tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-88901608182477831582024-02-07T20:14:48.292+00:00Float, Flight and FlannelTales of Angling, Birds and the like in the Feldon LandscapeGeorge Burtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07422749226358557982noreply@blogger.comBlogger210125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8890160818247783158.post-90896768957449410452022-12-24T22:27:00.000+00:002022-12-24T22:27:06.062+00:00Prime Suspect<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzVVAWwotX8oDidx9LHerEoJB3y2Dcdi7VVf6NxZuMsYlK3uU9pTnxTiusb04VZoaJvm5TPnhufngURneHYS4nIGRYKd99cimADOrvdgTflg9Nf20o5t0gjKbtbOTyx73cDZtFocitZP-Oz2FuV2j2jd2oeiaFy3nOinfcHjr9q2F5zXIPUmHTBtw1YQ/s1920/VID_20210824_202846_exported_10976.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1920" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzVVAWwotX8oDidx9LHerEoJB3y2Dcdi7VVf6NxZuMsYlK3uU9pTnxTiusb04VZoaJvm5TPnhufngURneHYS4nIGRYKd99cimADOrvdgTflg9Nf20o5t0gjKbtbOTyx73cDZtFocitZP-Oz2FuV2j2jd2oeiaFy3nOinfcHjr9q2F5zXIPUmHTBtw1YQ/s320/VID_20210824_202846_exported_10976.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p>He was a naturally scruffy and imperfect little soul. Black and grey hair matted and his shins often coated in spare gravy 'for later'. The dandruff fell from his skin like salt from a pot and yet he was the dearest of chaps.</p><p>His eating habits were as equally rapid as messy, but always preceded by an all-but terminal, physically evident fear that the food being prepared would not be for him.</p><p>On trips, he would set his more perfectly formed big brother off in howling sessions such that would make the rest of the family resort to headphones, conveying the message he was here, there, or anywhere for that matter.</p><p>This led me to wonder why dogs howl. </p><p>Some brief research made the discovery that it was thought to be to announce their presence. A kind of, "We're over here, in case any of you can't find us", message. It keeps the pack safe and in numbers.</p><p>Anglers, and others no doubt, have often pondered the reason for fish to 'top', the written word on angling often referring to this as 'priming' (though I have no idea why), that is the tenancy for individual fish to come to the surface, roll over, causing the telltale concentric rings of outward moving ripples, and return to the depths.</p><p>Given that everything happens for a reason it seems a little puzzling at first glance. What is the evolutionary advantage in exposing one's self to risk of predation by such an action? </p><p>Peak times for such activity are dawn and dusk but it can also go on throughout the day. Again, the question is, "Why?". </p><p>It's not a feeding activity. Fish that are feeding at the surace have a quite different form of action, more aggressive and 'splashy', and why don't predatory fish do it? Pike, and perch? </p><p>It's intensity can vary between species. Chub will crash at the surface at dusk, whereas roach are the gentlest exponents of the craft.</p><p>A subject I have pondered for a lifetime, on and off, has drawn me to one conclusion that it is the direct equivalent of dogs howling. A message by the unspeaking to avoid the unspeakable. </p><p>"If you lost touch or are passing through, come and join us, we're safer together". </p><p>It certainly seems to be promoted by stillness and light levels but should not be confused with the propensity of rudd to surface feed avidly at dusk, especially where food in the form of invertebrates has drifted into a certain part of a stillwater. Rudd are generally very unsubtle toppers as are roachXbream hybrids!</p><p>Apart from the sight of large roach breaking surface I have to say the one that makes my inner soft spot glow is the sight and sound of stone loach "fripping" at dusk as they burst the surface of streams in a display of apparent delight in feeling sufficient confidence to slip the lair at dusk.</p><p>Whatever the purpose of the habitual routine, it is clearly one trait that has stood some non-predatory fish species the test of millions of years' existence. </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>George Burtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07422749226358557982noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8890160818247783158.post-11033500404344331562021-12-10T22:23:00.002+00:002021-12-11T08:26:27.931+00:00A Flood of Opportunities<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjpMPVNPdBtFFq9Oibm6BuosDhP3emC9_dVSwvlJotYxBYMXl8gkBSRyJk9qSG7v74oOs9yWdCG7wJr-DqoJcxt5nOrLp2W_P1xN-lI3x97RgjOSI9hQ1OZHKcfo1ujbonmI3Q_m2MXmmAztGlBsOa9D55kFg9orixBY1sR_JMI9zYfpkcsfmByWNcpuQ=s3648" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1824" data-original-width="3648" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjpMPVNPdBtFFq9Oibm6BuosDhP3emC9_dVSwvlJotYxBYMXl8gkBSRyJk9qSG7v74oOs9yWdCG7wJr-DqoJcxt5nOrLp2W_P1xN-lI3x97RgjOSI9hQ1OZHKcfo1ujbonmI3Q_m2MXmmAztGlBsOa9D55kFg9orixBY1sR_JMI9zYfpkcsfmByWNcpuQ=w400-h200" width="400" /></a></div><p>The challenge of extracting fish from flooded rivers is one of the greatest. Not in that it's the most difficult but in the measure of the pleasure of success against the conditions</p><p>The temptation to say, "Against the Odds", was almost irresistible but that would have been lazy and not necessarily true</p><p>In these parts the challenge of catching decent 'Stone-fish*' in clear, low, slow flowing water is far greater than in floodwater. </p><p>In floodwater the options are narrowed and the target wider. The former by way of the river dictating the terms of engagement whereas the latter is a result of the fish being pushed into area where they might tightly shoal. </p><p>If I had to choose a single type of fishing to keep me amused this would be high on the list and yet fishing in such circumstances only seems to meet with the unquestioning acceptance a certain type of angler. Generally one of experience, one who has been there before and isn't, some might say 'naturally,' put off by the sight of a raging river. </p><p>Matches, thankfully now back in fashion on rivers, are frequently cancelled under such conditions and, as canal match anglers we used to welcome such days that would boost the turn-out without necessarily boosting the chances of the extra cohort. It had to be appreciated though that there is a distinct risk in running matches in such circumstances that cannot be ignored.</p><p>As an individual however, not being tied to a peg, so to speak, opens up a world of safe opportunity with requisite care. </p><p>In the previous life alluded to above I recall fishing high rivers rarely, even during spells as 'a river angler' this was the case. In fact I only recall three such occasions. One on the a featureless stretch of the middle Trent in a club match, one on the Nene just below Northampton, and a third also on the Nene somewhere further downstream in an Open match. These examples perfectly demonstrate the match against individual situations. </p><p>Trent: River high, 4' from top of bank. Inexperienced, I felt fishing where an angler would usually be sat, with maggots (that's all we had) would be best as the main flow rushed past. No choice but to sit there and spend 5 hours praying for someone to end the match early. </p><p>Nene: Pleasure session. The river, a recent new cutting of the main flow, was seriously enjoying itself while The Old Duffer and I sat in a side arm taking advantage of fish, including tench and carp, sheltering from the torrent in steady turbid depths. </p><p>Nene: Open. I drew above a little slack back eddy with a eye that was relatively still. Circumspect feed with groundbait produced a couple of skimmers and some roach that made the day worthwhile with a 3lbs catch; while Ray Mumford fished a long pole into a far bank slack beyond the main flow to take 6lbs of roach on bread. