A Pot Of Lobs

Working on a bank holiday Monday isn't much fun, but I was only in for four hours and for much of that time I had the long walk and the eddy swim in mind.
 Just for a change I thought I'd take just one pot of lobs for bait, nothing more nothing less.
 Come five 'o' clock I found myself once again at the boundary oak...

 I paused a while. This is where I'd seen a badger on my previous visit, this evening it was to be a fox. He'd heard me coming and watched me a while from the undergrowth before drifting quietly away.

 I viewed the walk ahead with trepidation, 300 yards of untrodden jungle to a swim I'd last seen in the winter.

Onwards then, with polaroids donned for protection. I'd received a puncture wound to my eyelid from a dog rose thorn last year which could just have easily have been my eye itself...once bitten..
 The vegetation was over head height and I ploughed onward with my spoon net before me as protection, fencing style. The teasel seemed to jump on my net and clothing as I pushed through, every step a chore, with something trying to trip and unbalance me.
 About halfway in I was beginning to wonder what the heck I was doing, too late now. Onward through nettle, stinging through my combats and stabbing at my forearms.....but eventually I reached the swim.

The best way I can describe it is that it's the kind of swim you're not going to get a back cast from or indeed a side cast. The kind of swim where you're not sure whether your next step will be into the river. The kind of swim that you wouldn't want to drop keys or phone in.

 I broke a couple of the lobs up and dropped them into the near margin before tackling up a loafer style float with three AAA's bulk shotted and a size 10 hook to nylon.

It seems that my hat makes a very good platform for my tackle box, perched atop the stalks. One day I might even organise my float rubbers in order of size in my little Allcocks Handy Outfit tin!

 It was around this time I baited the hook and realised that I had been a bit of an idiot. In my haste to get fishing I'd actually picked up barbless hooks, every time I put a lob on, he wiggled off. I was mortified and scrambled around in my bag for something that would suffice, eventually finding some size 6 Super Specialists. A bit (lot) bigger than I wanted but it was my only option.

 So with hook and bait reattached I was ready to fish, I didn't cast,  more just lowered the bait in front of me. 

There was movement on the float almost immediately and it jagged out of sight. I struck to nothing and repositioned the bait, another bite, strike and nothing. I cursed the big hook.
 Next time round I waited,"Give it enough rope" I thought and struck to resistance.
 After a spirited little scrap I was thankful at having the forethought to bring my 3 metre landing net handle. I still had to stretch precariously to net the fish...a rather fine perch.

Look at his humpy shoulders. One of my ambitions is to catch a 3 pounder from this little river, they're in there, and probably bigger. My reluctance to use live fish as bait is a definite handicap, but I will persist come Autumn.
 The swim went quiet after the perch capture, it happens in these intimate places, you often only get one chance,
 I sat back with a canopy of summer growth above me, took a drink and enjoyed the fact that I'd probably go unnoticed by any passer-by, not that there was going to be any.
 Sometime later I flicked out a few more pieces of worm and ventured another dabble.
 The float vanished instantly and once again I struck to nothing, these bites were different though and as I went through the same routine over and over my curiosity grew.
 I took off the whole worm and threaded a tail section up the shank of the large hook and dropped it back out. Under it went again and my strike connected, it was a dace, a beautiful, lively dace.

I'm holding him tighter than I normally would, I genuinely feared that had he flipped and fell I'd have never found him.

 I soon got to thinking about leaving, what with the bait having run out and the thought of doing the long walk in the dark sending shivers down my spine. Time to go back through the bush then.

 I think I timed it perfectly really. I arrived at the car as the sun was beginning to set and as I admired the view I reflected that I had only caught two fish, but also pondered that one can have a fine adventure with just a pot of lobs.

Back On The Lea

Awake, in the still of night, 3-15am to be precise. With the flask filled and food prepared, I was ready for the off by 3-45.....
 I'd loaded the car in warm silence and began my 25 mile journey to the River Lea.
 In 1617 the Inn in the area I was to fish owned 119 acres of land,. It was a favourite angling resort and Izaak Walton himself is reputed to have stayed and fished there. I wondered if he had reached the fishery gates before 5am as I had.
 Having met up with friend and colleague Mike en route, we were surprised not to be the first there. The alleged best two swims had already been bagged.
 Settling down in my chosen swim, I slowly set up my Sealey Octofloat De-Luxe and Speedia for long-trotting. The water came fast through a bottle neck upstream with messy water and had gouged a deeper gully under the far bank trees. Downstream was even and slower.

