"Just one more"

I know a place not far away, where I can have this solitude. I can wander the fields, unhindered, locate barbel easily and catch a few of them with a certain amount of ease.
There's something within me though, something that stops me taking this easy option.
It's been said by far better anglers than me that "life's too short" to continue with a passion for the Gt. Ouse, and it's barbel.
 The problem is, I've been enchanted, the spell is cast and so I have to go, I have to know.
The harsh truth is that I don't even know if barbel still exist in the beat I will be fishing this season.
 Just take a bit of time to compute that..I am fishing on a stretch of river that hasn't produced a barbel in four seasons! Add to that, the crayfish make it difficult to present a bait. In reality, I could be sitting next to the river all night hoping to catch something that isn't there, with a bait that might not be there.
 I love this stretch, it produced my pb barbel of 14lb 15oz many years ago, and now I have returned...I crave just one more.
 I'm going to take you on this journey if you choose to come along, it will be tedious and uneventful on the whole, but maybe, just maybe we'll share the joy of  'just one more'.
So, here I sit again, alone at the rose bush pitch, an old happy hunting ground.
Tools for the job, once again, the Davenport and Fordham MkIV and Speedia Deluxe.

The familiar sounds of the incessant Reed Warbler, the diving Terns and darting 'fisher. All bring back memories of halcyon days.

You can see that I have abandoned the tip isotope in favour of the good old bottle top conversion.
 I find that the taps and pulls show up far better using this method, whereas the cane tip just seems to absorb them.

 

 When the light fades, the temperature plummets as  the heat sink effect occurs down in the river channel.  I'm glad I am well insulated and that darkness is short at this time of year.

 

And so begins another blank night, in blissful ignorance of the fact that I will be reeling in a bare hook at dawn.

I'm Back

The clanging of agricultural gates and rutted roadways. The dodging of the cow pat and nervously passing my bovine companions. Pigeons arguing among the branches and grass snakes basking in the evening sun.
 That familiar stroll along the willow'd bank of the first field, where the river runs deep and the sound of the weir fades the birdsong.
 It's hot, really hot. The air full of insect life. I plod on, further, quieter...

 A few months earlier my good friend Derren and I had discussed a potential return to this beat. Unfished for two seasons and not much to report in the preceding two. It has lain dormant to many, but not in our minds. In our minds it was a slice of heaven with a secret life, difficult fishing, yes.....but it has mystery.

With the lease secured, we now set about hand picking another eighteen friends to share our return. All places filled, work party completed. It is ours, and only ours.


..Arriving at the far end of the beat I set up the Davenport & Fordham MkIV and Speedia Deluxe combo for a night among the reeds...and so begins my return to the Gt. Ouse..and the first of probably many a blank.
The twilight call of the cuckoo, the smell of citronella..and the hope for gold.

It's good to be back.

Thoughts...and grayling.

To be roused by Lady Sarah with the words, "What time were you supposed to be up?" is never ideal. "5.45", my reply...."It's 6.15", she said..so began the day.
Hurriedly, the car was loaded. The journey to my rendezvous point, rapid.
 I'd overlooked the loose top to the maggot tub so arrived with the escape committee in full flight.
Morning greetings with old friends, Derren and his father, Brian and we set off for a day of grayling fishing.
 Fortunately, I remembered all the tackle, which was just as well, as I'd forgotten money and cards in my haste.
 At this point one might say that it was going to be one of those days!
The river?....low, not ideal.
  Trotting is a favourite method, though I always feel that I have never mastered it. Perhaps it's one of those things one never truly does.. so a lifetime as a student, perhaps?
 What I really know is that a size 16 hook has a habit of finding it's way into every piece of weed, bankside vegetation, jumper cuffs, hats....and when dangled in the margin for a split second..Minnows!!
 The swim in the photo above was too much to resist despite the fact that I absolutely knew that somehow, some way I would leave a float on that tree...and so it was.
 Fortunately, not one of Andrew Fields' finest!
 It began to rain, my back and legs aching.
The clarity of the water and the caginess of my quarry caused much frustration as I watched them time and time again rushing towards my hookbait only to turn off at the last second..I almost wished I'd forgotten the polarised glasses.

