Chubbin

With the evenings starting to draw out and an early finish at work there was time for me to get to the river for a short evening session after Chub.  It’s actually the first time I’ve been on the river for over a month in which time it has mostly been above the banks on which all but the stoutest vegetation had been flattened.  The evening was mild and dull with barely a breath of wind, I was set up by 1710, in a swim I’ve had fish from in the past, time was short, no time for exploring.  I used the usual feeder rig baited with a bit of an animal and swung it along the near bank towards a fallen tree.  Half an hour here brought a couple of fishy tremors on the tip but no proper bites. 

The next swim was also a familiar one and second cast here brought a solid bite at just after 1800.  I swept the rod back and something hefty lunged around in a downstream direction for a few seconds before the hook pulled.  Obviously this is frustrating but these events no longer crush me like they once did.  At that moment the most pressing thing on my mind was “what do I do next?” the light was fading fast, should I stay in this swim as I’d had action or should I move?  The Chub I’d lost was a serious fish, would it have spooked the swim? 

I had one more uneventful cast then moved downstream, a decision I regretted almost immediately as my new swim was not one I was particularly familiar with.  Shortly after settling in, I heard a swirl and a hiss in the dark, I guessed what it was and hissed back.  Cue bedlam as what was obviously Otters churned the water in a huge boil and hissed again in unison.  I flicked the headtorch on to make sure they got the message and picked out the eyes of a mother and two cubs as they moved downstream along the far bank. I spent half an hour here in which time nothing fishy happened and my heart was no longer in it so off home I head.  It had been an enjoyable couple of hours and I hope to squeeze another trip in before time runs out.

My Broadland obsession really kicks in when the season starts to run out and nowadays a long session spending dawn till dusk in the boat and all that goes with it, leaves me knackered the following day.  Not too knackered however, I had enough energy to cook dinner for lunch time and get to the river for mid afternoon.  The day was dry and mostly bright with a fresh westerly threatening to make life uncomfortable at times.  I walked a way upstream and settled into a swim that produced the goods back in December and was fishing by 1510.  Things have certainly changed since then; from late January we’d had almost a month of flood conditions which had shifted a big raft from this spot and removed snags from others.  It’s pretty certain that those snags now sit elsewhere, time will tell.  This spot didn’t look as fishy as it had before but I swung the feeder rig out anyway and made a brew.

Forty five minutes later I was in a second swim, one that the floods had actually made look more fishy.  I didn’t expect to catch to be honest but you never know and on my second cast the tip bounced and I was attached to a fish.  It didn’t feel as heavy as the one I’d lost last time but it was big enough and tried hard to get into near side snags on both sides of the swim.  My tackle takes no prisoners and the hook stayed in, soon I had a good Chub in the net.  I thought maybe four pounds but my guess was optimistic by four ounces.  I gave it a while longer here and a couple of casts in the next swim downstream but without any more signs.

By 1700 I was fishing in another familiar spot but spent a fidgety half an hour here without a bite.  In truth I was killing time because I wanted to be a little further downstream, in the swim I’d lost a biggun last time and at 1730 that’s where I was.  I was confident I’d get a bite in this relatively shallow run between reeds but after fifty minutes I realised I was being proved wrong again.  A few minutes later I was fishing a bit further downstream casting across to a slack on the far side.  I’ve caught a few Pike here and feel it should suit Chub but tonight I couldn’t settle and barely fifteen minutes passed before I pulled up the rod rest again.

Just downstream was another swim above a reed lined bend which I’d not yet fished and for some reason I settled here and cast just short of the far bank.  At least that’s where I think it landed as by now it was just before 1900 and proper dark, so I sat with the rod in my hand, oblivious to everything around me.  After a few minutes I felt a slight pull, it wasn’t anything like a bite but felt fishy and gave my flagging confidence a boost.  The sense of anticipation dwindled, was it a branch or something bumping the line?  Had I imagined it?  Then a strange series of twitches and pulls, I swept the rod back and felt weight, a good fish plodded around downstream of me but I was gaining line and slowly brought it back up in front of me.  I’d switched the head torch on by now and saw a big ghostly shape in a boil of water.  It didn’t like the look of the net and probably wasn’t too keen on the light either now I think of it but all I needed was patience.   Once I’d got it in the net I looked down and ran the torch along what was obviously a big Chub.

