Retiarius

Get Thee Behind me, Commercials

2012-02-12T17:16:00.000-08:00

Top: A carp match lake.

Bottom: A proper fishery, yesterday.

A few years ago I had a job requiring little effort, with an office to myself and unmonitored internet access. During the long, ennui-laden hours of my 'working' day I sometimes killed the time by posting provocative messages on various angling forums - come on, we've all done it...

A favourite topic was that old chestnut about the 'antis' and how we anglers should react to the possibility of the publics' view of fishing becoming hostile as a result of anti-angling lobbying. My argument was that the enormous amount of money generated by angling would prevent any prohibitive legislation; that the market would would be the arbiter over and above any moral concerns. I sensed the faint whiff of paranoia among those expressing anxiety over a perceived threat from those 'antis'. I was also (I confess it) attempting, in some mean spirited way, to wind up those posters. Some of their previous posts had had decidedly conservative (with a small "c", you'll note) undertones and I thought I'd be a smart-arse and try to beat them with their own free market stick. More often that not they took the bait and lively, light-hearted banter ensued. Unfortunately those halcyon days are long gone and, alas, I now have to work for a living.

Leafing through some old issues of Waterlog the other day I came across a Brian Clarke article entitled Fishing into the Future. In it, Clarke suggests that, "as things stand", angling is too popular to be in any danger. What I found interesting about this argument was that Clarke applied the importance of popularity to the non-angling publics' perception of fishing as well as that of anglers themselves. For Clarke, the guarantee against any future infringement of angling freedoms lay in the status quo - and it is important to bear in mind that this article was published in 1997 - remaining in place. That is, the perception of angling by non-anglers as "the rather dotty pastime being pursued by that man on the bank" alongside commercial interests remaining secondary to the core values, the "inner morality", as Clarke puts it, of angling. He singles out one threat to this equilibrium in particular: "If I had to point a finger, and I must, it would be at commercial stillwaters.". Clarke goes on to list now familiar concerns: overstocking, and the reliance on anglers' bait that this engenders; the importance placed upon weight and catch size; specific fish being caught repeatedly, or transported from fishery to fishery; depleted dissolved oxygen levels; the importance of competitive fishing to revenues, and so on.

The prescience of the article struck me. Fifteen years ago there were nowhere near as many commercial fisheries in the UK as there are now. I don't think it is too much to suggest that, in some parts of the country at least, commercial fisheries have become predominant, particularly where younger anglers are concerned. I have been saddened that, when fishing commecials (I know, I shall address the hypocrisy issue presently), I have had conversations with far too many youngsters who have never fished in any other environment. More often than before, non-anglers appear surprised that I fish, not in muddy puddles, but in rivers. Many of them seem to regard me as some kind of frontiersman because of this. Perhaps the most preposterous signifier of an emerging 'new angling' occurred when the oft-hooked celebrity carp Two-Tone's funeral featured in news media across the country.

Although I accept that there are fisheries that technically could be regarded as 'commercials' and that do not indulge in bad practise and/or exploitation, I have to say that, in my view, a great many of them do. The last straw for me came last year. Regular readers may recall that I meet up occasionally with a pal of mine who isn't, really, what you'd call a fisherman, but, rather, a chap who likes to go fishing from time to time. The upshot is that we generally met up at one of two commercials equidistant from our respective homes; a commercial, rather than a river, being his preference. I was concentrating on subduing a carp when it rolled on the surface, revealing the all too familiar torn mouth. Unbeknown to me the bloke who owned the place had arrived to get the day ticket money and was standing just behind me.
"Yeah", he said, without any irony whatever, "we bought some f****ed ones".

Frankly, I was appalled. The idea that there may be some seedy emporium where the telephone answering script might run something like: "Hello, f****ed fish dot com, how can we help you?" blew even my cynical mind. We made our excuses and left.

In light of this, and other experiences too depressing to mention, I renounce commercials and all their works. Anglers can vote with their feet and I intend to do just that; I shall never darken their net dips again. There are other reasons too. What about the impact on that mainstay of angling culture, the tackle shop? I was speaking with the proprietrix of the only remaining tackle shop in my home town the other day (there used to be quite a few) about this very subject. She was saying that more and more commercials do not allow bait to be brought onto their premises (why is that exactly?). The visits to on-site shops that this necessitates naturally results in them becoming the place where not only bait, but tackle too, is bought. She fears the tackle shop industry itself is in jeopardy: I believe her.

Maybe I'm naive in believing that young anglers should learn - and make their mistakes - on small streams where the impact of their relative ineptitude can be more readily and sustainably absorbed. Perhaps it is rather romantic of me to think it preferable that young anglers learn about the fauna and flora that flourishes in and around the environment of a healthy stream or river at the same time as learning about fishing. Naive, romantic or not, that's what I believe. It is how I introduce kids to fishing when I'm asked (which isn't often, thank god!).

I think Brian Clarke was right. If angling ceases to be perceived as that silly thing some chaps (and chapesses) do and comes to be thought of as something driven only by commercial interest then everybody loses; the anglers, the fish, and the environment which anglers, by their very existence, do so much to nourish and protect.

Acknowledgements:

Fishing into the Future by Brian Clarke (article) in Waterlog magazine, Editors, Chris Yates and Jon Ward-Allen, October/November 1997 (Issue No. 6).

Grayling by Intuition

2012-02-05T15:59:00.000-08:00

1: Winter view; back across the fields to the river.
2: North Hill rises above the mist.
3: The pool where the salmon splashed.
4: A likely looking snag.
5: Dead salmon.

I'd been here yesterday: but, mindful of those pillocks who call late night phone-ins on Five Live (after days of warnings of bad weather) demanding to know why they're stuck on motorways at midnight, and why aren't the emergency services, government, army, God, etc. doing something about it, I returned homeward after a brief walk along the bank.

I had delayed leaving home until it looked like the predicted snow wasn't going to show after all. Inevitably though, three quarters of the way through the 30 mile journey to the river the flakes began to fall. By the time I got there the stuff was pillowing down with a vengeance. The water looked good. The level was a tad high and there was the merest touch of colour; ideal, I thought, for a bit of trotting for grayling and chub. It broke my heart to leave but, discretion being the better part of valour, and all that...

I awoke the next day expecting deep, set snow. However, to my delight, there was none. Furthermore, the roads were wet - unfrozen. I packed the gear into the car and set off with hope recharged. Worryingly, the closer I got to the river the more the snow lay round about; not exactly deep and crisp and even, but there was enough of it on the roads to start me thinking about getting back safely, once the temperature dropped towards evening. For now though, the car's display told me the external temperature was 2 degrees. I parked in a lay-by up on the main road and trudged through the snow down the steep track and across the fields to the river.

The last time I was here was just after Christmas. It was a cold day then too - colder than today. I fished all day for one bite and landed the 3lb chub responsible. It was a lot of effort and discomfort for one fish. But, of course, the day had other things to offer. In the morning I had been fishing a swim for an hour or so before I noticed a grilse (see pic) lying upside down in the shallow water a few yards downstream. It was not long dead from the looks of it; neither had the considerable contingent of local otters yet discovered it. It was the first evidence of salmon I've seen here although I'd always assumed there was a run; it's a tributary of Big River after all. Later that afternoon I was fruitlessly trotting flake under some rafts of debris further upstream when, in the periphery of my vision I saw or, rather, sensed a large fish half leave the water and splash back down below the surface. It must, I feel sure, have been a salmon. It was the only fish I saw moving all day, apart from that silly chub. It broke the surface a few more times in the next ten minutes, while I watched. I was unable to get a 100% positive identification, but no self respecting river denizen would have acted so preposterously on such a day.

Today I was hoping for grayling. The river was clear - clearer than yesterday - and just right for long trotting. I'd tried a couple of favourite swims without so much as a nibble before arriving at what, I suppose, is my 'banker' grayling swim here. After an hour, though, nowt. Despondent, I put down the float rod and began to trundle legered bread, then worm, through the swim: still nothing. At this point that I had one of those strange intuitions that we fishermen get from time to time. Many angling writers have waxed lyrical about the the weird 'advance warning' sometimes experienced before catching a decent fish, or when fish are about begin feeding, not least that most pragmatic of anglers, Richard Walker (see previous post). None though (in my opinion) has written about the phenomenon as eloquently as Hugh Falkus in his incomparable tome Sea Trout Fishing. Among other musings on this intriguing subject, Falkus suggests:

"the only explanation I can offer is that it may be due to a subconscious assessment of some change in conditions the conscious senses have not become fully aware of. A change so slight as to be almost imperceptible, but which is sufficient to bring a fish into a 'taking' mood."

I can state categorically that I did not consciously sense any change in the conditions. It was still very cold, that's all I can say for certain. However, I very definitely felt compelled, as opposed to having chosen, to pick up the float rod and recommence trotting; and I did so with an unexplainable resurgence of confidence.

Within the next few minutes I caught three grayling - one of them a very decent fish indeed. Maybe I did perceive a change in conditions, or perhaps a shoal of grayling just happened to roam through my swim at that particular time - who knows? Suffice to say that those fish felt special because of the certainty of success I'd experienced before catching them.

I fished into dusk with no further joy, before walking back across the fields to begin the fraught journey home along rapidly freezing roads.

Acknowledgements:
Sea Trout Fishing (2nd edition), 1977, Hugh Falkus, H.F & G Witherby Ltd, 1977 ISBN 0 85493 115 5.
(I recommend this very well written book, if you haven't already read/bought it. It provides insights that apply to all aspects of fishing, not just sea trout angling.)

Roach and dace on the Upper Thames

2011-10-18T04:48:00.000-07:00

The first time I visited Lechlade was as a passenger on a 70ft narrow boat hired by a friend, Cap'n Jim. It was chartered from a location on the wide lower reaches of the river where, I am assured, its suitability for the voyage presented no cause for concern. Nudging it around the tight meanders of the upper Thames, however, one was reminded that this was not the kind of waterway for which such craft were designed. Lechlade marks the highest navigable point of the Thames and so our gin palace had to be turned in order to embark upon the return leg. The multi-point manoeuvre that this necessitated will be remembered by the (not insubstantial) group who witnessed it as a spectacularly inept display of seamanship. The performance reached its climax with my re-boarding the vessel by dropping from a bridge after carrying out fending duties from the bank.

I returned to Lechlade having remembered how enticing the river had looked then, and wondered why I had not fished it sooner. On the recommendation of the chap in the tackle shop I float-fished hemp and tares on the drop and landed some roach and dace, but the sun was very bright in a cloudless sky and, with a flat calm compounding the challenge, I vowed to return under more conducive conditions. Happily, these arrived three days later. I arrived at dawn under a heavily overcast sky and with a stiffish breeze haring across the meadows. I was legering using a bread ground bait with a bit of crushed hemp and bread flake on the hook. This produced some roach but also a preponderance of gudgeon which, while I was glad to see them, were not the quarry today.

I persisted with the open-ended feeder and bread on the hook until, frankly, I became bored and switched to double caster. This resulted in animmediate increase in bites and I banked some nice-ish roach and some good dace (see photos).

The wind had grown steadily in strength throughout the day and, although I knew my best chance of bigger roach would come at dusk, eventually the gusts became so violent that seeing bites on the quiver tip became impossible. Buffeted, but happy, I packed up, intending to return in the very near future.

£5 day tickets can be bought from the baliff on the bank. The tackle shop is on Lechlade High Street.

Low River Blues

2011-10-09T15:47:00.000-07:00

Top & second top: Low levels on the Teme

Second from bottom: A typical Teme dace

Bottom: This lovely brownie fell to bread

I expect the water level in the Teme to be low but I have clearly underestimated the extent of the drought. As I walk along the high bank in the pre-dawn darkness I sense the river is a lot further below me than it ought to be.

I've come in search of chub, and I want to fish specifically for them. Most of the sizeable chub I've landed here have been caught en passant while barbelling and, although I've landed chavenders to within an ounce of 6lb, catching them under such circumstances brings scant satisfaction. The Teme here is narrow and snaggy and when barbelling I use very sturdy gear; the chub are easily played out on such tackle. I've caught lots of chub here long trotting with maggot and relatively light gear, but smaller fish only, of the 3-4 lb stripe, succumb to this hugely enjoyable tactic.

But I've seen bigger chub here, 7 or 8 pounders, so today I want to stalk. I've got an 11ft avon rod and 5lb Maxima on the fixed spool reel I use for legering (why is wallis casting with lead so much more difficult than with float tackle?) and bread and worms for bait. As my eyes become accustomed to the half-light of the slowly breaking dawn I spot four or five black-dipped tails holding station languidly beneath the willow on the far bank. I retreat, quickly tie a size 8 to my mainline and pinch a swan shot a foot above it. I leave my bag on the top of the bank and descend gingerly to a point directly opposite the lurking chub. I spend ten minutes flicking pellets of Warbuton's Toastie across to them but, from this low position, their response remains unseen.

Squeezing on a generous piece of flake I dip it before flicking the tackle across the river to a position a few feet above the predicted taking point. I can feel the shot trundling along the bottom before a sudden yank pulls the rod tip around sharply. The speed with which the fish heads off upstream takes me by surprise; I was expecting a thudding retreat deeper into the undercut of the far bank. I'm holding the rod as far out over the river as I can, because there's an overhanging bush on my upstream side and the line is being pulled through its lower branches. Unable to see it, my view being obscured by the bush, I feel the fish jump and hear the splash of its re-entry: clearly a trout.

I'm miffed because a couple of those chub looked a decent size and this interloper, with its attention seeking acrobatics, has blown my chances of catching one. But it's calmed down now and comes to the net with no more fuss, and it's a stunning looking fish. It seems exotic and somehow out of place. I've caught lots of trout here on fly and bait but, at a pound and a half, this one is a monster by comparison. I forgive it because of it's beauty, and because it has revealed the possibilities of the fly here next season, before I slip it back.

Back on the high bank my dew covered bag casts a shadow as the weak autumn sun sluggishly ascends. I can now see just how low the river is, and how alien it makes this familiar stretch appear. The bottom is visible everywhere and I know it will be difficult to stalk anything, let alone get a bait to an unsuspecting fish. Worrying though this state of affairs is, my angling id compels me to map the riverbed while conditions allow, and I do so, walking the entire stretch, noting every feature, trying to consign it all to memory, to draw upon in seasons to come. I'm shocked by the extent of my ignorance of a stretch I thought I knew so well.

There are two deep holes that I already knew about, but as I walk back downstream I pass an angler setting up by the one I wanted to try, so I head to the other, half a mile downstream. Chub are showing here and there but I can't get a bait to them without putting them down. A shoal of dace (I count fifty odd before losing my place) forms a shifting teardrop shape beneath a willow. Switching to the centrepin I catch a few on float tackle and bread but don't catch the big ones at the back of the shoal; their younger, more naive, shoal-mates snaffle the bait with quicksilver bites before it reaches the daddies.