Mainline was 6lb Drennan Float Fish and hooklink was 5lb Guru N-Gauge to size 16 Super Specialist, with traditional avon style float .Bait was to be double white gentles, though I also had hemp,casters and soft pellet.

 The swim was fed little and often whilst setting up and with one pinch of hemp catapulted upstream before the cast we were now ready.

 Within a couple of seconds the float was under and the newly revived Sealey was re-christened with a fine dace.

  I love the way one can learn about a river pool by searching it out with a trotted float, those hang ups, those unseen current changes, it really is the most pure form of our pastime. That familiarity one develops allows the manoevring of the float to be developed and honed as the day goes on, it's real thinking angling.

 The next few fish to come to hand were chublets, little pristine scrappers.

There were also roach, wonderful chunky roach. I will definitely be back to specifically  target them later in the year.

 So, with the feed going in little and often the bites were coming at a steady rate. I decided to experiment with the set-up, deepening up so that the bottom shot was dragging the river bed.

 Down the stream the float bobbed, slower and seemingly unnatural, but it produced something lovely, something that brought the biggest of smiles to my face.......

....Now THAT is a gudgeon, a true monster....I love them.

It was shortly after this that Mike arrived in my swim. He was fishing in the next swim down from me and as etiquette dictates he asked if I would mind if he cast his feeder to an upstream feature, apparently a known holding area for barbel.

 I answered that the spot was only a couple of metres from the end of my trot and that the chances were that it would kill my sport. He understood and said he would try further upstream.

 Now, with Mike vacating the downstream swim he had, of course, made things better for me.

 I decided to up my feed and was soon into a larger unseen fish which I guessed was a chub, unfortunately the hook pulled.

 On recasting I immediately hooked a harder fighting fish which led me a merry old dance with surging runs downstream. Eventually it was close enough to see that I had foul hooked a barbel. Knowing that they are rarely alone I fed hemp and caster as I played the fish, inevitably the hook came out and the fish was free. A foul hooked fish is not a sporting catch so I wasn't at all disappointed. With the next cast the feeding payed off as I was into another fighting fish. This one was hooked fair and square and duly banked, my first Lea barbel...small but perfectly formed and great fun on the cane and pin.

The fishery is busy and other anglers had arrived. Fishing is from numbered swim only and it was just a matter of time before someone settled in to the swim below. I had just got the barbel in my swim when a large feeder sploshed just down from my killing zone. Yes, this fellow knew of that spot too, but lacked Mikes manners.

 He had a barbel almost immediately. It had proved Mike's hunch correct, barbel were to be found there , but it also proved my point also, in that I didn't have another bite.

The Octofloat had proved itself to be a welcome addition to my armoury. Versatile, crisp and didn't feel too heavy in hand.
 It was time  to up sticks and find Mike.
 Some distance upstream he'd also landed a small barbel and as there was some decent space between swims here, I dropped downstream of him.
 I made the decision to fish a hair rigged half boilie on a size 12 Drennan hook and my usual small river running drilled bullet rig. All this with my B.James Mk IV and I opted to still use the pin, even though I had brought a Mitchell 300 along.

That reedline shade just had to harbour fish and I opted to fish nearside with fourteen half-boilies as free offerings around the hookbait.

  It was just a case then of sitting back in the dappled shade and pouring myself a cup of Twinings Afternoon Tea.

 There's not much better than the shade of a riverside willow in the midst of an English summer. Things progressed favourably some twenty minutes later when a savage take ensued with the rod wrapping in a downstream direction.
 On striking, my first thoughts leant towards a quality barbel, but barbel are eventually controlled. This fish had gone out of sight. I stretched the rod out over the water and gave it some welly. Slowly, very slowly it came towards me, intermittently diving head first into the reeds as it came. The old Mk IV eventually subdued the species it was designed for.

The little bruiser only had one eye, a proper little character.

It was time to crack open the Lemon Drizzle cake, so having returned the fish I strolled up to Mike's swim to share. Now, within the 'traditional' fishing community there are those that bestow much majesty on the humble cake. Some will tell you that the consumption of certain cakes will help the angler to lure specific species of fish. There are also those that believe it to be flowery claptrap.

