine display of rhythmical casting and feeding. Ben was a little cocky by now but he stopped taunting his uncle when he suggested that he might not take him fishing again.

Back at the house, Ben couldn’t stop talking about his trip and couldn’t resist telling his mum about how he had thrashed his uncle in their impromptu match. Mum smiled at her brother. “Thanks for that Steve” she said warmly.
“My pleasure” he replied as he went out of the door.
“Thanks Uncle Steve. We can have another match next time if you like” called out Ben.
“OK Ben” replied Steve.
“But it won’t be so easy next time when I actually put some bait on my hook” he thought to himself, smiling broadly.

                     Pete and Pat, a Pair of Proper Piscatorial Plonkers
                                 (or how not to win a match)

Now before I start this sorry tale of angling incompetence, let’s get one thing clear. I am no matchman, so when I had the chance to fish the committee match for the first time (the date having been moved forward a week and therefore no longer clashing with my annual fishing holiday), I hesitated before foolishly agreeing to grace the event with my presence. It was to held at Oakhanger Pool, a smallish commercial water just the other side of Crewe containing a variety of fish including roach and skimmers but with the usual good percentage of small carp.  “Just treat it as a pleasure fishing session” I told myself. “Set up a couple of pole rigs and fish for whatever you can get.” Somebody had told me that one of the most popular methods at the venue was a small open ended feeder rig cast to the islands but I decided not to bother with this and keep my match plan simple ……….until I got there and saw several anglers chucking plastic pigs towards islands! I had a change of heart and decided, as this did indeed seem to be a favoured method, then perhaps I should look to use it too.

When I reached peg 11 where I had drawn, I pulled my old DAM light ledger rod out and proceeded to set up a feeder rig. I’d just completed it when the ‘all in’ was called and I hadn’t even mixed any groundbait so I made that my next job. A nice dryish mix having been achieved, I then proceeded to get my pole rigs ready as I still had a mind to include these in my match plan. By the time I had completed this task and carried out the plumbing operations, the best part of half an hour of the match had elapsed but at least I was ready to fish. Until that is, I realised I hadn’t set up a landing net which took up another couple of minutes. Finally I shipped out a pole rig baited with a single red maggot to my 8 metre line and catapulted a pouchful of loosefeed around my float, at least that is where they were supposed to go but they landed at about 12 metres, well beyond my rig. Another load were despatched only to land at about the same distance but further to the left. For the third attempt I endeavoured to reduce the pull on the catapult elastic in order to reduce the distance the maggots flew and this I certainly achieved as the whole lot landed in my lap! I gave up with the catapult and from this point on fed my maggots by overhand or underhand chucks depending on the strength of the wind.

Despite my scattered feed I was getting regular bites and every now and then would hook a small roach or skimmer and slowly I built up some semblance of rhythm. The odd hand sized carp started to come and when I landed one of around 1½ pounds I felt I was finally settled into my fishing and for a while steady sport ensued, mainly from small silver fish but punctuated now and then with a ‘netter’ carp and even a single tench.
Halfway into the allocated match time, I decided to try my prebaited corn and pellet line. Unfortunately due to the rush in setting up at the start I had not plumbed this line and after dropping my rig over the baited area found it to be only six inches deep! I should have forgotten about fishing pellet until I had baited a more suitable area for a time. Instead I just went further out into deeper water and went straight in with pellet after chucking in a bit of loose feed and wasted another twenty biteless minutes before reverting back to my maggot line which I had since neglected to feed. Needless to say it took a while to tempt the fish back on the feed but when they did eventually return I caught steadily. Must try harder! until the ‘all-out’ was called. I hadn’t even touched my feeder set-up that had taken up so much time and I didn’t try the corn and pellet set-up again before the end of the match so that was a waste of time as well!

When Pete Moore got to me with the scales 8 pound odd was winning it. My catch weighed in at 10 pounds 13 ounces which frankly amazed me. Given my performance on the day, I reckon that peg would have produced at least thirty or forty pounds if I had even remotely got my act together. I felt a bit guilty about leading the field after such an abject display of fishing but that was soon relieved by Pete Robinson weighing in with a level 11 pounds on the next peg after hooking a 4 pound carp in the last few minutes. I can’t say I begrudged him the lead as he gave a pretty decent angling performance especially when compared to me. Now all I had to do was pack up which was, as usual with me, a slow affair. Eventually everything was stowed away apart from my keepnet. I ran the rings of the net through my hands neatening them as I went when, there in the fortuitously damp folds near the bottom, were two perch which I estimated to weigh three or four ounces. I could have won the match if I had checked my net properly! To be honest though, I felt justice had been done as my performance had not been worthy of winning the match. I did gratefully trouser the coin for the runner-up though, incompetent though I may have been, stupid I’m not!
I thought that must have been the worst performance of the day until Pat Colgan related the story of his match. Unlike me, Pat knew exactly how he was going to fish, with a feeder towards an island and with that intent he set up a quivertip rod. Now the trouble with Pat is that he spends most of his leisure time maintaining our waters and very little of it actually fishing, so when he actually wet a line he is a bit rusty to say the least. I use this information in mitigation of what happened next, on lifting his rig in preparation for a cast the feeder slid down onto his hook. Pat had put the ledger stop onto his line BEFORE the feeder. What a mistaka to maka! He reconstructed his rig only to find he had repeated the error. Third time lucky, he got it right and enjoyed a little angling action before overcasting into the island bushes resulting in a snap-off. He painstakingly set up again only to find, guess what, he had got the feeder and leger stop in the wrong order again! Not wishing to completely set up again, Pat then took his forceps, bent his hook straight, took off his feeder and leger stop and put them back in the correct order and then re-bent his hook (I know, I know, I can’t work out the logic either).

Having sorted the problem, he finally settled into some sort of rhythm and caught fish sporadically through the rest of the match. He ended up putting three pound odd of fish on the scales but declared that he had thoroughly enjoyed himself which is, ultimately, what it’s all about. Unfortunately at some point Pat managed to break his landing net and had to replace it with a larger carp net. At the end of the match he neglected to retrieve this from its resting place in the reeds. He returned the next day but the guy fishing on the peg claimed that the landing net head, that looked suspiciously like the one Pat had left, was his and unable to prove otherwise Pat left empty handed.

So there we are two tales of unbelievable incompetence but at least Pat has the excuse of lack of practice to mitigate his performance. Me? I don’t think I’ll be putting my hand in the draw bag again for a while. I just don’t have the attention span that match fishing requires any more!
 

Old Whiskers & friends have just returned from their annual fishing trek and rather than put the three storys that they have sent to me on to this page one by one I have decided that all three should be published at the same time. It is a long but enjoyable read that makes me homesick, Ruddy.

PART 1

     MINUTES FROM THE CLIFTON –ON-TEME FISHING GIG - SEPT 2006.         (OR HOW TO BREAK YOUR LANDING NET AND FALL INTO THE RIVER)
 

Well here we are again on our annual fishing trip with the usual crew,
Mr P Hogan, Mr P Leicester, Mr A Coste, Mr R M Van Winsum, and Mr P Dean. (all stout hearted chaps with steel for backbone the sort of men that made England what it is today)
………………………………………Hussar………………………………………

We arrived at Clifton on Teme on the 16 Sept with expectation running high after last years exploits at “Brobury” on the Wye (a little premature I fancy), but hay ho, our intrepid group non the less surged forward with great determination.