I reach the deep swim and trot a worm tail through it, resulting in more dace, grayling, trout and chublets. There's a raft of flotsam right at the head of the deep run and I'm trying to cast my float as close to it as possible, feeling that there must be something exciting lurking beneath; but nothing betrays itself. I feed with chopped worm and trot the float through again and again, picking up a fish most casts. The tackle stops and the float glides slowly under so I give it a twitch to free it from the bottom but it's stuck fast. I give it a sharper tug and the bottom begins to move, very slowly, in the direction of the flotsam. I apply as much pressure as I dare but I can't stop it reaching the raft. There's no fight, it just keeps going further beneath the cover until, inevitably, it breaks me. I suspect an esox, attracted by the small fish I was catching, or the smell of the chopped worms. I regret the disgrace of being broken, but offer silent thanks that I didn't have to deal with it.

I walk back to the car and worry about the barbel. What do they do when the water is a low as this? I'm only 7 miles above the confluence with Big River and I fear they might have upped fins and departed thither. I chat to a couple of barbellers who tell me they've never seen the river so low. Nor have I. They say they haven't heard of any barbel being caught for a couple of weeks.

We've had a bit of rain since then and I'm going back this week to try for barbel, just to know they're still there. We should be coming into the best part of the year for barbel now, but I'm not holding my breath.

Note: Apologies for the poor quality of the trout picture.

Sea Trout at 1200ft

2011-10-08T13:37:00.000-07:00

I spent the last week of August back in Teesdale, this time in the company of Mrs Retiarius. She wished to paint and I, well, what do you think?

Unlike my previous trip (see previous post) conditions were perfect. The weather was fine without being overly bright and this time of year is always the best for fishing the upper Tees, traditionally, with a team of spiders.

After three glorious, trout filled, days fishing the pocket water below Widdybank fell and Falcon Clints I was ready for a new challenge. I decided to chance my arm a few miles to the north in Weardale. I purchased a day ticket at the Post Office in St John's Chapel and went off to explore the river.

The Wear here is not big and the level seemed low. No fish were showing but there was a healthy rise of iron blue duns. I walked upstream trying likely spots with an imitation of the iron blues and, in the deeper pools, with various nymphs, but there was nothing doing. The same was true in Wearhead, the next village upstream, and I came eventually to the upper limit of the beat at Cowshill.

I walked across the handsome old road bridge and, naturally, crept up to the parapet and peeped over. There were trout; tiny trout admittedly, but they served to re-kindle my petering enthusiasm. Twenty yards below the bridge was the waterfall that marked the boundary of the water available to me. I made my way downstream, paused to admire the spectacular falls and their attendant grey wagtails, and walked out of the trees and up on to a high, clear ridge that flattened out maybe 50ft above the river. Immediately below there was a shallow pool, and in it were seven large fish. My first, astonished, thought was "flippin' 'eck, what are barbel doing up here?".

I checked this silliness and crawled down the bank to a vantage point behind a convenient oak. I was now only 20ft from the pool and still 15ft or so above it. Holding my breath, I peered cautiously around the trunk. They were trout. I had speculated, during the descent, that they must be salmon, but they were definately trout - among the spottiest of spotty herberts I've seen, and definately not silver tourists. And they were big. The photo does not do it justice (they never do, do they?) but I estimated the big one at the rear to be a double. They had to be sea trout. Excitingly - was I imagining it? - every so often they opened their mouths and with subtle, but definite, movement, appeared to be snaffling nymph-age from close to the bottom.

Reader, I covered them. It was madness, I know, but what was I to do? All I had was a 3wt 7ft rod and a handful of 6x leaders, but was it so wrong to try? I examined the pool closely. Its tail, I could see from my vantage point, was a mere trickle - perhaps an inch deep - and the inlet wasn't much deeper. These fish were trapped. Furthermore the entire pool was snag free. In my madness I reasoned that, having hooked one (!) patience, and a large dollop of luck, would be all that was required.

I fell back to a position downstream to plan my attack. I removed enough from the front of a 12ft leader to leave me what I reckoned was a tippet of about 6lb BS. My fly options were limited and, after much troubled musing, I chose a small hare's ear. I crept up the trickle below the pool and, amazingly, managed to cast it 6 inches of the front of the big one's nose without lining him. I waited with baited breath. Of course, he didn't fall for it. After about 30 seconds - there was no discernible flow - I gave it the merest of twitches and immediately the entire pool erupted as first the big one, followed by the other 6, tore off in panic to the various extremities of their watery cell. But I'd had to try. I went back to the oak and, when they had calmed down again, took their picture.

Later that evening, as Mrs Retiarius and I were celebrating her birthday over dinner at the Rose and Crown, I was unforgivably distracted by the thought of those trout. I am ashamed to admit that at one point I weighed up the likely consequence of asking her to drive me back there, tonight, under cover of darkness, this time armed with sturdier gear and some lobworms, but even the saintly Mrs R has limits.

Back at the cottage I utilised Google Earth. That pool is 1200ft above sea level and 36 miles as the crow flies from the mouth of the Wear; you've got to hand it to them.

Apologies are due to Charlotte Bronte and the only slightly less luminary Chris Yates for the flagrant plagiarism in this piece.

Blanking - makes you think, dunnit?

2011-10-05T13:38:00.000-07:00

The Tees below Cauldron Snout, April 2011

A blank day: it happens. A blank week, though, is different altogether; It makes a chap think, and that's not necessarily a bad thing.

I was at the cottage in Upper Teesdale on the 1st of April; alone, and with seven days of fishing spread tantalisingly before me. The rain started on the evening of my arrival and continued, pretty much unabated, until the day of departure. This wasn't your every-day, run-of-the-mill rain either. This was proper North Pennine rain, the kind that penetrates to that signifier of proper soakings - the gusset of one's underwear - with insidious and astonishing rapidity. On my first outing the low watermark was reached so soon that I managed to stagger a mere quarter of a mile into the deluge before submission became the only sane option.

Two hours and a hot bath later saw me ensconced in the homely environs of the bar of The Teesdale Hotel in Middleton. The delicious sensation of immersion in hot water had been enhanced to no small degree by the consumption of the contents of my hip flask, intended for the toasting of trout, but by no means wasted in its secondary role. Reinvigorated by its effect, I laid and lit a fire, pushed the damper in and headed to the boozer in the time honoured manner of chaps who've had their hopes and dreams of a long awaited day's fishing washed clean away.

The clientèle of the Teesdale during the lunchtime session is agreeable to a man in a fragile condition. It consists of late middle aged males; some there for the duration, others who duck in furtively out of the rain to sink a couple while their better halves attend to trivial matters in town. All are affable and enter into conversation freely. A tweed-clad trio at the bar throw out crossword clues to the floor and a log fire is kept roaring by the bar-lady. Questions come after introductions are made and I tell them (how stupid it now seems!) how I drove up to Cronkley that morning to fish. They don't laugh or mock; their faces registering only benign indifference. You don't run into many fishermen here, and fewer local ones. This is grouse country, shooting country: no-one cares much about fish or fishing. It's one of the reasons why it's a great place to fish, and an even better place to blank: no-one cares, which helps to put things into perspective. The land is divided between Barnard and Strathmore and managed, some might say obsessively, for grouse. The Tees is but a boundary dividing the two demesnes, left to flourish majestically and ignored, for the most part, by the majority.

I spent the evening in front of the cottage fire accompanied only by Sheringham's evocative prose and the remainder of the scotch. Thoughts were forming.

Have you ever woken, after such an evening, aware that, on the previous night, you had thought so profoundly of things, such things - philosophies, solutions to previously impenetrable (but invariably mundane) problems - that, if only you could remember what they were, things would look a lot brighter? Such was the situation next morning. Optimistic - having thought the thoughts of great men, even if had now no idea what form these musings had taken - I sallied forth to the inestimable Conduit Cafe to get outside a full english washed down with a gallon or so of tea. The rain persisted, and seemed inclined to do so interminably. It would be folly, clearly, to expose myself again to the elemental mental-ness of Upper Teesdale, and so, breakfast having soaked up most of my hangover, I drove to Barney.

Barnard Castle is an excellent place to buy second hand books. The Oxfam shop, mitigating against the tyranny of Cookson, Grisham and Cornwell, offers an 'Old Books' section which often contains jewels from the canon, such as the first edition of BB's The Countryman's Bedside Book (with dust jacket) that I picked up here last year. Curlew Books, too, is well worth a look in. I popped in to Wilkinson's to buy some flies. There was no need really, I had tied a dozen each of snipe and purple, march brown, hare's lug and plover, black spider, waterhen bloa et al before I'd come. I don't even buy flies as a rule. I just knew, from experience, that the old chap who works at the fishing counter would cheer me up. He did not fail me.

"Cast into the white water" he advised archly, "you'll catch".

Absolutely preposterous, I thought happily, as I peered through the rain-blurred window and saw a bedraggled woman battling to turn her umbrella outside in again. But, as anticipated, he had encouraged me.

Back at the cottage I took a wet constitutional (by way of the Teesdale, naturally) before settling down to an evening of Pritt, an umpteenth viewing of Kind Hearts and Coronets, a wee dram or six, and thence to bed, for some reason optimistic that tomorrow the weather might turn.

In the morning the rain had stopped. But, on a brief detour via the river en route to The Conduit, I heard the angry roar of the Tees long before I saw it. The thousands - nay, millions - of tons of precipitation which had fallen on various fells during the previous two days was now careening down the valley; a terrifying sight, and a dispiriting one for any angler. Over the full english I resolved, through clenched teeth (because I don't, truth be told, enjoy it much), to fish one of the local stocked reservoirs.

The rain looked like it would hold off for a good few hours (although you can never tell up here) so I parted with the readies and asked the chap at Grassholme lodge what flies he recommended.

"Orange fritz is the one at the moment"

"Beg you pardon?" I stammered.

"Orange fritz." he repeated. And then, bemused, "I thought everyone had some of those..."

'Bloody hell; that it should come to this', I thought as I pocketed the offensive blighters and trudged around to the other side of the vast, and to my untutored eye, featureless expanse. Not that it mattered much. Although the rain had ceased the wind was bowling down the valley as keen as ever and there was only one bank from which casting of any kind would be possible. I tied on one of the fluorescent abominations and cast, like I was throwing a voodoo figure into a fire. To my amazement, the moment I began to retrieve I felt a sharp jab. The old ticker upped the tempo a notch and as I continued to pull in line the fish took again and I was in. It was a rainbow of about 3lb which detached itself just as I was about to net it. Not to worry, thought I, and cast again. Further amazement ensued as I connected immediately with another rainbow. This one, too, was lost at the net. And that was it for the next four freezing, dispiriting, wind-beaten hours. Not another knock did I get: not on the revolting orange fritz, or any other 'fly'.

Back at the Teesdale I listened despondently as the locals discussed the continuance of the bad weather (It was, naturally, raining heavily again) before agreeing that a let up was unlikely in the extreme. Batten down the hatches was the general consensus; and so it was for the rest of the week.

All there was to do - between dining at some of The North's finest eateries (The Rose and Crown at Romaldkirk and The Moorcock at Egglestone in particular); drinking far too much at the Teesdale; walking among some of the finest and most unspoilt scenery in the British Isles; re-reading many of the finest angling books ever written (which inspired me to jot a few sub-standard scribbles myself); spending happy hours searching for second-hand book bargains in Barney and elsewhere and communing with the good people of Middleton-in-Teesdale generally - all there was to do - was think; and think about blanking in particular.

Wiser sages than me have waxed so profoundly, so lyrically, upon the subject of the remarkable similarities between angling and life that, surely, they're no longer regarded as remarkable?

Suddenly (during a memorable lunchtime session involving a bottle of Chateau Neuf du Pape, several pints of Black Sheep and the best part of a bottle of Bell's) it struck me that blanking, and how one deals with it, offers one of the clearest analogies to life altogether. The limitless potential of life is mirrored in the almost limitless possibility of a fishing trip, and the way we deal with the highs and lows encountered during both are the mark of us. In the event that no fish show, the opportunity must be taken to delight in other things; and there are always other things, material and spiritual, that we are compelled to notice, acknowledge and appreciate all the more because we fish.

This state of mind, I always feel, finds its best expression in the lines that appear at the front of BB's books.

'The wonder of the world, the beauty and the

power, the shape of things, their colours,

lights and shades; these I saw. Look ye also

while life lasts'

As far as I know, the above lines are unattributed. If anybody knows otherwise, please let me know.

Good Commercial Sense?

2010-08-22T07:00:00.001-07:00

Commercials eh? Horrible places by and large, I'll grant you; but they do have their uses.

Every few months I am compelled to suspend my boycott of commercial fisheries. The blame for this falls squarely on the shoulders of a friend of mine, Sarge, who refuses to fish anywhere else. The reason for this is simple. He's really not any good at fishing, and baulks at the prospect of a river, say, or anywhere else that presents a challenge. The upshot being that we end up at a commercial fishery situated equidistant between our homes, chatting of this and that, while he tries (and often fails, incredibly) to catch carp and I try to avoid them.

Why, you may ask, do I try to avoid the carp? Because, to any reasonably sensible angler, this kind of fishing is entirely pointless and devoid of any merit whatsoever. Reeling in one suicidal hand-raised, pellet fed five pounder after another does not constitute my idea of fun, or sport.

However, the fishery does contain specimen roach, rudd and perch. I know this because I've seen them caught . I reckon the place offers my best chance to make my 30-odd year old dream of a 2lb roach a reality, so roach are my target when I go there.

My method entails using a waggler at long range. Hemp is fed regularly into the area and the hookbait - tares, maggot, or those jelly pellet things - is allowed to sink slowly down through the depth of the swim to the bottom.

Of course, the problem of nuisance carp is ever present, and the inevitability of hooking a few must be borne with a patient shrug. The fishery in question is typical of many commercials in that it is free from any meaningful snags - lily beds, overhanging trees, that sort of thing - which might otherwise compromise revenue potential by restricting valuable peg space. This means that lightish tackle can be used in the knowledge that, should one hook a carp, it can be easily (but tediously) played out and released before getting on with the proper fishing.

Yesterday I caught the fish pictured (1lb 12oz - getting closer, the previous best was 1lb 10oz). It was roach shaped and had a red roach eye and a roach mouth, but I can't help thinking it had a bit of a golden ruddish tint to it. I'd welcome comments.