 Mike hadn't had a bite for over an hour fishing the maggot feeder but knowing about cake theory declared, "I'm bound to catch another barbel now ". I kid you not, the magic was instant, his rod whacking round immediately.

 The result...........

  

It is therefore Lemon Drizzle for barbel for the cake theorists then !

Soon after, I ventured a maggot/hemp feeder myself and had a wonderful couple of hours sport with chub and roach.

There were many last casts, you know, 'just one more', but I strolled back to car thinking that the spirit of old Izaak might have smiled on me. A truly enjoyable day and that gudgeon'll live in the memory for a good while.. I'm still smiling about it now.

A Fine Enough Roach?

When I woke this morning I thought I might like to catch a fine roach, so by evening time I was back in the secret swim.
 The rod of choice today was a Chapman 500. Based on the MkIV Avon, it's more steelier than the Lucky Strike, six inches shorter and can handle anything that this stretch can throw at it.

First came a perch, not a bad one either but as I fished on I found myself pulling out of many more bites than with the Lucky Strike..Partially because I was distracted by the kingfishers that I now actually see every time I angle and I suppose, partly due to the rod. I did however, finally get amongst the dace again.

 The secret swim isn't really a secret, you know? Lots of people know, they just don't care to catch immaculate dace, perch, roach and chub.Small river fishing just isn't en vogue these days and they don't come here, I'm glad about that.

 After a while spent in a sparkle of dace, at last came that roach.....

Not the biggest roach I've ever caught but I might lay down in bed tonight and ask myself if I caught myself a fine roach..The answer will be "Fine enough Gurn, fine enough."

Secret Dace

Come with me, come with me,do. To those placid pastures where smooth waters flow quietly on. Cast aside the vacant drudgery of fat carp and packed ponds and drift a while a bright float with me. Next humming bees and the hatch, I sit. 'Tween nettle and willow, poised. I am alone, no cloned sheep here, this piscator swims against the current.
 Cane and pin in secret swims, and unfashionable quarry. It's like being a child again, but with accrued knowledge, perhaps the best of both worlds.

I've sprayed the stream with gentles as I set about tackling up, I'll chance a cast.
 Nettles have stung my forearms, they glow now like the tip of the stick as it sails on it's merry way. Then, slowly, down to the depths and I strike...the beautiful dace, flickering, glimmering.

Pristine and unfished, the river, the fish. I've tucked myself away in Eden. I'm allowed here and so is everyone else, but they just don't know.
 I could sit here on every balmy summers night, no-one will disturb the tranquility.

Solitude, cane, pin and dace...it's nice isn't it ? I forget all that's humdrum and tedious...that's dace for you, they do that...and another comes to hand.

I'm quite content. Just listening to the birds, adrift in a sea of green, with flashes of dace.

For this evening, at least, they're all mine. Far far away from the chasers of chunks and ego. I'll just stay here a while and catch...dace.

Of course the time does roll by, I only meant to stay an hour or so, but I forgot you see? I lost myself , not really wanting to be not catching dace.

 But as soon as you drop your guard. The suprise chub, he's often there lurking, decides he's a bit jealous of dace and tries to take centre stage.

Time to go home, I think. Back through the untrodden, away from the wonder of dace....for now.

It's Why I Fish.

It's been a bad week, piscatorially speaking, my stalking kit was stolen whilst doing some good for the local angling club, it made me mad with rage and consider why I fish, and if it is even worth it. I pondered I might not enjoy this pastime whilst looking over my shoulder. Tackle is of high value and easily sold. It never turns up after being stolen. If people didn't buy dodgy gear, people wouldn't steal it to sell it. I find it hard to believe that a true piscator could enjoy  time spent with a rod he knew was obtained illegally. I sometimes think I may be lost, I tend to think people will treat me and my property the same as I would treat them and their's, it's not always the case though, is it? I needed a bit of traditional therapy and reached for the Lucky Strike.