Saturday
Mr P Hogan & Mr P Dean did some fishing on the carp lake Mr P Leicester & Mr A Coste, did some domestic things and took in a little literature and a little more alcohol.

Sunday
Mr P Leicester, Mr A Coste, & Mr P Dean fished the carp lake again, whilst Mr P Hogan went of to the river Severn to sharpen his skills for the week ahead.
(I think he just wanted to be alone).

Monday
Monday dawned with a trip to the river Teme in the offing with mixed results it has to be said. Mr P Hogan, & Mr P Dean had fish on the bank, but alas Mr P Leicester & Mr A Coste had a little bad luck. But their resolve was undiminished. (for the time being anyway)

At the end of the day’s proceedings, while Mr P Dean was in the process of packing away his equipment he managed to take an unplanned swim…in the dark.
As it transpired this was not a good idea because he forgot to take his mobile phone and camera out of his pockets.(twerp)  ………….TAKE CARE ALL…………….
                      
Tuesday
Today Mr R M VanWinsum is due to arrive; the final piece of this piscatorial mechanism will then be in place.  
Well, where can one begin, as mentioned Mr R M VanWinsum joined the party at
8 am and after everyone had eaten a little light breakfast it was thought a good idea to go to the river and do a spot of fishing. Mr P Leicester decided to stay at the cottage to prepare the evening meal and undertake other domestic duties, once these tasks were performed he was then allowed to do a little fishing on the carp lake, making sure that the afore mentioned meal was ready for the rest of the chaps on their return.

Without going into too much detail everyone had caught though it had been a bit of a slog but all came good with a bit of a late surge in extra time, totals for the day as follows: -                   
P.L.       Lots of carp (100lbs approx)
A.C.       2 CHUB
P.H.       2 BARBEL
R.M.V. 1 CHUB & 1 BARBEL                                                                                      P.D.      6 CHUB(one of this number weighed in at 5lb 1oz, a personal best)             

I feel it only prudent to mention the torrid time Mr P Hogan suffered on the Tuesday as one of his fishing rods had been wrenched from its rod rest and pulled into the river. Well I can tell you now, the manful, calm and dignified way in which he retrieved the rod from the river left one quite speechless.(a lesser man may well have struggled…. Three cheers for Mr Hogan)  
 

Wednesday (barbus maximus day)
On occasions it has to be said that certain events happen all to rarely on our fishing trips which I will come to in due course, but first, Mr P Dean & Mr R M Van Winsum travelled to a day ticket section of the Teme it looked quite splendid with many different types of swims from fast moving stretches to deep glides, the river was still low but fishable so much so that R.M.V caught 3 barbel, and one chub the best being
5lbs-6ozs, and P.D. caught a barbel of 7lbs-12ozs, hard work under the conditions, but worth it.

Now to the main event of the day. Mr P Hogan & Mr P Leicester visited a part of the river close to our accommodation; P.H. had 3 barbel the best being 7lbs-8ozs.
P.L. took three fish 2 chub and a barbel of 12lbs-7ozs, this was a long awaited double figure fish for P.L. and justly deserved for an angler who cares about angling and the natural world and has been a big part of our annual excursions and is always there with a kind word and a sympathetic ear. Plus lots of help and advice as well (most of it unsolicited of course). This capture has put him the lead for ‘The Isaac’, the award for the biggest fish of the week,
At this point it is worth recording for posterity the text message exchanges between Mr P Hogan and Mr R Van Winsum.

Mr R Van Winsum “Hi Phil,  just to let you know the Isaac has just started his journey up the A34 to Poynton. Paul’s just had a 7-12 barbel”

Mr P.Hogan (current best barbel 7-8) “It ain’t all over ‘til the fat Hogey sings”
(much merriment from RVW and PD – no chance)

About 15 minutes elapses
Mr P.Hogan “The Isaac’s on his way up the A56 to Runcorn. Pete has just had a 12lb 7 oz barbel … What a whopper!”

It should be pointed out that Mr Hogan’s geographical knowledge is deplorable.
Mr Leicester, in fact, lives in Barnton.

After a little debate as to whether they were being subjected to a wind-up MrVan Winsum and Mr Dean decide that 12-7 would be an unlikely weight to report in a wind up and text their congratulations.
  
So, from all in the fishing party, a hearty WELL DONE Mr Leicester.

Thursday.
Well here we go again to Eastham Bridge, Mr P Hogan left early due to family commitments. So the rest of the crew were left to carry on.
Mr R M Van Winsum sadly did not catch. Mr P Dean also did not catch though he did connect with two fish but lost both of them.
Mr P Leicester netted two barbel the best was 4lbs-14ozs, but Mr A Coste eventually banked a barbel of 7lbs-11ozs (Mr Coste let that be a lesson to you……)

Friday.
The last day has dawned upon our intrepid gathering with hope springing eternal they set off.
Wanting to prepare a special meal for the final night and also becoming extremely complacent after his big barbel, Mr P Leicester fished the carp lake the other three went off to the river and at the end of proceedings the totals were as follows Mr P Dean did not catch (again) but did latch into a fish that gave a good account of itself but unfortunately the hook straightened and the fish was lost, Mr R M Van Winsum had a chub, a small pike, and a barbel of 5lbs.
Now we come to Mr A Coste having started the week gradually he came good right at the end with three nice chub and topped of with a personnel best barbel of 8lbs-9ozs.
(So the Claret is on Mr. Coste).

We can only be grateful that we are lucky enough to be able to have the opportunity to spend time together with good friends, this has been a superb trip in lots of ways not least because three personal bests were achieved, and once again congratulations to Mr P Leicester for his double figure barbel and winning the “ISAAK”.

(The fat Hogey has sung for 2006)
GOOD FISHING TO ALL

                                                             PART 2

                                                     CATCH THE 9-15

The five of us had fished together, for a good few years. The climax of the year was always the holiday for one week every September.  On this particular occasion the chosen venue was the river Severn in the Shrewsbury area.
At that time, it was also an objective of the ‘group’ to capture our first double figure barbel.  This ‘prize’ was in the back of all our minds all the time, as the captor would be held in great awe and esteem by his mates. On this day in particular, Paul and I shared a swim and unusually for us we had a got off to a good start catching barbel almost from the first cast. After a few fish I suggested to Paul that as it seemed we could be in for a reasonable catch, perhaps we should keep some sort of a record (as being caring anglers we don’t retain barbel in keep nets). This idea Paul readily agreed too and duly started to record the fish on the back of a cigarette packet.