Barbel in my Sleep

2010-07-08T12:26:00.000-07:00

Some people might think it rather irresponsible, but lately I’ve become quite good at catching barbel in my sleep.

One morning last week, for instance, I tooled down to my favourite stretch of flowing water with a spot of float fishing in mind. I had spent the previous evening imbibing a few more ales than was, perhaps, advisable. This often happens on the eve of fishing trips. I think excitement and the vague notion that “I’ve not much on tomorrow…” combine, compelling me to conclude that to sink a few would be a perfectly sensible course of action. Consequently, I often arrive at the bankside a little worse for wear. This was the case on the morning in question.

I've always held that an early morning hack ‘round the links is the best hangover cure. However, it is a truth universally acknowledged that arriving at a deserted stretch of promising water, swathed in the steaming mist of a hot, heavy June dawn invariably girds the loins of even the most forlorn angler. As I tackled up I was aware of the oppression lifting from me, as if borne upon the fluttering wings of the blackcaps foraging through the Willow-down and the sand martens swooping up and down the river on their unerring quest for insects; “This is the life…” I thought, and cast in.

First chuck – a really very nice grayling of about a pound. The next few casts produced more of the same, perhaps slightly smaller than the first. I was trotting a 5BB Avon down through a swiftish swim where a sudden drop in depth made the surface boil. Exactly 6 bronze maggots were fed into the head of the swim before each cast. After more grayling, a few chublets and a feisty brownie were banked the bites started to drop off. I began to hold back the float considerably more than had been the case hitherto (naturally I was using a centrepin). The upshot was that I began to catch dace – pretty nice ones too. I reckon a couple might have been 12 ounces apiece. All in all, a very pleasant session of trotting.

Morning had flown by and I sat down and ploughed through the hearty repast kindly packed by Mrs Retiarius. As I ate I watched the sand martens performing their astonishing aerobatics, noticed three or four very big chub basking beneath the overhanging branches of a low Willow on the opposite bank, and asked myself why I don’t do this more often.

The lunch and the temperature, which had soared throughout the morning, had taken their soporific toll. I decided that to continue trotting in the mid-day sun would be just too demanding on my depleted reserves of stamina: so I decided to tackle up the barbel rod and have a nap.

Now, I accept that there are those who consider fishing for barbel while sleeping to be the height of irresponsibility, but let me explain. These days, I don’t get to go fishing very often; and when I do, I am often tired and knackered out (see above). These two facts conspire to evince a dichotomy which I find difficult to balance. I feel I ought, on the rare occasions I get to go, actually to fish while I’m there. However, on days like this, I often feel the need for an afternoon nap. I merely attempt to combine the two things so as not to feel a sense of, respectively, regret or exhaustion.

And let me assure you that on such occasions I go to great lengths to avoid catching the blighters. Conversely, when the conditions are favourable – the river fining after high water, moderate air and water temperatures, inside knowledge of a ‘can’t fail’ local bait, the moon being in the correct phase etc. (see previous post) – I never consider such a course of action (although I do nod off occasionally and have previously caught while napping). No, I approach my carefully chosen swim with the utmost stealth and diligently apply every nerve and sinew to the task in hand. I concentrate and focus every pore and fibre of my being to the cause. I then dedicate my - admittedly limited - angling skills to pursuit of the quarry. Naturally I invariably fail to provoke the merest nibble. But when the sun is high and bright, the water temperature akin to bathwater and as low as I’ve ever seen it, and where no barbel are visible through the crystal clear flow I feel it’s ok. I stack the odds against any success further by using a bait which has a proven track record of failure on the water in question. In this case an unfeasibly enormous chunk of bacon grill, a sweetmeat with which I have conspicuously failed to garner a sniff on the many occasions I’ve tried it here.

So it was with absolute confidence of blanking that I cast into the most improbable swim I could find, chosen entirely for its aesthetic appeal and comfy looking bank rather than any likelihood of its producing a fish. My ‘rig’ was a simple running leger tied to 12lb line with a 10lb fluorocarbon hooklength of about a foot in length. A size 8 hook was inserted roughly through the meat with a bit of grass stem stuck in the bend to hold it on.

I reclined, contented and drowsy, upon the grassy mattress beneath a particularly leafy willow which offered a little protection from the blazing sun. Having put the rod into the rest at about 45 degrees I wedged it tight under my armpit with my forearm along the length of the butt and my hand tightly gripping the foot of the reel at the fittings, and dozed. I had just fallen into what I believe is known as the Alpha State, that weird knife edge between consciousness and unconsciousness – the real and the unknown - when the rod tip banged hard, once. I opened my eyes and peered, affronted, at the rod tip. It was still wobbling in recoil, definitely real. In the few seconds that followed I decided it was probably a line bite, caused by a panicking fish alarmed, not unreasonably, by my Neanderthal terminal tackle. My lolling eyes closed once more. The rod tip banged again - twice. This time I sat up and adopted a striking posture, albeit lethargically. I didn't think I’d get a third bite of the cherry, no more than I thought any self-respecting fish would be dim enough to take a third bite of the bacon grill, but blow me if the rod tip didn’t bend round into a tight curve. I struck into a decent fish. It turned out to be a very lovely chub of about 5lb.

This pleasing interruption having been dealt with, I re-baited with an even more ludicrous sized chunk and re-cast. This time I had at least managed to nod off properly before being rudely roused. This time there were no preliminary knocks (well, there may have been, but how would I have known?). The fish, a barbel, clearly, was trying its best to pull the rod from my grasp as I battled to shake the sleep from my eyes and work out what needed to be done. Line was being taken from the clutch and I could see the vee where it penetrated the surface. It was moving steadily toward some sunken boughs on the far bank, about 20 yards downstream. It’s astounding how hooking a barbel can clear the mind (Or should I say how quickly instinct takes over when you’re still half asleep?). I applied as much side-strain as I dared while lowering the rod tip to an inch or two above the surface. At the same time I slowed the spinning spool with the tip of my finger. This combination stopped the fish’s initial run with only a couple of feet to spare. After five more minutes of shenanigans, including mistakenly thinking the fish was ready for the net on three separate occasions, I landed it, admired it, estimated it at about 8lbs, took a quick pic and returned it.

It was clear that, with inconsiderate fish such as these swimming around the place, I was hardly going to get a moment's peace. The only sensible thing to do was to return home to a bath, a beer, and bed.

Just an Excuse for Being There

2010-01-04T13:43:00.000-08:00

Top: New Years Day on the Teme was bitterly cold, but staggeringly beautiful.

Second from Top: In July this swim was deep in undergrowth.

Upper Middle: In Spring there was a shingle beach on the other side of this tree where I cast to grayling & trout.

Lower Middle: It was still warm enough in October for me to have a kip on the bank by this bend.

Second from Bottom: Otters made their holt here in the Spring - are they still there?

Bottom: There are rumoured to be big chub here - perhaps there's one waiting under this raft of flotsam...

There are two things about the otherwise brilliant A Passion for Angling that make me wince. One is the overdubbed, toe-curlingly self-conscious and appallingly edited ‘banter’ of the two protagonists. The other is Bernard Cribbins’ overly twee narration. It contains, if memory serves, wildly inappropriate Johnny Morris-esque vocal anthropomorphism (inappropriate because of its dubious selectivity – why give tongue to Bob's dogs while denying a voice to, say, a hooked fish, I wonder?) alongside the constant repetition of hackneyed truisms. One of these aphorisms, which Bernard repeats 350 times in the first episode alone, came to mind the other day; New Year’s Day in fact. It was the one about fishing as merely an excuse for ‘being there’.

I had arrived at the river – the same stretch of the Teme where I have spent the vast majority of my fishing days this season – without an inkling of what kind of fishing I’d do. After a couple of seconds spent in careful consideration of the matter I decided not to do any at all. The sky was a cloudless, blemish-less blue and the light had the shocking clarity of a summer morning in the eastern Mediterranean. The river was four or five feet up and the colour of fudge, and, at 11.00 a.m., the temperature was three below zero, even in the full glare of the sun. All of which led me to the conclusion that my time would be far more enjoyably and profitably spent on an envigorating riverside ramble than freezing on the bank with next to no chance of a fish.

Kicking myself for forgetting my camera and having to rely once again on the camera on my mobile phone, I set off upstream to take a year’s end survey of a section of river which has captured my imagination – and not a little of my heart and soul - this past year.

To my amazement I came, very soon, upon a bloke who was fishing. I stopped and chatted with him for a while. He admitted that he, too, was just ‘being there’ rather than properly fishing, even as he wielded the accoutrements of his art. He had come all the way from Birmingham and wanted to stay out and relish the peace and beauty of the day, albeit in the knowledge that he would catch nothing.

I sauntered on, remembering with fondness the balmy days of the extended summer past. I walked up to a swim that I’d had to battle through a near impenetrable wall of head high nettles to reach. Now, a flattened bed of dead and rotting stems was all that remained between the path and the water. The hanging branches of the huge Willow through which I had deftly cast and had a barbel first chuck one misty dawn in July, were bristling with vital silver green foliage back then. Now they were lifeless tendrils trailing, bony and bare, in the muddy water.

Moving on, I spotted the top of a familiar hawthorn bush poking through the boiling surface. In June I had cast a dry fly from the opposite bank to the grayling which lurked in the eddy beneath it. Then, the bush was at the end of a long shallow pool full of greedy grayling and trout rising freely to yellow may duns. Now it looked like it might, at any moment, be swept away by the power of the water that cascaded over, though and around it. The comparison of what it had been, given what it now was, seemed preposterous.

I walked on as far as a spot where, as recently as October, I had indulged in one of my favourite pastimes – an al fresco kip. I had crawled through a deep bed of himalayan balsam to get to a castable pitch on the inside of a tight meander and had managed to get the bait where I wanted it - underneath a great sunken log which lay midstream. The heady smell of the balmy blooms must have got to me and before long I had nodded off, lying there on the bank. The next thing I knew my rod (on which I always seem to maintain a reliable grip regardless of my state of consciousness) was being wrenched ‘round into an impressively tight arc and I was into a battle with a 9½ lb barbel which looked and felt a lot bigger than it eventually turned out to be – as usual. That spot was now submerged under three feet of rushing water.

I was still musing on this strange change from major to minor when, stumbling from the bank side vegetation back onto the path, I flushed a woodcock. For those who’ve never done it let me assure you it can be a terrifying experience. Woodcock spend much of the daylight hours lying doggo in the undergrowth, brilliantly camouflaged by beautiful cryptic plumage. This is their primary tactic against predation. They do not move until they are about to be eaten - or trodden on - as was the case with this particular bird. They rise rapidly and vertically before flying directly away from the threat with a wildly zigzagging flight. It is as if they have evolved to evade the shotgun. They haven’t, of course – I imagine their erratic flight pattern is designed to evade capture by birds of prey, but I could be wrong.

At last I came to the long, slow bend in the river to which I had been heading. Here, two fallen and partly submerged trees (which have been in situ for 6 years to my knowledge) had, in early spring, come to my attention as the site of an otter holt. I wanted to see what the trees looked like at this time of year. To me, an angler and dilettante naturalist, the contrast between seasons over the course of the year is incredible enough but, for the otters, the stakes are far higher. The prevailing conditions are the hand that nature deals them and how they play it can be the difference between life and death…STOP! hang on a minute, I appear to be turning into Bernard Cribbins: stop me before I start talking in otterish.

I didn’t see any otters. Nor would I hazard a guess as to whether they still had a holt hidden somewhere within the sunken branches of those waterlogged trees. I shall be going back a fair bit between now and spring in the hope of a genuinely big chub (7lb being the target – which is huge in my book), so I’ll keep an eye out – not just for the otters, but for my own pleasure in observing how the place changes through Spring, into Summer and the next year’s snow. Doing so is a big part of why I go fishing; so much so that sometimes I can’t even be bothered to get the rods out.

Happy New Year - and many thanks - to all who’ve dropped in over the past twelve months.

Note.

My apologies to Cole Porter, T.H. White, Vashti Bunyan and anyone else whose work I may inadvertently have plagiarised in this, and other, pieces.

Barbel by Moonlight?

2009-10-28T05:18:00.000-07:00

With the weather so mind bogglingly mild and the river levels still very low I had no idea what to expect when I set out at dawn yesterday.

At this time of year I would, under normal circumstances, be concentrating on barbel. But, although I have picked up one or two in the last month (a beauty of 9lb 5oz damn near pulled the rod out of my hand and couple of weeks ago after I had momentarily nodded off), the look of the river, when I got there, did not inspire me with confidence.

Furthermore, I have become increasingly convinced by various theories which suggest that the phases of the moon are a useful pointer when scheduling barbelling trips. This may sound a bit new age but bear with me - I have evidence...well, some cobbled together statistics anyway.

I keep records of what I call ‘notable’ fish. The adjective is applied loosely and can mean whatever I want, more or less. It always, however, applies to fish which count as ‘large’ by my standards (again, a loose description defined by me). In barbel terms this means over 9lb as these fish are, for me, above average size ('average' fish run from 6-odd to 8-odd pounds). My records show that all my ‘large’ barbel of the last three seasons (9 in all) were caught within a period 2 days either side of the full moon. The only exception – a fantastic fish of 9lb 15oz, which gave me my best scrap yet – was caught on the afternoon preceding the new moon (14-07-07). All fish came from the same river. I am notably less successful during the phases of the waxing and waning moon. Yesterday (27-10-09) was the day after the crescent of the waxing moon and so (statistically) one of the two worst times of the month to go barbel fishing. I am convinced there is something to it despite the scepticism of certain pals (Barry R. Reef, I’m talking to you). My faith was further bolstered the discovery that long time hero Neil Young has for years used the phases of the moon to plot his itinerary - but I digress.

Deciding against battling against the odds for barbel, I grabbed the emergency pint of bronze maggots I’d brought and sallied forth to try a bit of trotting. The rod I invariably use for this job is a Maver Reactorlite 15/18'. It is a very good, very modern, rod. At 15' it is remarkably light, balances perfectly with my Youngs B. J. Lightweight centrepin and is a delight to use. Yesterday I came upon a very long glide on a rather wide stretch with some tempting overhanging vegetation on the far bank. I decided this was the time to try the rod in its 18' guise (having owned it for over two years without having done so). As soon as I put it together it was clear that the familiar lightness and balance were severely compromised by using the longer of the two butt sections. The rod felt clunky and unwieldy. However, I decided to press on, as much out of curiosity as anything else.

