Trying to find Ray

Another week passed by, it’s properly spring now, the first leaves on the beech hedge broke out earlier than ever before out and a few warm days followed, one of which saw me heading to the coast hoping for Rays again.  High tide was due in mid afternoon and I made my plans to fish a popular beach that can fish well at all states of the tide.  I arrived around 1400 to find a lot of people had the same idea as me, I should have known better.  My antisocial self-took over, I returned to the car and made my way to another spot I knew would be quiet but if I’d stopped and thought about it for a minute, I’d have realised the state of the tide wasn’t so good here.  Also, although I’ve done spectacularly well at this beach on a few occasions it’s always been later in the year, never this early.

None of this had entered my head as I stood looking down at a fairly flat and inviting sea, there was barely a breath of wind and it did look good for a Ray.  I fished one rod long and the other mostly close with baits out of freezer and started off fishing with confidence.  I had a couple of rattles on the tips around high tide but these didn’t develop, still I was sure something would happen eventually.  As time passed this began to feel unlikely.  I stayed on hoping that the onset of darkness would change my luck but not even that worked for me this evening and I gave it up soon after.  Having started off feeling confident of a Ray, I tramped back to the car knowing I’d got it totally wrong tonight.

A few days passed and forty eight hours before my next planned visit to the beach things had looked spot on, high tide due at about 2230 and there should be little or no wind.  A day later the forecast had been revised and I could expect a ten to fifteen mile wind blowing into my face which is never ideal.  I could go fishing or I could stay at home, no decision really but I felt just the one beach would be suitable with the time I had available.  I left home in mid afternoon knowing full well what to expect when I got to the beach but hoping for something different, they don’t always get it right do they?  When I broke through the scrub and onto the shingle I stood for a couple of minutes watching the waves roll in, knowing my chances of catching a Ray weren’t great.  I tried to be positive; the wind often drops away with at dusk, maybe things would settle down.

I set up with two pulley rigs and blasted a couple of big baits out then got the shelter up as quickly as I could.  The wind was a chiller and it’s always five degrees cooler on the beach.  One of my rods was rattling within minutes and I wound in to find a little Turbot had managed to get a whole squid in its gob.  I don’t catch many flatties of any kind so I always enjoy the novelty.  For the rest of the evening I had bites on almost every cast, it didn’t matter what I used as bait or how far I chucked it, the bite was just a matter of time.  I dragged six decent size Dogfish and two Whiting up the beach which is all good fun but these aren’t the fish that motivate me any time of year and I could have predicted this before I left home.

Everything came to an abrupt end an hour before high tide as there were loads of big lumps of weed being carried in on the flood tide.   I’m not sure what it was but after a little look on Google I think it might have been bladderwrack.  First one rod was wiped out by a drifting raft of weed which took an age to clear and before I’d even managed it the second rod was taken out too.  I didn’t bother to recast after that just packed away the rest of the gear and hiked back to the car park.

I wasn’t planning to fish again quite so soon but a few days later I had some time off again, this coincided with an even later tide and crucially there was a light off shore breeze.  In theory everything should be perfect for a Ray, I simply couldn’t resist testing this.  High tide was due around 0130 so I finished work and had a leisurely couple of hours before loading up and heading across the green heart of the county.  I parked up and when I got out of the car I felt the breeze which gave me a few seconds pause but I expected to be sheltered from this by the time I’d hiked to my destination.  When I reached the top of the beach I could see that the sea was flat and the waves were small, it looked perfect.

I was set up with two rods on the tripod by 1915, I used two identical pulley rigs baited with squid or large strips of mackerel.  One of these rods I whacked as far as I could every cast but the other was fished at all distances.  To begin with I fished both baits at long range, my thinking was any fish would be way out because I was fishing a shallow beach, just half an hour into the flood.  Even so I didn’t expect anything much to happen this early but on the first cast one of the rods started banging and I found myself trying to haul something heavy towards me.  It was a Ray of a couple of pounds or so, not a monster but the species I set out to catch which gave me a sense of satisfaction.  Every time we fish, we learn a little more; having started sea fishing with no idea at all, in time I learned which areas fished best for which species and now I’m learning when to fish and just as important, when not to bother.  This last lesson had been reinforced on my previous visit!