A little later Peter came along the bank to review our progress. Asking the question ‘how’s it going’, Paul reached into his pocket and pulled out the list…. His first words were, 9-15 (nine fifteen). What followed can only be described as a verbal assault from Peter. Quote “It’s not a ten, it’s not a ten”, several times and  “close but not a ten”. Paul kept his cool and calmly continued to read his report. “Nine fifteen, six pounds four ounces, Nine twenty, four pounds twelve ounces…etc..etc. I believe the only further retort from Peter was ‘Ohhh’ as he returned to his swim, hopefully duly embarrassed at his outburst.

A few years later Paul was in fact the first of the group to catch a double figure fish (eleven pounds three ounces from the Severn at Atcham), although several had come very close. I don’t think Peter has forgiven him even to this day.

(NOTE FROM PETE): “I have now I’ve had my first double”

Rodders 2005

           AND NOW FOLLOWS PETE’S STORY WRITTEN IN HIS OWN INIMITABLE STYLE

                                                   THE CHRISTENING

The rod looked just the job in the shop. I needed a replacement for my faithful old John Wilson Avon twin tip which I had trashed on our last fishing holiday on the Wye. The Fox Barbel Duo had an Avon type top and a quiver-tip section with four interchangeable tips, two glass and two carbon, which seemed to fill my requirements admirably, promising me the versatility that I was seeking. I shelled out the very reasonable sixty-five quid asking price and left the tackle shop before my fishing buddy Al and I headed directly for our fishing holiday destination in deepest Worcestershire.
 
The farm nestles in a beautiful wooded valley and offers the use of lightly fished coarse and trout lakes located in the delightful setting of plum and apple orchards. Our accommodation was Kingfisher lodge, one of three overlooking the trout lake and very comfortable and well appointed it was too. The most important factor though, was the fact that it is within a reasonably short driving distance of several good day ticket stretches of the River Teme. On our arrival we were greeted by Paul, Rodders was to join us on the following Tuesday. Phil was having a bash on the coarse lake, having arrived the night before and was getting a bite a chuck, mainly from hand sized carp. We spent a couple of hours settling in and having a stroll around the site before a splendid evening meal of roast chicken followed by a few cans of beer and a couple of tots of whisky.

The next day, Sunday, we decided to stay and fish the coarse lake to avoid a suspected horde of weekend anglers on the river, except for Phil who decided to go his own way and fish a nearby stretch of the Severn on his Prince Albert card. Plenty of fish were caught despite the fact that the tip of my carp match rod broke inexplicably on only my third fish. Paul claimed top honours on the day with a six pound six ounce common carp.

Monday saw us on the stretch of the river controlled by a local pub where I endured a miserable blank. Despite running through my complete repertoire of baits, I managed to attract a couple of feeble rattles on my quivertip rod from minnows attacking my corn hookbait. Phil, only ten yards to right, managed to hook into four barbel and landed two, fishing with 10mm halibut pellet boilies on the hook. Paul recorded chub and a barbel while Al had a couple of chub. Bottom of the heap and not really my day I think!

Tuesday dawned and Rodders arrived in time for breakfast. Rodders, Paul, Phil and Alan decided to fish the Teme on a length of meadow that they had fished on a previous visit. I passed on the visit to the river as I had been so tired the night before that I had completely forgotten to prepare the evening meal which I usually do before I go to bed. With the rest of the boys gone, I quickly got on with the meal preparations and then went out and did a bit of photography round and about the farm. After a cup of coffee back at the lodge I strolled down for a few hours fishing on the lake, picking and eating a few Victoria plums on the way.

The Fox rod fitted with the Avon top was pressed into service with the simplest of end tackle, a size 8 hook tied directly to the end of the reel line. My bait was simply a thick sliced loaf. Fishing floating crust close to bankside vegetation brought eager carp lips to the surface and although many takes were missed, at the end of the session well over 100 pounds of  fish had been amassed. Most were carp in the 2-3 pound class with odd ones to 5 pounds. The long lean commons fought the best giving the impression of fish at least twice their size. Some of the mirrors however were exceptionally attractive fish.

I had taken a good catch on my new rod but as it was a barbel rod I could not consider it truly ‘christened’ until I had landed a barbel on it. I was back in the lodge before seven and set about cooking the evening meal ready for the return of the rest of the boys. All had caught with Paul’s catch being the best consisting of six chub and a barbel, one of the chub being a personal best at five pounds one ounce.

Wednesday saw us split up again. This time Paul and Rodders elected to explore a length of the Teme at Eastham. Phil and I plumped for the previous day’s river venue and Alan passed on fishing altogether, volunteering instead, to get some much needed provisions from a distant supermarket. There was quite a competition for swims on the Meadow with four other anglers also on the stretch. Phil however was able to reclaim his swim and he put me onto Paul’s hot pitch of the previous day. Now to be perfectly honest, I didn’t fancy it much. A tree behind the peg spread its branches so that they came in close overhead and drooped down in front of you making it a real birdcage of a swim with very restricted casting options. I briefly considered moving to the next peg upstream before deciding that with careful casting, the swim did indeed hold out considerable promise. Once again I elected to use a simple rig. A one LG shot leger link attached to a swivel was slid onto the ten pound mainline and stopped with a single swan shot. A size 8 hook was incorporated into hair rig hooklink, again ten pounds breaking strain, tied with a knotless knot. This was then attached to the main line using a four turn water knot.

After threading a 14mm drilled halibut pellet onto the hair I was ready to try my first catch. A low sideways flick to avoid the trees saw the rig fly a little too far but three or four turns of the reel handle brought it back to where I wanted it, just out from an overhanging branch just a few yards downstream. The current picked up the light rig and swung the end tackle in to settle underneath the bough. I carefully wound in a couple of feet of line to make a slight curve in the quivertip.

“Time for a cup of coffee” I thought “and then I’ll drill a few pellets while I’m waiting”. I was just reaching for my flask when wallop! the tip flew round. I grabbed the rod to find myself attached to what was obviously a good barbel rampaging downstream. The reel clutch was giving out a high pitched scream and the rod was bent into an alarming curve.  Worryingly I could feel a horrible grating indicating that the line was being pulled at speed through some sort of snag. The inevitable happened and the line fell slack. Winding in, I found the line had parted at the hooklink knot and the main line was badly abraded for a few feet up from the link. I stripped off the damaged line and reconstructed the hooklink and soon had my rig back in position ‘A’ but this time the reel clutch had been tightened considerably. Within minutes the top went round again and once again the rod took on a severe bend only to straighten up immediately. Thinking the fish had shed the hook, I reeled in to find the line had broken at the hooklink knot. I guess the four turn water knot just doesn’t suit fluoro coated line. This was no good, I’d lost two good fish, I was going to have to dispense with the hooklink and go straight through with no knots.