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiQ5ILz-nmdbtiDed-Rypf1zfxc9_DUo7zCzkHEuQh_TUiqo3r1-hOXzFBN_kWQRWJpJLUXUqmfEu3AWMT8jKHveC6Y1ZNBpYNWDQwjzgTj8-AxlnSYigjPSuSwwQZSgRtXuVnl02lYaZlw2ZuxyMzw-3vP1BG2kVOYgKONSzst05f3FOZHbOZv8c-0lg=s3648" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1824" data-original-width="3648" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiQ5ILz-nmdbtiDed-Rypf1zfxc9_DUo7zCzkHEuQh_TUiqo3r1-hOXzFBN_kWQRWJpJLUXUqmfEu3AWMT8jKHveC6Y1ZNBpYNWDQwjzgTj8-AxlnSYigjPSuSwwQZSgRtXuVnl02lYaZlw2ZuxyMzw-3vP1BG2kVOYgKONSzst05f3FOZHbOZv8c-0lg=w400-h200" width="400" /></a></div><p>The above indicate the vagaries of the relative circumstances. One can be lucky in a match, but the likelihood is (if it goes ahead) that only a few pegs will be genuinely fishable but, alone, the freedom to select a swim or a series of swims makes the deal altogether more potentially profitable. </p><p>Having only fished high rivers in earnest for around 7 or 8 seasons the prospect now fills me with nothing but excitement. </p><p>Such angling is precisely what it should be. Nothing is the same and one has to think on the hoof and adapt to the constraints of each opportunity presenting itself. Often a single swim can offer multiple possibilities - a slack bay, a crease, a steady glide, gaps between overhanging trees, rafts, sluggish water immediately downstream of features such as reedbeds, etc.</p><p>Methods are equally flexible although a static bait of bread, worm or meat is likely to be preferred and the scale of the quarry increased from that most prevalent in the normal level river. It certainly isn't a time to fiddle around with light rigs and small hooks as the fish willing to offer their assistance to the cause will likely be the mothers and fathers of those we caught last week. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh3uj0L4mkAxI8q_AQQcARJKCQORaS5bwkhoqz0lVn5oiRBsK0Qlfry0KRSvZtMSkeLDEQv1dmmUKPPes8PNhqy9qFUsoJmdTcZEgDc9OYoTSoULMbvZzPnh2e_wm0jKfZ7LSuMuZxT8aThVnO_6UcW8cVL6KfRyiG5EtnWcs3iEwIS708vOehsWz2EWw=s3648" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1824" data-original-width="3648" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh3uj0L4mkAxI8q_AQQcARJKCQORaS5bwkhoqz0lVn5oiRBsK0Qlfry0KRSvZtMSkeLDEQv1dmmUKPPes8PNhqy9qFUsoJmdTcZEgDc9OYoTSoULMbvZzPnh2e_wm0jKfZ7LSuMuZxT8aThVnO_6UcW8cVL6KfRyiG5EtnWcs3iEwIS708vOehsWz2EWw=w400-h200" width="400" /></a></div><p>Sounding too good to be true I accept there are negative aspects. Firstly, if the flood is caused by an influx of water colder than the pre-existing river temperature, it will usually kill sport until the fish acclimatise and start to forage. This could take a week or more. If the incoming water is warmer however success can be immediate provided, on rising levels, the debris careering through can be avoided. Secondly, if the water is too coloured, it will be difficult to tempt a bite. </p><p>Float fishing is usually a non-option unless float leger or pole feeder are employed as the quivertip becomes the primary source of entertainment when pursuing targets that are only limited by the bait in use, i.e., both bream species, hybrids, roach, chub, dace on bread; chub, barbel, eels, bream on meat and pretty much anything but mainly perch and chub on lobworms. One thing is fundamentally clear however and that is that tiny baits are pointless when the river is up. </p><p>The use of a bait dropper becomes essential when the feeder is not the preference and what an under used, neglected, item this is. Fishing bread mash in a flood and in a feeder, or trying to introduce a few snippets of worm would be impossible were it not for these ingenious devices. So much so that one would be well advised to set-up a dedicated rod for its use; one that is not so soft as to make its deployment a matter of luck rather than skill.</p><p>Thinking things through further, pb's of Leam perch and roach have come in high water conditions as well as Avon barbel, chub and silver bream, the latter of course being known to be at it's most gullible in coloured water. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjUSNcf3BUPZfuysP3L2PwDW-TCkL4UAzY4-azpllYtPbOVDZGOeFQDg_iRMCgP5yWt0bolxkg7h439erQQN5TSMm3qIhStO5ILGWUCtfwmftM7DNVerxNVIsa-WPBYb5aA4CYNObf5V7qgXvu8uzG1ib47B4ksedgDBzbz9yg_0LxOtOx9wY66ScbzSA=s3648" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1824" data-original-width="3648" height="160" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjUSNcf3BUPZfuysP3L2PwDW-TCkL4UAzY4-azpllYtPbOVDZGOeFQDg_iRMCgP5yWt0bolxkg7h439erQQN5TSMm3qIhStO5ILGWUCtfwmftM7DNVerxNVIsa-WPBYb5aA4CYNObf5V7qgXvu8uzG1ib47B4ksedgDBzbz9yg_0LxOtOx9wY66ScbzSA=s320" width="320" /></a></div><p>As I write, a short shower rattles on the window at 6°C ensuring that the local rivers, Warks Avon and Leam, will maintain their high state going into the weekend. By then it will have been five days since the 4°C storm struck and it should be time, combined with further increasing air temperatures, receding flow and water levels, to glean a Stone-fish or two from a few likely havens. </p><p>It remains to be seen, of course, but I'm up for it if you are?! </p><p><br /></p><p><span style="font-size: xx-small;">*'Stone-fish' - a term derived from the writings of the late Peter Stone, who espoused the theory that it is usually possible to catch the bigger fish from a swim...and he was right. </span></p><p><br /></p>George Burtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07422749226358557982noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8890160818247783158.post-85285368038100342572021-12-05T23:09:00.003+00:002021-12-06T22:42:26.334+00:00That Awkward Time<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgVulao_XZj880_nWXar-PZM9oFAtd2sj-IUGIOozWiTs4gE7v2oIPzZxaTYM6lM1uyJ86c4kXfcpvJmDuAO8xW64yxET0vqQ5d_RRQKnXntTBHv8JO4B_MYbVfKb6eM4alqJ0bMWc-a1CGc-5sdEuIhvYUK9klFbZVF59aJGmme4fPod7Urp70LQrNag=s3648" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1824" data-original-width="3648" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgVulao_XZj880_nWXar-PZM9oFAtd2sj-IUGIOozWiTs4gE7v2oIPzZxaTYM6lM1uyJ86c4kXfcpvJmDuAO8xW64yxET0vqQ5d_RRQKnXntTBHv8JO4B_MYbVfKb6eM4alqJ0bMWc-a1CGc-5sdEuIhvYUK9klFbZVF59aJGmme4fPod7Urp70LQrNag=w400-h200" width="400" /></a></div><p>Even a steady breeze can convert the comfortable cold to an eye-watering blast. Someone should invent a hat with racehorse style blinkers. </p><p>In the second angling life it has often been a struggle turning from autumn into no winter with any degree of success. It's easier on the canal, with the fish always so obliging and confidence always high, but lakes, apart from Rocky Res, and rivers, are another...kettle of fish, but there's more to like than hittable bites (I'm told)</p><p>The last 3 or 4 trips have been brief, often super-local and eye-opening</p><p>----</p><p>THURSDAY - R Leam - New stretch - Early:</p><p>Smattering of snow, hard frost, - 1°C.</p><p>River, clear with steady flow, iced shallow margins. </p><p>Swim scalloped by overhanging trees opposite. </p><p>15g cage feeder with liquidised bread and flake. </p><p>Not so much as a tap. </p><p>There was a big swirl 10m upstream. A bit splashy so probably not an otter and, in the moment, I plumped for a chub. </p><p>Then, noticing movement downstream, I glanced to my right on a river narrower than Sir Jonathan Edwards could jump to see the most brazen of cormorants looking sheepishly at me out of the back corner of its yellow circled eye</p><p>"What the...?!"</p><p>----</p><p>SATURDAY a.m. - R Leam - WBAS 3rd field - early:</p><p>Biting West wind, just above freezing, no cloud. </p><p>River clear, nice flow. </p><p>15g Pole feeder + liquidised bread and flake. </p><p>1st swim one that always looks good but hadn't yet produced anything of note.