No coffee

The swim above the bridge, complete with rope swing

Sometimes you need to know exactly where you're going - and why - in order to relax and really enjoy it. For example, when I thought about returning to the river in Surrey I started to get antsy, thinking about the slog to the bank, then hacking down through the undergrowth. But when I realised I could fish elsewhere instead (hey, it's OK) everything breathed out and fell into place.

To the bridge then, and a short walk upstream. I haven't fished here for two or three years and the character of the swim has changed in all sorts of ways. Some - like the little platform and the tree swing - are obvious, while others, like the slower flow and more weed are less so. I've never done very well here but always remember remember Sean's tale of a mighty roach session one Christmas morning, so approach the swim with high hopes. I decided to fish with cheese paste and a 12, smallish lead and quiver tip. I'd brough the John Wilson for an outing, a great little rod only spoiled by the lack of a screw thread to hold the reel in its seat - cue comical reel bouncing down the bank action.

Three gudgeon were my spoils, a kettle that wouldn't boil, so no coffee (if you can't get your kettle to boil you don't deserve any) and then a happy hour freelining luncheon meat in three or four other swims below the bridge. It's remarkably light stuff luncheon meat, even on a big hook, and it's fun to watch it rise and fall in the current. No bites, but plenty of enjoyment. And as you can see, a lovely setting as the sun came up. Need to sort that kettle out though.

On Golden Pond

Now, I'm no great fan of 'tidying away' where people sort out Nature to make it more palatable and easier to handle, but variety is the spice of you-know-what, so I took it into my head to visit a small local pond which had been 'improved' by keen angling club members. And I have to say that they've done a great job.

It may have been because there was no-one else there - apart from a couple of swans and a few busy farm cats out on the prowl - but I found the sense of order to be rather a nice change from my previous two trips, hacking through 100 yards of nettles before I could even see the water. Here it was visible from the car park and I could walk to any swim in less than a minute. So I did. A small water encourages you to have a proper wander and for the first time I can remember I checked every swim before deciding where to set up.

It was the wrong choice of course. As usual I went for the prettiest swim rather than the most practical one and ended up fishing over weed so dense that nothing - the bait or the shot - stood a chance of reaching the bottom. The result was an over-shotted float and a bait that probably never went near a fish. If I'd had a rake on the other hand....

So I moved to the disabled swim nearest the car park because this seemed to have the most open water in front of the wooden stand. It was like fishing in Ireland again - all that space and comfort - and as it began to get dark, things started to happen. A splash here, a lily knocking there, a skinny ginger cat tearing past me. I fished under the fourth ring on the rod (i.e. closer than the rod tip) and caught this strange, beautiful fish that the photo doesn't do justice to - a sort of ornamental golden tench. Ten minutes later, when it was almost too dark to see I caught another. When I packed up I was back in the car in two minutes and home 20 minutes later. Easy.

Bites Galore

Back to the river the next day then. Having phoned the club to try and secure the weir swim for the evening I could hear the laughter in their voice when they told me the next free slot was Saturday. Who says anglers don't have a social life?

So I wandered down to my usual swim, hacking through the nettles to find someone already wedged in there. Don't know why he looks so surprised to see me - the undergrowth is so thick you could hide a river in here. So, I slogged back out to the towpath and made my way downstream to a spot above the sandbank where the river is wider, slower and deeper. I'd turned two slices of bread and a chunk of blue cheese into the world's most attractive cheese paste...or so I thought...but when I removed it from the creel it had turned into an unholy, sticky stinking mess. Impossible to keep on the hook, it stuck to everything else like glue. At one point I had some on the end of my nose. Shame, because I'm sure I would have caught something here, fishing almost under my rod tip, with the bait drifting tantalisingly just under a weed wrack; if only I'd had a float. And some proper bait.

So, a few terse tugs and one missed lunge later, I was back below the sandbanks where the previous day's experience was repeated. Sharp bites I couldn't hit, no matter whether I used a big olive lead that held the bottom wherever I cast it, or an Arlsey bomb that rolled around a bit before settling into place. Best fun I had was right at the end, freelining a large lump of meat round the swim. I almost hit one of those.

The following morning I counted the cost of those bites that weren't misses - two on one knee, one on the back of my other leg, one on my throat and one - the worst - on a toe. Time for the Nepalese atomic insect repellant methinks.

The River Where?

The swim I'd intended to fish is about ten feet right of this

Well, we've been here before, scrambling through eyebrow-high stinging nettles and strange rhubarby plants with big pink flowers on them trying to find the river. I know it's over here somewhere because even a river can't change its spots that much. Mind you, I didn't manage to fish here at all last season, so you never know.

These boots don't help much. By the time I've slogged over the weir (must fish that this season) I've got a humming feeling on my left heel and right ankle as whatever ingredients that go to make a blister (baby soft flesh and unforgiving rubber methinks) begin to mix a-fatefully. Still, the river's here somewhere and eventually I find it, emerging not where I wanted to be, but about ten feet further downstream. My original target swim doesn't exist any more. It's gawn. The result is that there's not so much space to work with so I struggle back up the bank a bit and tackle up. Nice big lead, 12lb line - looks a bit weedy - and a size 4 hook. Bait will be a piece of luncheon meat the size of a baby's fist.

First cast is lobbed into the middle of the swim and I settle down on the mat. Everything's in position. I've taken my shirt and am using it as a foot rest, the wretched boots are off and my toes are wriggling in the summer heat. I'm about to take a swig of water when the rod thumps left hard, stops, then thumps again. I strike and feel a heavy resistance. There's a flash of gold just under the surface and then everything goes slack. I reel in the empty hook. Arse, as we anglers say, that's probably bollocksed the swim. Although I know better, I still fish on for another hour without a bite.

After that I move downstream and after trying several paths down to the river that just peter out, arrive below what used to be the sandbank swim. The bank is long gone, the fallen tree that used to dominate the swim has been swept by the current away to the far bank where it's become an irrevelance. Shame - it was a great feature.

The water in front of me is shallow but then goes dark, indicating depth, so I try the same tactics and cast the bait to the far edge of the deeper water and then twitch it round carefully. I get half a dozen hit-and-run bites of the kind you associate with teenage chub...all flash and gobby impatience. Can't hit a single one.

With forty minutes of light left, I wander back upstream (by now my feet are killing me) and return to the original swim. First cast gets this lovely little three pounder. Second cast a smooth, dark jack pike of about the same size. He slips back down the bank and into the water before I can take his photograph. This is a shame because limping back across the weir I realise that he's the biggest pike I've ever caught. No kidding.

A Day at Blenheim

My old friend Chris dropped me a line the other week to say he'd heard about a new book being published by the people behind Caught By The River, so I had a wander over and checked out the site. I liked it so much that I've donated (i.e. they don't pay for submissions) a piece I wrote ages ago about blanking at Blenheim. It's a funny old site that mixes fishing, music, literature, society and stuff and well worth a visit.

Physics part II

The bottle actually looks rather like me

Not really fishing this, but another example of my inability to focus on the physical world. I had a pleasant cycle along the cliff road from Brighton to Saltdean the other morning and since it was hot, thought I'd pack a bottle with cold water from the fridge. All we had was the fizzy variety so I decided to treat myself to that. After 20 minutes a sodden patch had appeared at the bottom the rucksack and was making its way through my top and down into my trousers. Of course, the bubbles in the water had caused the bottle to expand.

Where's the fishing you say? This is the water bottle I usually take with me on summer trips. I save the kettle for later in the year. So there.

Ray and I

Another moment of high angling comedy

Back together again. It's been nearly a year by my reckoning since Ray and I last went fishing together and that's too long. In between we've both had a lot of different stuff to deal with, so it's good to remember that despite everything that's happened we're still the same people, that we share - broadly - the same outlook, and that we'll both still be fishing until we can't.

We've had a houseful in the last week with a lot of coming and going and there'll be more before things settle down again, so it's good to get back to the relative calm of the river. I've kept my decision-making to a minimum too, by just bringing the little quiver tip rod and four slices of white bread. This, I've decided, is the most recession-friendly bait I can rustle up at the moment. This loaf, divided into plastic bags saved from our egg deliveries and distributed in four parcels around the freezer (partly to hide them from raiding children) cost 50p and should do me four trips, at least.

Almost without thinking I head for the swim where I last caught a fish. It's a confidence thing I suppose, just as my reason for fishing with bread flake - I met another club member who spoke glowingly of the big chub he'd caught on bread and I, at least, was hooked. Later I'll remember what a pleasure it is to use something that makes your fingers smell nice instead of nasty and that doesn't wriggle around when you put it on the hook.

Ray arrives about 15 minutes after me and then wanders off upstream to nab his favourite swim before anyone else gets there. Tonight it seems the only competition is from a couple of picnickers we met here last year, so it's not too much of a problem - though Ray does have to have words when they try and set their chairs up right next door to him. It's all resolved in very civilised fashion and before the end of the evening the three of them are chatting away about the river, the wildlife and half a dozen other important matters.

Nothing happens for 45 minutes and then I get four bites in a row - savage stabs from baby chub probably - that I can't get anywhere near. Then it goes dead. Ray stops by for a visit and we agree that it's probably still a bit hot for any real action. I move swims and carefully drop the bait right in front of me. Seconds later I've got a little 5oz chub that's taken the bait right down. A firm push and swizzle with a disgorger and the hook comes out clean as a whistle and he bombs off under the lilies.

Then we settle into a period of nothing. As sometimes happens with fishing, this is entirely pleasant. Gripped in the vice of an unseasonal heatwave, it's lovely to sit here with the sun sinking, the breeze still about and the swallows darting down to dip the surface of the river.

I move up and settle in next to Ray, just beneath the big willow tree, ledgering downstream. In quick succession I get a Fred Flintstone bite which I miss completely, then overcast and watch open mouthed as the bait gets hit on the retrieve - another miss - before striking into something substantial which I manage to lose in the weed. The last three feet of line, ledger and hook come back covered in this stuff which is like green cotton wool covered in wallpaper paste. By the time I get it all off, I can't see what I'm doing anymore. I leave Ray where he is as the river sinks into darkness and head for home.

And finally, I couldn't resist this unintentional bit of train-goes-into-a-tunnel phallic imagery. Enjoy.

Physics

The river's over there on the right somewhere

The air is heavy with thunder and the promise of rain, and the river is full of ghosts tonight.

That's what it felt like this entry was going to be about. The first hour or two were hopeless. I was distracted, fishing automatically, unable to get comfortable, put off by other anglers, couldn't park by the bridge, bitch, bitch, bitch.

I was fishing with a small feeder (which turned out to make an enormous splash) a short trail and using red and white maggots in various combinations. I didn't get a touch for two hours despite moving swims and trying different spots. Then, instead of sitting there helplessly like I usually do, I started to think.

Nearly every time the end tackle came back it was snarled with weed, so obviously what was happening was that as the heavy feeder sank quickly through the weed it took the hookbait (short trail, remember) with it. Thus, the chance of the bait being obscured by weed were pretty high. So, I switched the feeder for a small Arlsley bomb and lengthened the trail to about 14 inches. Then, to be on the safe side, I popped on three casters.

I re-cast and it started to rain in earnest. I don't know if the sudden banging of the rod was me putting my poncho on or a bite, but suddenly I felt better. More confident. I re-baited with maggots and missed a good bite. I hit the next one which went through a series of transformations from bottom-to-something-enormous-to-chub-to-eel-to-chub-to-eel-to-jack-pike-and back to eel again before finally emerging as.....an eel.

Next cast produced a similar dogged thump of a bite followed by a good scrap which resulted in this chub. I reckon about two pounds - and a great way to the end the day. I was very wet by the time I got back to the car but relieved that an evening which had begun so listlessly had ended on such a good note. I shall try to take this lesson forward this season and if something isn't working I'll change it.

That's Why I'm Here

The river at sunset (fish not pictured)

Always, back to the river then. Those with even a passing acquaintance with the calendar will notice that I've not actually fished - float in the water, ledger up a tree - since last August. There have been mitigating circumstances. My mind has been elsewhere, my spirits low. All the more reason to go fishing then, or so you'd think. But the longer Spring went on , the more it felt right to postpone my return to the bank until the official opening of the coarse fishing season - June the 16th. And so I did.

I have several new pieces of equipment to try. First, a new self-inflating mat to sit on. I've finally made the switch from the old mini lilo-type blow-up cushion of old to a new snazzy Karrimor which blows itself up. Second, a pair of shiny black Croc wellington boots which I received as a gift (thanks mum) and wanted because of their legendary comfort, partly because they weigh sod all and partly for practical reasons (hard to believe that someone with prose this lithe can have calves this wide). 

As I was making my way across the field to the river (invisible at this stage) Ray was at home, fighting a plumbing leak; he wouldn't make it in the end. There was one other angler who gave me a good tip about chub, but apart from that, the field was mine. Someone had been busy cutting out large swims for an upcoming match, but the grass in the field is so high that you can't really see anyone until you're on top of them. Just the way I like it.

I checked out a few swims on the way but had already decided where I was going - to the first big bend where the river turns sharply again towards the lane. I fished there before last season (see Warums Again) and did OK. I'd cycled over to the tackle shop (where the staff get less rather than more friendly with each visit) and rejected their sorry looking casters in favour of maggots and really had no expectations beyond catching some small fish.