Remembering how to tie a hair rig without using a knotless knot proved tricky (it’s my age) but eventually the job was done and I was back in business under the tree branch. I was getting knocks and rattles on the tip for a couple of hours with the occasional rod-wrencher thrown in. Two of these, I managed to convert into banked fish, a couple of chub with the biggest weighing three pounds twelve ounces. The bites then dwindled to nothing and I suffered for around three hours without incident except for the odd cast finding the overhanging branches. Then, at about half past six in the evening, the tip lurched over and a frantic strike saw me doing battle once more with a decent barbel.
With the reel clutch screwed down so hard the rod seemed to bend into a complete semi circle. Despite the clutch setting the reel gave out a series of staccato ‘zizzes’ as the fish forced a few inches of line from the spool with each thrust of its powerful tail. I could feel its power through my forearms and I expected, at any second, to see and hear the splintering of carbon. With the rod in its full curve everything seemed to go solid and for one terrible moment I thought my adversary had found a snag. I think in fact he had his nose dug hard into the bank and had nowhere else to go. After a couple of seconds he swung back into the current and made a determined bid to put some distance between us but the power of the rod foiled him and I felt his pull lessen a fraction. Putting as much side-strain as I dare on the rod, I managed to persuade him a little way towards me and I wound down to gain a few precious feet of line. A repeat of the manoeuvre brought him back under the bough and the next pump had him on my side of the tree. The barbel decided on a change of tactic and headed across the river towards a sandstone shelf and the far bank shallow water. The reel though gave up not an inch of line and he then bored deep and circled sulkily below me. I decided to try and capitalise on my advantage and carefully bringing the rod upright through the small gap in the overhead branches, I sought to draw him up in the water and for the first time I saw him. He was at least seven, maybe eight pounds. With that he slapped the surface with an impressive tail and in a flurry of spray disappeared into the depths again. Steady pressure on the rod soon brought him up in the water again and once again the fish decided that a change of tactic was called for. Apparently searching for some sort of refuge, maybe an undercut, he seemed to try and bore into the near bank under my feet which got me ridiculously worried about a small piece of tree root, no more than four inches long that I had managed to snag my line on earlier in the day. I leaned out as far as I dare over the bank and thrust my arms out to their full extent in order to try and persuade him out into the stream again. Perhaps this fellow would even make nine pounds and would certainly be a contender for fish of the week. The barbel acquiesced to the persuasion and at this point I decided that he was almost ready for the net. Submerging the mesh I brought the rod into the upright position again and the fish rose compliantly to the surface and slid towards the rim. As usual with barbel, as soon as he was aware of the net he dived for the bottom. After three attempts at landing him with similar results the fish was finally brought over the net and was enveloped in the copious folds of the mesh. He was mine! Then at this point, to my horror, the front section of my landing net handle slid out of the rear section and the net slid towards the river. In a state of near panic, I dropped the rod and made a grab for the net. Fortunately I was able to grasp the handle and put it back together with the other half, locking it with half twist. At last I was able to grasp the mesh and swing it, along with its precious cargo, up and onto the bank. As I peered into the net I was astonished at the breadth of the barbel’s belly. Although I hardly dare think it, this fish looked as if it could be a double. I needed to get down to Phil because I had managed to forget my dial scales and camera when we set out. Quickly I removed the hook from the corner of the fish’s mouth with the forceps and then lowered the barbel, still in the net, into the current. I drove a stout bankstick through the angle of the landing net and as deeply as could into the bank before setting off for Phil’s swim.

“Phil can you bring your scales and camera? I’ve got a good fish. It’s a bit of a beast. It might even be a double.” I uttered somewhat breathlessly when I got there. Phil wound in his gear and we made our way back to my swim. I was a little anxious that the barbel, having rested in the net, might have thrust his substantial tail fin and pulled the staked net into the river but the whole kit and caboodle was still there when we arrived. The fish was reverently slipped into the weigh net which was then hung on the hook of Phil’s digital scales. Phil said that it was difficult to tell the weight because of the reading fluctuations which convinced me that the weight would be just short of double figures at nine pounds fifteen or something.
He then pronounced “Twelve” and after using a clever hold facility on the scales which produce an average of the fluctuations, “seven”.
Twelve pounds seven, I couldn’t believe it. Not only was it my first double but it had smashed my barbel personal best by three pounds, three ounces! I was shaking with excitement but the photographic honours needed to be carried out. For insurance I told Phil to take the first shot while I held the fish in the weighing net because I was afraid that once I was holding my prize catch, it would flip over my shoulder and into the river before a picture had been taken. I needn’t have worried, everything was OK but once the trophy shot had been secured I was anxious that the barbel was returned to the water as soon as possible. He was deposited back into the landing net and lowered gently back into the river. Within a minute he was pushing strongly against the mesh and I withdrew the net to allow him swim slowly out of sight. Phil congratulated me heartily before departing commenting that there was still at least an hour of daylight left for us to catch some more fish.

Try as I might though, the encounter had left me shaking so much that I was totally unable to attach another pellet to my hair rig and after twenty minute of trying, I gave up and slowly packed my gear away. In any case my new rod had been well and truly christened and with a double as well. I walked up and sat next to Phil until he called it a day at dusk. He didn’t add any more fish to the three barbel, best seven pounds eight that he had caught earlier in the day.

Back at the lodge we decided that cooking was not appropriate for the occasion and high-tailed it to the Lion for a meal and a few celebratory drinks while I regaled the lads with an account of the epic battle (a few times I think! Sorry boys). Rodders and Paul had some decent sport that afternoon at Eastham as well it seems. Back at the lodge Al and I enjoyed a few whiskies into the early hours while I recounted again the afternoon’s events in case he had missed it the first few times. I think I might have got a little sloshed!

The boys reckoned that the Isaac (the trophy awarded for the biggest fish of the week) was already won but I reminded them that a fourteen pound two barbel had been taken from the Teme a fortnight earlier and that the competition was far from over.

On Thursday everyone except Phil, who had to attend his daughter’s wedding the next day (some people never get their priorities right!), was on the Teme at Eastham. I added to my barbel tally with two to four pounds fourteen but lost two more when the six pound line on my second rod was frayed on the underwater sandstone shelves. Never fish the Teme for barbel with less than ten pound line would seem to be good advice. Al got his first barbel of the week, a seven pound eleven specimen, just short of his best. Paul and Rodders both blanked although Paul lost two good fish.

The last fishing day on Friday saw Al, Rodders and Paul unsurprisingly back on the meadow while I elected to prepare a special last night meal including my world renowned honey and thyme roasted carrots. It is surprising how benevolent the capture of a good fish can make you feel.
Chores done, I again had a few hours on the lake and this time kept a rough tally of my catch. I had at least 135 pounds, probably nearer to 150 pounds. Again a single loaf was all I took for bait.

The boy’s returned from the river. Rodders had fished the hot swim and recorded a barbel, a chub and a small pike, all taken on 10mm boilies. Paul uncharacteristically blanked for a second successive time but Al, right at the last knockings, with what was effectively the last cast of the holiday, bagged a personal best barbel of eight pounds nine ounces which delighted us all. Yes, I know his fish looks bigger than mine!

Later in the pub the Isaac, the award for the biggest fish of the holiday was presented to me by Paul accompanied by a smattering of applause from bemused locals. So an excellent holiday was concluded with everybody extremely happy with the week, especially me who just happened to be in the right place at the right time when the fish of a lifetime came along!

Great story and congratulations Peter, regards Ted.