</p><p>Dropping the feeder off the edge of far bankside grass beds resulted in the usual clear water tentative bites from small fish. </p><p>Second drop in, the, "peep, peep", of the king of fishers approaches. </p><p>Thud! </p><p>He lands on the pole not 1.5m from my bulging eyes, bobs his head 2 or 3 times and, to my amazement...starts fishing, looking, apparently, at my float! Desperate to pick up a camera, I twitched, causing the pole to jerk at the very moment he flung himself into the water and came out with a small fish only to departed upstream to render it senseless on a branch before swallowing it, head first. </p><p>"The little bugger!", the exclamation. </p><p>1 small dace came to hand. </p><p>2nd swim, same area but one which has thrown-up decent roach in the right conditions previously. </p><p>Similar outcome. This one a roach. </p><p>----</p><p>SATURDAY p.m. - R Warks Avon, PH stretch - late:</p><p>Stiff westerly, 4°C, some sleet later. </p><p>Clear river, good flow, tinge of colour. </p><p>Bread mash to right + link leger & flake on a 2'+ tail. 15g cage feeder upstream to downstream edge of rush bed + crust on a 3" tail. </p><p>Quiet start then a proper wrap-round bite on downstream rod. The fish was substantial and kept deep chugging upstream close in. A short burst took line from the clutch and then it reverted to chugging, this time downstream. Suddenly though it decided to take off toward mid-river and 'ping' off it came. Swinging the line to hand revealed the biggest scale I'd ever extracted from a foul-hooked fish, almost as large as a typical shot box. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj2-VWRyn84MYlvukZftbrhPA3WJ2InKUUQ9R0yyAcomk6qxJCKvsDVFVmA4VwJ1gAyer5QyLlshcwLnPo2aCFKW7uN6F9GQj09_VH8a-oVZ3A7olM_MyOxHLdGBY5YIO_8oHPwPEADskQGSAijSYBF3qbreDtfvUvgqVwe08BG3QeSdvXe0t9Osb3Jhw=s3648" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3648" data-original-width="1824" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj2-VWRyn84MYlvukZftbrhPA3WJ2InKUUQ9R0yyAcomk6qxJCKvsDVFVmA4VwJ1gAyer5QyLlshcwLnPo2aCFKW7uN6F9GQj09_VH8a-oVZ3A7olM_MyOxHLdGBY5YIO_8oHPwPEADskQGSAijSYBF3qbreDtfvUvgqVwe08BG3QeSdvXe0t9Osb3Jhw=w200-h400" width="200" /></a></div><br /><p>WhatsApp discussions concluded in a stalemate, chub or carp? One thing is certain, if it was a chub, it was biiiiiiig.</p><p>Two little grebe twittered to each other upon meeting downstream and paddled out together to quarter the bay opposite me. </p><p>Next cast the upstream rod goes round and the bite is missed but a decent fish is hooked within 5 minutes. It felt like a chub but approaching the net it pulled out. </p><p>3 or 4 further bites of varying ferocity ensued but no contact was made in a frantic 20 minute spell around dusk, typical of a clear river. </p><p>----</p><p>As is typical of early and late sessions, rarely are they without incident, even when the fishing is less than remarkable. It's just great being out there but I did manage a nice chub to round the weekend off this evening</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjNanswkBPgPUnYeq99x4L3GQp2kQFs_m_ZU0p9ayE55pz1VhpCUWdVIgybfaEzSlNH3ieRQkfoM8qR96BFmXls1RBKPZR6NtKuC7EQk_W1iknm5hSQHqPWbz2EVXCZ1Zh7x8q7zW-K6qqFkml0wy_U5hvJCpatsABhd57AvWe98rT_Uax4v6Q-oc2Hdg=s3648" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1824" data-original-width="3648" height="160" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjNanswkBPgPUnYeq99x4L3GQp2kQFs_m_ZU0p9ayE55pz1VhpCUWdVIgybfaEzSlNH3ieRQkfoM8qR96BFmXls1RBKPZR6NtKuC7EQk_W1iknm5hSQHqPWbz2EVXCZ1Zh7x8q7zW-K6qqFkml0wy_U5hvJCpatsABhd57AvWe98rT_Uax4v6Q-oc2Hdg=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>George Burtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07422749226358557982noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8890160818247783158.post-53855726335210973702021-11-22T21:57:00.004+00:002022-12-28T07:51:02.064+00:00Two Weeks & Two Rivers<p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5Ge3M9nOx6cJF4uWVY-pku90_8nZEWPjbv4NV1sat8TbILeISSqS0xIVnxvcdyITHRur5BloyMbUqxINWI0OP2pzGdDOY-_-jy7VshItzbMj2Bey2dEclI5DdjFQR1Y3ijlOFoL5QPRwG/s3648/IMG_20211113_141922.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1824" data-original-width="3648" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5Ge3M9nOx6cJF4uWVY-pku90_8nZEWPjbv4NV1sat8TbILeISSqS0xIVnxvcdyITHRur5BloyMbUqxINWI0OP2pzGdDOY-_-jy7VshItzbMj2Bey2dEclI5DdjFQR1Y3ijlOFoL5QPRwG/w400-h200/IMG_20211113_141922.jpg" width="400" /></span></a></div><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">SHIFTS HAND OVER</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">The moon was brightening and I thought I could sense something breathing, but the sound was continually drowned-out by the sky, throbbing with the lumpy drone of a hundred distant combustion engines</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Now the river, at its narrowest accelerated channel, glinted silver as sunlight struck it via the surface of that early evening moon; each turbulent surge outlined and shrinking as it subsided into darkness</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Through the summer it is readily forgotten how thoroughly the cup of calm can be drained right down to the very last drop by the riverside at dusk. Everything settles to roost and a whole new everything soon stirs. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Rooks and jackdaws, tonight over a thousand starling, and of course the pheasants' unpleasant cocophony as they crash-in to perches, often inappropriately selected and then deselected, are the regular proponents of the changing guard. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">No sooner have they handed over to the night-shift than the rustling and chewing of rodents; the last minute piscean displays of ebullience; then the cries, hoots and screeches of owls; moorhen scrambling into bushes or climbing rushes all comprise the, albeit brief, B-side of the day's soundtrack before a general silence descends. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">On two consecutive trips the local barn owl flew straight to me as if to check-out this new and mobile feature of the usually unchanged landscape. What a sight, as they floated without even the slightest sound on moth-like wings. Unsatisfied on both occasions each perched nearby to survey the scene but lost interest as efficiently as they gained it. Voles called (now when I say, "Voles called", I don't mean...well, anyway). </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">The little grebe, a ubiquitous tiny river bird, seemingly ever present in the colder months, is easily missed or mistaken for a crashing chub or rolling roach, but with stealth they can be seen in between the reed stems diving for the last water boatmen of summer or perhaps winter sticklebacks to sustain their Slender yet impossibly buoyant selves. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">The evening was frustrating in the extreme. It's not often I can say I've had 15 bites when chubbing with meat but conversely quite usual to say I've had just the one fish. This however was that day. The first three or four bites were sail-aways yet were struck into nothing. Slow to learn, I held back and allowed the next bite to develop more fully, managing to hook and land, via a crisis-let with a weedbed, an immaculate chub of 3lbs 13ozs</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQtKsVWmVKjQ8iffQdwTU_uzM9h9ksl-TbeCcgfACvJMtR9OXNiDvzyeERbQLTXgt0Tn40u67ned1qfevIHZtl_qdDqqexrrJySUQ-v65c4King3N5xmUJmJGiSRFj5T3ZRcNj1SD4mHfo/s3648/IMG_20211113_170232.