I wasn't disappointed. Over the first hour or two I caught a perch and a few roach, nothing larger than the palm of my hand, but welcome nevertheless and as good a way to kick off the season as anything else. Even after all these years, there's still nothing that smells quite like a roach. My backside went numb so the cushion needs work, but the wellies are a palpable hit and much easier on the feet than trad versions. And anyone who wonders why you need wellies to walk through a high field in summer at dusk has never had to pick slugs out of their Crocs. 

My friend Paul

I want to tell you briefly about my friend Paul. This is a picture of me and him (I'm the big ugly biker one on the right and he's the slim, dapper one on the left with the Santa Monica baseball cap on) on the banks of the river Ouse in Sussex. It was the tail end of last summer and we were enjoying the sunshine on the way back from a favourite pub of his when he pointed out that we didn't have any photographs of us together - hence the odd angle and the unflattering - at least for me - walrus neck; I was the one holding the camera.

He wasn't an angler, though he did share a birthday with that most auspicious of occasions, June 16th, the opening of the coarse fishing season; and that also means that he shared the same birthday as my dad. It's funny how these things come around.

Paul died on Monday the 23rd of February in the Martlets Hospice in Brighton where they'd looked after him wonderfully. He was 53 years old and it's a bloody shame.

So, June the 16th now has an extra resonance and from this year when I tackle up on the banks of a river somewhere (who knows, it may even be the Sussex Ouse) I shall sit and fish and think of my dad and my best friend.

In the next life, Paul.

Did you hear the one about

the Frenchman, the Swedish guy and Bob Nudd?

I'll explain. During a trip to my publishers I espied a couple of interesting new items on their author shelves. First, 101 Golden Rules of Fishing has been translated into French and Swedish. Second, there's going to be a paperback version, probably as part of a package and with a new introduction by Bob Nudd, four times world champion angler. Our Olympians? Pah. This guy was winning championships while they were still picking their noses.

More news when I get it.

Waterlog reviews 101 Golden Rules Of Fishing

Waterlog has reviewed my fishing book. Here's what Andrew Herd had to say:

"Rob Beattie (Waterlog contributor and author of an incredibly successful book about things to do in a shed) has come up trumps again. 101 Golden Rules of Fishing is full of tips, tricks and other angling ephemera, like luck, ghosts, monsters, the best fishing car, how to blank and how to make your final cast. Going away this summer? 101 Golden Rules of Fishing is a great travelling companion. Nicely illustrated throughout, this great little book will appeal to most anglers."

Move Along

The river's taken a bit of a funny turn these days. When Ray and I went this time it was like Picadilly Circus (such a description is relative of course and means that we saw five people over the mile long stretch).

It's certainly odd to approach one of your favourite swims - hanging low, talking in quiet voices as usual - to discover that it's already occupied by a distinguished looking gentleman and his lady friend, sat in camp chairs with a fold up table between them and all manner of Mediterranean style dips and condiments, french bread and champagne, that nice Italian bottled water, sitting looking at the river as if it was a TV. We should have asked them to leave of course, but didn't. They offered to move but there would be little point fishing there now, not with all the ruckus. Anyway, what fish in their right mind is going to fancy luncheon meat after all that camembert.

I started in a swim near the bridge. Once upon a time this was a complete banker. I remember going one season and tackling up where we did this evening - in the shadows of the oak tree - utterly convinced that I'd catch a fish first cast. And I did. I nice chub of about 3lbs, caught a few inches from the bank, by dropping a lump of luncheon meat under the tree. Not any more. The river's sweltering, full of weed, hard to keep a bait visible long enough for any fish to find it.

Little bits of legered crust produced a few gentle tugs but I don't get a proper bite until the sun sinks and an eel grabs a piece of luncheon meat on the retrieve. He's a big one too - about a pound and a half. Then, just as I can barely see the quiver tip, I get a gentle juddering bite that becomes more determined and eventually irresistable. I strike and there's a slow thumping fight which quickly gives up and slides to the surface. It's a bream, the size of a small dustbin lid (with, let's face it, a similar smell) but very welcome. It would otherwise have been my third blank of the season. Maybe I should start counting those eels.

A thousand words

Where's the weir?

One of the joys of modern computing is better mapping. I love maps. Sometimes they take you to places where you'll never ever go and other times they tell you what to expect when you get there. Aerial photographs are even more exciting because despite the veneer of accuracy, there's no waying of knowing how out of date they are.

I say this after another unsuccessful trip to the river (may as well get the 'suspense' out of the way first). I'd been looking at the club membership book and wondering about the backwater, a new stretch of water that had been opened up to members this season. I've fished other backwaters attached to the river before and caught trout, my biggest roach (about 1lb) and been smashed up by something spectacular, so I was full of hope. A quick check of the aerial photo showed that although it looked overgrown, there was a weir at some point with proper concrete banks that I could sit on. I like weirs. Have done ever since the Thames at Windsor when we used to catch fat roach - and the occasional loco dace - on legered cheese paste.

So off I go, about 6.30pm on the hottest day of the year, trudging through the cut field, following the river proper until it comes to big open gate, and bends round to the right. I turn the corner and just like that, the river's gone. I don't see it again for another half mile at least, it's so choked with reeds, banks covered in stinging nettles. I almost give up and then I see another gate which I climb and a funny hole in the reeds, that looks like it leads down into the water. Peering through I discover the weir which can only be reached with a big treacherous step from slippery bank to concrete that goes round a fence, so you're sort of hanging on as you pivot round it. Going over's hard enough, but coming back with my trick knee is worse, so I stay long enough to take a photo and then return in a stupendously ungainly fashion, arms flailing, good leg swinging back and forth to get some momentum, duff knee locked in position. I only hope no-one was overhead, taking a photograph...

Warums again

Float fishing again too. The centre pin (still the old Maxima line though, must get round to putting on the new Geer-recommended Diawa Sensor which is thinner and more supple). Returned to the deep bend I fished last time I was here and trotted down with a 14 hook, tripping the bottom, after perch.

And that's what I caught. Indeed, that's all I caught. There couldn't have been any eels in my swim (or the entire river) knowing what suckers they are for worms. Four perch in all, nothing of any size, the biggest only about 8 or 10 ounces, but nice for all that.

But the real story of the evening was the owl again. Quartering the two fields either side of the river time and time again. Rays says there are two of them. Amazing.

She wants to be flowers, but you make her owls.
You must not complain then if she goes hunting.

Blankety Blank

Sorry about that.

So, I've been hoarding worms. Two tubs of dendrabenas and one of red worms, against the time when I could unleash them on the tench and perch that populate one of the smaller club waters. Last night, their moment came. It'd been a super sunny day so I waited until tea time and then headed off lakewards in the car, negotiating the new gate and hardcorer track down to the field. This hasn't been cut yet either and it's a beautiful sight.

There was only one other car there and since most anglers head for the larger of the two lakes, I didn't think I'd have any competition for my favourite swim. As it turned out, I didn't see the other angler at all.

'Twas very hot in the corner and the water was darker than the colour of my tea, but I've never failed in this spot, ever. In fact, outside of winter the lake is pretty much a banker. So I didn't understand it when after an hour, I hadn't had a bite. I wondered if there was still too much sun on the water, I worried over my shotting 'pattern', I plumbed and re-plumbed, but still no dice.

So I moved to the opposite corner, tried a different float, got settled in out of the sun and felt instantly better. After 30 minutes or so, the float wandered off and I struck into something small (felt like a skimmer bream) which promptly came off. I fished for the rest of the evening in a mood of disbelief. These red worms are the business - stinky, full of that yellow biley stuff that ought to attract every fish for miles (they ought to be pole vaulting over the damn from the lake next door to get at the bait). So why was nothing going on? I had one more tired nudge about 9.30pm and that was that.

Funnily enough, the longer this went on, the more determined I became to persevere with the worms. I had a tin of luncheon meat in the creel and could have switched baits in a few moments, but I've always caught well on meat here and wanted to see if there was something else going on. So I fished into darkness, changing floats a couple more times, shifting the depth around, trying different spots. Nothing. Nada. Zilch.

But that's OK. I actually felt better not having switched just to catch a fish. In fact, I'm going to continue the experiment on the river tonight. Those worms are going to catch me something. And when they do, I shall tell you all about it.

The Lady Of The Stream

Back at the Windrush the following morning and my heart's just not in it. Too full of breakfast and news from home. Still, it's too pretty not to try so after Sean leaves for London I settle into the spot under the tree (useful as it looks like rain) and try rolling a worm under the nearside bank.

First cast I get a tiny brown trout. Third cast a tiny perch. Then it goes quiet until, after switching to red maggots, I catch a minnow. This is the second minnow I've caught on rod and line in a spot that teems with larger fish. I once caught one on the Stour in Dorset when it looked easier to catch a barbel.

Moving back up to the tree I try again red maggots and am rewarded with a fish I have never caught before. A small grayling of about 6oz. I'm so staggered that I make a mess of the photograph so instead, here's my creel, perched on the bank. And you'll just have to believe me about the grayling.

Questions, questions

So why do we do it? Back at Blenheim Palace lake again after a break of a few years, it's 2.00pm on a day that can't make up its mind. Later on it will actually rain out of what appears to be a clear blue sky. Twice. I haven't had a bite since that solitary dip just before 9.00am, in the first swim of the day down by the cedar tree next to the lilies, before some weird floating crap turned the swim into the Sargasso Sea and made it impossible to fish.

Let's try and balance the Blenheim accounts. One the one hand, it's a beautiful place, a privilege to fish and I'm in good company. It's also an experience in itself, spending so much time afloat (I should add here that in a gesture beyond largesse, Sean insists on rowing us everywhere, each time we change swims, while I sit at the back of the boat, shouting advice). One the other, there's no getting away from the frustration of sitting in a swim full of fish that won't feed. There are times when the water in front of us is heaving with tench, while the floats just sit there.

There's also the usual Blenheim toilet issue. Because you're in a boat for up to 14 hours and can't jump ship, it's important to evacuate as thoroughly as possible before you get on board. This morning I failed utterly and spend the first three hours thinking of nothing else, fearing that every stomachy shift is an incipient dump of terrifying - and unstoppable - proportions that will eventually send the boat, Sean and I skittering across the lake. In the end, thanks to unexpected levels of self control (and a bag of garage 'food' which bungs me up nicely) I have nothing more than the occasional vicious attack of wind.

And I catch a fish too. Not until 5.30pm in the third and final swim of the day, when the wind drops and the water turns glassy. It's my third and final bite and turns into a 3lb tench. Sean meanwhile has managed a couple of near monsters, one of which is shown here. And I suppose, in the end, that's why we do it.

Cider with Windrush

A short post this...with a glass of Stowford's cider on top of it. The river in the background is the Windrush, just a spit over the border into Gloucestershire. I was fortunate enough to spend a couple of nights at a pub that enjoys a short stretch of water that's full of brown trout, perch and - as it turned out - one or two other surprises.

This was shortly after arrival when, pint in hand, I walked to the bottom of the garden, negotiated the three dogs who were after my crisps to check out the river. Later that evening I would catch a wild brown trout on legered double red maggot. Hardly fair I know, and enough to make the newly minted fly fishing part of my angling personality wince. Still a brown trout is a brown trout.

But the main business was a trip to Blenheim Palace lake to fish for tench and perch and I invite you to join me there next time.

Caster Pussycat...

In the spirit of new things, I resisted the urge to return to the river with - literally - exactly the same bait as last time and instead, bought some shiny new casters from a tackle shop that Ray recommended. I liked it. Better than the other local one and seemingly much cheaper too. I shall be spending money there again. It's also in the same road as a proper butcher where steak mince shares shelf space with kangaroo meat.

The weather can't make up its mind. When we arrive, high stepping through that wonderful wild field again, it feels perfect. It's warm, the wind (from the west anyway) has virtually disappeared and it's nicely overcast. But all through this short evening session there's a strong feeling that it wants to change - get nasty even.

When the rain comes it's enough to get you wet and persists for about an hour during which time I catch roach, chub, perch and an eel on float fished casters. I've fluked onto a deeper swim, where the river turns and widens and it's good. The 15' rod makes it easy to control the float and there's a lot of water in the swim. I should stay there really, but intrigued by the memory of a massive missed bite a couple of nights previous I wander back up to that swim and try there. It's miles too shallow, can't be more than a couple of feet. So's the next place I try. And the next. By the time my last roach comes I'm barely float fishing at all. Instead, I'm letting the float carry the bait down under the tree and then holding it back so the caster lifts in the water.

All evening an owl quarters both fields, hunting, and as I wander downstream to Ray with the light fading there's a curious guttural cough. Then another. It's a deer on the other side of the river, spooked by the steps of an angler so proud of his approach work that he assumes it's his friend, hawking up some satisfying post-fag phlegm. Ray watches him jump in the air and then disappear while I, none the wiser, toil through the high grass, sodden but satisfied.

a sudden hot sharp stink of...pike

Returning to the river with Ray I feel like a footballer who's been injured and thus missed pre-season. He already has two trips under his belt and moves assuredly from the car to the stile, points out the long-rotten but newly broken slats over the little bridge and aims for a path that's been knocked through the long grass of a wild meadow, as yet untouched by the farmer. It's beautiful in a way that's unordered, the very antithesis to those other fishing spots that have been tidied away, knocked into shape so that anglers don't have to engage with them, but can trundle down manicured access ways to permanent swims with numbers, where the banks are re-enforced, where the wooden platforms are new and seasoned by chemicals rather than time.