                       Nocturnal Bream Bagging Is Great

                     (But spare me the vegetarian ‘snakes’)

It had been to damned hot to go fishing with any expectancy of a good bag but, I decided, if I fished the Weaver through the night I might come up with the goods if the bream would play ball. The night session at the start of the season had yielded 36 pounds, a little above the average for these outings so perhaps another trip was called for. Barbara dropped me off at the dragonfly gates at the top of the road down to the river with the promise to pick me up again at seven the following morning. Which peg to choose? Pegs 1, 17, 27, 28, 40, 41, 42 and those towards the mouth of the brook had all produced in the past so there was plenty of choice. Immediately I reached the river, I could see that there was a boat moored on peg 1. Well to be more accurate there was a ship moored on pegs 1 to 4, belonging to a touring theatre company that was putting on performances at the Nature Park. No boat was on peg 17 but there was one on peg 16, so on the grounds of mutual personal space, I ruled out that one.  Looking upriver I could see that peg 27 was completely free so I quickly made a beeline for it. Now I like peg 27 It is on the manicured stretch of riverbank where they grass is kept reasonably short which cuts down on the number of slugs making slimy visits to your bait box and sides of your flask. Furthermore the line of bushes between the peg and the footpath offers a certain degree of seclusion. It has the advantage of a weed bed growing in the shallow margins of the swim which I’m sure is a major attraction to bream at night. This year though the weed was more prolific than usual and there were no breaks in it through which I could safely bring a hooked fish. I reasoned that a little swim clearance was required and to that effect dragged my landing net through the weed at full stretch but, save for uprooting the odd strand or two, to no avail. Should I risk trying to skim fish over the top of the weeds or should I move to one of the other favoured pegs?
“Sod it” I thought “I’ll give it a go here and if landing fish proves difficult, I’ll move.”
I took my time setting up my stall as I like to be comfortable with everything to hand when I start a night fishing session. Mind you it doesn’t take long for everything to fall into total disarray as that session progresses.

I opted to fish with six sections of pole with 10-12 latex running through the top two. The rig bore a 4BB stickfloat and a size 14 Kamasan B520 hook, just right for switching between corn and bread baits. I plumbed the depth (about 5 feet) carefully and marked the position of the float top with a turn of blue sticky tape on my pole. I then added the seventh section and plumbed again to find another four inches or so of water. I marked the depth again so I could easily switch from one mark to the other should the fishing require it.

By the time I had cast in my sweetcorn baited rig it was ten past eight. I let the rig settle and then baited with five tangerine sized balls of groundbait and twenty or so grains of corn. Every cast was followed up with the introduction of more corn. Unusually nothing happened for half an hour. Normally it doesn’t take long for the roach to move over the initial introduction of bait and I was just beginning to wonder if I had made the right choice of swim when the float bobbed sharply a couple of times. There was a pause and then more bobs before the float sailed smartly away. I struck and felt nothing and on examination the sweetcorn was undamaged. This indicated to me that the roach was probably the culprit. Back into the swim went the rig, more sweetcorn and within seconds the float became animated again. A few dips, a short run downstream before disappearing smoothly through the ripple. This time the strike was met with a solid resistance and the latex stretched out of the tip of the pole. This was obviously a bream and much sooner than I expected. I felt the fish surge and more elastic was drawn out. Again the fish thumped and the latex stretched still further. Then, as always with bream, the fish yielded to the elastic’s power and it swirled on the surface with the latex disappearing back into the pole like a rabbit down a bolt hole. A couple of weak dives were overcome and I unshipped rapidly bringing the beaten fish toward the weed-bed that represented the last obstacle to a successful netting operation. There was a slight drag as it slid on its side over the weed but it came sweetly over the net and at about three pounds was a welcome first catch of the evening. A couple of roach followed and then more bream and a two pound nine ounce hybrid which really twanged the elastic.

As dusks velvety fingers enveloped the river I snapped a micro starlite and its green glow spread down the small tube as I shook it. I attached it to the top of the float and cast in eager anticipation. I always like fishing with a starlite, they make the bites seem so much more dramatic as you can see the glowing tip sliding away for a fair distance below the surface. Not long after this the first mini disaster of the night occurred. I struck into a fish that powered away forcing me to add three more sections very hastily but after this I managed to acquire a reasonable degree of control and after a couple of minutes the fish came to the top a good way out in the river. Gingerly I brought the fish towards me unshipping pole sections one at a time.  Once again the weed bed had to be negotiated but the fish seemed to quietly compliant so I brought the pole towards the upright position. At first the fish slid smoothly across the top of the weed but then it suddenly ‘woke up’ and dived through it and surged back towards the middle of the river. The elastic pulled out to its maximum and the line parted. I don’t know what the fish was, a tench maybe, a big hybrid or perhaps a smallish carp but whatever it was the customary angler’s curses at the loss of a good fish were uttered before tying on a new hooklink and recommencing fishing. There then followed a period of inactivity and at around twelve I decided that this lull would be a good time to empty the keepnet and keep well within the five hour rule for retaining fish. Hauling out the net was made difficult because of the metal rail that runs along the edge of the bank on this bit of river but eventually I managed it and after weighing the fish at a little under twenty five pounds I took them a couple of pegs downstream before releasing them.
On returning, I found the bream had reappeared but pulled out of three fish in successive put-ins to put the wind up the shoal again and resulting in another bite less period during which my rig sustained a tangle after pulling out of a snag. This involved me in tying a new hook link. I got a bite first chuck after this but the familiar corkscrewing action on the end of my line led me to suspect that I had hooked an eel and seconds later my fears were confirmed as a ‘bootlace’ came swinging in towards me. Now don’t get me wrong, I don’t hate eels and I think their life cycle is one of the wonders of nature, but the very reason I don’t use maggots at night is to avoid the blighters. I mean they are hard enough to unhook in the daylight but at night a deeply hooked snig that has tied itself into a disagreeably slimy reef knot is something that I could, quite frankly, do without. If old anguilla is going to turn vegetarian he may never grow strong enough to migrate to the Sargasso sea, enjoy a session of frenzied mating and then die (I suppose this would increase longevity, a frequent claim on the benefits of vegetarianism and may seem attractive to a would-be vegan eel) As usual I ended up minus a hook and my hands covered in mucous. Another ten minutes or so of precious darkness was used up while I sorted myself out.

It was some time before I at last contacted the bream again and I got the odd fish sporadically throughout the rest of the night. Dawn as usual saw the bites dwindle very quickly and I caught only a small skimmer, a smaller hybrid and a solitary roach before deciding to call it a night. A second weighing told me I had added a bit over seventeen pounds to take my total to forty two pounds for the session. Not bad considering the frequent disruptions to my angling rhythm. 

I have since enjoyed two more night trips on the Weaver, this time without taking a keepnet and avoiding a mid-session emptying of the net. I just weighed the fish as I went along, recording another 42 pounds and a 40½ pound catch. In all the four night sessions have brought me a total of just over 160 pounds which is not bad for a fairly relaxed fishing regime. Oh, and on each occasion I have caught one vegetarian eel. I do hope that this is not a growing trend!
 