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1824" data-original-width="3648" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQtKsVWmVKjQ8iffQdwTU_uzM9h9ksl-TbeCcgfACvJMtR9OXNiDvzyeERbQLTXgt0Tn40u67ned1qfevIHZtl_qdDqqexrrJySUQ-v65c4King3N5xmUJmJGiSRFj5T3ZRcNj1SD4mHfo/w400-h200/IMG_20211113_170232.jpg" width="400" /></span></a></div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">I was no better off afterwards, as the bites became increasingly short, sharp and stacatto, such that I began to consider the possibility of eels. HonGenSec suggested signal crayfish, which I suppose could have been trying to swim off with the bait and then quickly losing grip, neatly reflecting my own demeanour as I sloped away into the mist of the darkening field, largely defeated</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">----</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjg43wTxBeK6oidIK4cohPm_nvolkLHfqTMdAdxjadA5uk0nF2-xdtFPcLBWasnZFg-gJmdeYwNcUZX465xse5CxF7pQqrE4OI_yIIMqSvOCbPlSVpfrWgWKHeHJ15N2jg-k1ZuZ5-ABTyR/s3648/IMG_20211120_085325.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1824" data-original-width="3648" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjg43wTxBeK6oidIK4cohPm_nvolkLHfqTMdAdxjadA5uk0nF2-xdtFPcLBWasnZFg-gJmdeYwNcUZX465xse5CxF7pQqrE4OI_yIIMqSvOCbPlSVpfrWgWKHeHJ15N2jg-k1ZuZ5-ABTyR/w400-h200/IMG_20211120_085325.jpg" width="400" /></span></a></div><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">RIGHTS HAND OVER</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">To be sat there again; feet in the rushy margins, backside on the bank; was like the reopening of the sweet shop hoping mint humbugs were back in stock. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">The Leam is, as they say, "A funny river"</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">The slightest miscue and she appears devoid of life. Her appetite generally on the reluctant side of anorexic except during those occasional times when her complexion suggests a flush of rude and ravenous health. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">This weekend was clearly the former, as she lay chilled in serpentine stillness. Visibility was two feet plus, far too clear for more than the odd fish per swim, with any panic palpable, but hope would be a companion.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">In flight, fieldfare and the seeping Redwing, </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">f</span><span style="font-family: verdana;">lushed from hawthorn and willow, scatter in random abandon at the first morning sight of man. Meadow pipit and skylark continue the winter spread as they filter throughout the land. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Prostrate willows seemed more prevalent, and more dramatic, than three years prior. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">It had been that long. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">20 minutes of 10g feeder deployment and no bites to show for it, the river low and clear, I slip i</span><span style="font-family: verdana;">nto the old banker swim. A change of approach to boot. 4 finger blobs of mash, scattered such that they would entice the quarry from its lair, drifted down in the negligible gentle flow to the edge of a previously significant feature, now depleted. There was something about it though, something imperceptible that made it attractive to both chub and roach in the past and so there was no reason to conclude that this would still be the case; perhaps the bed was scoured gravel?</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">First flick - poor. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">The second? Accurate and short of the spot imagined where the feed came to rest. Ideal.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">As is the case with small rivers, one tends to seek-out micro-quivertips to indicate the tiniest of twitches, but when the fish is worth the effort it could put a curve in a 2oz tip without any trouble. This bite was to be no different; the customary tremble closely pursued by a wrap around and what felt like a proper combatant was engaged.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Now the wand isn't made for specimen fishing but it copes adequately with fish up to 3lbs and can subdue bigger fish in open water but this was the Leam, all rushy margins and snag-ridden runs. Initially the fish didn't show any desire for the vegetative route of escape but as it approached the net instinct clearly took hold and there it was being dragged to the surface and into the net before we had to offer it the option of releasing itself before digging it from the debris.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">The opening fish of the new era then was chub of 2lbs 13ozs, and a very welcome start!</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhms6vC2AVQoi57CdEax4iwTdLBc28aH6AqDYRkPfdByGmk1yotvw5hE-Jpez7oNYzz54iHCbWALEGP80UlCH7CvKcAvJE9MumH_VDEYTs10yuOv-BHZS4G8PO-dIVoE3lLRogQNOEtKbfh/s3648/IMG_20211120_083837.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1824" data-original-width="3648" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhms6vC2AVQoi57CdEax4iwTdLBc28aH6AqDYRkPfdByGmk1yotvw5hE-Jpez7oNYzz54iHCbWALEGP80UlCH7CvKcAvJE9MumH_VDEYTs10yuOv-BHZS4G8PO-dIVoE3lLRogQNOEtKbfh/w400-h200/IMG_20211120_083837.jpg" width="400" /></span></a></div><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Usually under such circumstances I might give it one more cast or I might move on immediately. The former was favoured, given the re-acquaintance with the stretch, and in went a tasty fresh flake of Jonathan's best. This time the hook bait lodged in the leading edge of the feature and the heart fluttered like a cabbage white under the gaze of a wren but one gentle tweak and it flipped neatly out and sunk right next to the snag. Needless to say, when such luck abounds, it wasn't long before the tip was arching downstream again and another decent fish was hooked. At first it was a roach, then a chub of a pound or more but the head-shaking didn't seem right and, as it came into view, it was clearly a more than decent roach. Then it turned into chub again and dived into the dead rushes. The landing net turned excavator scooped the fish and all around it up, and at the scales it proved the first river pounder of the season at 1.1.8 and the world was good; for five minutes there was no COVID, no climate crisis and no war. Anywhere.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">A chance call to the farmer had resulted in the syndicate getting access to this excellent stretch of the river where the features almost outnumber fish and offer so many options as to make one all boggly of mind.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">As I tested another glide I was feeling that loss of engagement, that prelude to the trudge back to the tank, and through the distraction I became aware of a huge but somehow gentle swirl to my right next to the fallen log the bait rested beneath. Thinking initially, "Giant chub", I became conscious of a seal-like shape slipping underwater on the far side between the, now brown, rushes flat to the surface where up-periscoped an old, distinctly grey haired, Labrador head, or so it seemed, and this guy was not happy.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">"Humpf", he exclaimed, inwardly, and all breath-y like, "What's going on here? <i>That</i> wasn't there yesterday!" </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">His neck so unfathomably long and able to project so far out of the water as to be unreal, this was the biggest dog otter one could imagine, with rolls in his neck like a 60-year old Mike Tyson. He regarded me, for what seemed quite some time, as I too regarded him - with sheer disbelief - but then, he was gone, and the bubble of apparent fantasy burst.