Not so here. Every year the river changes. Every year there are different swims to fish because the bank has moved or the level's up or down or a tree has slipped in, presenting the river with a new network of roots and sunken lower boughs. It's truly fab.

To celebrate the beginning of the new season I've made bread paste the old fashioned way, trimming off the crusts (guiltily tossed in the bin) and then splashed with cold water and kneaded - being all out of muslin cloth - by hand. Then there's some bread flake and a bit of luncheon meat from my trip in May - so if the bites don't come at least I can comfort myself with a very unpleasant sandwich.

But they do come. Second cast, there's a playful tug followed by something more businesslike and a small chub comes skittering across the surface, gets wrapped round some reeds, unwraps itself again almost as quickly and then comes swinging to the bank. On the way over it shits on my foot. Can't be more than half a pound but it's in lovely nick, lip hooked and slips back, no problem.

I try a couple of casts with paste and then flake but no dice. Switching back to luncheon meat I settle into the swim, trying not to feel my backside going slowly numb (if you see what I mean). After ten minutes I think 'fish and move' so lift the rod and start to reel in. Half a turn and there's a bump. Then another stronger one and we're off. I know it's a pike from the first contact. It's got that bonkers feel to it, a cross between a fish and an eel, slashing around the swim this way and that. I'm aware that I'm only using 4lb line, but it turns out to be hooked just outside of the mouth and all is well. Cynics might say that I've deliberately cut the landing net out of the photo so you have no idea of scale. Let's just say it was a monster. Certainly the biggest pike I've caught all season, anyway. To finish, here's the river and that wild, wild meadow.

The Sixteen Pound Bream

A little teaser then. Since I'm not a giant, this can hardly be a genuine 16 pound bream. And yet it is.

Go here for the full story.

The mighty trout

I've joked in the past about fishing in the old close season but as we know, this is my time for breaking patterns, throwing tradition to the wind and trying new things. So I'm actually going trout fishing next week. For real trout. With a fly rod. This will be my first proper excursion for over 10 years - I was taken to either the Test or the Itchen by a wealthy company director as a treat. I caught nothing, he caught a grayling. You can tell it made a big impression on me.

But it turned out that could cast - at least I could cast 20 feet or more. So, with flies especially tied for me by Ian in Canada on the way (why not jump straight to the bespoke stuff, that's what I say) and a borrowed trout rod and reel waiting in Sean's car (which presumably still whiffs strongly of the trout he caught last week - a good omen, surely) I shall essay forth and make a fool of myself in front of small, expensive fish. What fun.

Meantime, here's a photo of the river where I normally fish but seen from the opposite bank. I still can't quite get my head round that, but thanks to Paul for the suggestion.

Here we go again

It's about this time of the year that I gently re-introduce myself to fishing after the winter break. There's some fun poking about rustiness, occasionally something more esoteric where I worry over losing the fishing gene that's supplied me with so much fun and contentment over the years, before getting down to the serious business of the fishing itself. This season however, I'm going to do things differently.


More fish
I'm going to make every effort to include more photographs of actual fish this time around. A radical concept I know, but putting myself under pressur to produce pictures of fish may actually improve my catches. This isn't to say that I'm renouncing the contemplative (some would say aimless) character of my angling, rather that I'd like to catch a few more - and larger - fish this season.


More waters
I also intend to try some different waters this season. And where I can't, I'll be fishing different swims. Like any creature of habit, I've been gravitating towards the same old spots for years now and though I won't abandon them entirely, I won't be visiting them quite so often.


More tactics
I'm going to regret this, but I'm also planning to try some different techniques. Currently, my tactics can be summed up this: if it's a lake I float fish the margins, and if it's a river, I leger - quite often in the margins. Er..that's it. So, I'm going to have a go at trotting and will try some more sophisticated end 'rigs', I believe they're called.


Anyhow, back at the lake, the conditions were interesting. Warm enough for a t-shirt, but overcast, almost thundery - perfect weather for barbel. Fortunately, this isn't one of those lakes where stillwater barbel have been introduced, a wrong-headed experiment, the capture of which is only likely to lead to disappointment - a bit like Ronaldo and his three 'ladyfriends'.


Instead, it's roach, then rudd, then bream, then more roach and rudd until finally, a carp comes out of the fallen tree in front of me, snatches the bait and makes a beeline back where it came from at top speed. I hung on, the Mitchell taking the strain, giving line at just the right moment (I must have set the drag on another occasion - pure luck). The carp got tangled in the bush but I could still feel it and after a moment or two it gave a muscular wriggle and then emerged. It came up, gave a kick and then flew off again, but I could tell that the first rush had knackered it. Pretty soon it was safely in the net. About 7lbs I reckon. A beautiful golden common and well worth the trip.


Elsewhere the kettle did its stuff, the poncho got a brief workout and I got home in time for tea - chicken curry since you ask.

Many lives

Sometimes it feels as though I have many lives. Most of us have at least two - our personal life (or family life if we're lucky) and our professional life. If you're an angler, then you need to add at least one more to that; and if you're a musician, another on top of those three. I've even been thinking about making a case for the life of a football fan....but I'm not so convinced by that.

Lately, as my absence here testifies, I've been neglecting my fishing duties. Maybe it's winter, maybe it's work, maybe it's laziness, but I seem to have spent more time in front of the computer than is healthy - even for me. Plenty of work is welcome, especially after a lean couple of years - but it's important to find a balance as well, so when Ray e-mailed to suggest a trip, I set work aside and made my preparations.

Everything was covered in dust. When I opened the seat basket I expected baby bats to flutter out, and I packed without any clear idea of how I was going to fish. I'd gone out and bought maggots and a couple of feeders but now was thinknig about float fishing instead. That meant the 15' rod and centrepin. Oh dear. I felt woefully underprepared.

We met at the bridge. I arrived first and took some photos, of which the best is the first one here. A fantastic winter morning in England. To be up and about before most of the world has stirred is still one of angling's greatest privileges.

Naturally I fished like an idiot. Lost the rubber top to the landing handle, trod the float into the muddy bank, then the plummet, fished too light and couldn't control the float, went up the tree opposite. The usual.

And then slowly, the rhythm came back to me. I started to flick the float out with more confidence. I switched swims and started to catch small roach. The river began to change. The current sped up, then stopped. The water on the other side of the deep run in the middle became still, then started to drift back on itself. The wind shifted direction. Everything was alive.

I stopped and made coffee and Ray came over and we had a chat about singing (and fish of course). After I left that day Ray witnessed a 15lb pike being caught and hooked a lively three pounder. He also helped himself to a few roach from my swim.

It was good to revisit this other life and to find that I'm still in love with it.

The wrong trousers

Not literally of course. The trousers I wear to go fishing are always the correct ones because I only have a single pair - bought for £4.00 from Primark about 10 years ago, these dog turd brown beauties never let me down and have an elasticated waist that expands as I do. No, it's a euphemism. I fished with the wrong float. Twice.

Things begin badly when Ray and I toss for swims. He wins, but hey, I'm confident anyway, because the second choice swim is good enough and I've caught plenty of fish from there before. Only I can't see the float because the sun is directly in my eyes, and no matter how I re-adjust my hat, squint with one eye shut, squat behind the rushes, turning my head on one side, I can't get rid of the glare. So after tackling up and plumbing the depth I move swims without making a proper cast. I hate that.

In the new swim, I never quite get settled. As a result, when my little cube of the Co-op's finest luncheon meat is snaffled by a carp riding a motorbike (or that's what I assume judging by the speed at which it took off) I barely managed to grab the rod before the thing has it bent double and then twanging spectacularly back and forth. Hook's come out. I reel in. The float's gone, everything else is still intact - including the hook which is bent. I shan't be using these particular Mustad hooks again.

I tackle up with another float and fish on. It's an antennae, one of those floats I bought because I liked the look of it, rather than for any perceived utility. It's OK, but I can't really see it and as a result, even this perch is a bit of a surprise. The evening becomes beautiful. A hot air balloon crosses the filed behind me, venting as it goes to get over the trees. It's a sound that's at once unsettling and familiar. More fish come and then I get snagged and the line breaks. I make coffee, then re-tackle up with a float that I recall as a favourite but that now seems to require more and more and more shot. In the end it's like casting with a method feeder and although I persevere for a few more casts, I switch in the end.

Bloody hell, this swim is full of fish. Most of them carp. Sometimes it feels like there are so many carp in this water that you could walk from one side to the other on their backs.

Naturally, I fail to catch a carp. Instead, I catch rudd, roach, perch, tench and bream. And as we pack up, Ray and are both breathless at the beauty of the evening. Driving back up the field we startle a small owl which is sitting in the middle of the track. Only for a second though, and then it's up and off and then we too are on our way home.

The Naked Hippies

So, excited at the prospect of fishing a new stretch of the river I met Sean at 1.30pm and we set off, past a beautiful, newly renovated mill and a private pool that was so full of feeding chub that it was almost comical.

Sean spent the walk reminiscing about his youthful sorties to these parts which curiously seemed to involve naked sunbathing hippies rather than actual fish. Still, best not to get our hopes up....

Having arrived at the river, I realise that it's actually the back end of the stretch that I normally fish. To anyone with even a rudimentary grasp of geography this would be obvious from five seconds with a map (never mind Google Maps) but it comes as a surprise to me and - let's be honest - a slight disappointment. (My wife by the way, maintains that I can get lost in our back garden.) Still, having examined half a dozen swims and seen more than a few fish, it does look very promising.

It's too hot to fish so in a process rich with innuendo, we compare tackle instead and Sean kindly makes me a present of a couple of velcro strappy things to hold rod, landing handle and bank stick together. I offer him the first cup of coffee as a thank you. Actually I owe Sean a lot more than that - he's the one who introduced me to this river, who got me into the club and who's put me up on more than occasion to facilitate early morning sessions.

We bait up a few swims and eventually settle down into one just above the bridge. There are plenty of features here and because it's still early, we want to sit together and have a gas for a bit before getting down to the serious business of barbelling. After a while, the central disadvantage of fishing with someone becomes clear - any subsequent telling of the tale cannot contain any bare-faced lies about chasing monstrous fish up and down the bank or - in a fit of self-delusion - turning that snag in front of you into a rogue 20lb sea trout...and no, that wasn't the backside of a naked hippy glimpsed briefly through the trees...

Maybe we both sense this because after a while we split up. Sean heads upstream at a bend that goes from shallow gravel runs to deeper, smoother water, and disappears behind the undergrowth, while I head for the spot shown here, almost under the bridge where the water feints and swirls in enticing patterns. A chub second cast gets my hopes up to the extent that I don't photograph him, convinced that there are many more in the swim. It looks fishy beyond belief.

Of course, that turns out to be it. I get a couple more good tugs which I fluff and end the day with that single fish. Sean gets nothing, not even a strikeable bite, for all that the river looks as though it ought to be full of fish. Sean blames the low water level, I blame the cold front hugging the M4. In the end, we both blame the naked hippies.

TV's Mr Angling

No, not me. The other fella. John Wilson. He's reviewed my book in the Sunday Express. "There is something for everyone in this most informative, charmingly off-beat, lovely little book." Wilson knows class when he sees it. To more serious matters - Sean and I are going barbel fishing this afternoon. I shall report back.

On the second day

The advantage of picking one's mum up from Luton airport is that it's then possible to squeeze in a second fishing trip on the way back home. Haviing scored so mightily with the barbel the day before, I didn't need to persuade myself too hard to try again. Having negotiated another early rise I arrived at the car park at about 6.30am. No-one there but myself and a man who appears to be living out of his van with two enormous shaggy dogs.

It's colder this morning and the blister from the Doc Martins is playing up on my right heel as I wander down the road to the track. Turning the corner, two tiny farm cats come pelting through the gate and stop dead right in front me. They both spring vertically into their air and then one cuts off left while the other goes right. It's like finding yourself suddenly in the middle of a cartoon.

I know where the river is now, so there are none of yesterday's geographical distractions. I head straight for the right swim and tackle up exactly as yesterday. First cast I get a hilarious chub bite. Second cast I get a nice little chub - about 2lbs - and then nothing. The swim goes dead and I wonder if I've put everything down by returning the chub into the water at my feet. I try different parts of the swim and start to pick up bites. At around 8.30 I see a kingfisher zipping low across the water, heading downstream and shortly afterwards I'm buzzed by a small flock of finches who take it in turns to be surprised at finding my head directly in their flight path. They settle into the tree beside me and chatter away happily. Then the swans move in and sit right in front of me for 20 minutes. I make a cup of coffee while I wait for them to move on.