The hour or so of daylight passed without any more fish but constant attention to the baits, easily seen on the rod tips which were unaffected by wind or tide.  I somehow missed a decent bite at dusk but it was 2115 before I hooked another fish and this was another good ‘un hooked on a shorter cast.  This was another Ray, twice the size of the first and like the big one I caught earlier in the spring it tried to bury itself in the sand.  Unlike that fish I managed to move this one and soon had it in.  On the beach it arched it’s back and extended its tail which made it seem really angry.  I’ve seen a few Rays do this, I expect it’s some kind of defensive posture but it actually looks really aggressive, perhaps that’s the point.

For the next three hours I had constant action on both rods.  It didn’t matter how far I cast or what bait I used, a bite would come.  I caught a couple of Whiting but most of the fish were Dogfish, some of which were as small a Doggy as I’d ever seen.  I also caught two more small Rays, one of these gave me a spectacular bite, banging the tip over then slackening off.  In my mind I always think these bites will lead to a big fish but unfortunately that was not the case.  There’s a lot to be said for this kind of all action fishing but to be honest it’s all a bit much for me.  I like to just sit on my backside and do nothing for a while but there wasn’t a chance tonight.  Also when there are loads of Dogs about there’s less chance my bait will be unmolested for long enough for a Ray to find it.

I packed up just after midnight, high tide was still an hour or so away but by this time I was knackered and virtually out of bait.  I still had a little bit of mackerel left which I could have eked out but I’d had enough and my bed was still an hour away.  I had a tired drive home with the stereo turned up but i'd got it right tonight.

Reminders

When the Pike season ends my fishing becomes much more leisurely, mostly.  I rarely need an alarm clock and I’m no longer behind the wheel racing the dawn.  I look at the tide times and weather forecast then pick a beach that I think should be suitable in the conditions and off I go.  I mostly avoid the A roads too and almost enjoy the cross country drive.  At this time of year my eyes are drawn to the new yellow and white blossom and the fresh sprays of green in the hedgerows.  But on this occasion my eyes couldn’t avoid the massive houses that are sprinkled through the green parts of Suffolk and my cynical mind wants to know who owns these places?  How long have they lived there?  Is it home or just the weekend retreat?  Many people are paranoid about foreign migrants, I’m more concerned about the parasitic ones escaping the capital and they’re not from abroad.  My mood wasn’t improved by closed roads and lengthy diversions through less familiar countryside.  I suppose it’s normal for spring; after the winter wear and tear the rural roads need a patch up, in twelve months time they’ll probably be filling the same holes again.

I arrived eventually and found myself emerging into a grey blustery morning, the thick clouds were being propelled out to sea on the fresh south westerly.  I picked this beach because I knew this wind should be mostly on my back, it was strong enough that I broke normal procedure and erected the shelter before anything else.  By 1030 I had two rods nodding on the tripod, I fished the same way I always do with a whole squid punched out on the heavy rod and smaller baits on a leger rig with a long hooklength.  Now all I had to do is relax and let all that grumpy shit go.  The rod tips were wobbling a bit in the wind but high tide was still a few hours away so the waves were small and spotting a bite shouldn’t be the lottery that it can sometimes be.  Today I was hoping to catch a Ray but as it was my first go off the beach for six months I’d settle for anything.

An hour passed quickly before I had my first fishy rod wobble of the season, this didn’t develop but when I checked it a few minutes later there was something attached and I wound in a tiny Dab which had attempted to eat a whole squid.  How does such a small fish, so far off the beach, register a proper bite on a stiff, glass fibre rod tip?  It makes me think, not for the first time, about how over-engineered freshwater bite indication has become.  Yes, buzzers and bobbins do have their place but these set ups are only really necessary when the angler cannot see his rods, for whatever reason be it darkness or distraction.  The more fishing I do with tips pointed in the air, the more I think it really is the way to go for most species in most conditions.  Anglers have become conditioned to use electronic audible indicators and are now being steered towards the “precision” offered by bait boats.  There’s only one winner from these modern trends and it isn’t the angler.  Also, if you are using a baitboat to fish within comfortable casting range you are not an angler.  There I said it.