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Things do come in threes after all and this day was no different</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p><p><br /></p>George Burtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07422749226358557982noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8890160818247783158.post-9146670686644617622021-10-31T19:45:00.000+00:002021-10-31T19:45:42.527+00:00Marvel at the Natural World<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLqp1z7KpRetePVI9D2hbymYCtrll1YeQA7BavNXlD2aOx_cYDK4ouzKEnmqzPi4wMHAVF4D60dAwU6jD_99gjIifQmEe8bRJKDksV2_fnFDiJaHgHPzxmPKeOOKjCC8FiYI5Zx65ptctA/s3648/IMG_20211024_092229.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1824" data-original-width="3648" height="161" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLqp1z7KpRetePVI9D2hbymYCtrll1YeQA7BavNXlD2aOx_cYDK4ouzKEnmqzPi4wMHAVF4D60dAwU6jD_99gjIifQmEe8bRJKDksV2_fnFDiJaHgHPzxmPKeOOKjCC8FiYI5Zx65ptctA/w320-h161/IMG_20211024_092229.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p>Something has been troubling me. </p><p>Not a recent thing. It's been there for years, a decade, or more. </p><p>More. </p><p>But it's been closer to being tangible this autumn, and at last I believe I've grasped it. </p><p>Yes. </p><p>As sure as three pheasants just traversed the nettle-fringed river, bursting from semi-improved grassland into Himalayan balsam. I've grasped it, and, as I ruminate, a train rattles the same way. It's dark now, and the warmly-lit windows are suggestive of an unimaginable cosiness, yet blunted by thoughts of the smell of unwashed hair and trainers. </p><p>----</p><p>Getting out has always been about the countryside (going out having been an altogether different proposition), but the impossibility of writing when faced with the daily challenges of life this past year or more has been prohibitive. </p><p>I am grateful for a lack of bites this evening as the time is well spent in a brief spell of that elusive clear riparian thought so noticeably absent in summer. </p><p>Baits grow, presentation reverts to static and physical activity is minimised as parents of warm weather fish become more probable via the simple reduced appetite of tiddlers. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOxZHQE3qpTrZV42vGrEll_5Y3hDRveWdGvOnDbo7UTqtODudIglP1X3P4MmvuZFeoa5NE6cSALlREN_wFv5WgdkwU1X98vgZTsXwnUgGWsUR75ttEfjpHBI3aWpBoFKWRcsdMCRmmJ1dV/s2504/IMG_20211030_202720.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1321" data-original-width="2504" height="169" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOxZHQE3qpTrZV42vGrEll_5Y3hDRveWdGvOnDbo7UTqtODudIglP1X3P4MmvuZFeoa5NE6cSALlREN_wFv5WgdkwU1X98vgZTsXwnUgGWsUR75ttEfjpHBI3aWpBoFKWRcsdMCRmmJ1dV/s320/IMG_20211030_202720.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p>It had always been apparent that being out was preferable in itself, but why? What was it that made it so?</p><p>As a teenager the whole feeling of match angling from kit to fish, via the buzz of the challenge and the glow of those little victories such as beating the anglers each side, was the draw. Tiny spools of 8oz(!) french line by mail order from Don's of Edmonton, a Ray Mumford pole and floats, the iconic 3 section Shakespeare landing net handle with white grip, gold and black taping, and spoon net. The race for 100 fish or more and removing necessarily barbless hooks in a flash for efficiency...and never a thought of big fish. It was all about bites. </p><p>Through all of this though <span face="sans-serif">(and before) there</span> ran something that continued, and continues, as a perfect<span face="sans-serif"> thread, unknotted by time, as straight as a line between rod tip and charging quarry, and it could be found in moments such as these:</span></p><p></p><ul style="text-align: left;"><li><span face="sans-serif">Wading in the margins as low as safely possible (and occasionally not!) to the unrippled surface. Lily pads blending land into gently flowing water. The tip of a fine stick float gently progressing, controlled with the flow; the disappearance, the light splash, the reappearance and swinging to hand of the palpable wriggling irritation of a dace. </span></li><li><span face="sans-serif">A pair of Moorhen tail-flicking and clucking at my presence under a long-since vigorous hawthorn. A boy appears, sits next to me, chatting, and starts to skilfully depict them in graphite them for his homework. </span></li><li><span face="sans-serif">The, now, perpetual presence of otter spraint under wider canal bridges. Suggestive of a mammal so wild; so almost mythical at the crease of 20th and 21st Centuries and so large as to be from another age. </span></li><li><span face="sans-serif">The wind pushing heavily turbid waves up the finest gradient of the sandy, gravelly shore of a low reservoir, punished by the demands of spring, watering the eyes and putting the towel-banded eyeshade in jeopardy. Casting a waggler to the waves in inches of water and finding it teeming with big, confidently feeding, roach. </span></li></ul><p></p><p><span face="sans-serif">All of these things have that common 'green' thread known as th</span><span face="sans-serif">e natural world woven through them. </span></p><p><span face="sans-serif">So is it simply this I've been seeking, the natural world?, and why so strong like the twizzle of a magnet facing away from steel? </span></p><p><span face="sans-serif">----</span></p><p><span face="sans-serif">So what is "The Natural World"? </span></p><p></p><p><span face="sans-serif">Fundamentally the starting point must be whether we agree that man is part of the natural world, and that everything 'he' does is therefore natural too, or whether man's universal arrogance makes everything during the time of his presence, the Anthropocene, unnatural. </span></p><p>For me it is unquestionably the latter, the very notion that we could have driven a planet to such a state that our own very existence is challenged, is beyond comprehension and all in the pursuit of the advancement of a now largely imagined existence. An existence played out almost entirely in his head. Is man's brain is too big for his own good? </p><p>----</p><p>Reverting to the man-introduced pheasants and the man-made train...</p><p>The river banks dominated by nettles the result of a nitrate-rich rooting medium created by man. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw3uGNjqP-28YFSM9-A5etg61QaK2L3bIU7K4roq7CLJXn_0Y4x_R04sXGatJq-OUErOTI2U767zpe_docJs7dvRF1kaYPIddWe455UA2i7wTIlaOXVh-a0JmBIR-6WcY1aeboLzCmvGOW/s2168/IMG_20211031_191222.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1264" data-original-width="2168" height="187" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw3uGNjqP-28YFSM9-A5etg61QaK2L3bIU7K4roq7CLJXn_0Y4x_R04sXGatJq-OUErOTI2U767zpe_docJs7dvRF1kaYPIddWe455UA2i7wTIlaOXVh-a0JmBIR-6WcY1aeboLzCmvGOW/s320/IMG_20211031_191222.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p>Semi-improved grassland. 'Improved' for agricultural use in pursuit of meat faster, better, and more valuable than ever before</p><p>The Himalyan balsam, a now out of control invasive species.