TRILOGY - PART 3

Nobody likes being made to do something that they don’t want to but, having given up fishing, I don’t think I would ever have taken it up again if my cousin hadn’t come to stay…………………………………………………

                                                     THANKS MUM!

                                       The conversion of a born again angler

I’d come to the conclusion that my cousin was a pain and come to that so was my mum. My cousin David had been staying with us in the summer holidays and had mithered to go fishing and my mum had insisted that I took him. I had wanted to go bird-watching, a hobby that I still enjoy today. I had stopped fishing about three years ago when, after umpteen visits to the waterside, I had managed to catch the grand total of exactly four fish, one gudgeon (my first fish) and three tiny roach. Fishing, I had decided, was too slow and boring to take up any more of my valuable leisure time. However there was to be no getting out of this one. David wanted to go fishing, I was the eldest and the only one who had ever been fishing, therefore I was going to take my cousin fishing or else!
Suitably persuaded, I rooted out the heavy old lancewood rod with the garden cane top section from under the stairs, found the reel and bits and bobs to complete a rather ragbag fishing ensemble. One thing I was determined I wasn’t going to do though, was to spend any of my precious pocket money on maggots. Turning over a few forkfuls in the garden compost heap soon yielded enough worms for an afternoon’s sport, not that I was expecting to catch anything. The two of us set off for the sewer beds section of the Weaver more familiarly known these days as the Barnton Red Lion stretch.

The very swim that my angling passion was revived.
It’s changed a bit from 45 years ago though

Confirmation that my cousin was a pain and come to that so was my mum came when, after less than an hour, David complained that he was bored and that he wanted to go home. The request was ignored because I knew that somehow it would be deemed as my fault that the fishing trip was cut short and I would be in trouble (with my mum being such a pain along with my cousin). I continued to search all over the swim with my float. Actually I couldn’t cast much more than a rods-length out with the ancient tackle I had but I would have been equally inept with the most cutting edge equipment of the time. Another half hour elapsed without the slightest sign of a nibble and the whinging from the pain that was my pain of cousin was by now incessant. Another five minutes I decided and then we’d call it a day. I would just have to risk the wrath of my pain of a mother.

By now I was fishing on auto-pilot and dropped the float in just a yard from the bank and watched as the Weaver’s leisurely flow took it slowly downstream. Suddenly without warning the red tip vanished below the surface with the line following it at pace. I swept the tip of the rod upwards and felt the pull of a hooked fish. For once it didn’t come hurtling straight out of the river as all my previous fish had. While the fight couldn’t be described as momentous, the resistance, by my experience, was stubborn. Soon however the steely resistance of the garden cane top section of the rod overcame the fish’s lunges for freedom and I drew to the edge the most ENORMOUS roach I had ever seen. It must have been have been at least, oooh, six ounces! The only problem was that I now had to get it onto the bank. When all your previous piscatorial encounters had been with sub one ounce fish the need for a landing had not seemed an urgent priority. After dithering for a few seconds I plucked up the courage to lift the fish out of the water and swing it onto the ground at my feet. I pounced on the fish immediately and released a whoop of glee. Even David had become animated and we both examined the silver prize with its large mouth and fat round body. It was here reader we have the clue to the true identity of the fish for it wasn’t a roach at all but, in fact, a small chub. It was not until quite a few years later that I came to recognise this fact.
After incarcerating the catch in the homemade muslin keepnet I stuck a fresh worm on the hook and set about catching more fish. David and I took it in turns with the rod and for a while he was full of renewed enthusiasm. I started to think he was not too bad after all but half an hour without another bite saw him whinging to go home again. He was being a right pain!

In the end I decided to give in to his whining and we packed up to wend our way home. Mum was quite happy that I had done my family duty and when I announced that I was going fishing again tomorrow she smiled and asked David whether he wanted to go with me. I was not surprised but very pleased when he declined the offer and the next day I set off alone for the river but this time with sixpence worth of maggots in my bait box. Do you know what? I caught eight fish, roach and gudgeon, in the session, double my previous total from all those past trips. I was now an enthusiastic born-again angler and it was all down to my wonderful mum. Thanks mum!

 

This story about my first ever angling trip is a prequel to ‘The First Gudgeon in Space’ which we publish again to form the first two parts of a trilogy. The third part which describes how I became a born again angler after giving up the sport will follow soon (Watch this space for the next exciting episode!)

My First (Very Faltering) Angling Steps

Some of you will have already read the story of my first fish but the very first time I went fishing occurred at least five years before that, before I had even started school. It all started one evening when we were out on a family walk. In those days most families went on walks by way of entertainment, hardly anybody had a telly then. Mum, Dad, me and my brother Jim in his pram met one of my dad’s friends and his son just coming back from a fishing trip. The lad had a jam jar full of water with a loop of string attached to the neck and in it was swimming a beautiful little goldfish, in reality a tiny crucian carp, that they had caught from a pond in field a little way up the lane. I was fascinated and right away wanted a fish for myself. Having garnered the details of how and where the fish was caught, my dad soon obtained the necessary permission from the farmer to fish the pond and plans were made.

A root around in the ‘glory hole’ under the stairs unearthed my dad’s old lancewood rod with a greenheart top section and a wooden centre-pin reel. All the other bits and bobs needed to for the trip were obtained from various sources (begged, borrowed or dug out of the shed), but best of all was the kit that my dad put together for me to use.

A six foot garden cane for the rod which had a groove cut into the top into which was tied a length of line. A red topped porcupine quill float was threaded on this and shot and a hook completed the outfit. The line length was fixed so that it would the hook just fit into the base of the cane rod under tension and I was warned not to undo it until we reached the pond to avoid any tangles or self-hooking accidents.

These instructions were followed to the letter so indeed I was not tangled or hooked when we arrived. My dad made his way down the rather steep bank to the water’s edge, telling me to stay where I was until he had sorted himself out. Now in over thirty years of involvement in junior angling there is one most important thing that I have learnt about it and that is that you can’t take a young kid on his first angling trip and expect to be able to fish yourself. Unfortunately my dad lacked the experience and was now engrossed in getting his depth sorted and getting in a bit of much needed casting practice at the same time.

Left to my own devices and bored with waiting (it must have been a whole five minutes by now!), I took the hook out of the bottom of the cane and set about copying the overhead casting dad was doing at the waterside. Whoosh! The cane cut through the air with gusto and the line whipped down into the bright yellow buttercups and lilac thistle heads at my feet entwining itself elaborately through the stems of vegetation. I heaved upwards on the cane and the line drew tight pulling buttercup and thistle together in a tight embrace. A further determined pull nipped off the flower heads as surely as a guillotine despatched those of the French aristocrats. The nylon catapulted up and wrapped itself in the most complicated of knots around the rod. The float formed the heart of this horrendous tangle which I thought t was almost certainly irretrievable. It was at this point, having got his tackle set up to his liking that my dad put down his rod and came up the bank to get me sorted. His sharp intake of breath followed by a lecture about the consequences of not being patient enough confirmed the hopelessness of the situation. Dad carried on fishing for half an hour or so but, aware that his first-born was becoming increasingly bored and restless, he soon decided to pack up without having raised a bite. So that was it, my first angling trip had ended in abject failure and It was to be five years before the angling bug bit once again. Encouraged by friends, a few sorties to the Weaver at Barnton were undertaken but I totally failed to hook anything except vegetation and the occasional finger. It was not until that fateful moment in a junior match at Hartford that I was to experience that moment of joy when I finally found myself admiring in goggle-eyed wonderment my first ever fish.  