I got bites immediately and, having landed about 10 grayling all of the same half-poundish stripe, was about to move on when my last cast in the swim (was it the fourth or fifth 'last cast'?) produced a beautiful brownie of just under a pound (see pic.). I have to say that, with the rod at 18' rather than 15', I was able to stay in meaningful control of the float for a much longer length of trot. I caught many fish right at the far end of the glide and was able to utilise the extra length of the rod to strike effectively at longer distances. There was a definite improvement in the effectiveness of the rod at 18' despite it being considerably less comfortable to use.

After a few hours of roving and trotting my arm was suffering a bit. I decided to try a bit of leisurely legering. I set up the barbel rod secure in the knowledge that if the barbel were unlikely to play during such an unfavourable phase there would be plenty of non-moonstruck chub queuing up to take a proffered pellet. Having dipped into seven swims without so much as a line bite the eighth delivered the wonderful creature pictured above. It put up a considerably stink even on barbel tackle and weighed an infuriating 5lb 15.5oz.

Note. Apologies for the poor quality of the pictures. Having forgotten to take the camera I was forced to use the camera on my mobile phone (My God - that it should come to this…). Having said that, it did create the blurred effect on the picture of the river through the trees all on its own – or was that chub slime…?

Lunar Calendar: Explore whether moonlighting can work for you...

Moonstrike: Scarily enthusiastic moon phase Barbelling guru.

Chub Worth Chasing Now That Autumn's Here

2009-10-21T03:28:00.000-07:00

Chub on trotted bronze maggot

I love chubbing at this time of year. The languid and lazy fish of summer are transformed, in the blink of an equinox, into a quarry well worth stalking. Last week I took a rod, a reel and a box of bronze maggots and went trotting.

If, like me, you’re lucky enough to know of a stretch where chub average 3 – 5lbs this is a great way to fish. Obviously, if there are lots of smaller fish in the water, larger fish have to be singled out with larger, or more imaginative, baits. Bread, lobs, corn, meat, cheese, slugs etc. are examples typically recommended, but bronze maggot is tops when all the fish in the swim are a decent size.

Maggots are a great bait for many reasons. They resemble many naturals – nymphs, etc; they stay on the hook; they smell good – to fish anyway; they can be introduced as loose bait very easily and in consistent quantity; they give very good indication of having been nibbled, sucked, etc. and they are readily available.

I use 6lb mainline on a centrepin, a 15’ fast action rod and trot an avon down through any likely spot I come across. If chub are there and ‘in the mood’ it won’t take them long to find the bait, assuming due consideration is paid to matters of stealth. I usually make up hooklengths from narrow diameter resin impregnated mono with a 3.75lb b.s. (Preston Reflo Powerline is good). Hooks, in appropriate sizes– usually 16 or 18 for maggot - are Drennan Specialist Barbless.

Autumn trotting for chub with maggot is a very simple way to fish, but the rewards are great if you can find suitable water and approach your chosen swims with as much stealth as possible.

The fish pictured weighed just under 4lb, took a single bronze maggot, and put up a tremendous scrap in a decent flow.

Cow Green Again

2009-10-21T00:49:00.000-07:00

Top: Wind lanes blow food into the inlets and bays

Second from top: Typical Cow Green brownie - small but perfectly formed

Second from bottom: The peaty Tees - too high to cross without waders

Bottom: An abandoned truck next to an old spoil heap - evidence of Teesdale's lead mining past

We were numb as we drove northwards, the wife and I. Without permission, thoughts of the previous week flitted through our minds like ghosts through closed doors. The week had been one of rarefied highs and profound lows, encompassing the premature death of a beloved cat and the 100th birthday celebrations of a relative. Anyone who’s experienced these things knows how traumatic and energy-sapping they can be. Now, we were heading to Upper Teesdale, scene of many happy holidays past, in the hope of rest, recuperation and, in my case, a spot of fishing.

With one day only available to me for fishing during our stay, and with the Tees between Middleton and Cauldron Snout an angry series of peat infused torrents, maelstroms and rapids, I decided to revisit Cow Green.

As I’ve written elsewhere on this blog, experience tells me to fish around the mouths of the becks, after heavy rain. In the past, a fruitful spot for me has been where the Tees, only a beck itself here, enters the reservoir. With this in mind I set off up the lead miners’ path that runs above the north-eastern shore then down, through the springy heather and sodden sphagnum, across the shoulder of the moor to the head of the reservoir.

My normal tactic is to fish with the wind behind me and cast terrestrial imitations into the riffle where the wind hits the water. Today, however, the prevailing easterly has been usurped by a particularly feisty north-westerly. This means I’ll need to cross the Tees to get to the other bank. When I get there, though, my chances of fording it safely look slim, and although I walk nearly half a mile or so upstream to find a crossing place, without waders, I am unable to do so. When I’m in these bleak and lonely places the thought of yellow rescue helicopters, or worse, the image of my bleached skeleton lying undiscovered for years, often precludes actions I would otherwise undertake without a second thought; break your ankle out here (there’s no mobile signal) and you’re buggered.

Retracing my steps, I began to cast prospectively into the inlets and bays on the lee shore. Foam topped wind lanes indicated where the fish would probably be. I Stripped a bibio (size 14) quickly through them and was rewarded with a steady stream of little brownies and a much needed dose of peace of mind.

Note.

This piece was written at the end of August 2009.

If Not Duffers Won't Drown...

2009-08-10T05:40:00.000-07:00

The River Swilgate Tewkesbury (© Barbara Fletcher 2005 – 2009)

I began fishing in earnest at the age of nine when my family moved to Gloucestershire in 1974. Back then children were allowed to do things on their own.

“BETTER DROWNED THAN DUFFERS IF NOT DUFFERS WON’T DROWN”

So wrote Arthur Ransome’s Commander Walker in Swallows and Amazons (Jonathan Cape, 1930). It is Walker's telegrammed response to his children’s request to camp on Wild Cat Island. Fortunately for me, his attitude, although seldom voiced so bluntly, still prevailed in the 70s. It’s debatable whether my parents would have allowed me to camp out on an island on Coniston for a week, but they had no problem letting me go fishing. I'm grateful to my parents for the freedom they gave me then; it allowed me to discover nature at my own pace, in my own way - uninhibited and unhindered by supervision. Equally, I regret that the same freedom is rarely enjoyed by today's youngsters.

We lived in the middle of the town, but there was a brook which ran along the backs of the houses. Henry VIII’s Royal Antiquary John Lelend (1506–1552) in his Itinerary of 1533 calls the brook the ‘Suliet’ (1) , the etymology of which is unclear. It’s present day name – Swilgate – gives, perhaps, more of a clue to the abuse it has borne in the intervening period.

Back in the 70s the brook at the bottom of my garden did not look much like an angling paradise. Shopping trolleys, old bicycles and other unsightly obstacles lay half submerged in the shallow water, lending an impression of stagnation and decay. However, had a passer-by cast their eye into the Swilgate and decided that nothing could survive - let alone thrive – there, they would have been mistaken. Water voles were common and I have never fished a river which contained a greater biodiversity of fish species.

Gudgeon (more of which later) was the fish most commonly caught, but there were also minnow, chub, dace, roach, bleak, bream, perch, pike, eel, ruffe, miller’s thumb and loach, plus the occasional brown trout and oddities, such as brook lamprey, flounder, and twaite shad. These last two (plus the eels of course) had come all the way from the sea, up the Bristol Channel and tidal Severn, via its tributary the Avon and finally into the tiny Swilgate.

Tackle was rudimentary but serviceable. I, and the other boys who fished the brook, owned only one rod and one reel each. We had small, but cherished, collections of floats which were retrieved by wading when they became snagged or detached. Line was thick and hooks were a bit on the large side for the purpose, but we managed to catch nonetheless. Later, I was given a 9’ hollow glass rod for my birthday (alas, long since lost). It was infinitely more usable, both in length and sensitivity, to the 6’ solid glass cue that had hitherto hampered my attempts at deft float control. Matching it to my Intrepid Black Prince Regent reel made me feel I was ready for anything.

At normal levels the brook ran at one to three feet in depth. But when the floods came the Swilgate became a coffee coloured torrent, six or seven feet deep. By now fishing had become an obsession with me and, compelled by the irresistible urge familiar to all true anglers, I fished in all conditions, however unfavourable.

So it was, one late autumn day, lashed by near horizontal rain, that I cast into the raging cascade of the swollen brook. The bait was an enormous lobworm from the garden (maggots were considered a frivolous luxury and were seldom used) which I hoped to keep on the bottom with a bored bullet of perhaps an ounce. As it turned out, the worm must have dropped right on to the nose of a hungry chub, which took it immediately. This chub was the first non-tiddler I had hooked, and the first I had actually to play. I had (I should imagine) 6lb line on, but quickly discovered that an irritated autumn chub in a small, flooded stream can be quite a handful. My new rod bent beautifully as it made first for the undercuts of both banks, then into the main flow and downstream, taking line from the clutch (I’m not sure I knew what the clutch was for before then, and I was lucky that, by chance, it was set more or less correctly). It came, finally, to the bank and I grabbed it amidships - I did not possess a landing net - and laid it on the wet grass. My heart was beating so fiercely I thought it would burst through my soaked anorak. That chub might have weighed 2.5lb but it looked like a monster to me.

My greatest feat (or stroke of luck) came towards the end of that season with the Swilgate back to its normal level. A few of us were gudgeon fishing using small wriggly brandlings, fresh from our compost heap, for bait. We trotted our floats down through the swim, picking up fish now and then. They were put into the large yellow bucket (formerly used to soak my little sister’s nappies) which served as a communal keep net in those thrifty days. There they could be observed and admired as they swam confusedly within.

Presently, I landed a gudgeon which was very much larger than any other we had ever caught. I slipped this king of gudgeon (or, more likely, queen) into the bucket and we all marched up to my house to weigh the leviathan on my mum’s kitchen scales. It tipped the balance at just over 5oz. Later that evening, I consulted my Ladybird Coarse Fishing (1969, Wills & Hepworth Ltd), which listed the then current British record fish records on its endpapers. There it was: GUDGEON: 4oz 4drms. Place; River Soar, Leicestershire. Date; 1950. I had caught a gudgeon bigger than the record. Strangely, I suppose, I had no regrets. I knew that, in those days, claiming a record usually meant killing the fish and submitting it for examination. My gudgeon, however, went back into the Swilgate, and was hopefully doing its bit to proliferate more monsters (The current record, I believe, is still a paltry 5oz dead!).

Last month I had the pleasure of taking my two nephews, who live nearby, to fish on the Swilgate. The older one even caught something – a small perch; the classic small boy’s first fish (it was mine too). It was gratifying to be approached by some of the present generation of young kids who were fishing there. They asked what we'd caught, told us what they'd caught and discussed bait and methods. They bonded instantly, in the unassuming and unaffected way that children do, with my charges, united in their common goal.

References

1: Leland, John. Itinerary, 1533, quoted in “Transactions – Bristol and Gloucestershire Archaeological Society” 1902.

Picture Credit

I would like to thank the artist Barbara Fletcher for allowing me to use her painting River Swilgate Tewkesbury to illustrate this piece. This, and other paintings, may be viewed at Barbara’s website: www.onlinegallery.co.uk

At last, a barbel

2009-07-16T10:55:00.000-07:00

Top: The first barbel for a long, long time.

Bottom: The hair-rigged halibut pellet has become almost a cliche - chub fall for it every time, but it still fools the occasional barbel

After last week’s rant-inducing barbel expedition to the Teme, Barry R. Reef (it’s an alias) and I returned yesterday hoping to find the place deserted. The wind, rain and early start (I picked him up at 4 a.m.) saw to it that it was, apart from a solitary angler in the first swim on the stretch. Leaving my colleague to try a spot along the way, I continued upstream to where a favourite swim was calling.

I haven’t caught a barbel here for ages, but for some reason I felt sure I would catch. The conditions were perfect: slightly cooler than of late, overcast and unusually dark for the time of year, and the rain had lightened to a barely perceptible drizzle. Heavy rain in Wales the day before had seen to it that the river level was about six inches up on the previous week. Apart from the month being July, the hay bails awaiting collection in the fields, the head-high foliage lining the banks, the trees full of verdant foliage and the sand martens swooping up and down the water course – apart from all that - it felt like the river was flowing, perhaps via a time slip or some such, through a perfect autumnal barbelling day.

Determined not to compromise my chances in any way whatsoever, I tackled up in the middle of the field and approached my chosen spot with commando-like stealth. My over-caution backfired only slightly when, crawling on all fours down the steep bank, I was stung in the face by a bunch of springing stinging nettles – ouch.

Finally in position, I fed the intended line with hemp and some tiny halibut pellets. The hookbait was a 15mm halibut pellet – hair rigged. Although I say so myself my first cast was quite superb! It sailed on the intended trajectory through a narrow gap between the overhanging branches of a huge willow on the opposite bank and entered the water with the smallest splash it is possible for a 2oz lead to make. My bait was now barely a foot from the undercut beneath the willow, exactly where I wanted it.

Feeling a justifiable smugness about my cast I put the rod in the rest and wedged the butt under my arm while I furled a rollie and lit up. Smokers will be familiar with the phenomenon of ‘first fag of the day spinout’. It was as this destabilising effect took hold (and bear in mind that my senses were already numbed by the after-effects of popping out for ‘a pint’ the evening before) that the rod was wrenched violently around and I became all too suddenly aware that I had become connected to an agitated barbel.

I managed, while avoiding slipping down the mud chute that constituted the remaining bank between where I had concealed myself behind a large sprouting of foliage and the river, to scramble to my feet and bring the fish under control. I use the term loosely, as it was using every trick in the book to avoid coming to the net and was proving to be a bit of a handful. First, it careered off down stream before hunkering down on the bottom, midstream, in the fastest part of the flow. Next, having given that up as a bad job, it came back towards me and continued upstream, heading unerringly in the direction of a sunken fallen willow. I was able to apply enough side strain to stop it, however, and it came eventually to the net where, as so often happens with the barbel I catch, I was staggered by the relatively small size of the fish considering the violence of the fight. I didn’t weigh it, but I reckon it was about six and a half.

Neither of us had any more barbel during the day. I caught a chub of four pounds a little later on before going off to have another crack at grayling on the fly. I don’t know I managed it but I missed about 20 takes. I was happy, though, to have finally banked a barbel after so many blanks.

Grayling on Dry Fly (oh, and a rant)

2009-07-11T04:28:00.000-07:00

A typical Teme chub of 4lb

Retiarius casts to rising grayling (pic copyright Barry R. Reef)

First grayling on the dry fly'Grey duster' with grizzle hackle

'Grey duster' with bleached grizzle hackle

I haven’t been fly fishing for about a year. The reason is tennis elbow. I contracted it first in my right arm and then, after learning to cast left-handed, got it in the left arm too. The doctor (a fly fisherman himself, as it happens) recommended total abstinence from any activity involving prolonged repetitive movement of the wrist and/or elbow. He did so, furthermore, with an entirely straight face.