Last cast, I drop the bait almost directly in front of me, a few feet out from the bank. The rod is in the rest and then it isn't. I'm striking a solid thump and it's another barbel. It comes up off the bottom faster than yesterday's one but then wakes up and proceeds to take me for a tour of all the interesting-looking snags in the swim, almost getting his nose into the big one in the middle before I turn him away. I'm using pretty stout tackle so it's relatively easy. When he comes in he's larger than yesterday's and is turning to golden brown, the way barbel do when they get bigger. Only one more and it'll equal my best ever tally of barbel in a season.

Where's the river?

There's always a frisson of excitement when you return to a well-loved and well-known stretch of river. Lakes you see, don't really change that much. Oh, they do over time, but they don't change the way rivers change. And today's a case in point. Everything else is the same. The common where you have to leave the car since the residents kicked up about anglers parking in the lane, the potholes in the road that they can't be arsed to fix, the quaint little - and not so little - houses that look over the common (and the weird thing in the middle that looks like a sweat shop, but can't be).

The cut down towards the fields is still there, but hang on...this bridge is new and where's the gate? What gate? The rusty gate that adorns this very blog. Cunningly you see I'd intended to try and reproduce the shot of the horses in a Surrey field at sunrise at different times of the year and then switch the picture at the top to reflect the seasons. Maybe even sell it as a calendar. No chance of that now the gate's gone.

Having crossed the lock and started downstream, I'm faced with a more serious problem. The river has gone. Or rather it's hidden behind a wall of foliage that stands higher than me and seems comprised of stinging nettles on steroids and this weird pink stuff that has stalks a bit like rhubarb but doesn't taste as nice. I wander down parallel to where the river should be until I see a faint trail heading in the right direction and waving my landing net handle in front of me strike off into the jungle. It takes a couple of minutes before I can see water, by which time I've been stung all up one arm and am covered in pink petals from the rhubarb stuff - I look like a bride at a Hindu wedding - except I'm a bloke and have a beard.

But this can't be the right spot. The tree's gone. And half the bank's been consumed by rhubarb and...wait a minute, this is the right spot because there's the gouge out of the bank on the other side, and that's the tree where the sun comes up and - having looked a little more carefully - there's the tree on my side. It's just fallen in the water. Bloody hell.

Having stopped mucking about with all these side issues I turn to the swim itself. This is lovely. Actually, it's luvverly. The water's doing all sorts of weird contortionist things. There's a fast run with whirls and eddies coming off it, there's a slow deep bit, then shallows on the near bank and something over the other side that looks like deep water. Right in front of me the water actually flows in a circle. There's so much to choose from I don't know where to start.

So having tackled up with 8lb line straight through to a size 4 hook with a 3/4 ounce Arlsey bomb on the end, I settle down onto the inflatable cushion and look towards the river. I'm so low down and the undergrowth's so high that I can't see where I'm casting - so that solves one problem, then. I get a corking tug first cast on luncheon meat and then we settle into a familiar frustrating progression whereby I waste two hours on 'bites' that are mostly weed before getting a real bite that nearly pulls the rod out of its rest and makes me realise I've been wasting my time.

I call my missus to bemoan my fishless plight and promptly hook something heavy that holds the bottom just like a barbel, but comes off after a few only seconds. I phone back to explain why I hung up on her. The swim disturbed, I boil water for a coffee (though looking around me I wish I had some custard powder) and then sit and drink it noisily. Re-casting I proceed to get a series of unmissable bites which I miss every time.

Finally, aware that I need to leave to pick my mum up from Luton airport, I have one last cast into the slow circle of water in front of me, pop the rod in the rest and then lean back to contemplate where it all went wrong. At which point the rod tip throbs and pulls down in a series of steps and I strike. It's a barbel again, and keeps low in the water for about three minutes, forging this way and that, invisible, yet so much a barbel that I feel like I've seen it already. When it finally comes to the surface it's smaller than I hoped but still a lovely fish. I give it between five and six pounds and happily pack up, crunch back up through the rhubarb to the path and return to the car, pausing only to photograph the ugliest horse I've ever seen.

A fine idea

Apparently it was all my idea, which was why Ray expressed surprise at my surprise that he should telephone to ask what time we were meeting up to go fishing that evening.

This came as something of a shock. I tried to piece together the events of the previous evening. One old fart meeting two other old farts to play some guitar - check. Songs old and new, borrowed and original - check. Bottle of French cider - check. Bottle of cheap French red wine - check. Further bottle of imported cider - oh dear...although nothing's coming back to me (certainly not Ray's insistence on my insistence that we go fishing this evening) it's all starting to make a terrible sense.

And, since it was my idea, I'll claim the credit for it. A lovely evening. No-one else at the water at all, some nice tench, a few small rudd and roach, the inveitable eel, an inquisitive field mouse who made so much noise in the rushes next to me that it sounded as though he was driving a car around in there, and this beautiful common carp. About 8lbs, he took a small piece of luncheon meat on a size 12 hook, first cast and proceeded to tear around the swim, tugging the old John Wilson left and then right (I'm enjoying giving this rod a run out this season, it's been a while); finally he came in, neatly lip hooked and went back in the swim next door after having his photo taken.

We saw a hot air balloon, several dozen bats, several million midges, and watched as the perch - which are growing to a decent size by all accounts - scattered fry all over one half of the lake for about an hour before the sun went down and set the sky on fire. Which as you can see, was a sight worth coming whether we caught any fish or not.

Black Sheep

Having decided to head for a different stretch of the river my plans were scuppered after a quick check of the club website. We don't have that bit any more; instead we've got the stretch over the road which is nigh on unfishable - steep, steep banks, no swims and no fish so far as I can see (I'll fit right in then).

So instead, I set off for a couple of small ponds near the river, up and over a field or two and set out of the way in a small copse. I haven't fished here for years but for the patient, quiet angler, there used to be nice crucian carp and the odd tench.

Got lost of course and ended up driving the 323 over some farmer's fields, weaving in and out of the wheels of hay, trying to find a landmark I could remember from all those years back. In the end I came back out onto the road, bouncing cheerfully up and down, and taking the next turning found myself on a much more likely-looking dirt track. The car heaved a sigh of relief and things began to slip into place. I remembered this. The little flat area in front of the wooden building and the path over the top towards the copse.

There was a small, unremembered orchard which was infested with the noisiest sheep I've ever come across. They dashed towards me as I opened the gate and I had to poke them out of the way with the rod. Gate closed I set off through the orchard as the light settled and the sheep got back to sheep stuff. Later on I would hear them as I fished, sounding for all the world like they were having a huge fist fight.

Presented with another gate I was temporarily flummoxed. The club issues a membership card which has the padlock number for all the waters that are locked to keep out scroungers. It's a four digit number. This padlock only had three barrels. I tried the first three numbers, then the last three, then gave up and hauled my ageing carcass over the top of the gate. As I jumped off it made that kind of metal whanging sound as it vibrated back and forth - haven't heard that for a while.

The ponds were even more overgrown than before, the trees having spread out and over much of the water, leaving small open pools and little clear spots here and there. I had a quick reccy and disturbed a few surface feeding fish, probably small carp, before setting a float road and fishing with little lumps of luncheon meat on a size 12. It was really shallow, in fact even the two little commons I caught must have almost been scraping along the bottom of the pond in order to stay out of sight. Fish came up at my feet for insects and as the sun dropped the bats came out, flitting between the trees and swooping down to the water. I made a coffee about 8.30 and then fished until dark. Two bites, two fish, just either side of a pound.

Packing up, I put the little head torch on and went cold when it picked out two bright, blank eyes, standing at head height just on the other side of the fence. I caught the outline of pointed ears and a heavy, distended jaw before my Dennis Wheatley-style monster metamorphosed into a pleasantly curious bullock watching me get my gear together.

Oddly by the time I got back into the field, he'd vanished, and though I felt certain he'd ambush me with a comical head butt to the arse as I heaved back over the gate, he didn't. Instead I heard him cropping the bushes in the next field, making them shudder and shake.

Which meant I forgot the sheep completely. Delighted by my return, they pounded out of the darkness of the orchard - about eight of them - and proceeded to gambol around me in a parody of welcome. I could see their sheepy teeth and read the slow intent in their eyes. I've seen the movie. Next time I shall come armed with mint sauce.

Last Cast Saloon

No sense in giving this one too much of a build up. A funny old evening. Warm as toast but windy - and the spot we'd chosen, so that we could fish together, was very exposed. Ray and I both used the sidewinder (picture here) a sort of quiver tip that sits halfway up the rod and lets you fish with the tip pointing towards the bait. It's really useful for ledgering in the wind and also gives you a lot of flexibility in terms of positioning and angles.

The real story of the evening? The owl. Or maybe owls. At one point we were convinced there were two of them, floating over the fields in front and then behind us, on the hunt for mice, voles and rabbits.

I saw a pike come up and take a fly at my feet. I missed half a dozen good bites and then, almost at the death, got a definite bite and landed a nice little chub of about two pounds. Five minutes later and Ray caught one about 3-4lbs, which stayed still long enough to have its photograph taken before rolling down the bank and back into the river.

We'd nearly given up, but persevering, making sure to get in that last cast before the light really fades is usually worth the effort. After the sun sank it got chilly enough so you could see your breath, the mist rose and then rolled across the fields, while above us the owl turned and turned again.

Take 2

Fortunately, we don't have to repeat the rigmarole of the previous entry with its seemingly endless list of preparations, building up to the 'gag' whereby I've left the landing net behind. Instead, we can press straight on to the fishing.

It's the next day and the weather's not so much changed as shifted so that it's colder and more overcast. As I arrive at the lakes another club member is leaving. He's cheerful enough but reports one skimmer all day - and he's been there since 10.00am. Ouch.

"I'm fishing the little lake," I say.

"Same there," he replies.

Ouch.

I walk over the path between the two lakes and someone's in my swim. This is the first time in living memory I haven't been able to fish in the corner and I don't like it. Instead, I settle into Ray's preferred spot under the tree and cut up some tiny chunks of luncheon meat before lobbing them in as loose feed. It starts to rain. The bloke opposite packs up after a couple of drops. I guess he's been looking for any excuse to go home. The guy in my swim gets his brolly out. He's here for the duration.

I tackle up and rummage for a float before discovering some strange new additions to the tackle box. Then I remember that Sam gave me some floats when we came here last year, working on the assumption that he'd never use them in his sea fishing. I pop one on, plumb the depth (wow, that's shallow) and then shot the float. It cocks perfectly first time. So here we go. No bites all day. Could be a long evening.

The float barely settles in the water before it meanders off in the kind of bite that not even I can miss. It's a nice bream. The first of four as it turns out - three the same size as the one shown here (about 3llbs or so) and one slightly smaller. Along the way I catch a nice 6oz rudd and last cast, just as I'm thinking there won't be any more bites, a lovely tench of about 3lbs.

I miss a carp. It's the centrepin. I hit the bite fine, the contact's strong, and the fish pulls hard towards the reeds. Then it comes out in front of me, lifts in the water and - oh crap, I should have seen this coming - tears off straight into the middle of the lake. I can't stop it. I try and control the run with my other hand and the spinning handles of the 'pin nearly rip my thumbnail off. By the time I've recovered, the fish is off and my nail is slowly turning an interesting shade of deepest blue.

Ouch.

Safety Net

I'm painfully aware of a pattern that has developed over the last few seasons, whereby I indulge in plenty of fishing-related razzle-dazzle from the 16th to the end of the month, only to tail off badly by the beginning of July. I'm thus determined to go fishing.

However, the weather's been so repellant recently that I haven't felt like wetting a line, so when Sunday dawns bright and cheerful, I reckon I can make a break for it at around tea time. I go off vacation house hunting with my friend George for a few hours in the morning and we pass right by the little lane that curls down towards the farm where the club has one of its lakes. I narrow my eyes meaningfully as we hum by in his Fiat Cordoba - I shall return later and lay waste to your tench.

After lunch I fall asleep reading Sheringham's Fly Fishing Memories and Morals, a wonderful book bought for me by my brother and then set aside because it was about trout fishing. Which goes to show how much I know. I picked it up a week or two back and have been enthralled ever since; what a writer. So, when my wife raises me from my snooze I decide to go - after all, that's what HTS would do. Out with the old cane rod and centrepin reel, grab a few floats, some fuel for the kettle, water, a cup and spoon and - to prove my modernising credentials - a couple of sachets of Nescafe Cappuccino, a fiendish froth introduced to me by my mum. It saves taking any milk you see.

I grab the landing net which has been drying outside, furl it up, and lean it next to the kitchen door while I get my little bait box from the outside window sill. I load up with luncheon meat, get everything together - including a new camera, more of which next time - and almost trip off to the car.

It's an easy drive, past Lewes prison and then down country lanes until I reach the farm. There's a slight moment of panic when I remember that they've put a padlock on the gate, but I've got my club card and that turns out to have the number on the front, so I ease down the track (the 323 seems to sit lower in the field than my old 626) and then coast down to the water's edge. There are plenty of cars there but most will be here to fish the larger of the two lakes, which is where the carp are. I climb out, open the boot, pull out the rod and landing net handle, get my shirt and waistcoat, sling the creel over one shoulder, grab the kettle in the same hand, and reach down for the landing net - which is still leaning by the kitchen door.

