When Trees Eat Signs 5

Next in our series are these photos, kindly sent in by Jeff Hatt from the excellent Idler's Quest. He writes, "Came across this specimen the other day on a riverside walk along the Wark's Avon. Pretty damn old and once a Warwick & District Angling Association sign I'd have thought. Shame there's no lettering left to read, though the Homer Simpson overbite is interesting!"

 Cheers Jeff.

 Send yours to theintrepispiscator@hotmail.co.uk

When Trees Eat Signs 4

My thanks to Mick from Piscatorial Quagswagging for this one.
 It is still in its infancy, but the tree is slowly taking over....Send your pics to theintrepidpiscator@hotmail.co.uk

 

When Trees Eat Signs 3

My thanks go to Dave from A Derby Angler's Journal for sending this shot of another predatory tree. Send yours to theintrepidpiscator@hotmail.co.uk.

When Trees Eat Signs 2

This one sent in by Brian of Pike Blog..Cheers mate. If anyone has any more send them to theintrepidpiscator@hotmail.co.uk .

When Trees Eat Signs.

Return To The Canal

I didn't rise early, but made my way down the towpath at around 9:30. There seems to be a larger number of moored narrowboats these days. I feared a repeat of last weeks convoy of vessels but figured it might be quieter on the other side of of town in the shadow of the Chiltern Hills.
 A skylark welcomed me with a  manic tune, I can normally spot them high in the sky but much as I tried, he evaded my gaze.
 The wind howled as I began to set up and the lark immediately fell silent. I thought I'd never spot him now.
 I'd chosen an area near some snags. Close enough to get a bite I thought, but far enough away to give a fighting chance. On the canal I rely on instinct and hunch more than any other type of water I fish.

Having suffered the curse of the carbon last week, I said I'd be back and I was taking no chances. A single rod of cane, my Mk IV, only it's second outing, the first being Redmire. This teamed up with a reliable and smooth boomerang check Mitchell 300. I do like an audible alarm when fishing for carp with a fixed spool reel because I like to look around and get waylaid if something of interest occurs, and it always does. To my mind, the Steve Neville has classic 'old school' looks and does the job effectively, especially as they now have a low volume setting.
 Time chugged by, a gang of elderly ladies appeared, looking like they were the WI rambling team. Waterproofs, hiking boots and sticks, they meant business. Their loud nattering didn't cease as they passed by.
 A couple of boats with friendly and thoughtful occupants passed me by, my mind drifted along with them.

 These canal carp can be cagey creatures. My end tackle comprised of two grains of corn hair rigged on a size 8 Kamasan Longshank hook, fished on standard braid, 1oz inline lead. No need to complicate it, simple is best here.
 In the next few hours my mind became occupied by thoughts of how my rod would respond to the power of a maniac canal common. I'd yet to hook any carp on it and there is always a little doubt before that first test. For all I knew it might explode into many pieces under stress.
 A gentleman walked by, he seemed surprised to see me, it's a bit of a hike, you see. In fact he was looking for someone else and after pleasantries carried on his search.
 The wind became more intense and I felt it's burn on my cheeks. The trees hissed and the water became choppy, I started to feel uncomfortable. Not with the weather, but more the situation. Like I said, I rely on instinct here.
 Within half an hour, the gentleman returned saying he'd found his friend who was fishless on two rods further up. As another boat appeared, I took a drastic decision. I would upsticks and drive to the opposite side of town, around four miles to another stretch. I just knew that if I sat here all day I would catch nothing.
 Arriving at the new stretch, it was once again clear to me that there were many more moored boats than I recalled from my time spent here in my youth. I looked under the old bridge, It bears the scars of past encounters.

 I walked far from it and the boats, past the peeking celendine to a little spot, sheltered from the wind.

It looked carpy enough and a bait was soon sitting close to a snaggy area.  The canal was choppy on both sides, but here it was calm. I hadn't pitched here for my own benefit, if I'd have thought the fish were in the teeth of the wind I'd have sat there, as I had earlier. No, this spot seemed ideal. I waited.
 My mind was soon wandering again.

Trains hurtled by on the London-Birmingham main line, but my thoughts were idle and calm.
 The water began to move as a lock gate at least half a mile away was opened. I turned the alarm off as the line moved with the flow.
 Joggers jogged, cyclists cycled and.......