Nowadays I go beach fishing to avoid all that bullshit and back at the beach after an hour of inactivity the wind was picking up and rattling the shelter while the waves were getting bigger and louder.  I was reminded that although sea fishing is peaceful it is very rarely quiet, also the environment itself is harsh.  Even on a relatively mild day, if it wasn’t for the shelter I’d be uncomfortable and I probably wouldn’t stay too long.  Another familiar feeling returned; like most forms of fishing there are long periods where nothing at all happens and when I’m on the beach, staring out at the endless grey mass I end up getting the feeling that I’m never, ever going to get another bite.  I soon reminded myself that I almost always get this feeling but it only takes one indication on a rod tip to blow it away.

As is often the case at this location, things started to happen around ninety minutes before high tide.  The first action was a proper thump then slack line on the heavy rod, I was on my feet at geriatric speed and wound down into a solid weight that was an effort to pump back towards me.  The fish pulled back a bit too which was promising but as it neared the surf the resistance disappeared, whatever had been on the end had slipped the hooks.  As high tide got closer so the waves got bigger and louder, with the wind also picking up the rod tips were wobbling permanently.  Another reminder, when it’s like this I might not see ‘normal bites’, as much as anything I’m looking for a movement that is just different, a break in the rhythm of the rods.  I was seeing this kind of thing on just about every cast now and at 1445, bang on high tide, I hooked another fish which was my first Doggy of the year.  These are always a bit of an anti climax as they are usually bigger than the Whiting that are still around in spring and they pull back a bit, often making me wonder if I’ve hooked a small Ray.  Dogfish are cool creatures in their own right though but because they are so numerous they don’t raise the interest levels too much.

Half an hour later the lighter rod tip done something different and I winched in my first Whiting of the year which I might have used for livebait on another day.  The tide was ebbing now and although I felt there were fish about still, in truth I was knackered.  Another sea fishing reminder; there always comes a point when I’ve had enough and unlike freshwater fishing, when that moment comes I don’t hesitate I pack up.  A large Seal popped its head out and looked mournfully towards shore which seemed to endorse my decision.  By 1545 I had the rucksack mostly packed, the shelter and tripod were down and I had one rod leaning against the back of my chair.  When I came to wind it in there was a bit of weight on the end which turned out to be a bigger than average Whiting which at 36cm was actually the biggest I’ve caught.  I can’t get too excited about a PB Whiting but if I’m going to catch them then they might as well be big ones!

I was back in the car by 1600, out of the wind and away from the crash of the waves, hoping to get home before the evening wacky races started.  If my outward journey was frustrating then the drive home was just farce, two closed roads and three sets of roadworks.  The last of these involved three way traffic lights and a thirty minute queue before I came to two sheepish looking blokes in high viz cutting a fucking hedge!  Only in East Anglia.  A journey that normally takes forty minutes stretched into almost two hours, at least I’d renewed the selection of CD’s in the car but with one ironic choice.

A few days later…  An early finish at work and a quick turnaround gave me plenty of time to get to the beach before darkness.  With high tide due just before 2000 I would be able to fish a couple of hours either side.  There was no travel frustration today and I made it to the coast without a hitch.  I fished the same area as last time and crunched across shingle to find a row of anglers spread along the bay and remembered why I rarely fish here on a Saturday.  Still there was plenty of space and I was set up by about 1720, this time fishing two heavy rods rigged up with pulleys.  I was hoping for a Ray so had decided to go big or go home; baits would be squid, large strips of Mackerel or frozen black lug wrapped in squid.  I knew these baits wouldn’t be exactly selective but may stay in place long enough for a ray to find them.

The evening was clear and dry but cool with a moderate westerly wind.  This area is sheltered so it was comfortable enough and they waves remained small all evening.  I had my first bite after half an hour, it was a Whiting but a good sized one that had managed to get a big lump of mackerel into its gob.  It seemed to get dark quickly and I realised I’d left a light at home, fishing after dark was bringing a load more reminders.  I had a quiet hour with baits coming back from a long soak looking barely touched but as high tide grew closer so things started to happen.  My baits were getting fishy attention on almost every cast but I had few proper bites.  I guessed this indicated there were plenty of Whiting about; many wouldn’t be able to get my baits in their mouths but a few were bound to hook themselves.

