Lea, Me and a Flask of Tea

On misted dawn, through dew dropped grass I walk. To nestle 'mongst reed and nettle. The upper Lea...low, slow.

Drawn to sit aside her snaking flow, the early morning sounds are all around. The relentless cooing of the wood pigeons and shrill call of the moorhen, all too familiar.
 A cast is ventured and white feathers pass by like little boats on the surface, as if to signal the flyover of the swan, his wing beat reverberating to the angler below.
 I watch attentively for a flicker of the tip, but that attention soon wanes, too much to see....a shoal of massive roach.
 Then 'tap'....the tip grabs back my attention, and round it arcs, I strike.
 Immediately, I'm aware that I am connected to the ever reliable chub, I love them for their ability to make a difficult day worthwhile.

  Time for tea, Twinings of course, not best from the flask, but needs must.
 On the small river, especially when low, a catch can send every other fish in the swim scattering. Patience is needed. I rest the swim and wander, the grassy path downstream.

In the next swim I see....barbel.
 A handful of pellet and a couple of chopped boilies will keep them occupied whilst I get the rod.

Not too long before I'm waiting, watching. So much to see through Polaroids, a dip into their world, I never tire of watching a fish in it's domain.

 Whack, the tip slams round, the wait was short, but sweet. This one fights harder, barbel? Yes barbel! Tearing up and down like a thing possessed, but he will eventually be mine. 

 A quick photo,then a good rest in the landing net before release. Very important, especially in these conditions.

 More tea Stanley!.....Perhaps it's time to take a bit of Lemon cake down stream to Mike.

I thought about it, I really did but I'll have one more cast before cake...

 Just as well really, this lively fellow decides to interrupt the two damselflies who were having a little rest on my rod tip.

OK, cake .... now.

 Feeling somewhat replenished and back to the serious(?) stuff of angling. I become sidetracked by the visiting carp under my rod. Round and round he goes, the same circuit over and over. I give him a bit of pellet and chopped boilie...he likes it. I wonder if I might formulate a little trap and catch him, but then I wouldn't be able to watch him...so I decide against it.

 The sun is now high in the sky, the fishing slowly grinds to a standstill. I'm still happy to idle a few hours, Mike has had enough and departs.

 With bites grinding to a halt my thoughts become fishlike, where would I be. It is actually bloody obvious, in the reeds, in the shade. An upstream cast is needed., and the result is immediate..

 I only drink tea when I'm fishing, it focusses the thought processes when old Gurn's head has had a bit too much sun. I drink and  it soon becomes blatantly obvious that I should move back upstream.

 I like this swim, it feels right.

 When they feel right, they usually are right, so knowing I might only get one opportunity I'm keen not to mess it up. One bait, no freebies...stealthy.

 The bait is in the water for no more than two minutes before the rod wraps round and the Speedia bursts into song.

 A hearty battle on lightish tackle, and a fitting end to the session.

 A shake of the flask concurs, I'm out of tea. Off then, through haystack'd meadow, past ripening sloes. Another delightful small river session comes to an end, but I'll not forget that shoal of roach.

The Sanitisation of the Countryside, and Another Gamble.

The area in the photo above is just a small part of a large tract of ancient deciduous woodland, intermingled with evergreen forest.
 This place is special to me. I grew up here, the woods were our friends and as youngsters we roamed free from dawn to dusk without fear.
 We'd build camps, play 'war', swim in the lakes and climb to the very top of those ancient oaks.
  All my mate's parents knew I'd been around because I was renowned for always leaving a large stick in their porchways.
 They were halcyon days, we lived for the summer holidays and our band of brothers and sisters felt that we owned those beautiful trees and the pathways and tracks between.
 I returned recently, and whilst those arboreal giants still remain, I was saddened at what I saw.
 In their infinite wisdom the local authorities have sought to tame and 'improve' my wood.
 A new visitor centre behind a mechanical barrier, where one must pay to park, with leaflets telling you where you can and can't go, and a price list for the cyclists and horse riders they are encouraging.
 Amongst the trees, a slide, some bizarre spider sculpture and a wooden chair of gargantuan proportions, no doubt to attract kids who no longer climb trees.
 Worst of all though.....the unnecessary signage.

All this is quite beyond me. There are even signs telling us, or maybe the fauna of the area which bit is a 'nature reserve'. Of course, these signs ruin the 'nature reserve', but at least everything knows where it needs to be!

 This woodland has survived quite nicely and been visited by humans for thousands of years. It angers me that local authorities can exploit it in such away and sanitise it such, just to make a few quid.

 On a lighter note, I've taken another gamble today on a rod purchase. Some of you may remember my last successful ebay punt for a bargain MK IV.

 If my latest gamble on a very obscure listing pays off you'll be hearing about it here. I'm quite excited because it just might be the start of something good, more of which in good time my friends.

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 In Business

I suppose that one of the worst things about running a large tackle shop is the fact that the best time to go fishing is also the busiest time of the year. My own angling suffers as I cater for the masses. I'm not complaining, business is good. It just means that  I tend to fish more in winter than summer.
  With business booming, we do seem to buck the industry trend.  I needed a little solitude and eventually found a few hours to re-visit my little stretch of river.
 I had a specific swim in mind which was far upstream. Truth is, I hadn't accounted for the surge in growth of the bankside vegetation.

It was clear that no-one had been here for a while. 

 With only a couple of hours of daylight to play with I decided on the easy option of my old dace swim which was at the right end of the beat.

 I was amazed at the sight before me as I reached the swim.......

...It had clearly not been fished since my last visit well over a month ago.

 It really does give me a closeness to this little stretch and the river itself. We are friends, it welcomes me, not others.

 I sat amongst the vegetation, blending in as best I could. The odd nettle couldn't resist a swipe at me, it comes with the territory.

 Just a few years ago this beat was decimated by chainsaw and dredger, you'd never believe it now, yet people still believe the fish have gone for good. Mother nature thrives on neglect.

It was always going to be a Lucky Strike evening, sit back , de-stress and await whatever might come, nestled within the welcoming arms of my special place.

 The trotted balsa glided away to bring many silver bars of dace and the occasional stripey swirl of a perch.

 However, it was the one nice roach that was given up that made this Intrepid Piscator smile in the face of another week at work.

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."