A year has passed since the doctor’s edict and last week my friend and I found ourselves driving north through the gentle grey fug of a promising dawn towards the Teme for a spot of barbelling; I had also packed my fly gear. This was not, I hasten to add, because I intend to catch barbel on the fly (although it must surely be a matter of time before someone designs a ‘fly’ dressed to look like half a tin of Spam – “…’course, I fly fish for pike nowadays…”. No you don’t, you tie a replica fish with a hook through it, via a wire trace, on to a fly line. “…’course, I fly fish for carp nowadays…”. No you don’t, you tie something that looks like a bit of bread on to a fly line, etc.). No, I took the fly gear because I thought I’d better ease back into it gently (preferably without anyone watching) and, although trout and grayling are present in this part of the river, I’ve often seen sizable chub rising to flies here and fancied a pop at them, if the opportunity arose.

When we arrived at our chosen spot we were disappointed to find a couple of chaps already setting off over the fields towards the river. In the past, when fishing during the week here, one would in all likelihood have the place to oneself: not any more it seems. We walked to the top of the stretch, intending to have a dip in all the likely looking swims on the way back downstream. After an hour I’d caught three chub from my first swim (one baby of 2lb pounds, a couple more over 4lb, see pic) and was about to move on when some pillock dressed from head to toe in realtree cammo (as I believe it’s known) hacked his way noisily down the bank side not fifteen yards downstream of me – to the exact spot where I had been casting, in fact – banged (I mean, actually banged) in a couple of rod rests and cast in two rods with feeders on the size of baked bean cans; unbelievable – and wholly irresponsible: two rods?

No matter, I thought, I was moving anyway. Unfortunately, however, since we’d arrived the entire stretch had become populated with other anglers. Furthermore, It was obvious from the mountains of equipment which surrounded most of them that they were there for the duration and unlikely to move for the rest of the day. This put the kybosh on our plan to rove up and down the stretch in search of the shifting shoals of Barbel.

Now, I know that barbel are the new carp and all that, but this particular group of anglers seemed to personify so much that annoys me about some anglers nowadays that, having reached curmudgeonhood prematurely, I’m going to rant – a bit.

When did fishermen start ignoring the basics? When, and, more importantly, why, did keeping the noise down become unimportant? When were the erstwhile prerequisites of staying off the skyline and keeping vibration to a minimum demoted to the status of irritants to be ignored if you can’t be arsed? And when did consideration for other anglers cease to be a, er…consideration?

When a couple of these twerps came up to converse (and don’t they always want to ensure that, when they’re not catching, neither are others?) they stomped down to where I was fishing without so much as a by-your-leave and ‘spoke’ to me in the manner of a Sgt. Major addressing a parade of squaddies. They, bemoaned, naturally, the standard of fishing hereabouts. They blamed their failure to catch barbel on anything but themselves - even, can you believe, that otters had eaten all the barbel, (otters, of course, being the new cormorant, Eastern European migrant worker etc. - enter your scapegoat of choice).

The thing that really depresses me is that it’s obvious that these idiots really do think in this way. Not for one second does it occur to them that their lack of river craft, their noisiness, their shouting, their stamping, their visibility to the fish may be the reason for their fishlessness – particularly when in pursuit of barbel; the fish Walton ought to have been describing, let’s be honest, when coining the epiphet “the most fearfulest of fishes”.

OK, rant over. I thought it might make me feel better – it hasn’t. Move on.

After this depressing series of experiences I decided to get out the fly rod and tootle off downstream to where the river is much more shallow and, crucially, deserted. I tied a size 18 grey duster (well...sort of - mine sometimes have grizzle, rather than badger hackles, as here, and tails...sometimes) to my 5wt setup and cast across the flow to where I’d noticed a couple of fish rising to insects which I was unable to identify. All I could see was that they were greyish.

To my surprise a fish rose and took my fly on the fourth or fifth cast and I tightened into a small grayling – which came off. My confidence was boosted by this and I tried again. grayling were rising regularly under a bush on the opposite bank from the shingle beach where I stood (see pic) but now, I noticed, they were taking what looked like yellow may duns. The only yellowish fly in my box was a yellow-bodied F–fly and I tied this on without, for some reason, much expectation of success. It proved a prophetic hunch.

After a while I remembered I’d tied some grey dusters with bleached grizzled hackles– which were a bit yellowish - and which had tails, as did the duns being taken (see pic). I tied one on (size 18) and, after a lot of missed takes, hooked and landed a grayling of, perhaps, a pound – my first on dry fly; on any fly in fact (see pic). For this reason that grayling, which went back, gave me more satisfaction than a mere double figure barbel would have done.

A bit later the largest sea lamprey I’ve ever seen, clearly close to death after spawning, came swimming weakly downstream past us. It was at least two feet long and may have weighed 3 – 4lb – amazing how the otters hadn’t got it really.

Crucian Fills the Void

2009-06-30T06:14:00.000-07:00

Looking back over the last few posts before my hiatus, what strikes me are my frequent and unabashed admissions of failure. By failure I mean, of course, my inability to put the targeted species on the bank. I was unable to poach pike on the lure, unable to bank barbel at Cotheridge - even under the most promising of conditions - and took an age to garner grayling. Well, here’s another one.

It has been a stated goal of mine for some time now to catch one of the carp which reside in a favourite pair of adjacent pools, close to the banks of Big River. I’ve been fishing the place since I was a boy and I’ve yet to do it. In fact, I’ve yet to see anyone do it. I’ve had a couple on – for a brief few seconds, but on both occasions I had been fishing for tench with relatively light gear and was broken almost immediately, trying to stop them from reaching the sanctuary of sunken trees. When I try for them with a beefier set up I get nothing; not a sniff. Night fishing is the next tactic.

They seem to me to be like the carp of old, almost uncatchable, as described in that seminal tome Confessions of a Carp Fisher by ‘BB’ (who never managed a twenty in his life, despite years spent in obsessively researched questing - not that he seemed to mind one jot, which shows how far expectations have shifted). How very different they are from the pellet-raised versions which abound in the numerous commercial fisheries hereabouts. These unfortunate creatures appear to have become so conditioned to repeated capture that they have come to regard it as an occupational hazard. In return for a steady diet of lager’n’curry flavoured boilies (or whatever) they accept the occasional indignity of capture as quid pro quo. They’re not a match in the fight either. I managed to land a near 15 pounder on a 2lb cast a couple of years ago, while fishing for crucians. It just swam around in circles for a while in the snag-free depths before coming easily to the net, which was barely big enough to hold it.

I don’t mind blank days too much though, as long as the surroundings are as tranquil, relaxing and beautiful as they are there. A panoply of flora and fauna abounds. Kingfishers fish, woodpeckers and cuckoos flit from tree to tree, and grass snakes wind their way lissomly across the surface of the water. There is plenty to distract one from the dearth of caught carp, including an albino mallard duckling (see photo).

Taking of crucians, a friend and I caught a couple of nice ones from our local park lake the other day, which was a surprise, to me at least. I was persuaded to try the place, against my better judgement it has to be said, by my friend who has recently re-caught the angling bug after a few years off. The lake is large, old and rather lovely, and, because my new found freedom from work allows it, we were able to go during the week and were almost the only anglers there. We had a nice day’s fishing, catching some lovely roach and the aforementioned crucians, one apiece. I might even go back.

Good to be Back

2009-06-30T04:32:00.001-07:00

I read an article some years ago about a sociological survey which showed how the hobbies and pastimes of coal miners who had been made redundant diminished in significance once they had stopped work. I think a similar thing happened to me when I was made redundant last February.

I’m not saying that, overnight, I enjoyed fishing less – far from it. Rather, there was no reason for me to continue to use fishing as an antidote to my job, a job I had come to loathe. I had formed the habit of spending much of my working week secretly planning my fishing for the weekend, and to furtively scribbling this blog following my outings.

Freed from the mind numbing drudgery of the 9 to 5 I was able to fish as and when I pleased; spontaneously, as it should be. No planning was required, and the need to write up my experiences during the following week – a vicarious from of angling, if you like, became more of a yoke than a liberating experience. For a while I spent my time in a kind of Panglossian reverie, tending my allotment or fishing as and when I felt like it – nice work if you can get it.

Now, however, the urge to write has returned and I intend, once more, to update the blog on a regular basis. Thanks very much to all of you who have kept visting during my absence.

Barbus Minimus

2008-12-07T05:41:00.000-08:00

The last few weeks have been very cold – a proper winter at last – and consequently the fishing here in the West Country has been hard.

I revisited the Windrush at Burford the week following my previous visit and caught nothing but a signal crayfish – the second this year on trotted maggot (the first was from the Lugg at Marden, near Leominster). There are those who say anglers should kill these invaders on sight: I am not among them. If their colonisation of our fisheries is to be stopped (and I doubt, at this late stage, that it’s possible) more must be done by the Environment Agency and others. This one went back.

Incidentally, A quick word of thanks is due here. The chap from the Orvis shop in Burford, who issue the day tickets, very kindly met me on the bank to do the transaction, in order that I might begin fishing earlier than the shop opens. I won’t embarrass him by naming him, but, in these days of (generally) poor service, acts of kindness like this, over and above the call of duty, should be applauded – thank you.

Last weekend my friend Jason and I spent an astoundingly cold day on a local carp pond. I managed to winkle a couple out using cockles legered in the deepest part of the lake, while Jase has since registered his indignation that the perch he caught – surely the smallest ever to impale itself on a hook – has not received the recognition it deserves, here on the blog.

As a result of these dour past few weeks, my confidence was not high as I drove north towards my favourite stretch of the lower Teme, near Worcester, before dawn yesterday morning. I have had some success with barbel here (my biggest, but by no means hardest fighting, is 11 1/2lb), and I’ve caught many a chub over 5lb while trying for their bearded cousins. However, last season and, so far, this too, I’ve blanked. I attempted to blame last year’s Great Flood for my failure, but that excuse was made redundant by a chap who pulled out four in consecutive casts from the swim above the one I was fishing last November. The possibility of catching one always draws me back though, undaunted.

Hooking a Teme barbel always shocks me. It is as if the rod has become a conductor for all the life in the river. The bite is usually a rod-wrencher and immediately, one is engaged in a battle to stop the fish getting to a snag. This is tricky, as invariably the barbel will have been lying near, behind, or within a snag when hooked. 10lb line (at least) and a beefy rod (I use a Greys Prodigy Specimen) are minimum requirements to out-muscle them when they're first hooked – ‘hit and hold’ is what they say.

Alas, yesterday proved to be another frustrating experience, with not a sniff of a barbel – or anything else for that matter. The birdlife, though, was out in force. There were little grebes, treecreepers, woodpeckers (green and greater spotted) wrens, tits and grey wagtails. On previous visits I have seen gargeny and mandarin duck. Last winter, as I sat freezing in a spectacular hoar frost, I watched an otter swim upstream below the opposite bank and climb out onto a half submerged log less than ten yards away – wonderful.

As dusk fell I called time on the fishing a wandered off to take some photos.

About Thymallus!

2008-11-16T14:36:00.000-08:00

Any angler who has driven along the A40 between Cheltenham and Oxford will have been smitten by brief glimpses of the beguiling and beautiful River Windrush. Although still affected by the ague which floored me earlier in the week, I felt I had better get out and do some fishing – for medicinal purposes, you understand. I had hoped to be well enough to visit the Teme for a spot of barbelling, but thought I had better not push it, and decided to recommence the quest for some winter grayling (the quest having begun when the grayling, wherever they were, were still autumnal) on the Windrush at Burford.

I was on the bank side at dawn and the river was high, though fining, and clearer than I had supposed. As usual on trips like this I was lightly armed – just a trotting rod, ’pin, net, a few floats and other accoutrements in my pockets and a knapsack containing bait and flask. At my disposal was a stretch a third of a mile long with a weir pool at each end and numerous runs and pools in between. Out of sheer laziness (it was closer to where I parked) I chose to start at the upstream end and work down. After trying three or four spots with nary a bite to lift my fevered heart I came across a glide which ran twice as deep as its predecessors.

I had set up with a loafer with shot bulked halfway down and a No.6 pinched on to the hooklength. This had seemed appropriate at the weir pool where the current was swift and the depth a mere 3½ feet, but this particular swim bespoke the potential of a more refined presentation. I re-rigged with a stick float shotted shirt-button style, impaled a couple of bronze maggots on a size 16 (barbless, naturally) cast, and struck into a fish at the end of the first trot. After pretending to be a chub, making numerous runs at the undercuts of both banks, the fish soon surfaced and revealed itself as a grayling. Success at last! I thought (or may have said out loud) as I drew the splashy blighter towards the net – but too soon! I lost it.

It did not matter. Had I not proved to myself that this swim was chock full of grayling? I managed to bump off another four before at last I banked one. It goes without saying that it was the smallest – a couple of the ones I lost were huge, half a pound at least!

I caught the little brownie (on sweetcorn) before moving on and trying various other places up and down the stretch for the rest of the day. Nowhere, though, was as productive as that deep swim. I returned to it for a last cast before leaving and landed a spiky wet jewel of a perch, just as the light was beginning to fade. It was the most stridently stripy and colourful perch I’ve ever seen.

Day tickets are £5 from the Orvis shop in Burford High Street. A club match (I believe) takes place the last Sunday each month.

Richard Walker & Chris Yates Get me Through the Night

2008-11-13T13:42:00.000-08:00

Richard Walker and Chris Yates display their record carp

All week I have been laid low by a diabolic illness. To make matters worse it is not the kind of illness which allows a couple of surreptitious days on the river bank; but it has kept me from work. To distract me while the malaise runs its virulent course I have taken the opportunity to re-read a couple of classics from angling’s literary canon.

First was Richard Walker’s Still Water Angling, first published in 1953. I read this book as a boy, choosing it as one of the weekly library picks we were obliged to take at school but, I’m ashamed to say, I can’t remember it making much of an impression. I recently purchased a copy of the fourth edition (David & Charles, 1975) and have been looking forward to reading it as an older and, hopefully, wiser angler.

Still Water Angling is often cited as seminal in that it states big fish may be caught more by design than luck. As a result the cult of specimen hunting was spawned. My impression, though, was that for all the precise instruction contained within the book, Walker’s ethos can be distilled into a basic set of rules based upon fundamental principles:

a) Locate big fish

b) Do not alert them to your presence

c) Present a bait to them when they are most likely to be feeding - taking the prevailing conditions into account

d) Ensure the tackle used is suitable to the job in hand

It is amazing how, fifty-odd years on, these basics are still ignored by many. Last summer, during a (thankfully brief) shower, I was almost blinded by the glare from a carp angler’s fluorescent orange Hi-Viz jacket.