I’ve caught a few Rays around high tide from this beach and the relatively flat sea looked ideal but nothing flat, brown and thorny turned up tonight.  As the sea started to retreat so the Whiting activity increased, frustrating rattles that stopped before I could get to the rod.  But by the time I’d had enough, just before 2200 I’d managed to catch five Whiting, most of which would have been keepers, as well as one angry dogfish.  Two trips into the spring and I can just about remember what I’m supposed to be doing and hopefully in the weeks to come I’ll find the fish I’m after.

 

My next day off fell just right, high tide was due a few minutes after midnight following a mild day, the wind was forecast to drop away to the barest breeze.  These things combined amounted to perfect conditions for catching Rays at my favourite beach and too good an opportunity to miss.  Like all anglers I’ve failed spectacularly in “perfect conditions” many times but I left home in the late afternoon full of confidence.  The journey was surprisingly smooth, despite plunging into rush hour which barely affected the roads I travelled on, in the direction I was heading at least.  I made it to a quiet car park in good time, loaded up and went for a hike and arrived to find an empty beach. The conditions were as forecast, the sea was flat but a long way away at the bottom of the gentle sloping beach, small waves rolled over, everything looked spot on, almost too perfect? 

It had been six months since my last visit to this beach and it had changed considerably since last year.  Normally I expected to be fishing over a mix of sand and shingle but today it was pretty much all sand.  Based on previous years this will have changed again by the end of the summer.  I try to avoid setting up on sand if I can so positioned myself on a narrow, flat strip of shingle at the very top of the beach.  A big tide will reach all the way up here and with no recent memory I wasn’t sure how far tonight’s biggish tide would reach so opted for caution.  This meant a walk of about two cricket pitches to reach the water to begin with but I’d avoid getting everything full of/covered in sand.

Tonight it was all about Rays, I wasn’t interested in Whiting or Dogs although I knew I wouldn’t be able to avoid them.  Even so I used two heavy set ups with pulley rigs and big baits, mostly squid but also large mackerel strips, frozen black lug and combinations of all three.  I made my first casts just after 1800 then as I always do, I sat back with a cuppa and enjoyed the sights and sounds of the wild environment.  I didn’t sit back for long, my left hand rod baited with whole squid on a pennell was banging already, taps and rattles that stopped then started then stopped until I struck out of frustration and wound in a small Whiting.  A few minutes later the other rod banged over nicely and I found myself attached to something heavy at long range.  I slowly gained line and pumped it back close to the shore before there was a thump and whatever was on the end was attached no longer.  I’ll never know what it was but it had all the characteristics of a Ray.  This didn’t disappoint me too much as I was confident there would be more as the flood gathered pace.

This was the pattern for the rest of the evening, just about every cast brought activity of some kind and with small waves and no wind the taps and quivers were easy to see.  I was on the go all the time; baiting up, casting and winding in, walking up and down the sandy slope which shrunk as the night went on.  Time passed, I barely noticed the onset of darkness, I was just aware I needed the tip lights then I was busy getting two more rigs loaded whilst glancing up at the rod tips every other second.  By 2130 I’d caught four Whiting and five Dogfish, two of which came in together, one on each hook of a pennell rig.  Despite the busy fishing I was becoming frustrated, I really expected to have caught a Ray by this stage of the tide.  It dawned on me that by fishing identical methods on both rods I was effectively fishing both baits at the same sort of distance.  I probably catch most rays at this beach by whacking a bait out as far as I can, most by not all, so my next cast on the right hand rod was dropped in quite close. 

Then the distance rod heaved over, a bite that just meant ‘Ray’ here we go… no another Whiting!  That rod was barely recast when the over rod dropped in close was banging away nicely but somehow I missed it!  Another recollection from previous seasons, I somehow miss a lot of these bites when it looks like the fish has already hooked itself.  By now it was 2200, high tide was still a couple of hours away but the prime time for a Ray was running out fast.  But it only takes a second and a few minutes later the close range rod signalled a solid thump on the tip and I wound into something substantial which thumped and throbbed but couldn’t prevent itself being hauled back up the beach.  There it was, my first Ray of the season, not a particularly big one but any Ray is a good fish and I was well chuffed, mission accomplished.