......bottle top bobbin lifted, I struck....Fish on.
 The rod took on a fighting curve as the fish headed for the snags. It almost made it even though I gave it no line at all,  I walked backwards to give myself some water to play with. It was then that I saw a boat coming in from my left. This gave the situation a tad more urgency and I bullied the fish to mid water.
 Fortunately, the couple in the boat had spotted me, and were able to come to a wind assisted stop about twenty yards away. This gave them a grandstand view of the tussle.
 By now the fish was bombing around in the margins and as I thought it might be nettable, I assumed the position and saw it for the first time just before it dived under my net. The battle endured for another five minutes before she was nettable again, and I made no mistake. In the net to much cheering from the boat. I thanked the boaters for their consideration, and they went on their way.

A beautiful common, not perfect, like the old bridge she also bore the scars from a previous encounter. Tail damage, probably otter, the river runs close.
 But what a cracker, what a fighter, what a prize. The rod had passed with flying colours.

 The instinct that had led me to move had paid off and though I stayed another couple of hours it was to be my only chance of the day.
 I was happy with that. To me there is something special about a canal carp, and though my on/off love affair with carp isn't completely rekindled, I did walk back down the towpath with a warm glow, despite that biting wind..and a skylark sang again.

Foiled Again.

Amidst the local upper class homes with their optimistic solar panels, lay the ashy remains from burners of long gone boats in this short pound of the Grand Union Canal.
 Tucked below a sprouting hawthorn hedge, my only shelter from icy gusts, I sit.
 My mind, really lost to future fat tench, this carpy distraction just a stop-gap until warm arrives.
 It's been some time since I cast a rod for carp here, though I live just minutes away.
 This morning has been the usual disorganised affair. My search for one of my many forceps has taken me to the shop for a new one. It is now past midday.

 Sitting here behind my two Shimano Twin Powers, I wonder what the coming season has tucked up it's sleeve for me.

 I lack interest for carp, yet here I am, filling the conditions. It has to be said though, that my interest could be re-kindled in mere minutes.

 Fishing towards a rather large growth of bamboo has a certain irony. I'd thought about bringing the MkIV., maybe another day.

 A narrowboat travels left to right, I wind in and it heads toward the lock. There it waits, another boat coming from the opposite direction. There's no point recasting just yet.

 As I drink some tea, mothers push their children, and cyclists zip by, donning their hi-viz fish scarers. None notice the moorhens furnishing their new home with the bamboo leaves.

 The lock gates swing open, pleasantries are exchanged and I wait for the boat to pass before replacing my baits. The boatman pessimistically conveys that, "An angler in this spot yesterday caught nothing all day" "Cheers for that" I reply, "Oh, and there's another four boats coming through"....."Nice".

 What followed can only be described as a convoy of narrowboat traffic, the likes of which I have never encountered. They were queuing up at the lock in both directions and I was unable to cast in nearly two hours.

By the time the fifteenth boat had passed, I'd arrived at the end of my tether. "Caught much?" The chap asked, "Just a cast would be nice mate, fifteen boats in under two hours, I'm waving the white flag and going home" and home I went, somewhat less relaxed than had I stayed there in the first place.

Hanging Cane Rods

Most cane rod manufacturers suggest that the best way to store them is by suspension in their bags, thinner end uppermost. I have purchased one of those over the door multi-clothes hooks which seems to do the job grandly. As this door is usually kept open the rods are tucked out of sight, nice and tidy. I know it isn't rocket science but thought I'd share.

