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.