Each chapter in Stillwater Angling deals with a specific species with, not surprisingly, almost half the book given over to carp, including the author’s account of the capture of his ‘44’. I enjoyed re-reading the book immensely, despite a narrative style which veers seamlessly between avuncular on the one hand, and hectoring on the other. But then, Walker could - and often did - boast a remarkable list of achievements, not least his contributions in the field of tackle design and development. He had earned the right to preach so, and the style is typical of the time.

Above all, Walker comes across as a ‘doer’. Unable to purchase rods suitable for big carp, he simply designed and made his own, a process which culminated in the MkIV Carp Rod, which became standard issue for serious carp anglers. Other gaps in the market led to the first electronic bite alarms and a lead for long range use – the arlesey bomb. Other innovations are too many to mention.

Chris Yates used a Walker-built Avon rod to catch his record carp from Redmire, as related in Casting at the Sun (Medlar Press, 2006), my second re-read of the week (Chris Yates has stated that, during his youth, he regarded Richard Walker as “our mentor”). Yates’ lyrical, relaxed style sits in marked contrast to Walker’s. Casting at the Sun is less a book of instruction, more a series of impressions arranged as a roughly chronological memoir. I think what makes it the favourite of so many anglers of my generation is really quite simple – having read it, we all want to be Yates!

If Stillwater Angling brought science and engineering into the equation as problem solving tools, Casting at the Sun subtly explores the reasons behind why men fish (women appear only fleetingly in both books), and contains comparatively little in the way of detailed technical information or methodology. Indeed, Chris Yates would have us believe that a well honed instinct, rather than sheer ability, lies behind much of his success. Richard Walker, too, was not averse to this kind of thinking: this from the chapter on carp in Stillwater Angling:

“But specialist carp-fishers develop what almost seems to be a sixth sense, which tells them when a carp is near the bait…I am always aware of a sort of deathly hush just at the moment before a big carp sucks in the bread; many other carp-fishers have had the same experience.”

The period covered in Casting at the Sun - the mid 1950s to 1980 - ostensibly bridges the gap between the ‘old’ times and the ‘new’. But by the end of the book Yates is applying the same fundamental principles he learnt at the beginning (those espoused by Walker) using much the same tackle. In this, at least, the two men are similar. They both came out of left field – just different parts of it.

Many people say the first part of Casting at the Sun is their favourite. Readers see parallels with their own boyhood fishing adventures. Certainly, if embellished by Yates’ lustrous prose, some of my own early experiences might not appear out of place here. But, as the author says in the foreword to the 1995 edition, the book: -

“…still reads well as a study of near psychotic obsession…”

The obsession is, of course, with carp and, for me, the most gripping part of the book deals with Yates’ two periods as a member of Redmire syndicates. The first spell sees him and Rod Hutchinson seemingly vying with one another to see who can be more unorthodox in their approach to carp fishing. The second describes a more grounded angler, having conquered his obsessional tendencies, returning to Redmire and an appointment with destiny – fabulous stuff.

Between these two intense sections other experiences are beautifully described. I particularly like the part where he's scouring the Surrey countryside on a folding(!) ex-army moped, looking for new water to fish.

I always enjoy reading Casting at the Sun. It makes me want to grab a rod (cane, naturally) and cycle off in search of some long forgotten carp lake, even when I’m lying in bed at 10.30pm on a cold November evening, shivering, and snotty.

Two things struck me during this latest reading. The first was that I had, this last summer, fished a stretch of the Mole blissfully unaware that it was, surely, the same one described in the chapter entitled River Interludes (a great day’s fishing it was too – bread flake, a single shot pinched on, trundling it through, chub, roach, meadows, swallows, sunshine – thanks James). The second was re-reading the following sentence, taken from the chapter entitled Redmire Reflections:

“The eels were also irritating because of their great delight in anything the slightest bit wormy, maggoty or meaty.”

Which is embarrassingly similar, if you care to look, to a sentence I wrote in the last piece for this blog. I swear I didn’t consciously plagiarise it, but it’s a strange coincidence, and goes to show, perhaps, how a well turned phrase can become lodged, indelibly, in one’s mind.

Next it’s ‘BB’s Confessions of a Carp Fisher, followed by Walton. Hopefully they’ll get me through ‘till Saturday, when I hope to be recovered sufficiently to try for a barbel.

P.S.

For those interested in angling literature, but who cannot afford - or who are not prepared to pay! - the prices asked for some of the older classics, I heartily recommend the following website http://openlibrary.org/. It is a Beta site, run by the Boston (US) Library, which makes books available, in scanned form, free of charge. I was able to read Coarse Fishing, by H.T. Sheringham, and North Country Flies, by T.E. Pritt in their entirety. Just use the search function on the homepage.

[W]eel be Seeing You

2008-11-10T13:49:00.000-08:00

Last Thursday afternoon I experienced one of those blissful moments that come along every now and then and brighten one’s life: like getting out of bed to prepare for work only to remember at the last moment that, in fact, it’s Sunday; or finding a tenner in your pocket when you go to put your trousers in the laundry basket. I discovered, to my joy, that my employer owed me two days holiday, rather than the one I had supposed must sustain me until the end of the year. I immediately booked the next day off.

I determined to revisit Nafford, scene of my piking failure the previous week, with the intention of trotting for Chub and Roach. Unfortunately (but not altogether surprisingly, given the previous night’s heavy rain), upon arrival the water was too coloured, and a bit too high, to suit that method. The fish, I thought, would stand little chance of seeing a small moving bait.

Switching to plan B – fishing a static, smelly bait - I set up a 12’ 1.5 T.C. rod (Greys Prodigy Specimen – a versatile piece of kit, in my opinion) and cast a hair-rigged 15mm halibut pellet, held down with a 2oz lead, under the willows on the opposite bank. I set the rod at 45° in the rests and set the free spool function on the reel. I imagined chub, if anything, would take the bait. I catapulted a few free offerings over the top. I then began to set up a second rod with which I intended to fish an open-ended feeder filled with smelly ground bait and turmeric-dusted maggot on the hook. Roach were the target.

As set up the rod, I thought about the conversation I had conducted with a friend the previous afternoon, via the medium of Yahoo Messenger. Naturally, I had told him I would be fishing the next day. Our conversation drifted from fishing in general to the plight of the european eel in particular and its undoubted decline in local waters since our boyhood. Then, any maggoty, wormy, meaty bait, fished on the bottom, would more likely be taken by an eel than anything else. Indeed, when I think of my boyhood fishing, the eel, perhaps, looms larger than any other species in my memory. I became pretty handy at dealing with them too; learning how to recognise the characteristic bites early and to strike before it was ‘too late’. Thus I was able to return the great majority of them unharmed to continue their remarkable life cycle. I told my friend that I had not caught a single eel all season.

So there I stood on the bank side, pondering, not for the first time, the reasons behind the decline of the eel, when the sound of the spinning baitrunner snapped me from my reverie. Something was steadily taking line. A glance out across the river showed my line had not been snagged by flotsam. Picking up the rod I tightened and struck. Immediately, I felt the unmistakable rhythmic tug of an eel – not a bad one either, at 1 1/2lb. Thankfully, it was cleanly hooked in the lower lip and, although it liberally coated the right forearm of my jacket with slime, was easily dealt with.

Apart from being struck by the coincidence, my heart was truly gladdened by the sight of that eel. I weighed it, took a picture, and returned it lovingly to the water.

I spent the rest of the day catching roach and bream on the feeder. I whiled away an hour freelining some luncheon meat through the weir pool, but failed to strike quickly enough to the two bites I had – great thumps though they were. The eel of the first cast, though, was the fish of the day.

Monomaster Waste Line Disposal Tool

2008-11-05T02:51:00.000-08:00

This gadget is great for storing those annoying bits of waste line which can accumulate during a fishing trip. It is also ideal for those unfortunate moments when one stumbles across lengths of mono left discarded on the bank side by the idiot minority in our sport.

The Monomaster is a simple, easy to use design and works as follows:

Waste line is offered up to the slot in the body while the protruding spindle is rotated. As it turns the line is caught on tiny hooks on the surface of an internal rotating barrel. The line is drawn through the slot and wraps around the barrel.

To dispose of the line, the end cap comes off and the internal barrel is removed. The line can then be snipped from the barrel with scissors. The resulting offcuts are approximately 2-3 centimetres long. These can be disposed of, ideally by burning.

The Monomaster is a great little gadget which makes the annoying, but important, task of bank side line disposal much easier. At just over 10cm (4") long it can be kept handy in a pocket or clipped to a vest for use as and when required.

I have two - one with my coarse kit and one in my fly bag, and reckon they are a great weapon in the War on Litter. They are available at various outlets. I got mine from the Furled Leaders website (£5.50 each).

Plugging Away at it

2008-11-03T13:20:00.000-08:00

Faced with a busy weekend of Halloween shenanigans and other merry-making and with only Saturday morning at my disposal I decided, on a whim, to go lure fishing. Some months previously a friend had given me, very generously, a load of plugs, lures and spinners. It had been years, though, since I had fished for pike.

We are released from the office at four on Fridays so I headed straight for my local tackle emporium, shelled out some of my hard-earned on a 10’ lure rod, some traces and – unable to resist – more lures.

I arrived at my chosen spot – Nafford Lock, Eckington – and upon arrival at the bank side was pleasantly surprised to find I had the place to myself. A further good omen was the sight of a pike bung lying in the frozen grass; a sign that pikers had recently been around. Pocketing the float, and flushed with a sense of kinship to those – probably brilliant – pike anglers, I sallied forth toward the weir pool next to the lock.

I’d brought a Shimano Baitrunner reel to use, purloined from my carp gear. Not ideal, I know, but it was the most appropriate thing to hand and was already loaded with brand new 15lb mono. I strapped it to my new rod – also a Shimano as it happens (A Katana BX 300 MH, for goodness sake) – threaded the line, tied on a trace and opened my box of lures. It was here that the trouble began.

I’d brought my de-barbing pliers and, having selected a lure, set about the task of flattening the barbs. My mistake was failing to take off my woollen fingerless gloves before starting. Immediately – inevitably – I got a treble stuck fast in the palm of the left glove. Maybe I was still a bit groggy from the Halloween celebrations the night before; clearly, I should have removed the right glove at that point: I did not. My attempts to extricate the hooks from the left glove served only to get the right glove hopelessly snagged as well.

After a frustrating ten minutes involving much wielding of the de-barbing pliers I managed to liberate the lure from the offending hand wear. Petulantly, I stuffed the gloves into the deepest pocket of my bag, resolving to ignore them for the rest of the session, despite the cold.

Ready for action at last, and with a resurgent confidence which, in retrospect, bordered on the preposterous, I cast across the weir pool and retrieved: nothing. Nothing then, and nothing for the next three hours. I changed lures until I’d used them all; I varied the retrieve to the very limits of human imagination; I cast into every likely spot on the stretch; I flagged down a passing narrow boat so that the heroic crew could untangle my lure from a willow on the opposite bank (which had imperceptibly lurched nearer just before I attempted to cast beneath it). To make matters worse, the nagging pain of tennis elbow (which I had contracted after a particularly vigorous day of fly casting tuition nine months ago, and which I thought had gone) increased insidiously throughout the morning.

Finally, conceding defeat, I sat down on the bank and rolled a cig. Suddenly more reflective, I began to notice what a lovely looking stretch of river this was. Downstream from the weir pool the river narrowed and the flow increased. I began to regret my rash decision of the previous afternoon. I would have been better off, I reflected, if I had bought some maggots and casters; if I had resisted the siren call of those flashy, gaudy lures, at the tackle shop. The conditions were ideal for trotting a stick down through those gentle, inviting glides. I vowed to return on a different quest another time, to wield a ‘pin in search of roach and chub. As I bent down to pick up my bag, the bung fell from my pocket onto the grass. I left it there, for some reason, for someone else to find.

How to Wallis Cast - A Web Resource

2008-10-30T15:25:00.000-07:00

Many anglers are beginning to use centrepin reels for the first time. It would not be overstating the case to say the centrepin has undergone a considerable resurgence in recent years.

The reasons for this are many and varied. I was profoundly influenced (as, I imagine, were many others) by the series A Passion for Angling. As a boy in the early seventies the formative years of my angling progressed using fixed spool reels exclusively (Intrepid Black Prince – remember them?). Indeed, I struggle to recall more than a handful of occasions when I saw a centrepin being used during that time. If I did, it was probably being wielded by an ‘old timer’. In the heady, impetuous days of our youth, my friends and I would have regarded such anglers as ‘uncool’: shame on us.

The Passion for Angling series, first shown in the early nineties, was the first time I’d seen how effective centrepins could be in use. By that time (I like to think) I had mellowed and matured and I concede that there was more than a smidgen of romantic attraction to the whole Crabtree-ness of it all (The great Bernard Venables, creator of Mr Crabtree, even made an appearance). This was strange, as it was nostalgia for a time and ethos that I had never experienced personally.

Around the same time John Wilson’s TV programmes were being given their first nationwide airing. Again, many of us saw a very competent angler using centrepin reels in a wide variety of angling situations. This only served to underline the fact that – on the right occasion – the centrepin was not merely a throwback to a long gone era, but an effective tool in its own right.

Latterly, the antipathy felt by many anglers to the commercial carp scene and the parallel (and possibly correlative) rise in popularity of barbel fishing has played a part. Many of us prefer stalking the margins of lilied pools for carp, or trundling legered baits though likely barbel spots on swiftly flowing rivers, using a centrepin as our winch of choice.

There are, of course, those who were raised on centrepins and who always have used them, but this piece is not aimed at experts. By the time I took the plunge and bought my first ‘pin (a 5 ½“ Leeds) I had become a solitary angler, by and large, and there was nobody to show me the ropes. Learning to use one can be a daunting process. I like to think that, through trial, error, and sometimes bitter experience, I have attained a modest proficiency in their use. Far more importantly, however, I have come to love using centrepin reels; probably to the point where I will use one where a fixed spool type would be more appropriate.

By far most common query voiced by newcomers relates to the Wallis cast, and how to execute it proficiently. I found the internet to be a valuable resource during the time I was teaching myself to Wallis cast. With this in mind I’ve have gathered together a collection of links which I hope will be of interest to those attempting to learn.