I left it in the net to rest while I sorted out the essentials, wetted the sling and zeroed the scales. I laid net and fish on the mat and realised this fish was a different beast to the one I’d had earlier.  I’m rubbish at guestimating these fish but was pretty certain this was the biggest Chub I’d ever seen. The scales agreed, my first five pounder with two ounces to spare.  Fucking hell!  A five pound Chub!  I put the fish back in the net and left it to rest in the water again, I couldn’t return it without attempting a self take, which by my standards came out quite well.

With the fish returned I thought I might as well cast out again and sat in the dark smiling to myself.  When I was a kid a five pound Chub was a big deal nationally and in my fishy world it still is, I was chuffed to bits.  I sat there for another forty five minutes or so and despite all the commotion there were still fish in the area.  I felt a couple of raps and a couple of short pulls, one of which I struck at but felt nothing.  I’m not sure my concentration was what it should have been, I was away with the fairies and called it a day around 2000.  I drove home knowing I’d find a way to get back on the river again before the season ended.

March 14^th already, a mad dash after work then I find myself sitting by the river staring at a rod tip one last time.  The day had been mostly bright with a moderate north westerly but there was a bit more cloud towards the end of the day and some of these spat showers that were short, sharp and unforecast. I spent half an hour in the first swim then forty minutes in the next and didn’t get a bite in either.  I knew where I wanted to be, the swim where I’d had the biggun last time and I was settled in by 1820, with the light fading fast.

By the time I’d made my second cast it was dark enough for me to need to hold the rod which is nice but not always practical, I’ll do things differently next season.  But when I am holding the rod and I get a bite it’s brilliant and this happened again after a couple of minutes.  The fish was noticeably less substantial than the last Chub I’d hooked and was actually about half the size but had a bit of spirit.  Still a fish and that was all I wanted when I set off this evening.  I sat contentedly and comfortably in the darkness despite the fast falling temperature which I could feel on my exposed hands.  The wildlife was active tonight both in the reeds below me and the undergrowth behind but things seemed to be quiet now in the river.

With the next couple of casts I went a bit further downstream but without success.  By 1930 I’d had enough so I loaded the feeder banged it downstream and put the rod on the rest, with the bait runner on while I set about tidying up.  The unhooking mat was turning frosty which told me it was probably a good idea.  All this time the headtorch was on and I made no attempt to be careful.  I was running out of things to pack away when I sensed movement, the torch beam picked out a bending rod and my ears detected a ticking reel.  The fish was already hooked and felt decent but was a long way downstream and was banging around a bit.  I needed to get it upstream sharpish before it decided to dive into the reed beds and this I did with surprising ease.  After it’s initial burst of energy the fish just gave up and allowed me to pull it straight up and into the net.  Out came the mat again along with the scales and sling.  I thought it was clearly over four pounds but it was actually three ounces under, a nice fish all the same.

One more cast while I tidied up a second time but no repeat and I was soon strolling back to the car.  I’ve really enjoyed this winter’s chubby diversion and the quiet, winding river is the ideal setting for me.  I’ve avoided the secret cheese paste cliché and found a simple method that seems to work and suits my unsubtle nature.  I get the feeling these Chub are highly nomadic and a swim that produces one day is very often quiet the next and there’s still loads of places I haven’t tried.  I knew I was in with a chance of a big four pounder but never did I dream I’d get a five!

Johns

 A Piker's Progression by John Wilson

Ah this could be difficult…  Through the 1980’s John Watson was something of a hero to this (at the time!) teenage Piker. This was due to his frequent appearances in the angling press and his excellent work as PAC secretary.  I know his tenure was curtailed amidst a cloud but whatever the truth, seldom has PAC been as visible or effective.  I first read JW’s “A Piker’s Progress” in the early nineties when I found it in a local library, later I often wished I’d kept it and paid the fine.  I remember really enjoyable anecdotal writing which at times came close to making me feel like I was in the boat with ‘Watto’.  An excellent read that culminated on a real high with the authors capture of a huge Broadland Pike.  I later heard that the book was ghost written by another renowned piker, I don’t know if this is true but either way it doesn’t alter the fact that it was a seriously good fishing book.  So when in 2009 the book was revamped as “A Piker’s Progression” I made sure I grabbed a copy so I could revisit Watto’s boat whenever I felt like it.