</p><p>In that brief opening description is captured the whole conundrum and hidden therein too is the nub of my genuine crisis. </p><p>It is not the natural world as we know it that I seek and have sought, as by that true contentment is never achieved. Everywhere, and increasingly so, it is the pursuit of the avoidance of the trappings of man. </p><p>I was sat at a reservoir this past spring and manoeuvred into a position where I felt detached from man. The view of a house in the distance could be avoided if the small willow to my left concealed it and I sent a photograph to The Lady Burton expressing the fact. Yet there I was, briefly believing I had found it, whilst looking out over what was once an untouched valley shaped by glaciers and then carved by a river of vigour and health, dominated by woodland and accompanied by a vast population of other life that we cannot begin to perceive. </p><p>...and that is the key to it, the unending need to get outside in the previously subconscious vain hope of finding it. Finding an unmolested, virginal, unimaginably vibrant natural world that Smithsonian states is only present over 17% of the earth's surface (but even that doesn't go unaffected in some form or other, if only by dint of the changing weather and invisible impacts blown by corrosive winds from elsewhere). </p><p>So, next time we hear the claim that it's not too late to save the earth maybe we should ask ourselves what it is that needs to be saved. It cannot possibly be man, what use is he? He cannot right this wrong so great as to be beyond his arrogant wit to comprehend either. </p><p>The fact, tucked away in the vaults of all of our minds with the lost instincts and triggers we fail to realise are there, is that it's gone. The world when the earth and it's grateful inhabitants all lived within their and each others means, a true and naturally evolving ecology, is gone, and the process can only reboot when man exits stage right. </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>George Burtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07422749226358557982noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8890160818247783158.post-46583611672155011652021-03-23T22:34:00.003+00:002021-03-23T22:34:34.314+00:00Rediscovery of a Seasons End<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsS7FQFnY0wYA6Puj1uO6J85jN0_99fSG-hqPOQwg6SKvnJXsMy_tknZv6upk9fo-ak2FRW8M-41m2IrMqE9RDLSAKvYj05jW-JEEjILvF2EIJkQ1pOMHz2aUFb4XWgdZbVZXLmL1f1aWP/s3648/IMG_20210311_171137.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1824" data-original-width="3648" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsS7FQFnY0wYA6Puj1uO6J85jN0_99fSG-hqPOQwg6SKvnJXsMy_tknZv6upk9fo-ak2FRW8M-41m2IrMqE9RDLSAKvYj05jW-JEEjILvF2EIJkQ1pOMHz2aUFb4XWgdZbVZXLmL1f1aWP/w400-h200/IMG_20210311_171137.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p>So, as I was, saying...</p><p>The Discovery was retrieved from the insurance company's own repair workshop last week. Like new, it was. Immaculate, smelling like a car in a showroom and complete with all contents, maybe somewhat stupidly, left inside and, on a personal level, we are whole again...just in time to enjoy the end of the season </p><p>The River Leam never ceases to engage me fully. Whether on the bank or dreaming of it, the little river is such a tease. </p><p>There is a length of maybe three swims on our Syndicate stretch that have intrigued me for the 2 or 3 years we've had access to it. </p><p>It <i>seems </i>perfect. Steady flow, smooth glide, nice depth at 3ft plus along its length and edged by undercut grass beds on the far steep bank (where it hadn't caved-in) been and lined with rushes nearside. </p><p>I'd been drawn to it numerous times but, not until this winter, had it produced so much as a bite! </p><p>A bit of a dabble at the downstream end, where the current disappears under a goat willow, in passing, one early autumn day 2020 actually brought one of those surprising bites where one is going through the motions, expecting nothing from the whole charade, and yet it spoils things by damned well working!</p><p>Not only did the tip twitch but it proved a decent roach. The very fish that should be there. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwoPuBFZssnjhbOvB_f1EHeOaT4Np6rkesnlgzO3KC7VoEhmdqdYx8BUSEFiLlCytDigZtWggf1CsqvSJZ4eDyaXkosk-ordsbM-a4aRsFuCb0hmLpIF_ZjK3zPHb3xc6bpyFwAZsda0X2/s3648/IMG_20210131_083223.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1824" data-original-width="3648" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwoPuBFZssnjhbOvB_f1EHeOaT4Np6rkesnlgzO3KC7VoEhmdqdYx8BUSEFiLlCytDigZtWggf1CsqvSJZ4eDyaXkosk-ordsbM-a4aRsFuCb0hmLpIF_ZjK3zPHb3xc6bpyFwAZsda0X2/w400-h200/IMG_20210131_083223.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p>Since that day there has not been a biteless visit to the glide and, although it remains seemingly impossible to ensnare more than two fish per swim, it is somewhat gratifying that they are showing from there now. </p><p>My guess is that I've probably tried it at the wrong time previously and that it would seem logical for fish to move there in winter, with a bit more water on. </p><p>A surprise chub of 2.14 was welcome on one occasion but with that, and one or two other fruitful swims, the roach potential of this little stretch, reachable within 5 miles of home while travelling has been constrained by Covid, has been evident. Odd fish have been small but a good proportion of them have been over 6ozs and up to a peak of 11ozs. Nothing to threaten the stretch PB of a pound and a few drams, nor indeed the river best at 1.4.6, but nice fish nevertheless and very enjoyable when options are few.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWufg-0JzAbrdrynd2_sWVAAW8UfqOpD9LCbIgjQQv5Nv8WcoBEWl1ZSoqtiEZEOlKPx8a-slt-Qk_DXJGdkGC5IDNELBsWBtTYa61xPK9TSflk3x63m-CcPr51rR6v8s1XxDbMQdbXntY/s3648/IMG_20210313_170508.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1824" data-original-width="3648" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWufg-0JzAbrdrynd2_sWVAAW8UfqOpD9LCbIgjQQv5Nv8WcoBEWl1ZSoqtiEZEOlKPx8a-slt-Qk_DXJGdkGC5IDNELBsWBtTYa61xPK9TSflk3x63m-CcPr51rR6v8s1XxDbMQdbXntY/w400-h200/IMG_20210313_170508.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p></p><p>...and so it continued until the end of the season, punctuated by some nice dace to 7ozs.</p><p>A burst of (over?) confidence led to a closing day rush of blood.</p><p>It would be a three-pronged attack on river best chub (3.15), roach (1.4) and dace (8ozs) with liquidised bread in a tiny 10g feeder on the wand in various areas of the main flow and creases while in a deep slack the treat of a huge piece of crust would lay, irresistibly waving in the gentle swirl of the current.</p><p>A fellow Syndicate member, initially suspected as a poacher, was ensconced and awaiting the action when I arrived. A brief chat was followed by a couple of other snatches of conversation between bites which culminated a bizarrely in-depth conflab on rare circa 1980 records, from The Undertones via XTC to Blue Rondo a la Turk. Not the every day discussion for sure but great, and quite passionate, reminiscing as it turned-out.</p><p>Three proper bites and two roach of seven ounces and ten ounces immediately after were the limit for the last session of what has been a necessarily limted and therefore patchy season to say the least. Both were taken on the micro-feeder option with not so much as an aquatic sneeze in the direction of the crust labelled, "Big Chub".</p><p>The journey home, was not exactly one spent floating on the basis of the result but it was more than comforting to have the bus back, and all that it entails.</p><p>Roll-on June 16th!