 Of course, catches came. Wiry and difficult to hold, as usual; many slippery, contorting beauties...I took to photographing them as they rested post-catch, in the shallow stream. A dog walker passed to see me welly deep in the stream edge and remarked, "Just watching you makes me feel cold."

Doesn't sound like fun to many people, I'd guess.
But in this year, more than any...I was grateful for the opportunity to be with good friends and netting a few fish.

In Memory of 'Gudgeon Jim' (Maker of Fine Landing Nets)

Barbel Bullion

Disorganised days drift into the chaos of traffic, and so follows the haphazard loading of tackle.
About an hours drive away lies the low flowing sinuous abode of gold. Through humid field and o'er five bar gate, I go to prospect.
 The chatter of the magpie, shrill call of the 'fisher welcome, as the mallards argue. The grass moist, seeps, as the evening sun begins to fade.
 The water runs low and fast at the top of the beat where small unknown birds dart for grubs and insects amongst the rampant reed growth. Thin, fast, shallow?...No, not here..onwards to the grasping, rasping snags and depth, today.
 The crunch of pulled balsam beneath my feet betrays my presence to wood pigeon and noisy pheasant and startles us all.
 Well away from the flow I tie the simplest of rigs, then stealthily edge riverside concealed behind reed mace as the nettles brush my forearm.
 Vehicle noise is now just as distant as my memory of the home time traffic, once more I enter the heady world of the evening barbel fisher..
 I prime three swims with just two pieces of bait each, which today is meat, and then a moment of contemplation, no rush now, everything has slowed, a time to savour before that first cast.
 With an underarm flick to the faster midstream flow, it sinks unseen, to where in my imagination the barbel are stacked like pure ingots..

He who dares?

On the opposite bank, murderous squealing, something was being killed by a predator..I was quietly glad it was still a bit light..spine chilling stuff,  I don't usually get spooked. However, the unseen does play tricks.
 Suddenly, the rod whacks over with such ferocity that I jump! The tip almost hitting the surface of the river as the Speedia check screams.
 The strike is immediately met with aggression from upstream, not down....Upstream being where the snag is and the fish has gone straight through it still taking line...I'm in trouble, eventually I gain a small element of control but the line is grating awfully.
 I come to a position where the fish is tight to other side of the snag..With no other option, I am set to go in.
 Hand-lining slowly I think that the fish though not in view, could indeed be nettable, alas the line goes limp and with a great boil whatever it was, is gone. It seems that he who dares doesn't always win.
 My first thought is carp, but I'll never know...It is time to move swim.

After the addition of a couple more free offerings a cast is chanced towards a recently fallen willow.

 There is streamer weed and depth here and I am able to see the baited hook fade in to the depths before sitting back in what can only be described as a bog.
I need the chair in this swim but  I still have that 'Titanic' feeling.
 The sun has peeped back round from behind the evening cloud prompting a festival of midges who seemed to want to party the evening away... in my eyeballs! It is whilst trying to extract one of these eyeball headliners that my rod pulls around again. My strike is late, but not too late, the fish hasn't yet reached the sanctuary of the fallen branches, though the intention is certainly there. I give no line, my thumb pressed firmly against the narrow drum and the trusty Chapman 500 holds firm. This rod has taken some punishment over the years, it is dog-legged with numerous 'sets' but I like it that way..It bares the scars of battle well and soon has a small, spirited barbel with a tail grown for fighting ready for the net..I have struck a little bit of gold.

No messing about with the roll mat here, there is no man made substitute for natures unhooking mat of moist, lush grass. Fish dealt with fast and efficient and back in the net to recover a while before release...and so, it is time for the next swim.

 A deepish bend with no real feature other than it's bendiness! I feel that with the sun beginning to fade it will give a better chance of playing and landing a hooked fish.

  First chuck produces a bite and results in another 'dart' of a barbel, released without photo.
 The light fades and I'm now fishing by touch as the tawny owls call to each other from distant trees . The mallards strolled off over the field and have now fallen silent.
 Heat has become cool and the whole scene has taken on an air of expectancy.
 I've cast into the slower water and can feel chub plucking the bait, so move back to the faster mid flow and add another few morsels of bait.
 The line is yanked from my hands and the drum whizzes as a fish takes the natural chicane and tries unsuccessfully to ram itself into the downstream reeds, the rod is perhaps at it's limit now but the fish is turned, yet not beaten. Using the flow to it's advantage it evades the net, perhaps four or five times before eventually succumbing.