If anyone knows of any further links let me know and I will include them.

http://www.fishing.co.uk/article.php3?id=736

Very good article on Wallis casting by John Olliff-Cooper. Worth looking at for the lovely centrepins alone. Contains information on the dark art of Wallis casting with a leger.

http://www.fishing.co.uk/article.php3?id=752

A further article from John covering more advanced Wallis casting techniques. Includes photos.

http://www.anglersnet.co.uk/Coarse-Fishing-Articles/wallis_cast.html

The Wallis Cast demystified – good, simple talk-through by Allan Marshall. No photos.

http://www.fishingmagic.com/news/article.asp?UAN=1774&v=1

Alan Roe explains the Wallis cast in words, pictures and video.

http://www.fishingwarehouse.co.uk/section/articles/articleinfo.asp?articleid=1305

Another article from Mr Roe which includes some general information on centrepins as well as Wallis casting. Includes photos.

http://purepiscator.net/articles/phil/hof_phil_walliscast.aspx

This article contains an explanation from F.W.K. Wallis himself. Taken from the top notch Pure Piscator website. Includes photos.

http://www.purepiscator.com/articles/ian/article_ian_wallis.aspx

More from Pure Piscator. This time a humorous take on “Wallis” casting – angling related and otherwise…
http://www.centerpinning.com/tomkins

Very good article which, while dealing only obliquely with the Wallis cast, has some excellent additional information. Check the Products page for some very lean and mean modern centrepins.

http://www.questoutdoors.net/skills/centerpin/articles/wallis-cast/

An article (including photos and video) featuring Randy Gerrick, interesting in that Randy is left-handed.

http://www.fishonlineca.com/index.php?option=com_zoom&Itemid=52&page=view&catid=29&PageNo=1&key=7&hit=1

Video demonstration of an overhead Wallis cast.

http://www.floatsdown.com/index.php?option=com_content&task=view&id=23&Itemid=32

Paul Almanza describes several ways of casting with a centrepin, including the Wallis cast. Includes some images seen earlier.

http://www.chrislythe-centrepins.co.uk/using-a-centre-pin.html

An explanation of the Wallis cast from master centrepin maker Chris Lythe. No photos.www.anglersnet.co.uk/Coarse-Fishing-Articles/wallis_casting_video.html

A video demonstration of Wallis casting by Glen Smith. Includes an introduction by Glen.

Fred Crouch Match Aerial Wide-Drum Centrepin

2008-10-27T15:09:00.000-07:00

The Fred Crouch Match Aerial is, to all intents and purposes, a replica of the last Allcock Aerials to be produced. From information garnered form the internet, it appears that Fred Crouch (who is famous for his barbel angling expertise, and who may, or may not, have worked for Allcock) was given the licence to produce them and continues to do so. Previous incarnations were called "The Jet" but this example has just "Match Aerial" on the Allcock-like nameplate. The reel under review is a 4.5" wide drum model.

I was looking for a centrepin to use for barbel and carp fishing and, having looked around and taken advice, decided upon the Fred Crouch Match Aerial – not least because of the price. I found this one on Ebay, new, for £125 plus £4.99 P+P. However, they are on sale for considerably more. At the time of writing there is one offer on Ebay for £199 so, as always, my advice would be to shop around.

The reel came in a varnished plywood box. The foam lining, with cut-outs for the handles, is tightly packed and holds the reel very securely. Anglers who use the reel regularly will probably have no further use for the box for storage: it makes a great container for bits and bobs, however – fly tying materials for example – when the foam's removed. Presumably the box is for collector types to display their reel in a nice display case. Other suppliers mention the reel is supplied with a certificate of authenticity. Mine wasn't, but I have no reason to assume it's not the real deal (pun intended). I believe it to be a genuine Fred Crouch Allcock Match Aerial replica, if that makes sense.

Taking the reel from the box the first thing that strikes me is the chunkiness: this is quite a chunky reel. I popped it on the scales and it weighed in at 300g exactly. I am not saying that it is too heavy; in fact, as far as my requirements are concerned, chunkiness is a positive advantage. It feels like a substantial reel that means business. If, however, you're looking for a lightweight trotting reel, capable of delicately presenting a single caster beneath a petite stick float to sniffy, finicky roach, then I would opt for something more akin to the BJ Lightweight reviewed here. This is an old-fashioned reel by today's standards, but it's a classic design and one that has served anglers' needs for many years.

The construction (as far as I can discern) is as follows:

The spool and body/backplate are of bar stock aluminium (meaning they are not cast, but machined from solid metal). They are finished in black powder-coat. The spokes and hub are of nickel silver and the centre pin itself is steel – as are the ratchet components. The foot is 2-piece, chrome-plated, and may well be brass beneath. The click check switch is black plastic, as are the handles, which are not removable.

The reel looks great, and has the timeless aesthetic appeal which accompanies any classic design. Personally, I would argue that the wide drum version has better proportions than the narrow. To me there is something more utilitarian, more workmanlike, about it. Perhaps this is because I favour wide drummed 'pins in use. I have never perceived the need for a narrow drum specifically. I find them harder to control as a result of the rim being further underneath the rod handle (I hold the rod/reel over the top rather than from behind, as it were) and can see no benefits that a narrow drum might bring.

The Fred Crouch Match Aerial is a true centrepin - there are no ball bearings – the spool rotates upon the pin and herein lies the source of much of the debate that circumscribes centrepin lore. Many generalisations have been touted concerning what does, or does not, constitute the criteria for a good, or bad reel. The truth, of course, is that much depends upon what is required of the reel in question. Here are my own generalisations:

For trotting, what is required first and foremost is low inertia take-off from the spool. In other words, the action of a relatively light float working against the reel will start the spool spinning and peel line from it. Secondly, the spool should carry on rotating freely, but not (generally speaking of course) overmuch, as the float is carried downstream. If the spool is too free running it may overrun, resulting in loose line between the angler and the float - or worse, a tangle. Generally speaking (again) what the angler is looking for when trotting is for the action of the turning spool to work against the float such that the float is held back, somewhat, relative to the surface current. As a consequence of this the bait will be slowed to the speed of the current at depth which – generally speaking – will be flowing slower than that at the surface. Thus the bait will appear to the fish to be more naturally presented or, to put it another way, as if not being presented at all but, rather, as if it is being borne naturally along by the stream.

The other time when a free running spool is an advantage is when performing the fabled Wallis Cast. Here, it is vital that the spool continues to spin freely throughout the duration of the flight of the terminal tackle until it is stopped by the angler. It will be seen that neither occasion requires that the spool remains spinning freely for two to three minutes. In most other circumstances an overly free spinning spool can be an inconvenience.

It is almost impossible to read about any given centrepin reel without the obligatory mention of spin time obtainable, the spool having been given a ‘smart bat’ or some such (whatever that, or other similarly unscientific terms may mean). It is not uncommon to hear of two to three minutes of spin being cited. These claims are probably true, but in practice mean little. What is important is that the spool can be set to spin with little reduction in speed for a few seconds at most; that the force required to overcome the inertia of the spool and start it moving is minimal; and that the spool continues to rotate as a result of the pull of the tackle upon it.

Although I have yet to use this reel for trotting (and with the proviso, touched upon earlier, that it would not be my ideal choice for trotting with lightweight tackle), it is clear The Fred Crouch Match Aerial conforms to these criteria. I took the reel on a carping expedition the day after taking delivery. In preparation I had (very) lightly oiled the spindle with sewing machine oil and loaded it with approximately 60 yards of 8lb monofilament. Matched with an 11’ Avon rod I fished the margins of the pool, legering with bread or sweetcorn as bait. I was able to swing the terminal tackle to most of the spots I wished to try. The occasional cast required that I pull line from the spool as I swung out the terminal tackle – not a Wallis cast as such, but Wallis-esque enough to tell me that the reel would respond well should a ‘Full Wallis’ be required.

Christening a reel is always a special moment. The Fred Crouch was blessed by a lively little common of about four pounds, the first of five or six of similar size. Playing the fish using thumb pressure was extremely comfortable due to the wide drum’s smooth, broad rim and the reel responded very naturally to my controls. I only have two gripes. One is that the noise of the click check, as supplied, was beyond raucous when the fish made its initial run. This, though, can be easily remedied by reducing the pressure of the spring in the mechanism which acts upon the pawl, and is certainly a job I shall undertake before taking it barbelling. Left unadjusted the din might put down fish for miles around. The second is that the click check switch, located on the backplate, has a bit of a cheapo, plasticky look about it. Having said that, in practice it functioned, and felt, perfectly serviceable.

In conclusion I have to say that the Fred Crouch Match Aerial is outstanding value for money. It may not have the flashy cosmetic appointments of other centrepins on offer, but this in no way detracts from its usability. Then there’s the price, which compares very favourably with its competitors. The recommended retail prices of J.W. Young’s centrepins are almost twice the price paid here. At the upper end of the price spectrum the reels produced by Chris Lythe and Gary Mills, for example, (while undoubtedly masterpieces of form and function – and I know I’ll have to order one eventually) can cost four times as much as the Fred Crouch.

Using this reel, one has a palpable sense of being part of a history stretching way back to the first aerials of the 19^th century, through their subsequent development and refinement until the ubiquity of the new fangled fixed spool reel saw Allcock ending production in the early seventies. My advice? – buy one.

The River Lugg in Autumn

2008-10-23T08:04:00.000-07:00

Access to the River Lugg, at Marden, Dinmore, and Moreton-on-Lugg, a couple of miles north of Hereford, comes as part of the BAA ticket (which, incidentally, represents excellent value for money, with over 60 fisheries to choose from). This tributary of the Wye has much to offer. Here, the Lugg flows through beautiful, often wild, countryside inhabited by kingfishers, otters, and several varieties of wild duck. It is better known for its game, than its coarse fishing.

The BAA website states there are grayling present, so I set off with the idea of some autumnal long trotting in mind. Parking facilities for all three sites are non existent, making roadside parking unavoidable. The roads are quiet and fairly isolated so (without wishing to cast aspersions upon the good citizens of the area) I was careful not to leave any tackle visible in my car. I had come lightly armed in any case, knowing I would be doing a lot of walking, moving upstream from swim to swim, trying each likely looking area.

This was my second visit – the first was during the penultimate week of last season. That trip was memorable for the unexpected capture of a hefty chub. I was trotting a 5BB Avon down through a swift glide that took it beneath an overhanging hawthorn bush. I had caught (and returned) three small brown trout in as many casts on double red maggot and was having great fun, hooking all three fish at the end of the trot. On the fourth cast the float disappeared almost as soon as it landed on the surface and I struck instinctively. The chub took off downstream with a rapidity that shocked me from my nonchalance.

At first, there was little I could do, fishing as I was with a mere 2lb 3oz hooklength to a barbless fine wire size 18. Eventually I was able to impose myself more forcefully upon the fish, which by now had taken fifteen, maybe twenty, yards of line. Realising there would now be a fair amount of stretch available in the monofilament I dropped the rod tip and applied as much upstream pressure as I dared in an attempt to stop the fish making further downstream headway (the river was fining and relatively high, with a swift flow). Eventually I succeeded in subduing it.

At this stage I had no idea what it was. I was convinced it wasn't a trout, and thought I may have hooked a small salmon or barbel. At no stage during our tussle did it head for the undercut of the bank in classic chub style, remaining, instead, in the middle of the river, barbel-like, where the flow was strongest. After a battle of, perhaps, five minutes (though it seemed longer at the time) the fish finally rolled on the surface, revealing itself as a golden-flanked chub. It was still six or seven yards downstream but remained docile.

Heaving its dead weight to the net, against the current, was the most nerve-wracking part of the fight. One powerful lunge, I thought, and I'd lose it. I was not carrying scales, but the fish was easily over 5lb and in perfect condition. The hook had come out in the landing net and I held the chub with its head to the current for a few seconds before it soaked me with a strident slash of its tail and swam away; annoyed, but free.

This, my second trip, was less successful in terms of poundage banked, accounting for one trout only – and an out of season trout at that. It was, however, a very nice 'wild' brownie – I'd estimate it at just under a pound – and it led me a merry dance. I managed to unhook the fish while it was still in the net, in the water, without handling it.

That trout accounted for the only bite of the day. As can be seen from the pictures, however, it was far from a wasted expedition, and I shall be going again soon.

Birmingham Anglers Association

The Exuberance of Old Age

2008-10-02T04:00:00.000-07:00

Last Saturday I was fishing at one of my favourite spots, the subject of the photograph at the head of this page. There are two old brick pits, close together and adjacent to Big River. The fishing is varied – and difficult. At least, it is difficult to catch fish of a decent size, of which there are many. In early season, tench may be had by early risers, followed by decent bream, roach, perch and rudd throughout the day, if the correct methods are applied, and well.

Between the two pools there are many fishable pitches, but far fewer are the number fished often by regulars. The regulars (and I count myself as one, having fished the place since the 70s) know by experience where best to gently cast a bait, usually into swims where the bottom falls away into deeper holes.

I had spent the morning enswathed within a cold, stifling mist, failing to catch tench, although there were certainly tench in my swim. I was not despondent, however: many fish had come to the net and, although the intended quarry had not been among them, I was content within the peaceful and eerily beautiful surroundings.

At about 11.30 the sun, which had been attempting all morning to evaporate the wet, grey blanket of fog, finally broke through. With astounding rapidity the shroud dispersed and gentle shivering turned to languid basking as the temperature rose.

It was at this point that I became aware of a plaintive voice coming from the levee behind me. The speaker was partly obscured by foliage, but he was asking if I’d mind if he “squeezed in next to me”.

I was taken aback, to put it mildly. I was fishing from a tiny promontory where, at a push, I might have acquiesced to a like-minded close friend joining me. I had not, however, imagined sharing the space with anyone else. I had assumed, having planted my flag at 6.30 am, that I would have the pitch to myself for the remainder of the day. This chap had some neck, I thought. I sputtered something about it being Okay, whilst attempting to conceal my true thoughts concerning the awkward position in which the fellow placed me.

He made his way down the bank; it became clear that he had stopped at the bottom; there followed an uncomfortable hiatus. I turned to face him.

There stood one of those characters who, for no easily explained reason, evokes profound sympathy. A little old man, much older than I’d expected – perhaps pushing eighty – wearing thick spectacles, wellingtons and a flat cap. The row of gold incisors in his lower jaw glinted in the sunlight. My initial thought was to wonder how he’d made it across the fields unsupervised. He stood, tackle bag over one shoulder, holdall over the other, staring dejectedly at what he saw, which was me, fishing the pitch upon which he, clearly, had set his heart.

After a further uncomfortable pause I said, “Alright?” as brightly as I could, eager not to compound his despair.

“Oh,” he said, glumly and, I thought, slightly pointlessly, “you’re fishing there are you?”