TRILOGY - PART 2

Everyone remembers their first fish, or do they? Well mine is still indelibly etched on my memory 40+ years on. This piece recounts the thrill of my first piscatorial success and illustrates the enormous changes in tackle that have taken place over the decades.

THE FIRST GUDGEON IN SPACE

I was apprehensive as I walked to my peg on the Willow Beds just downstream of the blue bridge over the Weaver. I had only been picked as reserve for the Barnton church school team by virtue of the fact that in half a dozen attempts at fishing, I had yet to catch anything. A case of chicken pox had secured my promotion into the team. Frank Buckley, Brian Weedon , Russell Stock and myself had made our draw at the Blackboards and now I was on my own.

There had been quite a bit of work to do in readiness for the match. The rod I normally used did not have a top section and the two lower pieces when fitted together formed a marked "S" shape so it was agreed I could use my dad's somewhat straighter lancewood rod which was also minus a top section. We set about fashioning one from the straightest garden cane we could find. Rings were made from the circular ends cut from safety pins and whipped on with fine garden string. The end of the cane was carefully whittled and sanded to be a snug fit in the ferrule. There was just the possibility that I may catch a fish so a keepnet would be needed. A four foot length of sleeve muslin was fitted with rings made from stiff wire, a knot was tied in the muslin at the bottom and a loop of string at the top completed the job.

A "Y" shaped branch was cut from a hedge and sharpened to serve as a rod rest and my few pieces of terminal tackle gathered together and placed in the gas mask carrier in which dad normally carried my his "bagging" (lunch) to work. My seat was to be a small wooden foot-stool (non- collapsible). With this motley array of gear I finally arrived at my peg and set about preparing for the "all in". With the three pound breaking strain line threaded through the rod rings, a float was selected from my magnificent collection of three. I rejected the fat cork bodied perch bob and the curved crow quill in favour of the shiny red tipped porcupine quill. After fastening it to the line using a float rubber and the whipped on wire ring, the rig was somewhat haphazardly shotted from a somewhat sparse selection of weights contained in a little slide-top tin box. A thick wire eyed size 14 hook was then tied to the end of the line using a double reef knot. This completed what was a fairly standard set up for a junior angler in those days. No plumbing for depth took place (nobody I knew ever did this). Instead the float was set at roughly two and a half feet deep. The warped lid of my aluminium bait box was removed to expose sixpenny worth of maggots which represented my sole complement of bait for the evening. A fat white grub was selected and impaled somewhat clumsily right through the middle.

With the shrill of the starting whistle there was the simultaneous whoosh of rods being cast in all along the match length. This sound was followed by gentle plops as shot and floats entered the water except at my peg. A loud splash announced to all those around me that the "snug fitting" home made top section had flown out of the ferrule. The lad in the peg downstream flashed an irritated scowl in my direction as I somewhat shamefacedly wound back the offending parting. An elderly steward, he must have been at least twenty five, was positioned right behind me and I felt my cheeks colour under his gaze but he merely gave me a sympathetic smile and said "Don't worry lad. Have another go" Having refitted it as securely as I could, I heaved a second cast with as much might as I could muster and watched as my terminal tackle landed in a heap some four feet from the bank. The float thankfully seemed to cock in the right manner so I placed the rod in the rest, butt on the ground with the rod tip pointing into the air at a forty five degree angle and settled down to watch the inch and a half of float tip protruding from the water. I threw in about a dozen maggots roughly in the vicinity of my float

I fished on for about half an hour, occasionally recasting and sometimes the sheer weight of the rod caused it to smack down on the water's surface drawing disgruntled mutterings from my friend downstream. Then feeble splashings indicated that he had hooked a small fish. Envy crept over me as it was deposited in his keepnet. A little later the scene was repeated and despair that I would ever catch anything seemed to grip me. I knew I had to feed regularly so with more than an hour gone, a second batch of loose feed was dispatched into the swim. Then the most miraculous thing happened. The float bobbed. A bite! Hastily lifting the butt of the rod from the ground I stared at the now moving float tip. The fish was drawing it away from the bank, tiny rings emanated from it as it bobbed again. The float gathered speed, tilted, then slowly sank beneath the glass-like surface. I stared as the red top slowly disappeared into the murk when a voice in my head seemed to say "You're supposed to strike". With both hands gripping the butt, I swept back my arms and a surprised gudgeon launched from the surface like a Polaris missile. The fish arched over my head before landing in a patch of brambles. The elderly steward was immediately by side as if he sensed that I was a novice in need of help. I can't think where he may have got that idea! Between us we managed to untangle the line from the thorns and at last the gudgeon emerged from the undergrowth. "There you are" he said placing the fish in my hands after unhooking it for me. I stared down in wonder at the living jewel, slippery and shiny its' flanks shot with electric blue. I marvelled at the spots on the fins, at the strangely bewhiskered mouth and at the goggly eyes. "Come on, let's get it in your net" said the steward. Looping the string over the rod rest, he threw the net into the river. It floated! Not a drop of water entered its' interior until he dug out a chunk of housebrick from the bank with the heel of his boot and dropped it into the net. Reluctant though I was to part with my prize, I placed it into the net and watched it swim from view.

Urged by the steward to try and catch another, I returned to the task but try as I might, it seemed that there had only been one suicidally insane fish in the swim. At the final whistle I packed away my stuff and waited patiently for my catch to be weighed. My friend downstream weighed first and his two fish weighed 12 drams. I was thrilled once more by sight of my catch as it was placed into the scale basket. After some movement back and forth of the weight along the beam 13 drams was announced. "Well done lad" said my temporary best friend, the steward. My downstream adversary announced, somewhat over-loudly I thought, that I was a "Jammy little sod" and then told anyone who would listen that he would have caught loads more if it hadn't been for all my splashing. I didn't care. You needed to have caught a fish to be called a fisherman and now I had!

I made my way back downstream for the announcement of the results and found I had missed collecting a prize by just two drams. Frank Buckley got that last award, a plastic biro, in those days a wondrous novelty! I didn't really mind for when I got home I could recount the details of the epic catch and the amazing skill that brought it about to my doubtlessly agog family.

I fished throughout the rest of the summer catching only a couple of small roach and the rod was then stashed back under the stairs. It would be five years before my enthusiasm for the sport was reawakened but that's another story. What about the gudgeon? Well I can easily imagine him living out the rest of his days boring his mates with the tale of how he became ‘The first gudgeon in space’.

SADLY MISSED

 Continuing my look at some of the club’s characters who contributed much to our club but sadly are no longer with us.