My first impressions of the new version were positive; I found the story telling in the older section was as good as I remembered it but I wasn’t so enamoured with the new section which was barely much more than a list of the people JW fished with and what they caught.  Another sixteen years have flashed by, Watto has enjoyed another well deserved Broadland monster but he’s also been involved in other more unsavoury events whilst on the water, one of which I described on this page at the time as staggering hypocrisy.  I think it’s fair to say that when I recently re-read ‘Progression’ I did so with a more critical mind.

I only intended to read the first, older part of the book as I knew this to be full of great fishing tales featuring my own favourite species, often set in places I know and love.  All of this is still there and I thoroughly enjoyed reading it once more, no doubt I will again.  It’s impossible not to notice the text of this new version has been tweaked in places which is fair enough but it did get me wondering whether all that pompous self-aggrandising was present in the original text?  JW is undoubtedly a very good Piker and in the 1980’s was consistently ahead of the game but he does like to big himself up and we could come away with the impression that he singlehandedly revolutionised Norfolk Piking.  It was also difficult for me to ignore Watto’s highly flexible moral code; now I’m no saint and I’ve done similar things to JW in the past but I won’t try to justify my actions.  The trick is to keep quiet and don’t get caught, at the time JW couldn’t do either consistently.  If other people’s moral codes flex in a different direction we have no right to criticise but that doesn’t stop JW.  The squabbling between the 1980’s Norfolk Pikers was well known at the time too, there were a lot of big egos bouncing around, happily in my experience this is a thing of the past, mostly.  It’s easy to be critical but what I absolutely won’t question is Watto’s honesty as an angler, his catches and the published weights are what he says they are, which as far as an angler’s ethics goes, is most important in my opinion. Despite my niggles, the first section of ‘Progression’ is a really good read and no Piker could fail to pick up inspiration as well as some sound advice along the way.

I hadn’t planned to carry on reading but ended up going through the new part of the book in no time at all because there isn’t much to it really.  This part was pretty much as I remembered it, apart from a few passages the writing doesn’t come close to capturing the attention and imagination in the same way as part one.  On at least three occasions in this newer text Watto criticises Piking practices that he himself previously revelled in, as described by stories in part one.  Maybe he has reasons for these contradictions but if so, these are not shared.  I know my own days of night fishing from a boat won’t go on forever but when I no longer have the motivation, I won’t criticise those who do.  Incidentally this specialised form of Pike fishing has come on a long way since Watto’s days of kipping in the bottom of a boat, trusting the clicker on a multiplier to rouse him.  There are further inconsistencies in attitude around the subject of fishing the ‘out of bounds’ areas which JW continued to do.  I sympathise with his opinion on the rights to fish tidal water but whatever the legality the author still seems to want a rule for himself and another for the rest of us.  For him to fish in these areas, discretely and quietly would as he says cause no harm to man or beast but Watto doesn’t want anyone else benefitting from this interpretation of Magna Carta.  Inevitably JW was caught in the act and implies this could only have been possible if someone had grassed him up.  When a decade after this publication JW was on the receiving end of a ‘guesting situation’ he really should have encouraged his boat partner to keep quiet if he wanted to avoid being labelled a hypocrite. 

What is highly ironic is the popularity of Broadland in current times is very much down to the writing of John Watson and others of his generation who decry the ‘state’ of modern Broadland Piking.  We were inspired by the likes of Watson, Harper, Belsten and Fickling just as they were inspired by Pye, Wright, Vincent and Hancock.  It’s the way of the Piking world nowadays that a book like the original ‘Progress’ could not be written, which is sad in a way.

But what do I know and who cares anyway?  John Watson has passed the age of eighty now and his legacy in this daft pastime of ours is secure.  Few if any honest anglers can match his record of big Broadland Pike and most of us will certainly have learned plenty from his writing over the years.  A great deal of “Piker’s Progression” is as good as Piking writing gets but when Watto gets on his high horse it waters things down and I never did like shandy.  However, I know I’ll continue to read and enjoy the good bits over and over.  I also know that in Norfolk nobody gives a fuck what you do until you catch a couple.

Fifty Years a Fisherman by John Wilson

Another fishing autobiography from another John who parachuted himself into the Norfolk fishing scene and went on to become possibly the most famous British angler of all time?  I enjoyed the early parts of this book; John Wilson’s childhood fishing on local streams and on into early adulthood travelling to East Anglia to fish for Roach.  With his career as a London hairdresser in the sixties and work aboard in exotic climes JW would have us believe he was a bit of a shagger though interestingly, in these tales he constantly refers to himself in the third person as ‘Wilson’, almost as if he’s trying to disassociate himself from such goings on.  Wilson settled in Barbados for a couple of years and the fishy description of this is excellent.

