A Special rod - B.James & Son - Peter Tombleson

 

I purchased something special today.
I am an acquaintance to the son of a sadly departed pillar of the local angling community, a respected gentleman who lived to a decent age and fished to the bitter end.
His son has had many conversations with me about how they fished together, along with his uncle, and the great catches they had. The stories of their time together, always a joy to hear.
His father purchased the best tackle that money could buy in those days and his rod collection would make many a collectors toes curl. He was also fortunate enough to have some very esteemed angling companions.
The son has always been aware of my interest in vintage tackle and has furnished me with many a tale about the fantastic rods he knows the whereabouts of..At first, I listened with a bit of disbelief..Until I delved deeper.

About six months ago he declared that although he would be holding on to the majority of his late father's rods...he did have one I might be interested in purchasing....when he got around to sorting his Dad's stuff out.
His description of the rod had me quite excited, I had an inkling to what it might be but I was respectful and didn't want to push the issue.
Today I received a phone call saying he would bring the rod to my workplace where I could peruse it and make an offer.
A colleague brought a rod bag to my office, an immaculate green rod bag..Upon it was the label which read B.James &Son..On the inside of the flap, the ex-owners name and address in his own hand.
It soon became quite apparent that I was holding something special.

This rod has been hardly used, if indeed at all.
The original whippings are green, it has an onion butt and the guides still have the varnish on them giving them a golden glow. The ferrules pop nicely and it is as straight as an arrow.
It is not however a MkIV...The words upon the rod read "Peter Tombleson"....a rare rod indeed, especially immaculate and green whipped....and the name on the inside of the bag?...Bernard Pollard.

Now that name may not ring any bells with most of you, but Bernard was a recipient of one of the original Walker made MkIV's and a good friend of RW. They fished together many times.
I have to say that sitting there looking over this rod and wondering what to offer for it was difficult..I am quite aware that I could've purchased it for perhaps a third of my eventual offer, but I wouldn't have been happy with myself. My offer was accepted happily and I am delighted.

A Redmire float.

I found myself at the Fence Pitch, sitting, watching, waiting. I should have really been concentrating on the scarlet tip placed just feet away from me.

 My mind drifted back a few months to an email to the fine floatmaker, Mr Andrew Field.

  I'd seen a photo of a particular float on his website that looked just the job for use at such a prestigious venue as Redmire.

 Having enquired as to the availability of said float I soon received a reply from Andrew stating that the particular float was the only one left from all in the photo. This meant that although I did not yet have it in my possession, it was already lucky.

 I now have a a few of Andrew's creations, all of the highest quality, all mini works of art , all used for the intended purpose.

I'd encamped at Pitchfords, rising early to walk the short distance past Stumps whilst the others were still dreaming of glorious galitians. Walking aside the holly trees, then tip toeing on to the precarious platform to deposit 15 handfuls of micro pellets about a rod length out.

 Steam rose from the mirrored pool as dabchicks sat amid the reedmace and the first wood pigeons broke the silence with their distant 'coo's.

Back at base camp I threaded the 8lb line from the Mitchell CAP 304 reel through the rings of the B. James Mk IV and tackled up ready for a morning's float fishing...First things first though.

 My good friend Tony awoke about an hour later and duly set about producing a hearty breakfast of sausage, bacon, eggs and mushrooms. Whilst the kettle was on I strolled back down to the Fence Pitch to deposit two handfuls of sweetcorn onto the baited spot and stealthily plumb the depth.

 As I drank my first tea of the day I recalled my six previous trips to the pool and all the wonderful fish she'd offered up to me, but not a single carp to the float despite my efforts on every single visit.

 By now the sun was up and I quietly edged my Lafuma low chair and rod in to position on the platform, nestled in the undergrowth.

The end tackle comprised of two small drilled bullets between two Drennan grippa stops which in the unlikely event of a mainline breakage could slip off of the line very easily. A 6lb hooklink to size 12 hook completed the end tackle. Bait was to be two grains of corn.

The float was attached by a rubber at the bottom only...

I suppose this method can be described as somewhere between lift method and float legering.

With everything set I gave an underarm flick to the spot and sat back..

...and so I found myself at the Fence Pitch, sitting, watching, waiting.

 Wrens, Tits and Warblers gorged on insects and grubs within feet as I remained still, statuesque...transfixed.

 Even the attention of the wasps, one of which landed on my nose, didn't cause me to faulter.

As I sat amongst the Willowherb and Nettle a decent looking common cruised in just below the surface and completely circumnavigated the float slowly, attentively, before cruising off on his way..I hadn't fooled him at all.

 In the next few minutes the float was landed upon by two damselflies, double somersaulted by a gymnastic gudgeon and checked out by the dabchick which broke cover to see if it was edible, leaving her miniscule offspring to call frantically from beneath the willow fronds......

...and then, quite magically, the classic lift bite...Up...Flat....then drift away...and.....strike.

The fish, quite clearly a scamp, dashed for the nearby willow and once turned, zoomed around in ever decreasing circles...It has to be said that getting to my feet, grasping the net and engulfing the fish was a quite delicate affair, but my balance remains good enough.

 The result of this little plan? An absolute gem of a fish..Small yes, but perfect in every way. With fish like these,the future remains bright for the 'Mire.

 It had taken 7 years to catch a Redmire carp on the float. I've caught some of the pools greatest treasures, but this little fellow and the way it was caught will live long in the memory.

Despite fishing on in the same manner for another four hours I received no further action. With this catch I'd blown my cover completely, but I strolled back to base feeling more than contented with my perfect little prize.

Andrew Field's website can be found here.

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.

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."