Part 2

SUITED BUT NOT BOOTED – EXTRAORDINARY GENTLEMEN

Phil Hyland was a gentleman, no doubt about that. Quietly spoken, he turned out to club committee meetings in sports jacket and tie and was always courteous to other members at these events. He also attended most of the club’s working parties and threw himself wholeheartedly into any task that might arise. I don’t remember him missing a club presentation night either. Nowt unusual about that you may think, even though such diligent enthusiasm may be hard to find in angling clubs today. I would agree with you too EXCEPT Phil wasn’t an angler and I am not aware of a single occasion when he fished our waters. It’s true that you could say he had a vested interest in the club, being the local tackle dealer. Then again I know of very many presidents and vice-presidents of a lot of organisations and most were quite happy to remain as mere figureheads of their societies. They would perhaps donate a trophy or presenting the prizes at the annual ‘do’ but otherwise remained aloof from the club activities. Phil though gave the impression that he was deeply honoured when asked to be a vice-president and was determined to carry out the role to the very best of his ability. Of course we club members bought our bait and tackle from him and a lot of us stuck with him when rival businesses opened up in the town. I bought my first fibreglass match rod from Hyland’s and my first carp rod. I looked forward to my weekly visit to Hyland’s almost as much as I looked forward to my fishing. Phil, it seemed was always ready to chat about your last session and was apparently very interested in your latest success or lack of it. I can’t tell you how much I missed his quiet bonhomie when he suddenly died and it goes without saying it was a very great loss to the club.

Nowadays angling clothing may not seem out of place on a fashion catwalk. It comes in a range of tasteful colours with coordinating flashes along the seams, waterproof, windproof and breathable too. Back in the sixties the nearest you got to breathable clothing was a string vest! There was a right hotchpotch of fishing wear on display on the bank.  I.C.I overalls were one of the most popular choices, worn on top of old trousers and a jumper. There was however one person in the club who would never contemplate such sartorial sacrilege and that was Bill Edwards.

What every discerning angler

should be wearing?

You see Bill always turned up for the club matches wearing a smart suit, white shirt and tie. I’m not kidding. On his feet he wore smart highly polished black brogue shoes. Now I don’t know about you but when I go fishing within minutes of arriving on the bank the mud has somehow, even after weeks of drought, crawled up my wellies and has started to cover the legs of my over-trousers. By the end of the session it is liberally adorning my jacket as well as a generous coating of fish slime if I’ve had a good day’s sport. The great mystery to Bill’s fellow club-mates was how his clothing remained in absolutely pristine condition right down to the knife-edge creases in his trousers. His shoes too retained their bright Cherry Blossom shine. Before you ask, yes he did catch fish and after unhooking them he would wipe his hands on a small towel but I use a towel and it singularly fails to stop the disagreeable transfer of slimy mucous to my gear. I guess the secret of how to remain dapper while fishing will remain a complete mystery that was known only to the likes of Bill Edwards.

SADLY MISSED

Every club whatever sport or interest it is involved with is dependent on its members for its strength and very existence, without members, quite simply, there would be no club. What is more in every club you will find members who by their enthusiasm or eccentricities are regarded as characters, the sort of people who breathe life into the organisation to which they belong. It is a sad fact that inevitably, with the passing of time, eventually every one of these characters leaves this mortal coil and, for a time at least, leaves a void that seems impossible to fill. Our club is no exception and in over sixty years of its existence many characters have emerged just a few of whom I will recall in my next couple of pieces.

Part 1

Chain smoking, phantom pike and the annual apple battle.

One of the first Barnton Angling Club members that I came across when I was a junior was Bob Hunt, at the time the club’s junior official. After organising the draw at the junior match and having started the event he would then set about fishing himself, always in the same spot and always using a large worm as bait.

Perpetually, from the start to the finish of the event, there would be a cigarette between his lips lighting a fresh one from the glowing dog end of his previous fag.

He’d catch the odd perch or rudd but at sometimes there would be a strike and his rod would take on a prodigious bend as a large fish surged away, an impressive bow wave spreading across the surface of the shallow water. There was never more than brief contact between man and fish. Either the line would snap or the hook would pull at which point Bob would exclaim “That damn pike again.”

As kids we were always in awe of this pike and many hours would be spent spinning in the hope of luring a take. In fact I’m pretty sure now that the ‘pike’ never existed and the fish that Bob kept hooking were probably carp, the presence of which, at that time, were never suspected. One of Bob’s idiosyncrasies so I have been told was his propensity for a fishing trip on Christmas day on the River Weaver and the family Christmas dinner was timed to fit around this tradition. I can’t see my wife putting up with any such behaviour from me!

At the same time in the club was a certain Charlie Ollier and although they were great friends, Bob and Charlie were at the same time fierce rivals in the matches but also for the harvest of apples from the tree growing in the corner of the top cistern bank. They wanted to be the one to gather every apple before the other had a chance but at the same time not to pick the fruit until it was in the peak of condition, for unripe fruit was of no use to either of them. So there was this annual game of ‘Grab the Apples’. In reality there were plenty to go round but to share would have taken away the fun of the competition.

Charlie drove a Robin Reliant which took him not only to local coarse fishing venues but to sea fishing trips on boats out from Rhyl and Whitby. Once he got to know you and had taken a shine to you, you would find yourself invited to go on one of these marine jaunts. I went on a couple and the first thing you noticed when the charter boat arrived at the jetty was how fast Charlie could move for a big man. He was always anxious to secure that he one of the coveted places in the stern which invariably produced the best catches. The first trip was fine with a gentle swell under a clear blue sky. I caught a variety of fish including a thornback skate. Somebody else, who shall remain  nameless, also hooked a skate and having pumped it to the top declared he had enjoyed the fight and in order to experience it again he let the fish back down to the bottom. This meant the blokes either side of him had to keep their lines out of the water for fear of tangling their gear with his. He got a right ear bashing from Charlie and was never invited again. The second trip however was a different kettle of fish (excuse the pun). Strong winds propelled dark clouds across a leaden sky and with the resultant rough seas, we were confined to the more sheltered waters of the Dee estuary. The waves were still considerable and soon after we had anchored all but two of us were hanging over the side of the boat retching violently. Charlie of course was not affected by sea sickness and made merry jokes about keeping the groundbait coming as one or the other of us chucked up over the side. I never went again after that, despite numerous invitations, preferring my meals to take the usual full course of the digestive tract.

Following in her famous Uncles (Old Whiskers) shoes 6 year old Georgia has sent me the following story, If she can write a story so can you lot out there, so c’mon then. Ruddy.

WHEN I WENT FISHING

By Georgia Bebbington

One day Uncle Peter said “Let’s go fishing”. I said “Yes please”.

So we made some sandwiches for lunch and got some fishing tackle. We set off to the fishing pool. When we got there we sat down and started to fish. I used a rod which had line fastened to it. The line had a float, hook and some shot to sink the line on it. On the hook we put a maggot for bait. I cast in and when the float bobbed and went under I struck. Sometimes I hooked a fish and sometimes I didn’t. When I hooked a fish it splished and splashed as I pulled it in.

.After we had been fishing for an hour we stopped for a picnic. After lunch we started fishing again. At the end of the day I had caught 31 fish. We both enjoyed ourselves.