These fish are lean, wiry beasts with big tails. They know their home well and are a great match to the tackle I use.
 It is time to leave this wonderful world, time to join the traffic once more...and dream of future gold.

Citronella Nights

 With my newly re-connected fishing head firmly back on I pass through the clanky gate to the inviting green sanctuary that is Ouse.

 The undergrowth seems to have grabbed and kept the days sun and I stroll headstrong through it's thermal pockets.

 This evening I do consider my options, the entire beat is mine. Passing every pool and glide, weighing one's options as the blood sucking insects case me out.

There's a tinge of colour to the flow and the fish only give themselves away at surface level, chublets, dace and roach chasing the hatch.

 Settling on the farthest swim from the gate I sit amongst dock and the huge mutant plantain, bright green filigree'd leaves surround.

The Davenport & Fordham MkIV & Speedia Deluxe combo is tackled up and seems just about right here, not overly long and with backbone if required.

 My swim is quite featureless, straight and deep. I consider that it might be great for many things; trotting, laying on, predators; pike and perch will definitely live here.....but maybe not a classic barbel swim. However, you never know on the Ouse..and you have to try.

 I arrived at this swim choice because the area downstream is gravelly and has lots of cover, thinking maybe I could tempt a barbel up to me with the fourteen boilies I have baited. Confidence is everything, so fourteen it must be, it's a magic number. Doesn't seem a lot of bait to prime a swim with, does it? The barbel are so few now that you are angling for single nomadic fish...less is more. I purposely take very little bait, if I took more it would be used, and more never works.

 As the sun begins to lower itself I hear voices, loud voices. Someone is showing a friend the fishery..loudly. I become agitated, how dare they break the spell..how dare they both stroll straight into my swim..loudly. Eye contact is all that is needed to tell them to move along but I hear them for ten more minutes. What has happened to angling etiquette?..I feel like I'm turning into my father!

 The tip judders, and then again and I raise it aloft...fish on.

 No drama here a small, welcome chub. I can feel that this swim has the ingredients for big chub, but I take whatever comes gladly.

We're at that time now when the local wildlife begin to complete the days business.

The heron is flying from bough to bough, looking for a roost.

 I see the kingfisher, frantically diving along the beat, searching for the last meal of the day.

 A solitary magpie flies through the overhanging branches as chub rise for the relentless insects in the flow beneath. The magpie is not a harbinger of bad luck for me, I have much wierder superstitions!

Another tap, and then a click of the centrepin, I strike and another chub.

 Netted, released and recast just before darkness, and so to what I call the quiet hour. As the light drops away, so does the sound...Silence and a marked drop in temperature.

The otter appears, in no hurry to pass through my swim. Steady and methodical is how he works. I have a love/hate relationship with them. I love to see them, they have a right to be here..they have also eaten most of my beloved Ouse barbel.

I wait beneath the enveloping branches of this old willow, the rod tip now invisible, I leger by touch.

 My eyes feel heavy. The heady whiff of citronella, darkness and concentration are taking their toll and I nod off.

 Something pulls at my fingers, which are still holding my line. I wake, strike and miss...Go home to bed Gurn.

Back Amongst It.

 

It's always there, it's a calling. The Great Ouse, sometimes I forget that I miss it, but yes, I'm always conscious that it's flowing mass somehow has this impact upon me. It's not called 'Great' without reason. I curse myself for letting life get in the way, but sometimes it must.
 Treading pathways, newly formed by the excited river angler, I stroll, focussed.
 In the back of my mind I know where I will end up but kid myself that I shouldn't be blinkered, so view other likely places through nettle and over broad leafed plantain the size of side plates, it grips at my stride. These moments have missed me too..Uncaught fish, lost memories, but now I'm here it feels cosy and correct.
 Inevitably, I'm in a swim that has been kind in the past. These days you take what you can on the Ouse.
 Somehow the fish are secondary here, though when they happen along you know that you deserve them.
 Settling in, one rod, baited, waited, cast. Instantly I realise that my once accustomed body is not as ready to sit on an old Lafuma low chair as it might be.
 The odd angler strolls the far bank, not enough to bother a searcher of solitude. I exchange an obligatory nod and nothing further..Move on, nothing to see here!
 The rod tip jags twice..why am I still lazily looking at it?..it jags twice again and I lift the rod and start to play the fish in a position that seems too low down...I get to my feet, eventually.
 After a spirited initial surge, so typical of the chub, he tries to ram his way beneath the near bank. He's mine though...an Ouse fish, first of the season.