Sealey Octofloat De-Luxe - A Journey

The first cane rod I purchased was a Sealey Octofloat De-Luxe.  I knew nothing of canes' enigmatic attraction, it was a whim, a reckless ebay moment. Arriving soon enough, it looked sad though, unloved, broken, a split female butt ferrule. The bag was tatty, the rings were a mish-mash of different types. I was disappointed that I couldn't just put it together and angle. I lay it down in a corner of my home, ignored, again sad and unloved.
Other rods came, a long gangly Spanish reed and built cane match rod, the Milward Senior Featherlight, a well built wand but not to my liking, I never used it and gave it to someone who'd hopefully appreciate it.
 The Chapman 500 came next, used, loved, kept. A steely Avon rod, it suited my fishing, a great acquisition.
 It was around this time that ebay popped up a Sealey Octofloat De-Luxe with a broken middle section. What it did have was the correct rings and all the ferrules, a plan was hatched. I could cannabilise this already wounded rod for parts for my other one.
Duly purchased for a paltry sum and arriving soon after, I gave it the once over. The rings would be perfect but imagine my dismay when the only ferrule I needed was also split. I scoured the internet for ferrules wasting money on incorrect sizes....Admitting defeat, I placed the Sealey back in the corner and discovered a new love.
 I was to stumble across the bargain Allcocks Lucky Strike. It's state at time of procurement has been described as a 'Basket Case'.  Lovingly restored by my own hands it has become much loved, having 'the feel' like no other rod I have owned, a true joy to fish with. It has already repaid me tenfold for bringing it back to life.
 People started to hear about the odd fellow from the tackle shop, surrounded by spanky new carbon, yet fishing with old bamboo. Some gifted me their loft finds, a couple of fly rods came my way. One was passed on, a gift to a colleague, one  became the Sealey's mate.
 Then came the pair of Allcocks Nimrods, 8.5ft of lovely action and the perfect small river chub and perch rod, they'd easily handle bigger quarry. Eventually one went to my colleague Mike who has taken barbel on it. We have both never lost a hooked fish on these rods. The one I kept is a definite keeper and will always have a place in my armoury.
 Sometime later two very different items came along, a B. James MK IV Richard Walker carp rod. It is a rod that most lovers of vintage tackle would aspire to own at some stage, a true classic, I wanted it, I bought it. It has so far been used once at the fabled pool that is Redmire where I was (un)lucky to christen it with a personal best eel. It will hopefully soon be catching it first carp for me.
 The other rod that appeared was basically described as the bottom two sections of a float rod. No tip section, delaminated, knackered. I recognised it as two thirds of a Marco 'Test'. I don't know what made me  bid for it, I really don't. It cost me just 99p. However, that 99p shot in the dark has turned out to be a fantastic punt, because the butt female ferrule on that particular rod only turned out to be a  fit for the Sealey, not just a fit but a perfect, to the cane, popping to the male ferrule fit. At last, all the parts of the jigsaw were complete. My first cane rod, with donor parts from two others is complete, and ready for sunshine and green scaled beauties.
 I love the journey this rod has taken, it has now known love again and once again has a life..It is true, is it not ? That in restoring a cane rod, we take someone's past and make it our future.

Who Was That Chap?

Many years ago I was fishing for carp at the famous Tiddenfoot Pit. Fished and stocked by Jack Hilton many years before, it had seen many an experienced fisher since, not least for it's healthy population of Wels catfish.
 It was just gettng light when my left rod was away and I was into one of the resident hard fighting commons.
 The mist was just starting to rise from the watery mass and the birds were just starting their morning territorial chants.
 As I played the fish, looking around at the peaceful panorama, I noticed some movement.
 What can only be described as a quite portly gentleman, quietly made his way around the lake, passing the silent and still bivvies of the specimen hunters that frequented the lake.
 My fish was landed as this fellow in his big floppy hat and grey-white jumper set up directly opposite. He gazed over as I released my prize back to the depths. Watching, without acknowledgement, before setting up his rod
 Who is that chap?, I thought. He didn't look like any of the olive green battalion I usually saw. The only time we saw a float fisherman was when a cat angler fished for a livebait or on the odd occasional match. Most of these anglers struggled, which was why we saw so few try.
 Sitting on my bedchair, gazing over the lake, I watched attentively as the gent set up a float rod and threw out a couple of balls of groundbait.
 A first cast, a first fish, a second cast, a second fish and so it continued. I could make out  tench and crucians the likes of which I'd never seen here before, and the occassional large roach. It was as if he'd unlocked the secrets of the lake. I was en-tranced.
 Sitting there behind my alarms, I somehow felt inferior, this chap was 'angling', whilst I was just 'waiting'.
 It would probably have been around three hours later when one of the older members popped around for a chat. I told him of my observations, stating that, "That old boy over there could teach us a lesson or two."
"Indeed he could" came the reply, "For that is Fred J".