I also enjoyed reading about the author’s eventual settling in Norfolk in the early seventies and the excellent river fishing that was available at the time.  There’s a little bit of Broadland Pike fishing described too but disappointingly no mention of Wilson’s Thurne thirty pounder, come on John FFS!  After that, things tailed off a bit for me, a lot of the fishing is brushed over quickly, without much description and the thrill of the chase is not present.  As a prolific writer maybe he’s told these stories before elsewhere?  The parts talking of Mahseer fishing in India are pretty good though and JW’s love of the place and the fishing shines through.  When Wilson gets political I’m in broad agreement too and I noticed him bemoaning the privatisation of the water industry and the decline of our lowland rivers two decades before it became fashionable.  His description of watching frolicking Otters at some foreign destination was highly ironic with the benefit of hindsight.

As someone who for whom work is just a necessary evil I wasn’t really interested in Wilson’s TV career and the behind the scenes stuff.  I’m only interested in the fishy part and the end result that appeared on our screens was very good although to be honest JW’s giggling used to get on me tits.  But fair play to John Wilson, he was very good at what he done and was driven enough to make a damn good living for himself.  This allowed him fish himself around the world and reside in a nice big house with a lake.  The description of this lake build bored the bollocks off me and the end result the type of fishery I avoid at all costs, ghosties FFS!  Most of the final chapter (I think this bit was added ten years after the original text was published as ‘Forty years…’) deals with Wilson’s globe trotting fishing exploits.  This is interesting enough but I couldn’t help thinking it read like a travel brochure, the writing had something missing.  There’s no attempt to disguise that JW liked a drink but that was never a secret and apparently there are many tales connected to this that didn’t make the book.

I’m always sceptical about autobiographical writing as I think it is rare that any person can look at their own lives objectively, although there are exceptions.  What we usually end up with is an interpretation of events from a single perspective and the end result can often be inaccurate if not dishonest.  That’s not to say I think either of these JW’s are dishonest but I think one of them has edited out the bad bits and the other should come with caveats.  Both books are similar in as much as when they are good, they are very good but both run out of steam before the end.

Still the rain falls

Still the rain falls, the river has barely been within it’s banks over the last week so hasn’t been on my mind.  This week I was due to fish with Mr P, it’s about this time every year that I remind him there’s more to fishing than Carp.  We usually go out in the Suffolk boat but with another miserable sodden day forecast we opted to do the sensible thing and sit under a brolly on the bank somewhere.  There wasn’t much choice for ‘where’ either, it would have to be the Olde Lake.

We set off in the dark and started laughing almost as soon as we were on the road and so the journey passed quickly.  By 0730 we were set up fishing deadbaits with two rods each, squeezed into a gap between reeds, this would mean we’d have to have our wits about us should we need to bring a fish to the net.  The water in front of us sloped from right to left, somewhere that’s always worth a go, indeed I’d caught a few fish here on my last visit.  The water was still high and coloured which is unusual for the lake but I’d done okay in these types of conditions the last time out.  We sat under a low set oval brolly peering out into the gloom, supping tea and having a good yarn.  An hour zipped past in no time at all but I was starting to get a bit twitchy, where were the pike?

At 0850 conversation was interrupted by stabbing float and a fizzing baitrunner, my rod baited with sardine was on the move.  I soon had a fish of seven or eight pounds in the net and we were off the mark.  A take here is often followed by one or two more in quick succession but that was not the case today and we spent the rest of the morning on our backsides putting the world to rights.  By midday we’d had no more action and with a brief spell of brighter weather it was a good time to have a move.  The area I fancied most was just too flooded, we couldn’t get in between the trees so we opted for the next available space.  We managed to squeeze our rods into another tight gap then set up camp on an island of slightly higher ground surrounded by flood puddles in the meadow that is fast becoming a marsh.  The waiting game began again.