With the rod re-cast I sit back down with what I can only describe as a feeling of smugness, not because of the fish but because I am alone, at peace. Is it selfishness? No apology here.
 A pair of swans with two young arrive downstream, grazing on the present weed. They're noisy, but in a good way. I'm reacquainting myself with these once familiar sounds.
 A great heron soars above, screeching like something from the Jurassic, searching for a spot to fish and though I hear the other 'fisher I do not see his flash of azure.

It occurs to me how little I actually watch the rod tip directly, though I'm always aware of it in my peripheral vision. There's too much going on to worry about bites,  a sharp tap re-focusses the
mind for a few seconds. It may sound a bit weird, but I believe that I could actually somehow feel a bite without even looking.
 The light is beginning to fade and my swim takes on a spiritual vibe with  more than a couple of citronella incense sticks burning around me.
 The mosquitos and midges swirl in great vortices atop the trees like starlings coming to roost or the funnels of insect tornados. I've never seen this before, silhouetted trees like arboreal log cabins look to have smoking chimneys, such is the abundance of these bugs.
 With the coming of the insects, so come the bats, amongst my favourite creatures, their acrobatic displays are worth the ticket fee alone. I often wonder why they sometimes fail to detect fishing line though!

One of the many advantages of using a cane rod is that any available light bounces off of the varnish rendering the rod white...I have my own light sabre, no isotopes here.
 A Tawny Owl screeches from the trees and a large unseen flock of noisy birds passes above as dusk becomes dark.
 Just before midnight the downstream swans become agitated and the cob hisses incessantly. He's definitely disturbed, it can only mean one thing, a predator is close. Human? Fox? ..... a couple of minutes later a large dog otter swims nonchalantly through my swim..and so, nature tells me it's time to go home.

Sloe Gin, Long Walks and Green Thread.

With the blackthorn positively bursting with sloes this year it was time to forage . Tradition usually dictates that the sloe should be harvested after the first frosts. In reality most have been harvested by then. There is a fine line between allowing them to grow fat and ripe, and turning up late for the harvest.
 With this in mind, and with this years fine weather bringing the berries on nicely; Lady Sarah and I collected a tidy little harvest in just an hour or so. All this for the preparation of Sloe Gin for the winter hip flask and Sloe Vodka for the Christmas festivities.
 We kept to the  following recipe...

1lb Sloes

8oz Sugar

1.75 pints of gin/vodka

Of course we've seen variations to these quantities and ingredients, but this seems more traditional and if it isn't broke, we don't fix it.

All the sloes were washed and pierced a few times with a sterile needle. We then placed them, the spirit and sugar in a clean 2 litre bottle with the aid of a homemade funnel and closed it tightly. After a good shake it was stored in a cool dark cupboard.

 The bottle should be shook every other day for the first week and once a week thereafter. It should be good to strain and drink by the festive season.

___________________________

It was time for a long walk, a walk that took me through mown meadow to reeded flow.
 In the distance, walking towards me, a brother of the angle .

 As our paths crossed in the midday sun I enquired  "Any luck?". He answered that he'd caught a few small chub and the conversation meandered through barbel to roach. It transpired that this gentleman had read this very blog and was pleased to be able to see a fellow angler's tales from the place he himself cast a line. Well I hope you are reading this post sir. It was nice to cross paths with you and I hope the rest of your day was fruitful.

 Walking down the beat I noticed just two other anglers and gave them both a wide berth, strolling further downstream.

 I eventually arrived at a likely spot.

 The river is low and clear and I dare not even chance a sneaky peek with the polaroids. Instead, a good plan seemed to be to have some carrot cake and tea whilst sprinkling the downstream area with caster and hemp.

My tactics here, in these conditions are simple. Three small soft-hookable pellets straight on a fine wire size 12 hook to 5lb line. That  is the joy of using forgiving cane rods.

You can see here that by using mono instead of braid and the lack of a hair, that the rig is not at all blatant.