With the fish back in the drink I got a fresh bait back out after it, dropped in close again then sat back with a grin and a small sense achievement.  Then bugger me the same rod banged hard once and the line fell slack.  I scrambled to my feet and quickly wound down to find myself attached to a solid weight that didn’t want to move.  I wondered if I was snagged but no that couldn’t be.  Steady pressure got things moving very slowly, inch by inch I kept the thing moving.  Through the rod I could feel a weird throbbing sensation and the tip would thump again, then back to the tug of war.  It was obviously a good sized Ray and was close in so I expect to catch a glimpse any second, then it all went solid again and wouldn’t move.  I wound down and heaved but nothing gave, so I wound and allowed myself to be pulled towards the fish/snag.  Then with a retreating wave my head torch revealed the Ray had buried itself into the sand, high and dry until it was covered by the next wave.  I put the rod down and followed the line for a few feet, when the sea sloshed back again I picked it up, fish sand and all.  I very quickly remembered they’re called Thornbacks for a reason so this wasn’t a particularly sensible thing to do. It cost me a little blood but I wasn’t going to let that fish get away.  A bloody big Ray it was too!

Somehow I got fish and tackle all the way back up onto the shingle, the hook came out easily and the fish looked huge to me.  I bundled it into a weigh sling, the thorny back helped keep it there, this must be close to a PB?  The little digital scales were still in another bag but the emergency spring balance pulled down to just over eight pounds, my second best Thornback!  It would have been nice to get a trophy shot but in the circumstances a self take photo seemed a lot of hassle so after a couple of quick shots I bundled it back into the sling and carried it back to the water.  It flapped its wings and slid off into the dark, as did I, albeit in the other direction.

Nothing was going to better that fish but I carried on later than I’d intended, right up until high tide, I may have stayed even later but by midnight I’d actually run out of squid.  I lost a fish at range which might have been another Ray and managed to catch a couple more Dogfish plus another Whiting.  I think I landed fifteen fish in total, for once things went as I’d hoped, the fish had read the script.  Driving home my tired eyes were kept on alert, animals of all kinds were active along the country roads; several Deer, hundreds of Rabbits, a rat and others too quick to identify.  Then there were patches of fog which slowed me to a crawl at times but these grew fewer further inland.  I arrived home knackered and it was good to crawl into bed after all of that, another feeling that will become familiar over the next few weeks.

Back end

 Through the ‘back end’ most of my Pikey energy had been directed north and I managed to spend a few days on the Broads.  I mostly fished in comfortable conditions, caught a few nice fish and had a thoroughly enjoyable time but it is hard work!  

With the rivers now closed my season is all but over but as usual I had one last trip out in the Suffolk boat with Mr T.  Like the preceding days it was dry, bright and mild and if they hadn’t already spawned it had to be on the cards?  We found fish straight away but suffered a series of dropped takes and bumped fish which is not unusual at this time of year.  I managed to get one almost to the boat before it rolled and threw the herring back at me.  After that it went quiet and it threatened to be ‘one of those days’.

We kept trying and repositioned the boat regularly but this did nothing to improve our luck, I began to wonder if the Pike were sex obsessed?  Things improved later in the day with a series of more confident takes which saw Mr T manage to bring four fish to the boat, the biggest around thirteen pounds and all would have weighed a bit more this time last week.  With time running out my herring was picked up again at last and I managed to keep this one on the hooks, a nice fish of not quite twelve was my last of the season. 

And what a twelve months it has been!  Hundreds of fish of eighteen different species; Pike to 25+ and PB’s for three other species; Smoothound, Barbel and Chub, probably my favourites after Pike. I’ll do well to repeat that any time soon but I’ll certainly try and as long as I keep enjoying myself it matters not.  Now it’s time to have a little break (or will I?), reorganise the tackle shed and get geared up for a few months of saltwater fishing.

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?