Local?

‘You must stay local’.  Define local?  Are we talking a mile, a couple of miles?  What?  Does anyone know or is this yet another deliberately vague instruction from an incompetent government?  I suppose it depends who you are really; I mean there are some in London who consider Durham to be local, anyway…

Another murky day in January and I had the urge but where do I go? I have to stay local of course which seriously cuts down my options unless I decide to fish for carp on a crowded puddle, nah.  So it’s the river then and by 0830 I was walking downstream, following the stream home, something I’ve done several times in the last year or so.  Today I took a float rod and some maggots, stopping here and there and running a stick float downstream.  The river looked idyllic in places with ethereal light and snow still clinging on in patches, if only the float would bury every now and then…  It never did, not once and the closer to home I got the lower my confidence dropped and the less persistent I became.  Angling is all about finding the fish, the truth is I just don’t know this stretch well enough and I’m not sure I can be arsed to learn more?  But the birds were active and it was nice to see an Egret though they can’t be considered rare anymore.

At the town end of the stretch is a series of pools and falls which were never as promising as they look but still it was annoying when homemade ‘No Fishing’ signs started appearing.  An acquaintance delights in removing these signs at every opportunity stating that whoever puts them there has no legal right to do so and I believe this assertion is correct.  I noticed today that far more permanent signs had appeared but they are still obviously homemade and will only be seen as a challenge.  Today I couldn’t resist dropping a float in, screw the signs and bollocks to whoever puts them there.  My attempt as bait didn’t lure he/she out on a cold January day.

I wasn’t satisfied, still had the urge and the forecast was looking good, the mildest day for a week and it was actually going to stay dry. ‘Fuck it I’m going fishing…’ 

I can’t say the day dawned because it was another one typical for January, sometimes if up early enough we get a quick glimpse of the big fireball before it slips under its blanket of murk but not today.  I stretched ‘local’ a little more today so found myself sitting in the Suffolk boat which is probably far enough from home to get me into trouble but still not as far as I drive to work.  On the journey and in the boat I didn’t come close to another person but at work I’m the regulation two metres from others.  We are the herd, our mental or physical wellbeing counts for fuck all, just keep the flow of money pouring into the very deep Armani pockets.  Anyone would think I had a chip on my shoulder?

Where was I?  Sitting in a boat on a remote stretch of slowly meandering water peering through the murk at three orange topped floats willing one of them to slide away…  It didn’t take long, I looked at the one closest to the boat and done a double take, it was moving ever so slowly but definitely on the go.  I wound down and the rod stayed bent for just long enough to make me wonder if…  But no the fish couldn’t maintain itself against the pressure and I soon had a Jack alongside the boat where I was able to unhook it with no bother.  The bait was gone and I couldn’t remember if it had been a smelt or a joey but as a pale green cucumbery thing was handy out it went.  Half an hour later another float was bobbing, this one definitely had a herring beneath it but by the time I wound down the fish had dropped it.  I gave it half an hour longer but nothing else happened, time for a move.

My next stop was way downstream, a shit or bust area which is inconsistent at best so I don’t visit it as often as I might.  Today I had a Jack on Herring after twenty minutes so settled back with confidence that proved unfounded.  A Buzzard flew close by and Blue Tits skipped through the bushes, the morning was mild and pleasant, nice to be out in the countryside.  After an uneventful hour I started making my way back upstream, stopping here and there, trolling in between but not finding anything interested in a lump of dead fish.  At 1115 I stopped at a spot which usually produces, chucked the baits out and settled back to demolish what was left of my food, washing it all down with a brew.  The light was changing, you could never call it bright but there was a definite lightening of the gloom, enough to make me dig the shades out to ease tired eyes.

With noon approaching and nothing doing I realised I was bored, should I have another move or just clear off?  Then all thoughts were banished as my eyes were drawn to the furthest float, the herring was definitely on the move so I wound down quickly and this time the rod bent over and stayed.  There felt like a bit of weight on the end and this was confirmed when a kick and a surge saw line pulled from a tight clutch.  Mid winter Pike rarely pull your arms off and this one plodded about before popping up beside the boat and revealing itself to be a nice long fish.  No fucking about now, I scooped it up in the net at the first opportunity.  The hooks came out easily and it was apparent I’d need scales and a camera for this one which turned out to be the best I’ve had from my home county for nearly five years.

I sat back again with a big smile and another brew, this was most unexpected as fish this size are seldom seen in these parts nowadays.  I should have felt full of enthusiasm but a nagging voice in my head was saying I’d used up all my luck and was unlikely to catch anything to better this one.  I want to be in Norfolk, that’s the trouble.  I feel like I should be there and nowhere else but in reality I might not get there again this season.  I stuck it out for another hour but by this time my interest had evaporated so I trolled my way back to base without incident.  Shortly after I was driving home along roads that were packed with crawling traffic, fucking lockdown hey?

I had planned another proper local trip to the river but it rained and then it rained.  Once again the level rose and the water burst into the fields and in some places the streets which put paid to any plans I might have had.  For some reason I find these floods fascinating, the power of water goes mostly unnoticed and I couldn’t resist putting on my boots for a walk and a wade, the gentle stream had become a dangerous torrent.  It will be interesting to see how much has changed when it all calms down again and it’s likely that’s what I’ll be doing the next time I wet a line.  But what I really want to do is get afloat in Norfolk…