I think about it for fully five minutes, but there are beautiful tench here and lovely little crucian carp and they deserve better than me trying to fumble them to the bank with my hand. So I put everything back in the car, connect the iPod again, turn the car round and head on up the field. I wonder whether my fellow anglers noticed me arrive and then depart. I undo the padlock and drive through the open gate, stop the car, close the gate, snap the padlock shut and give the combination a nasty twirl. On the podcast, Melvyn Bragg is talking about Siegfried Sassoon and I'm going home.

Which is why I'm sitting here typing this with a can of Strongbow by my side, instead of enjoying the early evening in the company of tench and crucian carp and a cappuccino. Am I pissed off? Yes. Did I do the right thing? Absolutely.

Virtual fishing

So Ray e-mails from work to say that he's going to the river the next day. Aiming for a 6.00am start and then fishing 'till midday. I hum and hah and then decide that I'll see how I feel in the morning and take my own car. I've got some work to catch up on and I'm feeling slightly below par.

So 5.00am rolls around and I wake up, roll over, snuffle attractively and then drop back into sleep. I get up, get Marion and our student Anastasia breakfast and then start planning an article about Windows Calendar. About 9.30 I phone Ray to see how he's getting on. I can picture where he is, by the tree down the far end of the stretch we usually fish - had loyts of good sessions there before. He's probably out of signal or landing some enormous carp.

About 12.00 the phone goes. It's Ray.

"How did you get on?" he asks.

"I didn't go, Ray. But if you're asking me that..."

There's a pause.

"I didn't go either," he says.

"Didn't fancy it," says I.

"Neither did I," says he.

By which time we're both laughing.

Can't make wood

Back to the river again. The forecast promises thunder, but after faffing around - and feeling the weight of the umbrella, not used since Ireland three years ago - I decide to chance it and go with the poncho again. I can see I'm going to have make good on my foolish boast to create some sort of lightweight basha shelter that will replace the brolly for summer storms.

Again, the river looks fantastic, but the wind's picked up from the west and our original plan to fish the new big pool which has opened up downstream of where the old tree used to stand is scuppered. Wind blowing one way, river flowing the other - it's a recipe for disaster for stick-in-the-muds like Ray and I.

Instead we amble upstream and take up more or less the same positions as last Sunday. At least I do. Same 'tactics' of course. Same piece of luncheon meat if I'm honest. However, the first cast (into the same spot, naturally) produces a huge chub. Must be four pounds if he's an ounce, flashing eyes and a gob the size of a Big Brother contestant. I reckon I could get my whole hand in there if I tried.

Moving round the swim produces two eels at which point I decide to move. I don't like catching eels, and that's that.

I wander down to the bridge where the fast water pours through a concrete tunnel and there, just in front of the tree, rising and falling in the water, see a dark shape. A nice dark chub. Scurrying back with my tackle a fellow club member pitches up. No tackle, just looking, but he's keen to chat and settles down to watch me catch this chub. I can't do it. I nearly fall in sliding down the bank. The first cast is all wrong. My hands are shaking. I miss the first bite, fluff the second (though something's on for an instant) and then hit the third only to get hopelessly snagged on the bottom. He gives up and wanders off to talk the hind legs off Ray, while I reflect on my performance. I remember a Louis Theroux episode where he was talking to male porn actors and the general conclusion was that the hardest thing to do was to perform in front of an audience. They called it 'making wood'. Another reason I'll never make my living as a porn star then.

First Review

My new book, 101 Golden Rules Of Fishing got its first review last week on the Fishing Magic web site. Graham Marsden (who's written more than a few words in his time and probably caught more fish) was very generous and gave it eight out of ten - even though it was clear there were things in it he neither cared for, nor agreed with. Make your own mind up by reading the review here.

I remember now...

The phone rang. I opened my eyes and looked at my watch. A quarter to four. The Seventeenth of June. It's the first time in years I've not been able to fish on the opening day of the season and I don't like it. I don't like it for lots of reasons.

I don't like it because it's been more than six months since I last fished. In between then and now I've written a fishing book. This is a big deal for me, and I wonder if spending all that time thinking and writing about fishing has taken the gloss off of it for me. I worry that I'll get to the bank and not know what to do. Worse, that I might not want to fish.

So I nearly don't answer the phone. It is 3.45 after all, and that's early by anyone's standards. At this rate we'll be at the banks just before tea time and as it doesn't get dark until about 10.00pm that'll give us about five and half hours to fish. What if I can't do it?

Forty minutes later I'm ready and watching out the window for Ray's car. Various bits of tackle have been retrieved from stowage (bait box from the window sill outside the kitchen, home to many spiders for the winter, fishing rod from underneath daughter's bed, landing net from shed) and emptied into the creel, along with the poncho - a last minute addition this, courtesy of superstition and a conviction that the BBC weather site isn't always reliable. Luncheon meat. Size six hook, quarter ounce Arlsey bomb, line of indeterminate strength (probably 5lbs) and a hat. Ready? I was born ready.

The river has almost disappeared underneath the weight of the lilies and bullrushes but thanks to recent rain there's a good head of water going through and just by looking at the banks you can tell it's not as low as it was even a day or so ago. We heft our gear and cross the style into the field. This is a marvel. A genuine meadow of wild flowers and grasses that hasn't been cut this year yet. It's alive in a way that cut grass isn't. Every so often half a dozen butterflies burst into the air in front of us. I'm getting the hang of this and we haven't even reached the river yet.

We fetch up at the bank and notice that soemone's been cutting swims. They're a bit big for my liking - need to accomodate those seat boxes, trolleys, poles, umbrellas and other paraphernalia y'know, - but they've done a good job and it means there are spots in the river that can be fished again for the first time in years. We meet a husband and wife who've been there since lunchtime and caught lots of small ones along with a good perch and a couple of jack pike. My fingers by now are actually twitching. We stave off the moment a little longer, ambling further downstream through the long grass to the bend where I notice something is missing. The tree that's been a feature of this swim for the ten years I've been with the club has gone. At first it's a shock, but then I really start to appreciate the result. The tree had half slumped into the river like an old drunk, all alone at the end of the evening, and was silting everything up. Now there's a large, open pool where all the clog used to be and it looks very tempting.

In the end we repair to the willows swim, back towards the bridge and set up within yards of each other. It only takes a few minutes and I'm back, sat on the inflatable cushion, a bit of luncheon meat in the bait box, knife at the ready, tightening up to the ledger that's sitting nicely just on the other side of the flow.

It takes 15 minutes for my first bite of the season, but even I can't miss it. A chub of about a pound, lean and hungry with signs that a pike's been after it. I let it go in the swim upstream from Ray.

Next cast, and it's a bream. A huge bream, or it would be huge if it had been eating anything. Fish this size are usually known as 'slabs', but this is more of a slice. Still, lovely fish and another unmissable bite. Unfortunately, so is the next bite - an eel of about a pound.

Ray comes round the tussock for a chat. He hasn't had a bite yet. We share a cup of tea and then it starts to spit with rain. I say that I don't think it's going to settle in but Ray disappears back to the car for waterproofs and a brolly. After a minute, I get the poncho out as the rain settles in.

It's actually quite cosy under this thing. The rain continues to fall. I re-arrange the material to cover my legs, move the creel behind the small of my back so that's covered too and then slide the bait box next to my side. We have another cup of tea and I'm able to retrieve it from the creel and take it out of its case while remaining inside the poncho. This is great. We drink the tea. I miss a sitter of a bite.

I re-bait and re-cast. The rain gets heavier. I become less cosy. I am, after all, just sitting on a blow-up cushion under 25 quidsworth of waterproof material on a wet bank. It slowly gets darker. There are no more bites. Somewhere around 9.00pm it occurs to me that I stopped fishing about half an hour ago and since then, have just been sitting in the rain.

Ray elects to pack up and since he's the designated driver, I'm not arguing.

I've negotiated the first day of my season successfully, even if I missed the first day of the official season. By the time we get back to the car, we're three times as wet, courtesy of that lovely, wild field. Strangely, neither of us cares.

It's Out

The book is out. The publishers have been in touch. I may have to - gulp - promote it. I'm ready, I tell you, or I will be after I've finished this glass of rose wine. Now there's a drink for an angler. Neither one thing nor the other, neither fish...

They've sent it to the angling magazines. That's going to go down well. "There's no fish in this book," they'll moan," neatly missing the point. Mind you, they might be more enlightened than that. I haven't looked at a modern fishing magazine for a while. Maybe things have changed. Maybe my kind of gentle, reflective rambling is about to make a comeback.

I do know this. I must fish. I've plugged this blog in the book, so I've got no bloody choice. I must practice what I preach. That means rescuing last season's luncheon meat from the freezer, trying out the stupid secret bait again (not a touch last year) more of that crap American cheese all over the place.

Only another 20 or so pages of this 'other' book to finish and then I'll be free. I'll raise the blinds, get out the hammock, fire up the iPod, get out my guitar, perfect strangers will call me by name...

The book is out.

A New Hope

Having not been fishing since November - that's nearly six months, even by my poor maths - I feel pale and depressed. I'm richer than I was* by dint of all this flamin' work, but I haven't been to the bank, except for a walk. But the book, the book. It's nearly out. You can find it listed on Amazon. They've done a great job. The Australian edition is prefaced by Bonita Brown, the English edition by no-one.

Don't be put off by the title. There are no rules, and even if there were, angling was invented to break rules, not follow them. I'm delighted with the way it's turned out. In fact, so delighted that I'm going to celebrate by going fishing. Or at least I will when I get the next book out of the way. Yes, gentle reader, I boated her.

I'm currently half way through the next book in my 'Companion' series. Having had the Campsite Companion published by Running Press in the US, I'm now about halfway through the Boating Companion with the hope of course, is that the trilogy will be completed by the Fishing Companion, but we'll have to wait and see.

Meantime, I've got my license, I think I can remember where the river is. As soon as this book is finished - June 4th - I'm off fishing.

* but not by much

P.S. The latest issue of Waterlog carries another of my pieces - Fishing with Yoda. The interesting thing about this is that it was originally submitted in 2001. This is a record in terms of letting something of mine gather dust...well, nearly anyway. Nevertheless, fair play to them both for recognising - finally - it's literary worth, and coughing up the fee.

Wot, no fishing?

Apologies for the silence. I've not been you see because I've been busy doing other things. Fortunately, these things are also to do with fishing. In fact, they're completely to do with fishing. In fact, they're a book about fishing.

And here it is. My own highly personal view of what makes angling a sport/art/science that's worth pursuing above all else. It's published by Ebury and will be out later in 2007. More details when I have them. Meanwhile, here's the cover.

Spoke too soon

So I'm driving my mum home after a very nice weekend when she's come down to see my daughter's musical and we've generally had fun. We're talking about fishing because I've just finished a book and anyway, after dropping her home I'm going to turn straight round and see if I can't prise a chub or two out of the river in Surrey on my return trip.

"Nope, I haven't blanked this season." I look half-heartedly around the car for something wooden to touch but being a modern Japanese thing, there's nothing, so I smile and touch the plastic dashboard instead. Can't mean anything, can it? Five hours later, as I squelch back across the the weir - fishless of course - I am of a different opinion, and I won't make that mistake again.

I've never seen so much mud. The trees were covered in it. Even the passersby were mud spattered. even the German woman and her ridiculous child who stood next to one of England's prettiest stretches of canal and shouted at each other because one of them could see something and the other could not, were covered in mud. (Though some in their mouths wouldn't have gone amiss).

Anyway. No Wellingtons for me. A pair of stout Doc Martins instead, which turned out to be about as much use skates on a frozen pond. Add to that the fact that the path pixies had been out in force creating trails that disappear or wind round in huge loops to deposit you inches from where you started except now you're sweating, scratched to bits and - yes - covered in mud.

It took me an hour to find somewhere to fish. By then I'd negotiated half a dozen 'paths' nearly been run down twice by cyclists on the towpath and almost put my own eye out. I'd also struck up a conversation with a fellow angler with the most bizarre hat I've ever seen (think Multi Coloured Swapshop) and a dog that didn't so much run up and down the banks as stand there vibrating at enormous speed. I thought it was actually going to explode at one point.

Anyway, I found a spot that was marginally less muddy than the rest of the river - i.e. only swimming in mud as opposed to being part of an actual mudslide - and settled down. The usual. Luncheon meat, size four, 8lb line, Arlsey bomb, short trail, 12' Lake Specialist. No bites in swim one (pictured here with the rod) but one or two good knocks further downstream (I'd caught a barbel there about three years previous). A guy turned up, scouting swims and he looked so much more comfortable than I felt - decent wellies, long socks, just neat and tidy, looking like he could sit down on the mud and it wouldn't touch him, but sort of slide off somewhow.

Anyway, I made the mistake of moving on and didn't get another bite until it was almost too dark to see the rod. I felt the fish for a second and then the hook came out. I took it as a sign and packed up.

When I got home the bannisters and radiators were covered in washing so there was nowhere to lay out my rubber cushion which was caked in you-know-what. So I put it over the back of my office chair and forgot about it until this morning when I finished this entry and leaned back in satisfaction. Now my hair is also covered in mud.