</p>George Burtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07422749226358557982noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8890160818247783158.post-39015556912843824172021-03-02T08:35:00.000+00:002021-03-02T08:35:53.452+00:00Defending the Discovery of a Land Rover<p>My first Land Rover, a white 200tdi 110, bought for tuppence ha'penny from a farm, was our first experience of them</p><p>Great fun when the The Dog and The Boy Wonder were little, careering through floods and waiting for the squeal as the murky water dribbled through the dash onto The Lady Burton's knees</p><p>It was supposed to be a sort of weekend car for fishing and bikes (you could get the four of us and our bikes inside) but it was so enjoyable I started using it for work surveys despite the dodgy fuel gauge</p><p>The Lady Burton had a 300tdi Discovery prior to that but it was beyond our pocket to maintain it at the time, so it had the traded in for some common sense in the remarkably similar form of an original Audi TT, beautiful car that was...red leather interior, proper design classic...until the boys outgrew the back almost-seat. </p><p>From time to time though you would hear the phrase, "Dad's getting Land Rover magazines again. It can only mean one thing"</p><p>We'd pondered camping holidays and as the boys grew the motor home became too constrained an option, mainly in terms of sleeping arrangements, but having dallied with the prospect of a G4 Discovery 3, decided against it and secretly hatched the plan of a Defender Tdci double-cab pick-up with ventilated aluminium pod over the back complete with Hannibal roof tent and separate OzTent which involved weekend visits to far flung private enthusiast/dealerships until, on the day, we collected the most incredible piece of kit; chipped for economy and Discovery-like performance. </p><p>Boy did we have some fun in that vehicle! </p><p>On holidays, it took just a few minutes to put the roof tent up or down, in fact no longer than the motor home had taken to tidy into a driveable condition every morning</p><p>When the pigs grew to size they were rounded-up in a homemade 'pig walker' and driven to the end of the road in the back, returning as the most amazing sausages and cuts of meat one could imagine. What a difference it made to feed them on household scraps, not factory produced feed</p><p>The roof tent was a whole new world. When zipped-up there was zero light. A finger in front of the eyes could not be seen. Perfect darkness. The quality of sleep in that was at a level I would be so grateful for these days</p><p>It wasn't always a perfect exercise though</p><p>On the maiden overnighter it rained all night and on rising to a bright warm sunny morning everything felt somewhat moist. Granny Green Teeth was 'downstairs' in what we called the lounge and was found to be floating in half an inch of water on a camp bed. Bless her, she thought this was what happened when you went camping. It turns out however that our supplier had received a batch of unsealed tents and rapidly replaced it with one that worked properly. What an event! </p><p>The death knoll of the package however was a Dorset trip littered with severe weather warnings. The OzTent had a fearful sag in the roof one morning, with a reservoir South-West Water themselves would've been proud of, the cause. The tent was on a slope and before TBW and I woke (I know!, you can see what's coming!) the other half of the foursome decided to heave the water off the roof. Uphill. </p><p>The rest is a tale of insane cackling and irritability, punctuated with bursts of frantic cleaning and mopping. </p><p>Next night, severe gales. The car was rocking about like a boat on the high seas. Accentuated by the height, the tent was buffeted and bashed, and at one point TBW, being a tiddler at the time, wrapped himself around my right arm and, trying to hide his fear, asked quietly, "Are you okay Dad?". This caused me to realised that a bracket above an overhang that covered the ladder had become detached, banging against the Camelback, and to his, now lifelong amusement, I ripped the whole thing off and flung it to the ground. In the circumstances there was little else to do</p><p>From what had been a packed and bustling camp site, we awoke to water-logged open spaces and, in the field below us, a pile of abandoned tents. It seemed we were one of very few that sat it out. The camp workers said they would decide which tents were salvagable and sell them, the rest would be scrapped</p><p>Meanwhile a mk1 Freelander came into The Lady B's possession with a kind of Altro-esque interior which served well for an easy clean. This then morphed into Freelander 2, ideal for a soggy trip to the the Wye and then, having dallied with hybrids, a lifetimes dream became available. A low mileage Discovery 4 HSE with cream leather seats and matching piano wood inserts</p><p>Purchasing the car was a nightmare. Firstly no Land Rover dealer was in the slightest interested in talking to us about a car and, when we eventually found one on our doorstep, that fine, fine company Experian, whose feedback is all-but entirely and scathingly negative, put a block on it. Much wrangling and a month later the vehicle passed into our possession. It's more than a vehicle though it's an organism, I'm sure of it, that can take you to places you would've considered impossible, with absolutely no help from the guy in the driving seat</p><p>Fast forward 15 months and TBW wanders by on the landing with the passing comment, "Oh, hi Dad, I thought you'd gone fishing. Where's your car?". The sharp and predictable reply followed, but, no, he wasn't joking, it had been removed in the night, keys still in the house in 'Faraday bags'. How they started and moved it I've no idea, but they knew what they were doing for certain</p><p>Phone calls to Police and Insurance Company ensued and a value was agreed, because I wouldn't be getting it back, but I had to wait 5 days, at which time they would pay out and the search would be on for something conversely undesirable as a replacement. Maybe an Audi A2, the car no one realises exists</p><p>Serious consideration was given to Subaru Forester or Outback, and even a Mini All4, when the realisation dawned that, come Monday, I'd be car-less</p><p>Discussion also turned seriously to security cameras and the like </p><p>Then, four days later, TBW (as a soon to be policeman, our in-house Police Liaison Officer) takes a call saying the car has been found. Dreading to hear what state it's in, or even whether it's intact, I want to cover my ears. No, it seems it's still the same shape as when it left. It was found by a Police Officer specialising in spotting stolen cars and noticed this one due to it having shiny new plates on a filthy vehicle. Who said you should keep your car clean? </p><p>Mixed feelings abound at first and a feeling of not really wanting it back after it's been who knows where with who knows whom doing who knows what in it but slowly this lifted and when further news later appeared to confirm the contents were still intact the immediate emotion was, "When can I get it back?!"</p><p>I'd listed the contents for insurance purposes and was staggered at the stuff I had stashed away in there, even when it seemed almost empty, and the cameras, binoculars, roach set-up with 50th birthday centrepin were the items I most wanted to see again</p><p>Plots always thicken in modern times of course, and, this would be a cornflour and bisto mix (day 5). The insurance co., confirms it's settling the finance and sending me the balance, plus £150 for lost belongings. </p><p>WHOOAH!</p><p>It went like this:</p><p>"I don't understand why you're paying-out when the five days weren't up at the time it was found". </p><p>"It's been found?". </p><p>"Yes if you read the file you'll find I emailed you yesterday". </p><p>"We've not had a email! Hold on please". </p><p>...inane musical interlude... </p><p>"That's fine Sir. I'll put the file on hold until you get back to us". </p><p>Subsequently, 7 days elapsed from finding the vehicle to something actually happening, i.e. its removal to have locks changed. A necessary repair. </p><p>So we hope to be reunited this week and we'll see what's missing from inside, if anything. </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>George Burtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07422749226358557982noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8890160818247783158.post-32332965583811236962021-02-13T22:39:00.005+00:002021-02-13T22:39:41.914+00:00A Fleeting Reflection on Ice<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEji8fooQQkhtIipkJlHOyC2naZLuDKEakpORYKHTkS-9Fg34JmWW1AdOjstM12lUpU85Xtn6NduTgR3tQhLXocG81JDpdla7_jjviYTfioS_JklUGCgHDHZT7B-6RRUAGm3J1RauxaEkVKc/s5184/P1080504.