An hour passed and as usual I was at the stage when I was beginning to have doubts then at last Mr P had a take on smelt.  We soon had a fish of eight or nine pounds in the net, Mr P was pleased and I was relieved, my Pike finding ability would not be called into question today.  Half an hour later the same rod was away again, a repeat performance with a similar sized fish and Mr P had a second.  At 1415 it was my turn with a take on a smelt I’d hurled out on a leger rig.  This fish swirled on contact then a decent weight kited round to the left, Mr P quickly wound in my other rod and got it out of the way in the nick of time.  I gradually brought the fish back towards me and it felt heavier than a Pike from this lake had any right to.  The fish didn’t want to come in and even took line off the clutch at one point but I soon had it on the top and Mr P scooped it up.  A most pleasant surprise, at 15.04 the biggest Pike I’d had from the Olde Lake for several years and an absolute cracker, fat with fantastic colours.

After that we had a quiet hour but with a couple of fish each we were content,  it was a happy afternoon in which we even saw the sun for a few minutes.  The time passed quickly with conversation and in the gaps the sound of Skylarks came down from up high.  At some point I manged to fall flat on my arse in the puddle but my partner rescued me with a hand before the water seeped through the layers.  Mr P had another take on smelt and added a third Pike which like the others was eight or nine pounds or so.  With the light beginning to fade and more dark clouds coming towards us on the south east wind we decided to wind in and make a break for it.  We got away and onto the roads just before the evening whacky races commenced.

Still raining

Last time I fished with Mr W we took the Suffolk boat out and didn’t get a touch but for some reason we decided to try again, mostly because it’s a bloody nice place to spend your time, even if the fish don’t show up.  We were in position and fishing by 0730 on a gloomy morning that didn’t get a whole lot brighter through the day.  At least being mild with a light breeze we’d be comfortable whatever else happened.  Tactics today were the same as always, to fish deadbaits and keep moving till we found some fish.  I’d brought a lure rod too but it has barely stopped raining in the east and the water was up and as coloured as I’ve ever seen it here.  Not really what I expected or wanted to see.

Despite this, today things went a little more to plan; I had two takes in the first half hour boating two Pike of six pounds or so, one each on smelt and sardine.  After that things went quiet and we commenced an anti clockwise circle of moves that took us through a series of spots that sometimes hold a Pike or two.  At our third stop a smelt cast towards the edge was picked up and this fish had a little more weight to it.  I didn’t weigh it but we agreed between ten and eleven pounds wouldn’t be far off and like most of the Pike in this water it was beautifully coloured.  By the early afternoon our moves were taking us back in the direction of the boatyard and Mr W still hadn’t troubled the scorers.  I had to be off the water by 1600 and time was running out so it was a relief when Mr W’s float wobbled then buried at last.  This fish wanted to have a scrap and we got our hopes up but as is often the case, it shrank near the net but was a little cracker all the same.  It’s always best when both anglers catch and this capped an enjoyable day of chat and laughter.

A final move didn’t bring anything further and soon it was time to head back to base.  The Pike here often appear to show a preference and today three of the four takes came to smelt.  This is slightly skewed as both of us used smelt on one rod but the bait used on 50% of the rods accounted for 75% of the fish.  A couple of years ago, fishing this water in similar conditions lamprey fished on one rod accounted for 80% of the action, today it remained untouched.  These things interest me but I’m still not sure about these apparent bait preferences; do we anglers contribute to a self-fulfilling prophecy?  I can’t believe a Pike will ignore one type of deadbait and take another through preference or taste.  A couple of years ago I wrote in ‘Pikelines’ that I think that one bait will be detected quicker than others due to the conditions on the day.  For this to be correct then preferences should change over the days and weeks and this is certainly the case, the example mentioned above being one of many.  Over the years fishing the Broads I consistently caught Pike on Lamprey, in October 2022 I netted a particularly memorable one on this bait.  Since that day I’ve not caught a Norfolk Pike on Lamprey, not one.  In recent visits I’ve not bothered to use them, lack of confidence leading to a self-fulfilling prophecy?  If there is a lesson from this surprising ramble of thought it is this; always use a variety of deadbaits, every day is different.

With little respite from the rain the rivers were properly flooding, for the first time this winter the fields and meadows were swamped making the river largely unapproachable.  This came at the worst possible time as I had a couple of days off which I’d intended to spend wandering the banks.  I was determined to fish but it would have to be a stillwater and with nothing to lose I found myself paying my first visit to a place that had been on my radar for a while.  The day was wet and windy as usual so for once I set up the oval brolly and sat behind a couple of buzzers.  Between the showers I’d emerge every now and then to twitch a deadbait or recast into another likely looking area.  I’d also brought a lure rod onto which I clipped a sinking lure which I’d cast out and count down to get an idea of depths.  On one occasion my curly tailed jig was followed by a Pike which slowly swum away never to reappear.  I did get a good look at it though and although not a big fish it was impressively barrel shaped, a light bulb moment in my pikey brain.