 There's a stretch of river,  a colleague and I have been casing it out for a while now. It's remote, small, seemingly unfished and best of all, free to fish . We didn't know if it even contained fish, recent conditions have made fish spotting impossible, but this evening we'd hopefully find out.
 Travelling light, one bag, Lucy the Lucky Strike, my Speedia, landing net , roll mat...I arrived at the stretch just in time for the rain to start, the terrain soon becoming slippery under foot. On finding a spot that looked good for a trot, I parted the bankside vegetation and threw out a few maggots whilst setting up a small stick float, bulk shotted, size 18 hook.
 Sitting amongst the nettles on my mat, in the pouring rain, on a potentially fishless stretch seemed bizarrely normal, I made that first cast and the float settled then went off on it's merry way.....nothing.
 I batted the spool of my trusty Speedia to bring the float home and re-set the depth,  nettle stings glowing on the back of my hands. Another cast.
 The float sailed it's merry course, and just before the end of the trot, vanished. I struck and a beautiful dace soon arrived at the waiting net. I smiled to myself. A fish, any fish can produce a smile, especially when you're soaked and muddy.

 The next cast produced another and then another of these fabulous little fish. I smiled again. I'd have been quite happy to sit the evening out catching dace that made me smile.
 Regular free offerings soon brought a hard fighting roach to the net...

...soon followed by a rather lucky shoalmate who I just manged to get to the net before a pike got him.

 Old Esox had been here before, and so had I. I knew he'd be lurking in the near margin, I released the fish downstream lest he fall prey to the waiting gape of his jaws.
 A swirl, yes he was there, I saw his shadow and poked him away with the landing net handle. The wind swirled around and the rain persisted, the maggots were now sufficiently drenched and had organised an escape committee as I tried to unstick mono from wet cane. The far from ideal conditions didn't really concern me that much, despite the realisation that my poncho had also been part of the gutless crooks booty a few days previous,
 The float sank again, and then that looming pike grabbed the dace..I hung on a while, he wasn't big, but the battle was spirited on such tackle. I hoped the line wouldn't part, he was definitely holding on to that poor fish. After much spinning of reel I recalled something I'd read somewhere. I turned the rod 'reel side up', this apparently helps to negate any 'set' that may occur in the cane during a prolonged battle. It seemed to work fine enough and the toothy glutton was eventually landed, unhooked and released way upstream.

 My colleague 'Paulo' appeared, an accomplished angler and good friend, I told him that I was disappointed to have not caught a gudgeon yet, he soon settled some way downstream of me. I chatted with him a while, resting the swim, letting it calm down.
 I really was drenched by now, right through to the skin, not because I was ill prepaired. I forego much for lightness and moveability, sometimes it has it's drawbacks.
 The next hour or so saw the swim quieten down a bit, the odd perch just about keeping it interesting. Footsteps behind me signalled the arrival of a triumphant 'Paulo', gudgeon in hand. I called him a rude word and proclaimed him 'gudgeon king', how I wish it had been me, I love them the most I think, even more than bees.....and I love bees.
 I tried so hard to catch a little gudgeon, the conditions worsening by the minute. The line often sticking to the cane despite the high bridge ringing. Wind and rain, the trotters nightmare! There were the hooks as well, stuck in everything from submerged twigs and bankside nettles to my tackle tin and hoody cuffs.
 The float vanished again, this fish stayed low, so low I thought I might have snagged a passing branch, but no, fish it was, I suspected a pike. Slow, methodical but deliberate, I saw the shadow of a sizeable fish as it suddenly shot across the narrow flow. My thumb tried to slow it down and it was subdued just before reaching the only snag in the swim. What was it ? I saw it there, hanging a while in the water, carp?...no chub...big chub. I yelled to my friend to come quickly, this might need assistance.
 As the fight continued we both peered down at the fish before us, I thought of the cane rod, the light line and the size 18 hook that held the single white maggot the fish had taken,"Please don't come off" I pleaded.
 The beast chugged off upstream and out of view, I held on, the rod performed majestically and after a few hairy moments it gradually came back to me and after a few attempts the biggest chub I have ever caught was in the net. We looked at each other in wonderment and a little disbelief. It was now that I remembered that my scales had been stolen, 'Paulo' hadn't brought any along either, we seriously didn't think there would be a need. A phone call was made to another colleague Dan, who heroically drove some distance with scales and a camera (mine stolen) as the fish recovered in my net..what a legend....and what a fish..

...and what a way to catch it,  I still can't quite believe it. What am I to make of the great karma roller-coaster of life and angling? I go from despondency to elation, my worse angling experience to one of my best, all within a week, and shared the moment with two good lads...That is why I fish.