The two Sams

It was an hour into the trip - more of a quick raid really - that I realised I'd been fishing with someone called Sam before. I took my nephew Sam fishing a few years back and we both froze to death on the shores of a bleak Sussex day ticket water while all around us caught fish. It was a difficult day to explain.

This occasion sees me with an older Sam who's been on at me to take him coarse fishing. He's a sea angler and during the course of the afternoon will repeatedly point up the contrast between the two styles of fishing, finding each mis-match more hilarious than the last. He says he can barely see the hook, let alone put bait on it.

Still, the important thing was history did not repeat itself and not only did we get a few bites, but we both caught fish. The pond is incredibly reliable during the spring and summer but around October something happens and the fish become pernickity. Sometimes they don't show up at all. I thought this was going to be one of those afternoons, despite the fact that it's extraordinarly warm for November, and with only about half an hour of daylight left, there was still nothing happening. Then Sam caught a rudd, and then I caught a tench and a bigger rudd. We both got a few more bites and then then sun set - for about 20 minutes it looked at though the sky was on fire. Fantastic.

The return is already being planned. A 14' beachcaster, line as thick as my wrist, and apparently I'll definitely be able to see the hook...

Barbelicious

It's been so long that I'm not sure I remember how to go fishing, let alone write it up in this thing.

I havn't set foot near water since my last diary entry here - too much going on at home, scouting round for work, finishing writing projects and starting new ones. Still, on my way up to sort my brother's broadband connection up I stopped off in Surrey to fish my favourite (indeed only) barbel river. The conditions were close to perfect. We'd had three or four days of solid rain so the river was high with plenty of flow but the forecast for Saturday and Sunday was settled with sunny intervals and warm for this time of the year.

Once again the river banks have changed. For two seasons now it's been a jungle here with only one or two fishable swims but now there are some beauties. An old guy was fishing in the top swim about 100 metres down from the weir. The bank juts out and gives you a great trotting swim where you can face sitting downstream. He had his dog with him but neither of them saw me.

I moved down to the swim I usually fish and it was free. The bank had partly collapsed and the water was coming through thick and fast but it looked - as you can see - very barbely. There are lots of fast bits of water, eddies, strange currents and, right in front of you, an enormous snag.

I baited up the swim with luncheon meat and tackled up. Blew up the cushion and sat on it. Set up the rod rest. Cast in. Enormous bite, just as I'm reaching to adjust the position of the landing net. Bugger.

Reel in, re-bait. Re-cast. Rod goes back on the rest. I wipe my hands on the cloth. The rod bends round as if attached to a small motor car and we're off....What a fight. Typical barbel. Stays close to the bottom, using all the traction it can get from its superbly designed triangular body, just hugging the river bed for all its worth.

Remember the snag? The barbel does and heads straight for it. There's been so much movement on the bottom of the river that I'm not sure where the snag is any more, but the barbel knows alright. Everything goes solid. The rod is in a hoop, 8lb Maxima thrumming. I ease off slightly and wait. After about a minute there's a succession of slow tugs and then the barbel's on the move again. About another ten feet up the river and back into the snag again. We repeat the tension-and-tug dance and eventually he comes out again. There are a couple of short dashes and another one when he breaks the surface but essentially he's done. I'm slightly disappointed that he's not bigger but it's still my first barbel of the season and my biggest fish all year. I estimate he's about 6lbs, in lovely condition and after the photos I ease him back into the water inside the net until he recovers and then, with a flick of that spade tail, he's off again.

I'm laughing. I don't mind that for the rest of the session I only get two more bites and catch an eel. Today I have caught a barbel. That's enough.

The Secret Bait

Having decided to try my new secret bait I felt I ought to do things properly, so I arrived at the water by about 5.00pm and left myself plenty of time to get settled and bait up with loose offerings. Once again the river has changed out of all recognition from last season. Club members have been down here already, cutting paths down to the water and making various swims safe - last season you had a choice of one and if someone was in it, you might as well have gone home. Or stayed to watch them fish.

This year we're blessed and I feel a barbel is going to come out this year for me...possibly on the secret bait.

But not this night. This night was for chub and luncheon meat (which, ever the coward, I switched to after I couldn't buy a bite on the SB). It was nice Old Oak stuff that smelled lovely. I almost ate it myself.

The chub enjoyed themselves and I caught five in about five hours, between one and a half and four pounds. Didn't photograph any of them though - nor the little pike that snatched the meat as I reeled in at about 9.00pm. He gave me a good fight though, before those fangs sliced through the line and the ledger pinged up into the tree behind me.

The river looked beautiful, just beautiful.

Never the same place twice

The river is different every time you go. For a start, every fish in there must be baked - done to a turn - and ready for the plate. I know we were, even after 20 minutes, and we'd arrived at 7.00pm, keeping to the shadows, scouring the water for holes in the weed, storing up the information for later. What must it have been like during the day?

We expected things to be sluggish but it was still awfully slow. I started fishing the fast water below the overflow (pictured here) but despite finding it hard to imagine another swim that looked more fishy, didn't get a bite. From then I moved every half hour, loose feeding with meat and cheese paste and then dropping the bait into a succession of likely spots. Didn't get a bite until darkness fell and I ended up in the same swim as a couple of nights ago. Same routine too. Baited up. Cast in. A minute later, a huge rod-in-the-water tug and after a tidy little fight, another large chub was on the bank. Could have been the brother of the one I caught a few nights ago. Lovely fish.

And that was that. I moved a couple of times, returned to the fast water, got one knock and promptly put my tackle up a tree. Packing up was miserable because of the insects. I do miss smoking....

Still the kettle was fun - and particularly fiery - and my luggage arrangements ( a return to the creel and the inflatable seat) much easier on the arms. The next trip however, will be somewhere else. I feel Surrey calling...

Pass and move

It's what modern football's all about apparently...pass and move, pass and move. The Argentians do it rather well, the English seem less bothered. After last night I know which camp I'm in.

Back to the river with Ray, trying out new luggage tactics. A recent dicussion on the Waterlog forums put me in a mind to try the new seat bought for me by my wife for Christmas and so far only used upstairs in front of the portable telly with a glass of red wine at my side. Even I realise that I won't catch many fish like that, so I thought I'd give it a run out.

However, my new found love affair with the Kelly Kettle means that I now carry more gear than usual - the kettle, the base, milk, a cup, spoon, teabags, mini firelighters - and while I'm not going to give it up, it poses problems for an ultra-light angler such as myself. So, I stuffed the reel, milk, spoon and cloth into the tiny pocket in the seat, slipped the dry rolled-up landing net into it along with the kettle base and closed the lot. I then reached for this bizarre utility belt thing I bought from the Friday Ad about ten years ago and have never used - loads of pockets on a thick wide belt - probably designed for trotting anglers who wade to keep maggots in. I decamped legers and hooks and stoppers into a leather pouch and distributed various bits of bait in the other pockets - cheese paste (yes, last season's!) some hideous bright orange American cheese slices which I'd rolled into a ball and frozen along with luncheon meat. Oh and my secret bait. The litre of water went into the back pocket of my waistcoat along with my emergency seat - inflatable cushion - and I was packed.

Horrible. The belt made me look like Baron Harkonnen out of Dune. It was so heavy it kept pulling my trousers down. The kettle clanged against my legs, confused cows followed me down the field wanting to be milked, my hair got in my eyes, I found liquorice rolling papers in one pocket, reminding me of those happy days when I used to puff and fish at the same time.

And some bloke was in Ray's swim. He was a member of the club that fishes the other side of the river and having fished through the hottest part of the afternoon was now packing up, just as things were likely to get interesting. Why do people do that? Why do they turn up at 11.00 in the morning, fish until 5.00pm and then complain because they caught sunstroke but not any fish? What's that all about?

Ray settled in and I plodded on to my June 16th swim, looking for all the world like a pack mule that's learned to walk upright. I threw in some of the Hideous American Cheese and tackled up - 5lb line, quiver tip, link leger, size 4 hook, big lump of cheese paste. First cast I lobbed the bait into a spot between the lilies and the margins that I'd noticed the previous trip. I started to lean back and put the rod in the rest - taptaptaptapTHUMP! Nearly pulled the rod out of my hands. I struck, felt the fish - big - and then the hook came out.

Pass and move, pass and move. Fish and move. Stupidly I stayed and didn't get another bite. It won't happen next time. An hour and a half later I headed upstream towards the big open bend where I was going to fish into darkness. It was a nice spot. Just me, an opening in the reeds, a nice looking pool and a steaming cow pat about eight inches away from the rod rest. When it got dark I was going to have to be careful.

I baited the swim with some more HAC, brewed up, drank the tea and then cast in. Popped the rod on the rest. Ray wandered by heading for the Willows. He'd just gone over the stile when BANG the rod went again and if I hadn't grabbed it, I would have lost it this time. A good short crap later and the result was this chub - certainly over three pounds and probably bigger. The photo doesn't quite do it justice. (I do however really look like that).

Yes, I decided to leave that typo where it was. Of course, I meant to say 'scrap'.

If I could crap chub then there wouldn't be a problem would there? And I'd certainly never blank.

Getting the hook out proved impossible because the chub had wolfed that cheese paste right down, so we cut the line and I was so keen to get the fish back in that I popped it back into the swim by my feet. Fish and move, fish and move.

I didn't get another bite. Ray meantime caught two large chub and an even larger carp, probably a double. Unfortunately, he didn't bring his camera, so you'll have to make do with this.

Bullocks!

June the 16th. The opening day of the season. The Glorious 16th. A day recognised by all - or at least those in the fishing 'know' - as having almost mythological significance.

Maybe not.

When I went to pick up the maggots for today's session (it's got to be maggots on the 16th, got to guarantee you catch something) yesterday, one of the three lads who were smirking behind the counter in the tackle shop, backs to the customers waiting for the England game to start on a battered old portable telly, asked me what the date was.

"It's the 15th."
"You sure?"
"Of course I'm sure. Tomorow's the 16th."
"What's tomorrow then?"
"The opening of the coarse fishing season."
"That what you want the maggots for, then?"
Sigh.

Even at 7.00am it was already hot. There was a solitary car parked up by the bridge, but Ray swung round into the lane. We intended to head downstream, away from our usual haunts, in search of something different. Ray settled into a swim just downstream of a large tree, while I crept into the next field. No, I was not stalking chub. I was trying not to attract the attention of a pair of large swans who were looking after a couple of cygnets and looking at me very suspiciously. Further into the field were - oh, oh - thirteen bullocks.

They were so sweet. They followed me round as I peered into this swim and that. If I stood still with my back to them, they would get close enough so I could feel their breath on my neck. If I turned, they scattered and then pounded away to the other side of the field before re-grouping and trotting back. Eventually I confused them by nipping over a stile and standing very still on a bridge. They ambled right past me and into the next field so I was able to creep back out without being spotted.

The fishing was fun but hot. First cast came this nice little perch, the first of three. I also caught plenty of small roach and rudd - oh and a tiny chub. At one point the swim went dead and I thought 'I wonder if there's a little pike in the swim?' Next cast I was reeling in a tiny roach when the line zig-zagged off into the lilies. I got him out - a pikeling of about half a pound, but those little teeth sheared through the line before I could get him to the net. Ray caught two of them.

We packed up about 12.30pm by which time I was pink and very hot.

Happy birthday, Dad.

The kettle and the trout

Regular readers will recall my conundrum - how to balance a powerful desire to go fishing with an equally strong conviction that the close season should be observed, even if it doesn't exist on still waters any more. I'm happy to report that, thanks to a fly fishing friend I was able to wet a line with a clear conscience.

It also gave me the opportunity to try out my Kelly Kettle for the first time on the bank. I've been fascinated by this thing since I first saw Yates use one in A Passion For Angling and with every sour mouthful of stewed thermos tea since, have wanted to send my own smoke signals up from the bank side. I pursued one across the Internet on and off for a couple of years before eventually convincing my wife that it would make the perfect Christmas present. Two Christmases ago, it arrived.

So why the long delay? A combination of things. My dodgy knee, a nervousness about those smoke signals, visions of red-faced farmers shaking sticks at me for setting fires on their property, releasing the hounds Mr Burns-style from the top of the field. Then there's the whole business of lighting the things. Just a few twigs and bits of paper. Yeah, right.

Then, as she often does, my wife solved the problem. A packet of 24 mini fuel tablets, designed for a disposable camping stove. Three quid. That's one per brew up. At that rate, they'll not only last for ages but they'll also guarantee that each kettle will combust, exactly as it should.

And so it did. I won't bore you with the ingenious design of the kettle itself (if you're interested you can find out more here); suffice to say it was a complete success and resulted in two perfect cups of tea during this short evening session - one of which can be seen here.

And the fishing? Just fine. And to prove it's possible to learn a new skill and catch a different kind of fish during the old close season, I give you this pretty little rainbow trout, caught in the early evening with a yellow duster. See? I told you I could do it.

Paperwork

The fact that I am once again officially licensed up makes it difficult to resist going fishing. I haven't wet a line since January and I'm now very twitchy about the whole thing. Ian sent me a link to a video about where he lives in British Columbia and although there was a bit too much fish porn for me, it's got the synapses in my brain that look after angling a-firing.