I blanked on that occasion but got back at the first opportunity, first light on a still, dry day.  This time I fished from the opposite bank with a couple of deadbaits and a lure rod which once again was used for checking depths as much as anything.  I’ve done very little pit fishing in recent years and I was enjoying being back in this once familiar environment. At around 0830 I had a take on a paternostered smelt which I just twitched back.  I wound into a Pike that bent the old Tricast nicely but when it popped up in front of me I thought it looked about seven pounds or so.  However once in the net I could see it was another barrel of a fish and I had to weigh it just to see, sure enough it was just into double figures.  My train of thought now will be obvious to any Piker…  I fished till midday but didn’t add to the score but once again thoroughly enjoyed myself and who knows what the future holds?

Up and then down again

 

There’s been plenty of rain lately and consequently plenty of water in the rivers, levels going up and down.  I may loathe government but the river gauges found on the .gov.co.uk website are bloody useful, how did we ever get on without them?  I can be at home yet have a good idea of how the river is looking at that moment and make a decision on what to do, when the river is carrying extra water it makes me feel like trying to catch Chub for a change.  

The day was ‘orrible, gloomy with a fresh south easterly whipping light rain in squalls, visibility was bad on the A roads but I was in no hurry and it was past 1030 before I parked the car.  I had a half mile hike that was slippery under foot in places before I was able to put a brolly up and start fishing.  I’d chosen the swim where I’d had a fish before Christmas and today it looked even better with a large raft of debris lodged against the fallen tree.  I fished with a feeder rig using a meaty groundbait as well as a meaty hookbait hair rigged on a size 8.  I’d also chucked a couple of slices of bread in the bag for an alternative.

I felt confident in this swim, so confident I stayed put for ninety minutes without any sign of a bite.  I felt totally content watching flocks of Fieldfare fly across the sodden meadows as well as Long Tailed Tits who used my rod and net handle as perches on their progression down river.  But by 1230 the weather was a bit more comfortable and I was more than ready for a move.  I spent half an hour fishing a gap between trees and another thirty minutes fishing a bait back upstream to an overhanging tree that was hidden behind thick reeds, so easy to walk straight past as I must have done a few times in the past.  By 1330 I was fishing just above a long bend, dropping my feeder a couple of yards short of a semi sunken tree.  It looked Chubby and snaggy so I’d have to bully anything I hooked but by this point my confidence was gone and I didn’t believe this would be an issue.  Then bugger me after fifteen minutes the tip pulled sharply round and I was attached to a fish which was thumping around a bit.  I couldn’t give an inch and didn’t, therefore the Chub didn’t find any snags.  Once pulled out of its sanctuary it gave up pretty quickly and I had it in the net, at which point I realised it was a decent fish too.  I let it rest in the margin while I got the scales ready and wet the sling.  I also attached my self-take clamp thing to the chair as this was more welcome photography practice and by God I need it.  It doesn’t look what it weighed!

I stayed put in this swim for a while longer but after half an hour without a pull it was time for another move.  I settled into a gap amidst what was effectively a tunnel of reeds and swung a bait along the near side.  Fifteen minutes here brought nothing so I lobbed the feeder across the river and within a few minutes the tip was twitching.  This continued, sporadic rattles that had me poised uncomfortably on the edge of the chair, of course these stopped until the second I settled back comfortably again.  After about twenty minutes of this I had a proper bite and hooked a second Chub which moved quickly downstream, swinging round with the line.  It then allowed me to lead it back upstream then after a bit of plodding it rolled over the net.  Another good ‘un, smaller than the first but a nicer looking fish.  I stayed put a while longer here and had a few more fishy movements on the tip but no proper bites. 

With daylight fading quickly I realised the roads would be going mad again soon, so packed up in a hurry.  I’d really enjoyed the afternoon, for most of my life the colder months have been spent Pike fishing exclusively so mixing it up is refreshing.  It struck me that most of the fishing I enjoy these days is very similar, apart from when I’m out in the boat, pretty much all of my fishing is within forty five minutes of home. It’s relatively simple fishing; I travel light, find myself some space and solitude then try to catch the most interesting fish available which usually means rod tips pointing upwards.  I’m unlikely to catch anything big enough to raise any eyebrows other than my own and not a fuck do I give.