  Having quenched my thirst and quelled my hunger it was time to cast. A gentle underarm flick to the baited area, then sit well back , and wait.

And wait............and wait!

No solid bites were forthcoming. With cunning stealth I'd set my traps, but the fish were wiser. After a couple of hours trying I reeled in and went for a stroll.

The river needs rain, for colour more than level. I did eventually find a swim with a bit of depth, chucked in some offerings, then returned for my kit.

Sitting amongst a mix of Himalayan balsam, reed and nettle..my mind wandered to thoughts of the Redmire gudgeon, and a swim known as Cranstouns..The rod tip flickered, then jagged chub-like. I struck.

 It was as if I had summoned the beast from the depths, as there before me hooked fair and square was this lovely fellow.

I'd seemingly found a lovely space to sit and wait for monster gudgeon to snaffle my barbel baits..I stayed a while and caught some more, they made me smile..they always do.

Deep down, I knew it was time to take another long walk and then another short one, if I was to find a barbel or a roach....

Amazingly, I found myself  able to bag the productive swim of previous weeks. With an angler downstream I decided to stick with my simple leger tactic, alternating between caster and pellet on the hook. Caster were the the bait that scored first, a feisty small barbel, golden and wiry. 

Having bagged a baby barbel my mind became set on roach, so I upped the hemp input and stuck to multiple caster on the hook. Slowly but surely I am honing a method that I'm sure will eventually bag me one of the monster roach I feel sure are present.

 The method worked, providing a succession of quality roach. I guess it's not innovative angling really, but I'm learning and tweeking things as I go.

What a cracking fish this last one is, I don't think I've seen a more beautiful roach. A fish to make anyone's day, it certainly did mine.

 As I photographed the last roach a call came from upstream. The chap was beaming from ear to ear having just caught a near double figured barbel on meat. I strolled the fifty yards or so and helped with photos. Fortunately he had the same camera as me so there was no drama. We chatted a while about vintage tackle and the like and as I returned I said he'd soon be down to use my camera, as I was to shift my attention to barbel now.

 Having politely declined the offer of a couple of chunks of meat a move back to the small pellet was in order.

 The wait was perhaps an hour or so but as the light began to fade I received a savage bite, matched only by the fight of a fit barbel. It is the first time since using cane rods that I thought I might break one, but it stood firm and was eventually able to subdue the fish..Not huge, but very reluctant to be netted. My fellow barbel catcher duly obliged with the picture. You might notice that the Redmire beard is coming along nicely. I actually loathe it, but tradition is tradition.

My fellow piscator remarked that we had another half an hour before we had to be off of the fishery,"Enough time for another one" he said.

 Within five minutes I was indeed into another hard fighting fish. For their size they fight so hard, but once again everything held together for me to land her.

I probably had enough time to catch one more, but I have learnt to sometimes be happy with my lot and go home happy........which I did.

_____________________________

Well I received my whipping thread yesterday for the restoration of my new Allcocks SuperWizard, a rod that I have big plans for. I have gone for Pacific Bay Green in grade C for the rings and nodes and grade A for intermediates. The original colour whippings for the rod are red but I will be putting my own personal touch on this particular rod. I think that green will go better with the later green Allcocks decal and is also a nod in the direction of the original Wallis Wizard. I'll not be documenting the refurbishment here, but will post some 'before and after' shots when complete.

Adapt and Thrive

With the lure of fat roach foremost in my mind, it was back to the upper Lea this week. I'd decided to visit another stretch. This beat being not much more than a brook. Low and clear, a stealthy approach is required.

 Peering over the nettles, I could clearly see a couple of small barbel and the odd chublet without the aid of polarising glasses. Alas no fat roach.

Hemp and caster were introduced to a few areas and a trot taken here and there. All efforts resulted in one conclusion...minnows. Stacks and stacks of them. I could see my hookbait engulfed by a ball of these ravenous little chaps time after time..I tried to get through them, I really did, perhaps a little too long. It drove me a bit bonkers, so a move a mile or so downstream was in order.
 Back on my usual beat and having seen a lot of cars parked I thought the chances of me getting in to last weeks pitch to be trifle slim, especially when I noticed two old fellows strolling up to the top of the beat.