The weather's not too bad. It's warmed up a bit, though staying below the 18 degrees my mum promised when I spoke to her earlier in the week. Maybe that's what the temperature's going to be inland, in balmy Bucks.

But now there's a fly in the ointment. The school has phoned. Our youngest daughter has been horsing around at school and the horse has given her a kick. There's talk of ambulances. The missus is on the way there in the car now. If it's a hospital visit, then my fishing trip will be scuppered. If that happens, then as soon as she's recovered there's a big dog house here with her name on it.

Waterlog

Finally after - literally - years of trying, I've had a proper paid-for article accepted by Waterlog, the world's most peculiar fishing magazine. Should you be inclined to seek it out, it's in the Spring 2006 edition, somewhere near the back, and it's called Ray and the Needle.

Meantime, Sean has phoned. There may be a way out of my close season dilemma. It has something to do with flies and trout. And I think there may have been in a boat in there somewhere...More news when we have it.

The end of an earhole

Or at least the season. I know that many anglers don't observe the close season anymore, that they think it's an anachronism. I'm not sure how it came about. I remember the first year Ray and I joined a local club it was still common practice on still waters and there was a fantastic sense of anticipation as anglers gathered together for the first cast of a new season. (We didn't know the etiquette back then and drove too close to the water, got shouted at).

Part of it's to do with fishery owners of course. There's a lot of money in fishing and their Excel spreadsheets would probably start beeping if they just shut up shop for three months of the year. But they wouldn't get any trade if anglers weren't happy to go and fish and that's something else entirely.

Now, don't get me wrong. I love to fish. I love everything about fishing. I even love packing up. But it seems to me that part of the joy of anything is in looking forward to it - and if you can do it whenever you like, at the drop of a hat, then it loses some of its resonance. At least it does for me.

There's a rhythm to a season's fishing that should incorporate a break. The fish need it, the bankside needs it, the paths need it, other water users need it. People walking their dogs used to notice when the anglers disappeared, they wondered where we'd gone (perhaps our partners hung us up in garden sheds to sleep away those early spring months). Now we're there all the time, gluttons in a fishy Burger King, just scoffing away, instantly gratified but always wanting more.

So I won't be doing any fishing in the close season, then. Of course I will.

I've rationalised it already. The club's still waters close in rotation for a week or two and since I rarely fish them, it's nice to pop along once a month and have a go. But the river can wait. It's been a shadow of its former self in the last couple of seasons but it's still a lovely spot and we still love a challenge. Maybe next season we should explore further downstream. never had much luck there but the guys who fish the opposite bank (different club) say there are good roach down there, and we've seen big carp sunning themselves down by the footbridge.

But that's for another season. For now, the rods are packed away and the geared is stowed in its various bags. I shall do some angel maintenance in April and May and sort a few things out, practice with my Kelly Kettle which will get some serious outings next season and look forward to more adventures.

Anticipation it turns out, is a wonderful thing.

Happy New Year

Ray & I went to the river yesterday. Sometimes at this time of the year, this is a bleak place. The wind whips across the flood plan and freezes your knackers off before you've had a chance to tackle up, but for January yesterday was almost warm - in fact, I was in shirt sleeves for most of the afternoon.

The farmer had been out with his machines, so the banks looked shaved, as if he'd decided to give everything that didn't move a number one. He goes right down to the water's edge too with the result that the river looks twice its normal size. I love it here. The water the colour of tea, but with a sinuous, oily surface where the current is doing weird stuff that humans can't understand.

We understand that winter means maggots though, and that's what we gave 'em. Ray legered and float fished, I used the 15 footer and the centre pin. The rod was too long (note to self: sit in swim next time point rod at where you want to fish before tackling up properly) and I found it hard to control the float. Nevertheless, I caught this rather nice roach and later on from a different swim, another one slightly smaller.

That's about all I ask for on a winter's day. Anyway, the sunset would have made it worthwhile even if I hadn't caught anything. It was magnificent, as good as anything you'll see on an exotic holiday and you don't have to go half way round the world. This photo doesn't do it justice at all but you get a flavour of what it was like to be out in the Sussex countryside as the winter sun lit up the landscape.

Darkness visible

Having decided to hit the river at dawn, I miscalculate and arrive before the sun comes up. This presents an interesting and immediate problem. I can't see anything.

I have a cigarette and wait for dawn. When it comes I discover that there's a tree in my swim. Not a little bit of debris nudged into the river by the winter floods, but a fully-fledged, bloody great Ent of a thing, roots and all. It's completely changed the way the river works in this stretch. What used to be a slack is now little fizzing torrent, the soft spot below the overhanging tree on the far bank (and how long will that stay up...eh?) now swirls angrily. Everything's different.

Anglers pretend to like change (Oh the way the seasons affect the fish, the difference between the river in Spring, all flighty and full of promise, and its dark sullen cousin in Winter, all...you get the idea) but secretly we hate it. Anglers want their waters to be constant, like a comfortable old lover who, having found moves that work, can be counted on to repeat them every time. Constant waters make us look good. We catch more fish on constant waters.

I glare at the tree in my swim. Unlike Burnham wood, it does not move. I cast downstream and begin to 'work' (I use the term loosely) the bait around the swim. After an hour Sean turns up and we catch up. He leaves around 8.30 and at 10.30, toes frozen, I pack up, having caught nothing, not even the tree.

The boy, the bull, the mouse, the key and the cat

I've meditated before on how fishing brings out the boy in me. Indeed, that one of the main reasons I still enjoy it is that it allows me temporarily to recapture what it felt like to be a boy. Most things change over the years, but the struggle of a small fish on the end of a line remains intact. Remarkably intact.

So I fished the river, mimicking Ray's technique of finding a deeper slack on the nearside bank and just dropping the bait into it. Caught a couple of nice roach, watch the tiniest mouse I've ever seen snuffle along the bank, and kept a wary eye on the large bull as it led the herd slowly across the field behind. (The previous outing I'd noticed that the herd finished up at the far end of the field, nearer the road by dusk and I watched carefully this time to make sure they did the same.)

Packed up just after 5.00pm. Strode across the field, got to the car, dumped the tackle, fished out the keys, feeling with my thumb to see which was which, felt the metal just 'give' like marzipan, and then just stood there laughing with a half a key in my hand.

Could have been much worse - key in lock, key in ignition, pouring with rain etc. So all in all, it worked out OK. Ray came and delivered a spare key and I had 45 minutes out in the night, sat on my basket just doing nothing. Lovely. At one point a black shape trotted up the lane and stopped opposite me. I shone a torch and it was a farm cat. Probably after that mouse.

Fly on me...

 

Ray on his birthday, bathed in heavenly light!

 

No Flies On Me

First trip for a while, so obviously maggots are the order of the day. The cheese paste still lurks in the fridge waiting for its time, but on this local river, I feel there's more chance of a result with something that wriggles.

I fished with the centrepin and a 15' rod, close in most of the time, but occasionally letting the float drift down in the main current. It was pretty much a bite a cast, though some of the fish were so small, that the float only ticked as if struck by a minute electric shock. Still I did well enough to catch some small roach, a dace and a nice little perch. Ray, fishing downstream, almost under his own bank, celebrated his birthday with a collection of nice perch and we both enjoyed the unseasonable sunshine and high temperatures. I took the first photo of Ray landing his biggest perch and the other one - well, obviously there was at least one fly on me...

Mid-September, still warm, minutes before the owl appeared 

She Goes Hunting

Not much to report from last night's raid on the river. A couple of fishless hours - one gentle tug - surrounded by slugs which surely move faster when you're not looking at them. The highlight came after an hour when I heard gentle wings over my left shoulder and sat, awestruck, as a barn owl whumped across the river and into the field beyond. The sound of the wings was unlike anything I've ever heard - like angel wings made from cotton wool. Fantastic.

Within 15 minutes it had turned to this - the big things are rain drops.

A lovely late September afternoon, around tea time. 

Rain stops...well, everything

At first it looked as though the storm was going to just skim me and then pass away to the south. There was a short, sharp cloudburst, then some gentle rain, and then the sky brightened slightly and everything eased. I was fishing a big bend in the river - shallow on my side until it got about two thirds over, when it became deeper. I fished the deep run on the far side beachcaster style with rod high in a long rest. Cheese paste and luncheon meat.

I was just starting to get bites when the wind changed and drove the storm back towards me. Within minutes it was torrential, like someone throwing buckets of water at you. From horizon to horizon, the sky was iron grey.

I even stuck it out for a while huddled under my poncho, on an inflatable cushion that was rapidly deflating. Then I reeled in, grabbed my creel and puffed up the bank, intending to shelter under the trees. When I got to the top I saw the golfer's hut, a fancy wooden bus shelter affair. Almost as soon as I got inside I was joined by another angler. He hadn't even tackled up yet, poor sod. We chatted and waited for the rain to stop. It didn't. So in the end we walked back across the golf course together as the light failed. Every few minutes sheet lightning burst across the sky.

Then came this eerie wailing which genuinely put the wind up me. Apparently it's some kind of lightning alarm system for golfers, to warn them to stop and take shelter. Anglers don't have anything like that. Maybe it explains the green fees.

Of course, it was my first blank of the season.

Horses in a Surrey field with the sun rising. 

No fish

It's been pointed out to me that there isn't enough fish porn on this site. You know the kind of thing. Beefy blokes (of which I confess, I am one) holding massive fish, bellies bulging with beer (the blokes) and boillies (the cyprinids).

So, setting out for the river this morning with conditions pretty much perfect, a new ball of cheese paste glistening in the creel and a song in my heart, I fully intended to correct this omission. In fact, yesterday I nearly wrote a pre-trip entry saying that I was certain I would catch a barbel when I went fishing the next day.

Fatal, naturally. I caught a chub second cast - nice as well, about three and a half pounds - and a gudgeon last cast and nothing in between. I positioned the chub neatly in the landing net, laid a float above him and placed the rod and reel beneath for scale, opened the lens of my Sony and took aim. Whereupon the chub decided it had had enough, flipped itself out of the net and slid gently down the bank and back into the river, making barely a splash. The judges gave him an 8.7.

So here's a picture of some horses I saw in a field on my way down to the river.

Tucked away behind the reeds 

Thirty Years

The river was alive tonight. The weather was perfect - warm, overcast and thundery - and all the other anglers tucked up safely in front of the television. My plan was to fish and move, fish and move. As soon as I caught something, I'd up sticks and move on to the next swim.

That lasted five minutes. I got a cracking tug first cast and missed it. Second cast I connected, but after a few moments it came off. Fish and move, fish and move. I stayed. What a tonk.

After a biteless half an hour I went downstream. Caught a chub. These chub are shrinking. Two or three seasons ago you could regularly take between ten and 20 fish a season that were 2lb plus...some went over 4lbs. These are good chub for a river this size, but in recent years they seem to have vanished.

To the third swim. This looked fishy. Slightly wider, on a bend, the current slowing down. There are carp and tench in here, you know. But not for me, not tonight. Then, as I was reeling in, there was a swirl and a tug as something took the luncheon meat on the retrieve. A chub? Nope. A pike. Sadly, like the chub, he'd shrunk until he was a perfect miniature pike, right down to the I-know-what-I'm-all-about-how-about-you? grin. My first pike in over thirty years. After that I didn't even mind catching an eel.

The sun dips below the tree line. At last... 

Down the estate

I mistakenly identified last night's venue as an estate lake to my friend Sean. Actually, it probably just looks like one - long, thin, shallow, reeded, wooded sides, noisy (animals, not anglers) and a stream at one end. We've caught wild carp there in the past. Hence the attraction.

But I fished unconvincingly. I caught some nice roach and rudd to about half a pound and had plenty of bites, but couldn't quite get into it. Our side of the lake was awash with sunshine until it dipped below the trees and it was hot and uncomfortable; and hard to see the float. It was also incredibly shallow, not much more than two feet where I was. We used to catch a lot of small tench and crucians here but there were no sign of them today. For the last 45 minutes I switched to floating dog biscuit in the hope of a wild carp. Hooking one of these wildies is like lighting the fuse on a rocket.

Good job I didn't catch one, then.

A nice little perch - the final fish of the day 

Invisible

It's been a while.

I'd intended to spend the day on a river in Surrey, fishing for barbel in the morning and evening and then trotting during the quiet parts of the day for whatever came along. I was on the road by 5.30am and at the car park an hour later. The plan was to walk to the end of the beat and then work my way back swim by swim but on the way I decided instead to have a look at the top end of the river, the first fishable swim. It looked too tempting to pass up so I tackled with a 12ft rod, Mitchell reel, 6lb line (too light, I know) a link leger and the old faithful - cheese paste.

First cast, I got a cracking bite which missed. Second and third casts came two chub, both about 2lbs, fourth cast came a bream. Then the swim went dead. I persevered for an hour, then gathered my stuff and began to walk downstream.

It was a nightmare. The banks were so overgrown that there were few places where you could actually get down to the river and when you did, many of the old swims had disappeared. Either that or the bank was so high that my landing net handle wouldn't reach the water properly and I'd struggle to land anything substantial.