The days passed, most of them grey and wet.  The river rose significantly, plateaued then started to fall again which coincided with me having some time off.  I fancied another go for Chub, the where and the how didn’t need much thought, same again thank you very much.  The conditions seemed good, dull and gloomy with barely a breath of wind, I was keen enough to get to the water a bit earlier this time.  The river was up a bit since I’d last fished but I knew it was falling and it looked good to me.  The current was a fair bit stronger too but it took me a while to realise this.  I wandered downstream but as I crept through the start of the interesting water I noticed another angler further down.  I slowed my walk to a standstill beside a swim with an interesting upstream cast and started fishing here at just after 0900.

Half an hour later I was settling into another swim, one I’d caught from last time so I felt confident but I spent a fishless hour here.  Swim three was the other one that was home to a fish on my last visit and I did manage a bite, a fast rap that I’d never hit in a million years but that was my lot.  I tried three more swims, two of which I’d not fished before but nothing fishy happened.  By the time I was tidying up I’d come to the conclusion that I should have paid more attention to the slacker water but this realisation came a little too late.  I still have loads to learn about this Chub fishing lark, I’ve been able to catch a fish or two but I’m far from consistent.  This kind of fishing is tricky and interesting, it’s my cuppa tea.

Stubborn

 

The beginning of January brought a week of frosty nights and day time temperatures that got lower by the day until they barely nudged above freezing.  This came to a head on Monday morning when I woke to find a load of snow had been dumped on us, I hate snow.  However a couple of days later cloud and rain brought slightly less arctic conditions and an opportunity to fish.  I didn’t get up early, instead I had a leisurely breakfast and waited for the worst of the traffic to disperse.  I didn’t fancy single lanes or farm tracks so played safe for a change and parked up at my least favourite stretch on the river.  I generally catch here and the reason I don’t favour it so much, is it is too close to civilisation meaning I sometimes have to interact with other humans.

The morning was cool and bright with the sun playing hide and seek behind clouds which were travelling fast on the fresh westerly wind.  I walked a way upstream with the usual plan of working my way back down and was set up by 1030.  Nothing happened in the first spot and it looked like going the same way in the second but just as I was starting to tidy up a sardine swung downstream was picked up.  I hooked a Pike without any weight that did nothing bar splash around a bit before I lifted it out of the margins.  This was soon back in the river and I decided to move on anyway.  I fished two more spots, one familiar and the other a swim I’d not yet tried, which like so much of this river looked spot on.  No more fish took pity on me today and I was heading home in the early afternoon.

A week of rain passed and with the river over its banks I made plans for a visit to the olde lake for a change.  As I was making an effort it seemed sensible to get up at a half decent hour and get to the water for first light.  I should have a much more straight forward drive for a change and I’d miss the rush hour for once. I was on the road by 0630 but only a couple of miles into my journey the electronic signs flashed up telling me a section of the road was closed.  No worries, I know the back roads pretty well so diverted through the countryside.  I should have known better, when there’s trouble on the eastern A roads the chaos just spreads down the lanes like a flood.

All was going well until I was just a few miles away from the water when it became apparent that a lot of other traffic had made the same diversion as me.  That shouldn’t have been so bad but bloody great lorries on country lanes that are single track in places doesn’t work, especially with traffic trying to come the other way.  Everything just ground to a halt and I didn’t move an inch in forty five minutes.  There was no point in turning round, the time for that was when I’d first seen the sign, by now it would be the same story in every direction so I patiently and stubbornly stuck to the plan.  Somehow an ambulance managed to squeeze through from the other direction and after this, things started to move again but it still took ages to get anywhere.  Finally I was able to turn off the clogged road and make my way through even narrower lanes and a few minutes later I’d parked the car by the lake.

The previous day had been mild with a deluge but the night had been clear and the temperature dropped low enough to stiffen the grass and leave a bit of ice in the edge.  Recent rainfall had coloured the lake slightly and raised the level meaning I had to wade through flooded grass to higher ground at the edge.  I set up in a deeper area, punched a half lamprey out on a leger rig as well as chucking a smelt and sardine out on float legers.  My plan was to recast these two regularly and so search the swim, after all this the time was 0930 so it was a relief to settle into my chair and pour a brew.  I wasn’t even half way through the cuppa when a float sunk as something made its way off with a sardine and I happily bent into a fish.  I was even more pleased to pull a Pike of seven pounds or so over the net, my stubbornness – probably my best angling attribute – had been rewarded.  The big puddle in front of me was the ideal place to unhook the fish, it barely came out of the water.  After recasting a fresh sardine I sat back to finish my tea and relax in the brightly lit East Anglian countryside.