The lower beat is always busy and I hurried past the hoards to the lesser fished upper beat, all the time hoping that one of the  the old boys hadn't bagged my roach swim.
 Now let's have a think about how their conversation went.
"It's a lot more peaceful up here. We can afford to spread out a bit"
"Good idea, we'll leave a pitch between us, give ourselves a bit of space"
Yep, you can guess which swim they left. I'll have that if you don't mind.
Looking through the polaroids, I could clearly see that the chub shoal was still in residence and a large shoal of roach, all around the three quarter pound to a pound and a half mark, that'll do I thought.
 The river was lower and clearer today, and feeding caster and hemp soon had the fish feeding confidently.
As I sent the balsa float on it's maiden voyage I could clearly see fish racing to my bait and turning at the last moment. This process was to be repeated time and time again. Something was amiss.
 The difference in water clarity and depth were working against me. I tried different shotting patterns and eventually changed to different coloured shot, which resulted in a few perch.
 It was around this time that I saw a roach that certainly concentrated my thoughts. In fact it was so big that I initially thought a bream had shoaled up with the roach. It was so big that it scared me a bit!
 Now, I did of course try a few glory casts with the float, but as the bait trickled towards it there was investigation, then reluctance....I needed a plan.
 The next half an hour was spent just building up an area of feed. Hemp and caster were placed quite close to me on a gravelly area, where I could view the fish. It was perfect, I learn so much at these times.
 Every now and again one of  these skittish fish would spook for seemingly no reason at all sending the shoal scattering. In these times I'd re-bait the spot. Thereafter they'd regain their confidence and once again return to eat, including the big fella.
 Rummaging around in my bag , I figured I'd fish my reliable drilled bullet leger method with a large hook, the biggest I had was size 12. This, when stuffed full of caster seemed a good way of selecting the big fish.
 I waited maybe ten minutes for them to spook themselves, then cast to the spot.
 Sitting there watching the returning shoal, including the big one pick at the river bed whilst the rod tip bumped and tapped was amazing. I resisted the strike a couple of times, waiting for a definite take...It came soon enough, the tip whacked round and I struck..a spirited fight was on. The culprit was this ....

Incredibly, even though the barbel had led me all round the swim, the roach had regrouped and were now back on the feed....I tried again.

 This time my persistence and method payed off with this beauty, not the big one, but handsome nonetheless...

 I now have a method that in low clear conditions on this river might trip up the big roach I have seen here.

 However, the next attempt resulted in this fellow, who scattered the shoal for good..

With the barbel unusually feeding so well in the swim it would've been foolish to not capitalise. Deciding to adapt to the situation a tub of 4mm soft hookable pellets was found and three were delicately threaded on to the hook and cast centre channel. 

..A violent take was almost instant and the old centrepin spun against my thumb as the fish disappeared around the downstream bend.

  With cane rods, one must be patient and you soon get a feel for these situations. The fish always come out of reeds and always eventually come back upstream with patience and delicate coaxing. After a fantastic battle, viewed with much nostalgic enthusiasm by the aged bailiff, the fish was safely in the net. She deserved a well earned rest in said net to recuperate.

With constant feeding the barbel were veritably queueing up for the pellet, and the rod was soon going from this......

...to this.

And these feisty fellows just kept coming.

I told this one to fetch his Dad..

 Although my set-up was a bit makeshift, I had set out for roach remember. I do think that I have stumbled across a perfect combination for these low/clear river barbel. A small hook having obvious advantages and three pellets camouflaging it completely. I'm pretty sure that a hair-rigged bait would've been ignored in these conditions.

 Also, the bait of choice is more akin to a feed pellet that has been in the water a good while and perhaps deemed safer to eat by the fish.

 Well after nine barbel and with light levels diminishing I re-tackled for trotting. To be honest it was still really difficult going but with heavy feed I managed to tempt just one more roach of more modest proportion.

It seemed wrong not to try for that tenth barbel, so the experiments continued with a size 14 hook with a single pellet. These tactics soon had me in double figures.

It seemed a fitting time to pack up.

 As I strolled back through the mist laden meadow it struck me that the day had began so differently to how it had ended. An angler can learn so much by viewing his quarry and the ability to adapt ones methods and outlook can turn a bad days trotting for roach into a good days legering for barbel.