It dawned on me that, not only had he wanted to fish from my little promontory, he wanted also to fish the exact spot where I had chosen to cast. Feeling faintly ridiculous, and gesturing vaguely at my float, I informed him (I'm ashamed to say in the manner of one addressing a particularly dim child) that, actually, I was fishing the area he so obviously coveted.

By now, the initial surge of his disappointment having evidently subsided, and, having regained, as a result, a little composure, he offered wistfully; “I had forty-odd fish out of there Wednesday afternoon...”

“Oh… what kind?” I asked, unsure which direction the conversation was taking.

“Small roach and perch – I had a bream on - ‘bout three or four pound, but I lost him.” he continued in the same detached manner. “Oh well,” he sighed, apparently now resigned to his fate, “I’ll go and fish the other pool.”

“Good luck!” said I, a little too quickly.

As soon as he had gone I began to analyse our interchange. Had he, and I, acted entirely scrupulously? Initially, I had felt that the old boy had a bit of a nerve. I was clearly in the pitch; I had baited the swim and had risen at quarter to six that morning to ensure I got it.

He, on the other hand, had turned up halfway through the day, and had admitted fishing the spot only three days previously. Presumably, being well past retirement age, he was able to go fishing as and when he pleased. I, unfortunately, am incarcerated in an office on weekdays.

He had not been impolite. When he left me I had heard him talking to a couple he clearly knew, who were walking their dog along the riverbank, informing them cheerfully that "…that gentleman…" (me) was fishing where he had wanted to go.

I concluded that, while I was within my rights to stand my ground, his momentary loss of composure could be wholly forgiven, as it was surely a manifestation of his undimmed enthusiasm for fishing. Was it not heartening that the old man's excitement still burned so brightly, even at his advanced age? Was it not wonderful that the rashness and exuberance of youth still bubbled so close beneath the surface?

Harbour Fry

2008-10-01T05:40:00.000-07:00

Shoals of fry make interesting shapes gathered around piers and beneath fishing boats before leaving the safety of cover and venturing out into the ocean.

Above, Aponisos, Agistri, Saronic Gulf, Greece. Below, Portree, Skye, Scotland.

Unsung Fisheries of Britain: No. 1 - Cow Green, County Durham

2008-09-22T06:15:00.000-07:00

Cow Green Reservoir, in Upper Teesdale, County Durham, was born out of controversy. Built during the late sixties and opened in 1971 to serve Teesside industry its construction was vehemently opposed by conservationists, local and otherwise. Alfred Wainwright (1907-1991) the fellsman, philosopher and writer was dismayed at plans to submerge the Cow Green basin. In his Penine Way Companion (1968, Westmoreland Gazette. Available in facimile reprint published by Michael Joseph ISBN 07181 4009 5) Wainwright wrote: "Surely the beautiful Tees, of all northern rivers, was born to run free?"

Campaigners, Wainwright included, were outraged by the threat to the survival of the so-called Teesdale Assemblage, a group of rare, mainly alpine, plants including the spring gentian and the unique Teesdale violet. The pressing need of industry, however, proved too strong an opponent, and plans for the reservoir went ahead despite the protests.

The establishment of the Assemblage has its origins in the last Ice Age. Seeds, bourne from the north by the spreading ice, remained when the glaciers receded. The plants achieved a (somewhat tenuous) hold thanks to the unique geological conditions of the area and remain there still. For this we must thank those foresighted conservationists who painstakingly dug up and replanted hundreds of specimens above the reservoir's waterline where they remain, protected by the Moor House-Upper Teesdale National Nature Reserve.

The reservoir was created by damming the infant Tees a couple of miles from her source on the eastern flanks of Cross Fell, the summit of which marks the highest point of the Pennines (The second and third photos from the top show evidence of construction work and the site access road, revealed during low water levels in 2006). Damming the river this far up meant that the redds, in the feeder becks as well as the mother river, were now connected to a 670 acre expanse of water. The fish don't seem to have been adversely affected. After all, the reservoir gives them an opportunity to roam the vast expanse hunting terrestrial delicacies blown onto this inland, highland sea.

The peaty contents - run-off from the surrounding moorland - of these upland watercourses provides little in the way of nutrients for aquatic plantlife. Consequently, aquatic insects, too, are in short supply. In these conditions trout rely heavily on terrestrial morsels, blown onto the water, for their protein. The most successful methods I've found at Cow Green exploit these facts. I have found that to flaunt conventional wisdom and fish with the wind at one's back provides the best returns. Sometimes, to be honest, it is very difficult to cast any other way. Here, more often than not, the wind howls down the valley and across the water relentlessly and without restraint.

Try to get down among the boulders by the water's edge below a high bank with the wind behind you. The trout will, more than likely, be found patrolling the line between the calm in the lee of the bank and riffled water where the wind hits the surface. This is where terrestrials, blown from the heather, will be deposited. Fish appropriate imitations for the time of year just below the surface, and success will follow. Long casts are seldom necessary, and wading never, but vary the retrieve until you find something that works. On one occasion I found that stripping a size 14 bibio across the surface was the method of the day.

In Spring, and after rain, try the mouths of feeder becks and, especially, where the Tees enters the reservoir (see the fourth photo from the top). My advice would be to dispense with heavier tackle. When I first fished here, I used a typical 7wt reservoir setup. After a while I realised this was not necessary and I stepped down. I now use a 4wt setup most of the time, which gives excellent sport.

The fish you are likely to catch will be of the 3-to-a-pound variety, but they are genuine wild brownies. There are bigger fish, but they are rare. A trout of a pound is big - I've certainly never caught one. The lake record is, apparently, four pounds.

Personally, I prefer not to dispatch wild fish, so I crush the barbs and return them. For me, it is enough to fish in such elemental surroundings unchanged for thousands of years (apart from the reservoir that is). The last thing I want to do after trudging through knee-deep heather all day is clean trout when I get back to the cottage. I prefer instead to savour the hospitality of Teesdale's inestimable hostelries, or imbibe some good malt in front of the fire.

In Springtime, golden plover, curlew, lapwing, sandpiper, redshank, the rare black and ubiquitous red grouse are nesting, so watch your step. If you tie your own flies (as everyone should) take something with which to carry the numerous hackle feathers which can be gathered in abundance at this time, clinging to the clumps of heather. Later in the year greylag goose primaries, a source of biots, can often be found near the shoreline. Other birds to look out for include merlin, wheatear, buzzard, raven, meadow pipit, ring ouzel, oystercatcher, ringed plover and, if you're very fortunate, hen harrier.

Day tickets are obtained from a building down by the shoreline near the carpark at Wheelhead Syke. Payment is via an honesty box - so take £8 in change. If I remember rightly the limit is twelve fish. Coarse fishing is allowed, but I've never seen anyone doing so. In fact, in five or six trips I've only ever encountered one other angler.

Take as little as possible, it is a fair hike from the car park to the far end of the water. Much of the walking is across unkempt heather and it is like walking through treacle. Make sure, however, to take waterproofs; when it rains, it can rain hard.

The flies pictured have all caught for me at Cow Green. The list, however, is by no means comprehensive. march browns will work in early season, heather fly imitations and daddys later on, for example. The dressings are (as I tie them) in order from top to bottom:

KATE McLAREN
Hook: Any traditional wet hook size 12 - 16 (this one's a 14 Kamasan B170)
Thread: Black
Tail: Golden Pheasant Topping
Rib: Fine Oval Tinsel
Body: Black Seal Fur (or substitute)
Palmered Hackle: Black Hen
Collar Hackle: Brown or Red Game Hen

BLACK & PEACOCK SPIDER
Hook: As above
Thread: Black
Rib: Fine Copper Wire
Body: 3 Strands of Peacock Herl
Hackle: Black Hen

BIBIO
Hook: As above
Thread: Black
Rib: Fine, Flat Silver Tinsel
Body: Black/Red/Black Seals Fur (or substitute)
Palmer Hackle: Black Hen
Collar Hackle: Black Hen

BLAE & BLACK - but with starling slips. This is the one that has (perhaps surprisingly) worked well for me.
Hook: As above
Thread: Black
Tail: Golden Pheasant Tippets
Rib: Fine Silver Wire
Body: Black Seal Fur (or substitute)
Wings: Starling Secondary Slips, tied 'inside out' (convex sides back to back and inside - I know it's horribly wrong, but it worked, trust me)
Hackle: Black Hen

Map - Ordnance Survey - NY 813290

Closed Season Chub

2008-09-18T03:19:00.000-07:00

These chub were spotted during a closed season stroll along the banks of the River Teme near Worcester last year. There was a shoal of between 20 - 30 spread across the width of the flow. They were clearly taking insects off the top (the first picture shows a fish having just risen) and appeared to be enjoying themselves immensely.

In fact, in some uncanny way, they appeared to know it was the closed season. Far from being the most "...fearfullest of fishes..." they were disporting themselves in what can only be described as a la-de-da manner. These fish were no inexperienced youngsters either. I estimated them at between 4 - 5 lb.

Is it possible that fish know when it's the closed season? Or were they so preoccupied with their feeding that they failed to notice me, sillouetted in the bright May sunshine, photographing them?

J. W. Young BJ Lightweight Centrepin Reel

2008-09-11T07:02:00.001-07:00

The J. W. Young & Sons Bob James Lightweight is a modern Aerial-type centrepin. It has a spoked construction and two ball bearing races upon which the spool runs, meaning it is not a 'true' centrepin in the purest sense. There are pros and cons to this, which I will touch upon later.

The first thing to consider when the tempting prospect of centrepin purchase arises is cost. Frankly, centrepins are expensive and spoked types, generally speaking, clock in at the upper end of the spectrum. I obtained mine from Summerlands (http://www.summerlands.co.uk/J_W_Young_Centrepin_Reels.htm). At the time of writing they have this model listed for £235 (plus P&P) so, should you decide to purchase one, do yourself a favour and shop around before you cough up the £299 some places are charging.

So, what do you get for the money? The reel (this one has a 4.5" x 1" spool) comes lavishly packaged in a green, zipped canvas pouch inside a sturdy cardboard box. The reels are serial numbered and this unique identifier appears on the inside of the backplate as well as the box and certificate of authenticity supplied with each reel. Now, I have to say that this certificate of authenticty nonsense gets on my pip. It whiffs of a faint desperation to connect to a long gone era when craftsmen assembled these reels in dingy, oily workshops in Redditch. In fact they're assembled at Masterline's state of the art factory at Tewkesbury Business Park; a setting which, I imagine, would hold little appeal for traditionalist centrepin users. Still, I suppose the collectors like them.

The reel bespeaks class; the spool's brass-coloured nickel silver spokes and hub contrasting appealingly with the lustrous grey anodized body and drum. The substantial click check lever is mounted on the body rim and the foot is finished in a fetching anodized bronze.

Incidentally, the foot is not overly large and fits well into my modern rods' fittings as well as the universal rings on my cane.

The twin black plastic handles are unobtrusive and can be removed for those who prefer batting. Unfortunately, upon inspecting the backplate things get a bit grim. The manufacturers have decided to silk-screen the model and maker's name onto the backplate rather than engrave, or etch, into it. In my view, and at this price, it looks cheap. To make matters worse, in the case of my particular reel, the process appears to have been carried out particularly poorly. The result is disappointing, but I found solace in the thought that it will, doubtless, wear off fairly quickly. Two thirds of the backplate of the lightweight version of the BJ Centrepin (Bob James, incidentally, is co-star of the fabulous series A Passion for Angling.) has been extensively machined away for lightness. This leaves an impressive aluminium lattice but only, according to Masterline's brochure, a 5gm weight advantage over the 'standard' BJ. I suspect this may be an error and would be surprised if the discarded material amounts to only 5gms. However, I do not have both reels to weigh and compare. My feeling is that the weight advantage is more in the region of 20-30gms, but that's a guess.

It is in use that this reel comes into its own. Put simply, it is a joy to use. I have yet to discover a better way of trotting a stick or avon float through a swim than with a centrepin and the BJ Lightweight is an effective tool for this purpose. I have used it with light lines (2.5 – 3lb B.S.) as well as more substantial ones (6lb B.S. - Masterline state the reel has been design for Wallis Casting with heavier lines), trotting everything from light-ish stick floats through to quite hefty avons. I have fished in a variety of conditions and each time the reel has performed well. The spool requires minimal effort to start it turning. A relatively light float will peel line from the spool with only a sluggish flow to pull it through. The spool, at 1" wide, projects enough from beneath the rod handle to facilitate comfortable thumb control. I find narrow drum centrepins give me thumb-ache after a time, but that may just be me. I think this one is just right. There is a micro-adjustment to slow down the spool should this be necessary. I have never had occasion to use it but the mechanism works well enough.

The BJ Lightweight does not have a line guard as it has been designed with Wallis casting in mind. I have to admit that, of all the centrepins I own, this one is the easiest with which to Wallis cast. I don't know why this is; it just feels more controllable. My feeling is that, although the spool runs as freely as it needs to, it is not as overly free-running as some of my other centrepins seem to be, and this appears to make a difference.

The click check does the job, if a little raucously. I particularly like the rim-mounted lever, which I find preferable to those mounted on the rear of the backplate. Also, I found it very easy to adapt to reel for left-handed use. This involved removing the spool, taking out the spring-tensioned pawl from the click check mechanism, turning it round, and replacing it. Obviously, for left-handed users, the click-check lever will be at the back of the reel. Another thing to consider, if you are a left-hander, is that the machined-away parts of the backplate will be at the front of the reel. These issues were not a problem for me; others might find them awkward. It is possible, for example, to push one's fingers through the machined away part of the backplate and through the spokes of the spool itself; something I would not advise with, say, an angry 5lb chub on the other end.

In conclusion, I think the reel – its construction, which is substantial, its aesthetics, which are appealing, and in use, where it shines - represents extremely good value for money (especially if you shop around for a good price). In fact, if pressed, while it lacks the character of my old Speedia, it is the reel I would opt for had I to choose only one. The fact that it has ball bearings means it is easy to keep clean and is more unlikely to jam while in use, unlike a true centrepin. On the other hand the bearings produce a quiet, but undeniable noise, albeit noticeable only in conditions of near silence. Unlike a true centrepin, the action of the spool should never alter, whereas a reel with a bushed bearing will tend to become freer running over time. It all depends upon personal preference, but I'm happy with the BJ Lightweight's performance as it is, and if it remains the same for the next 30 years or so, I shall be happier still.

J. W. Young & Sons

Y2080L BJ Lightweight

4.5" x 1"

Price Paid: £235 + £11 P&P (Citylink)

Distributed by Masterline International Ltd

Severn Drive, Tewkesbury Business Park

Tewkesbury, Glos, GL20 8SF, UK

Tel. 01684 299000