An hour passed and I was starting to think about making a move when the other float wobbled then lay flat, this time it was a smelt cast to the bottom of a slope into deeper water.  This fish felt a bit bigger but shrunk in front of the net and was actually a bit smaller.  After a frustrating journey it was good to get a couple of fish and sitting in the sun was more pleasant than it ought to be in January.  I tried to watch the birds but my eyes aren’t good enough to recognise most of the smaller flying things but a Buzzard was easy to spot as was a Sparrowhawk a while later.

I’d been sitting here a while and was once more pondering a move when at just after 1100 the sardine went again and I wound in another, similar sized Pike.  I’d barely got this rod back on the rest when the smelt was away again and a few minutes later my fourth fish of the day was in the net, I certainly hadn’t expected this when I set off and it seemed even more remote when I was stuck in traffic.  Fifteen minutes later the smelt was picked up again and this fish did have a little more strength to it but still wasn’t as big as I thought it might be though the best of the day.

I sat it out for another hour which passed quickly and quietly, itchy feet got the better of me I couldn’t stay in one place any longer, it was time for a move. I tidied up and walked back along the bank in the direction of the car.  I ended up setting up again in a swim with nice overhanging trees which looked pikey.  Time passed quickly but not because it was all action, in fact nothing stirred at all but I was content with my lot.  I started to pack up around 1430, the sun was dipping and the temperature dropping quickly.  I tidied up all the odds and sods that had somehow circled my chair then looked up to see a float dip once more.  I wound down quickly, pulled the rod round and felt a head shake for a second or two before it came off, oh well.  By 1500 I was back in the car knowing I’d have to divert again but this time the biggest obstruction was caused by bad parking outside a rural primary school.  My journey home was slow, all roads still busy but still a massive improvement on the morning.

Wandering

Absolutely the best thing about this time of year is my favourite people come visiting but the one minor downside of this is it means I’m house bound when otherwise I might be sneaking out with rods. However I did manage to get back to the river one morning for a couple of hours but I failed to catch any Chub.  Then a week later, in the lull before the final beer storm I dragged myself out of a warm bed, loaded the car with Pike tackle and drove back to the same stretch again.  As usual I walked a long way downstream and this time set up above a bend where I’d caught a couple of fish a fortnight ago and was fishing by 0920.  I used the same set ups as always, inline float legers with a smelt on one and a sardine on another.  The river was low and clear and the day cool, still and bright.

The first spot didn’t produce anything this time but in my second swim a sardine dropped just above a raft of debris brought a take resulting in a lovely fish of twelve pounds, my best from the river so far this season.  I'm still trying to suss out self-takes on the phone but I'll never get anywhere unless i practice and this seemed a good opportunity.  I followed the normal procedure of moving every half hour or so, fishing my way through areas that look perfect without result.  On other days I’m sure I’ll find fish here.  

It was nice to enjoy some rare December sunshine, a Robin kept me company for a while and I saw Fieldfares for the first time this winter.  I wasn’t as impressed by the Swans chasing and fighting their way up and down though.  By 1330 I was in my sixth swim, actually one I’ve failed in before but on this occasion the sardine was taken after fifteen minutes.  I hooked another nice fish which didn’t want to come out of the river but in the end had no choice.  This was another double, a bit smaller than the first.  I had one more move back up to a bend near the car but half an hour here didn’t stir any fish.

The following day I was out on the river again, a shorter walk this time but through uncomfortable ground.  Once I’d picked a path along half a mile of featureless water I reached the perfect pool.  This spot has everything a classic river swim should have and more but so far it lacks the vital ingredient as two previous visits hadn’t brought a bite.  Today I used the methods that seem to work elsewhere on the river but a couple of hours on a clear cold day didn’t produce anything and I still haven’t caught anything from the perfect pool.

Once the New year is upon us the 'back end' of the fishing season seems to slip away quickly, those ten weeks will pass in no time. I enjoy the simple, wandering style of fishing whether its for Pike or Chub but it is only possible in winter conditions so I better appreciate it while I can.