After a fruitless 45 minutes slogging up and down I returned to the original swim and tried again. I'd seen no other anglers until then, when a guy appeared on the opposite bank, looking at swims. Eventually he slid down the bank almost opposite me, but slightly downstream. Then cast, almost over my line. I coughed loudly and he bent over, peering across the water. He shouted an apology. I was pleased he hadn't seen me. "Any good?" I told him. "My mate's just had a perch downstream, but no barbel yet." Me neither mate, not with all this shouting going on. He reeled in and wandered off downstream. The rod knocked, then there was a gently pull. I struck and it felt like nothing, some crap off the bottom maybe. Then it moved inexorably upstream, going deeper and deeper. I couldn't get it up. I applied as much pressure as I dared and the hook came out, clean as a whistle. Boll-ocks.

I switched to luncheon meat and started to fish the slack water under my own bank about 20 feet downstream. Nothing happened for about half an hour and then I had a cartoon bite which almost tore the rod from the rest. I reeled in and the line had just parted. A jack pike maybe? I've hooked them before on luncheon meat here.

I switch to the centrepin and trotted for a few hours - small roach, bleak, a gudgeon or two and a chub even smaller than the gudgeon. Then I packed up, walked back to the car, dropped off the gear and went to the pub for lunch. I'd decided to let fate guide me. If the swim was free when I returned, I'd stick to the original plan. If not, I'd think again.

Of course it wasn't free. A guy had got there minutes before, and was just settling into his chair having cast in. We had a chat and I slogged back to the car again.

Rather than try another stretch I decided to head back to Sussex and fish a local river - I'd always wanted to try casters there. I arrived during the only rain of the day. Sat it out in the car. Then got the gear again, walked across the field to a bend in the river and started fishing. I caught a few roach - bigger than the Surrey ones, actually - and then there was a commotion in the water downstream. Round the rushes came a mink, swimming in the water. It came almost to my feet before it spotted me. It had a good look and then just turned round and swam back. Not really bothered at all.

I moved swims a few more times and ended up with this nice little perch. Knackered though.

Cyprinus Irae

Having been invited back to the lake where I was smashed up the other week, I had a decision to make. I could continue to try for roach and rudd in the hope of landing one of the many pound plus fish that are supposed to be there, or switch tackle and tactics and try for a carp.

As ever, I vaccilated between the two. Only an hour before leaving I was determined to fish for carp and had even dusted off my 'bite alarm' - meat skewer, length of 40lb line, a budgie bell and a hairgrip - in preparation. Then I changed my mind again. You see, if I weigh things up, I find that a pound roach is actually worth more to me than a 10 or possibly 15lb carp (after that things get less clear). So, float fishing again, cheese paste (now with extra cheese to give it more bite and stop it from falling off the bloomin' hook so easily) sweetcorn and luncheon meat. The only concession? A stiffer 12' rod.

Oh, and I didn't fish the same swim either. That trio of lily pads with the pool in the middle and channel down the centre just doesn't offer the space to play anything substantial, so instead I moved next door where there are lilies on the right but open water everywhere else. I thought that should I hook a carp, there was a decent chance it would head away from the pads, and into the body of the lake where I might stand a chance.

Things began well. Like before it fished briskly for the first hour or so, then went dead, then slowly warmed up again. So I caught a sequence of rudd courtesy of bite after sailaway bite. No two pounders. Not even a one pounder. Nice fish nevertheless.

Of course the carp came and of course it kited right, wrapping me round the lilies and throwing the hook. I saw it briefly, a bar of gold, longer than my forearm, rising furiously to the surface as it tore across the lake. After that the swim went dead until a little tench wandered along with about half an hour to go.

Next time I shall neither shilly nor shally. I shall instead, catch carp. I swore this by the light of the fullest moon I've seen for years as I drove back along the edge of the Downs. The way angling works, I'll probably catch a two pound roach...

Ray and his black river tench. 

Rubbish

Sometimes when you go fishing, you're in the zone. Focussed, concentrated, knowing exactly what you're about - in tune with the fishing. Other times, you're not. Last night I thought I was, but turned out to be tuned only to static.

I arrived at the river late - about 7.00pm. This was by design. The day had been another hot one, and the fish would be sluggish. Because of the weed on the bottom I was going to float fish and try and trip the bait just above the weeds. Cheese paste again. Sigh. When am I going to give up on this dog's backside of a bait? I added flour to try and stiffen it up but by the time I got to the waterside it was soggy again and the first knock was taking it off the hook. I persevered. Kneaded it until I thought it had a better consistency. Made no difference.

Lots of bites then, but nothing very definite and tossing tiny portions into the swim showed small roach coming up from mid water to knock the bait back and forth. Too small to even take a size 16.

But I carried on. The temperature dropped and things became more comfortable, but nothing felt right. I was making basic mistakes, getting tangled up with my centrepin, not controlling the float properly. A kingfisher flashed by about 8.30pm and I decided to move. First cast in a new swim produced the best bite of the evening - a tiny chub about the length of my finger. I have small fingers.

Eventually I retired to the pool below the bridge where earlier I'd seen the shapes of both roach and chub, but I'd left it too late and couldn't see the float properly. As I said, I was rubbish.

So here's a photo of someone who wasn't rubbish. Who fished, in fact, rather well, and was rewarded with this - a tench of about 4lbs, almost black, and in near perfect condition. I left Ray where I had first seen him, hunkered down into the bank, almost invisible from the field, peering at his quiver tip.

A nice mirror caught off the top on a dog biscuit. Biggest of the season so far. 

Carpe diem

Still smarting from the lost carp of last week, I elected to extract my revenge at a local lake that teems with them. I hadn't been for two years but it looked more or less the same - though the reedbeds in the middle have either died off or been tidied away.

And there they were. Dozens of carp of indeterminate size, cruising around on or near the surface, nosing bits of debris, taking the occasional insect, bumping into the ducks. Great fun. I tackled up with a 12ft North Western, large fixed spool reel and 8lb line straight through to a size 6 hook. Bait was dog biscuits. Now despite what people say, these need virtually no treatment to make them soft enough for the hook. All you need is a plastic bag or a bait box and some boiling water. Put your dry biscuits in the bag/box and pour a little boiling water over them. Seal the bag/close the lid and give them a good sloosh around. By the time you get to the water, they'll be ready to use.

My first bite came courtesy of a horsefly. Oh how they love my sweet, sweaty flesh. (In Ireland two years ago my hand went up like a balloon after a bite like this). Second bite was a small common which tore into the dog biscuit as if chased by all the demons of carp hell. In all I caught six, of which the biggest is here - probably about 7lbs, but maybe a touch more. I lost three more, one of which was sizeable, but packed up before 10.00pm feeling happy and contented.

I don't actually like carp fishing much, but catching them like this is exciting. Sure you can see them coming a lot of the time, but after a while, you can almost sense them lurking beneath the bait, even if there's nothing to actually see. And that moment when the bait and water around it seems to drop, creating a little belly in the water when a fish is moving up from underneath to take the bait, is electrifying.

So, as long as there are no bite alarms and it's kept simple, then maybe I do enjoy carp fishing after all.

Losing Streak

This was surely a banker. Overcast, warm, settled weather (with perhaps the promise of rain to liven things up) a lovely little lake - and this swim, which virtually guaranteed tench and carp. I mean, look at those lily pads....

So, although I claimed to be after roach, I tackled up with 6lb line and a pretty stout rod, just on the off chance that something larger might pass by. In front of the lilies you see, is a slightly deeper channel where larger fish are likely to cruise up and down.

As it turns out, having plumbed it, the deep water is mostly in the left of the picture, between the two sets of pads - after that it shallows off to the right.

Anyway, cheese paste, corn and luncheon meat. Pellets for ground bait (and some sticky smelly nightmarish stuff that my host kindly provided - couldn't get it into the water fast enough) and off we went, about 5.00pm.

It was a good session. Lots of roach and rudd to about half a pound, first on float, later on leger. I lost a couple of decent ones too - they certainly knew all about those lilies.

Only one interruption really, when my fellow angler pitched up a little breathlessly carrying his landing net inside which was the biggest perch I've ever seen. Now I reckon I've caught a perch of one and three quarters and I thought that was big. This was 3lbs 10oz - a perchosaurus! Massive shoulders, huge mouth and when he released it, it swam off like a pike, fast and pissed off.

Last cast as light was fading I got a good solid take on corn. Struck and a large fish moved left into the lilies at speed. I managed to coax it back out into the open water in front of me. It circled for a bit as if sizing up the situation. Once it broke the surface. It was a double figure fish, I'm sure of that now. But things were OK. Six pound line, a stout rod, a bit of open water...it tore off like a train, heading straight for the pads in front of me. I simply couldn't stop it. The reel screamed, the line broke and I packed up.

This means war.

The wide pool below the bridge. 

Them bulls

Back to the river again last night. A different stretch this time, one that the club used to have access to but which was taken away for a few seasons. I'd looked over the bridge the week before and liked the look of the wide pool downstream from the bridge. I didn't however, like the look of the bulls.

This is strange, since I don't mind the bulls in the field next to the section I normally fish. I suppose they're 'my' bulls. Anyway, I bit the bullet, negotiated the gate and hugged the edge of the field as I walked down to the river. The big black one gave me an ugly look and then turned to reveal udders. D'oh!

The pool was as nice close up as it had looked from the bridge. I tackled up with a 15' float road, centre pin, 4lb line and a small Avon float. Baited with cheese paste and off we went. The rod was long enough for me to keep the line off the water and control the float nicely so I could work it around the slack on the far side and then bring it into the edge of the current. I started getting bites straight away but my useless cheese paste kept sliding off. (Note to self: add flour).

Switching to a small cube of luncheon meat produced a fish straight away - a small chub of about half a pound. I fished on for an hour but the bites became very tentative and hard to hit, so I moved downstream to a narrower run with lilies up one end. A few bites, but nothing to speak of. Then I moved to the bridge. This is where I caught my first ever chub on legered corn, but this evening only produced a small roach. Then no other bites.

In the end I packed up at 9.30pm and made for home. If I'd had casters I think I would have cleaned up. Certainly there are as many cabbages here as elsewhere on the river so I think trotting is the way to go until later in the year when some of the growth starts to die away. But a beautiful evening anyway, and already this season is going better than last.

A small river somewhere in the south of England 

Last cast. A dark little chub at evening's end. 

River Running

The hottest day of the year so far - a fact not usually conducive to good fishing - and me, just happy to get out of the city. So I made cheese paste with real cheese and real bread and set off for the river. I was planning on fishing an unfamiliar stretch, newly acquired by my club.

Even at 7.00pm it was still scorching. I slogged along the uneven bank through nettles looking for a spot to try. The river was low, the banks steep but the little weir looked promising - at least for those anglers who'd brought a float rod. I only had a quiver tip, so I got back in the car and drove on to the field from where I usually fish.

Again, not a soul. Just me and the cows (and later a beautiful hot air balloon that passed right over my head). And fish. Hopefully.

I think the heat killed it. The river was stone dead all evening . There were a few splashes and some small fish were taking flies off the surface, but the bottom was thick and weedy and the cheesepaste was too sticky. I fear everything was either being covered by weed, or pulling off when I tightened up.

Still, I persevered, moving every half an hour until it was time to pack up. But rather than do that in the last swim, I walked back towards the stile to a dank looking pool just below the bridge. This is the overflow when the river's in spate and forms the narrower arm of two channels that create an island. When the water's low, nothing comes under the bridge and the shallower water downstream dries up. This leaves a small pool. And if anything's in there when the water levels drop, it stays there.

So, first cast came this little fellow. A chub, almost black on his back. A great bite, never any danger of missing it. And the evening was suddenly completely worthwhile. Actually, the balloon had already seen to that.

A tench on the opening day of the season 

First Casts

Given that last season was pretty much a washout for me thanks to a major knee problem, I approach this morning with some trepidation. Now there's a good word for June the 16th. I needn't have worried.

The fact that our club no longer properly observes the close season meant that instead of the lake being like Picadilly Circus, packed with excited anglers keen to re-discover their piscatorial skills after an enforced absence, it was empty. Not a soul. I parked up and limped round to the smaller of the two lakes and settled into my favourite corner swim. Tackle was as simple as could be. An old 12 foot split cane rod, centrepin reel, 4lb line, a small float, a couple of shot and a size 12. Bait - small cubes of luncheon meat. As I tackled up, I could a carp crashing around under the tree in front of me.

First cast, and I caught a small perch. Then a bream, then a roach, and then the first of five tench. My total haul included a lovely 3/4lb perch, and a nice tench, just over 2lbs. All of them were in beautiful condition, none were badly hooked - even the perch! - and all swam off in good health.

What was pleasing though was that I fished like a fisherman again, even after six months away from the water. Tangles were negotiated, I managed to cast well enough with the pin and I didn't fall over.

It was a short session - I was back in the car and going home before 9.00am - but a rewarding one. As I drove back up the field, I looked in the rear mirror for a last look at the lake and saw a hawk pinned to the sky above the trees.

This, my friends, is the real world.

There's a fish in there somewhere...

A new season

Hi and welcome to my diary for the fishing season, 2005-2006. Last year I managed six fishing trips and my biggest and best fish was a one pound eel. Things can't get any worse, surely...