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3888" data-original-width="5184" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEji8fooQQkhtIipkJlHOyC2naZLuDKEakpORYKHTkS-9Fg34JmWW1AdOjstM12lUpU85Xtn6NduTgR3tQhLXocG81JDpdla7_jjviYTfioS_JklUGCgHDHZT7B-6RRUAGm3J1RauxaEkVKc/w400-h300/P1080504.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">In the night it was minus five (apparently). Today, it did not get above a balmy freezing point all day. </span></div><p>Can there be enjoyment in this, well yes, but success?... </p><p><span face="sans-serif">Winter has rarely been a time of waterside angling excitement. Being 'out in it' can produce the most enthralling of times but ordinarily there's far more hope than result. </span></p><p><span face="sans-serif">As a youngster, I've only recently recalled, we scarcely went fishing in winter. Apart from the infamous 'Swan hits HV cables' Xmas Day blank. I guess The Old Duffer had more sense than to risk aching knuckles as time progressed, unlike his dozey progeny.</span></p><p><span face="sans-serif">A taste for Winter Leagues and then a few tremendously cold Winters in the 1980's however changed that and fishing through canal ice became a regular thing. </span></p><p><span face="sans-serif">I drew next to an established and respected angler as a teenager the first time I encountered ice, armed with the equivalent of a toothpick in the face of a 'berg and watched-on in 'towpath please subsume me' trepidation as he cut himself a slot of clear water and I, nauseated, saw my match slip away before my very eyes. Kindness though was not his weakness and he gave me his breaking kit once he'd done his peg and explained how to go about it. I don't remember what we caught but I do recall a quickly establishing pattern, particularly on intermittently frozen match lengths, of the fish always being under the ice rather than the, often inexplicably, clear sections and that the fishing was actually better with ice than without. </span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbrBYY75P9d9RZy82rOetUrhTIdqRds8vD_Avl4alNlIqHmBDLPW4OxPBDj0_NL-07B1EjzUzFaoxSzru28fAScScrptN5AJ1mM_21oRuxqA72mu2LrVk4zOMfUIFBJ7JjLHVtC9uu6-v-/s5184/P1080505.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3888" data-original-width="5184" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbrBYY75P9d9RZy82rOetUrhTIdqRds8vD_Avl4alNlIqHmBDLPW4OxPBDj0_NL-07B1EjzUzFaoxSzru28fAScScrptN5AJ1mM_21oRuxqA72mu2LrVk4zOMfUIFBJ7JjLHVtC9uu6-v-/w400-h300/P1080505.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><p><br /></p>These of course were the days of bloodworm and joker winter leagues. Leagues that banned such baits were usually suspended in such crusty circumstances, locally at least.<p></p><p><span face="sans-serif">Such events became the norm and over time a series of different steel weights with a screw thread attached to a chain and a decent rope became standard kit. I've seen anglers with sash window weights, lump hammer heads, bricks, etc., to do the damage but, for a little fella like my dearself, carrying the additional heavy weight on long walks in big matches was a drag, almost literally. Over time though, the method was perfected such that, on occasion, given the right thickness of ice, it was possible to cut a single rectangle out and slide it under the main sheet. This was far preferable to removing a thousand chunks and shards with a, soon to be shredded, landing net.</span></p><p><span face="sans-serif">The worst occasions were those commencing with the heart-sinking pinging and twanging of the ice floe being pressurised and crushed against steel piling by that first boat and then kept fluid by the ensuing flotilla on inexplicable busy days of traffic. Days when the majority of the time was spent recreating fishing space. The best days however were with just occasional boats, sufficient to keep the water in a tinge of colour, following the initial commotion and stirring of silt caused by the ice breaker itself hitting the bottom. </span></p><p><span face="sans-serif">These were the days of ruffe, gudgeon, perch and, for the more skilled, bonus roach. We picked-up a number of tips along the way from the stars that used to frequent the matches we poured our hard earned money into and yet when those match fishing boots were hung-up for the final time I'd have to confess that bloodworm and joker were baffling to the end to me. Much to others' amusement the method just went straight over my head and yet I was told it was so simple. </span></p><p><span face="sans-serif">There was a particular day when all team mates were otherwise engaged that I decided to attend a match on the Wyrley & Essington Canal. An out and out 'joker job' for small fish. There must've been other things on as it wasn't a huge turn-out, maybe 40-odd anglers. Anyway I drew where I was lead to believe the winner would come from, with spare pegs both sides, and, with an hour to go, I thought I was well clear of the field, with about 3lbs, catching <i>behind</i> a log laying on the edge of the far shelf! </span></p><p><span face="sans-serif">Well, with half an hour to go, there was a commotion to my left and matey boy, who had previously had very little, has only hooked a carp! </span></p><p><span face="sans-serif">That was as close as it ever got in bloodworm and joker matches against top opposition. On most other occasions it would have been simpler have put £10 on a runner at Warwick, selected by pin and blindfold, and taken my chances. </span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA2tXFofOhdCvyio7nUOxcMy6mto9smtS8tn34Xq0J7eT92TqT0JVk2D_TQn6T2_FN9CLKDyAAtfsboj9jpriYffSI6VQNc0zKTX_6ZWG9gqe2NHpbR7RwYpTQImsKi6svWHoLr7PO105y/s5184/P1080507.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3888" data-original-width="5184" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA2tXFofOhdCvyio7nUOxcMy6mto9smtS8tn34Xq0J7eT92TqT0JVk2D_TQn6T2_FN9CLKDyAAtfsboj9jpriYffSI6VQNc0zKTX_6ZWG9gqe2NHpbR7RwYpTQImsKi6svWHoLr7PO105y/w400-h300/P1080507.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><p><br /></p>I've waffled about little gems falling from the mouths of others before and in the bloodworm stakes there were many, but, it being a method I would come to endure rather than enjoy, it was, rare that these nuggets were put into positive practice. <p></p><p>There was a time when a top angler was catching better stamp roach, we gleaned, on a single joker using a bristle waggler and a slow fall with 3no13's spread down the line. We tried it, and the roach didn't feed, anywhere. </p><p>In another period it was the thing to dump a load of worm down the middle in the hope of snaring a skimmer or two later. That failed miserably and I also recall big roach being caught six inches to a foot off bottom late in the match and that didn't produce a bean, let alone a roach, for the FF&F net. </p><p>Anyway, needless to say that 'the blood' did not flow in this angler in the same way that a grain of hemp or a pinch of bread could get it racing through the veins when they worked! </p><p><span face="sans-serif"><br /></span></p><p><span face="sans-serif"><br /></span></p><p><span face="sans-serif"><br /></span></p><p><span face="sans-serif"><br /></span></p><p><span face="sans-serif"><br /></span></p>George Burtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07422749226358557982noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8890160818247783158.post-49518041831155780012021-01-29T21:47:00.001+00:002021-02-05T08:07:22.926+00:00An Exciting Snow & Ice Event<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr3NH9GrBfxBQT4KNDnmRfIwPpHsJrFxvT0T0MKoxn4nLYrTj3WvY-0wmcBR-x77uxHdfB-cB4Ey_H3p9httTq6s-PaDVKyv-OqCaZZCb47KRo8SV2d96N0q8DvdfTqay7HQwYhGR9jRWN/s3648/IMG_20210124_101335.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1824" data-original-width="3648" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr3NH9GrBfxBQT4KNDnmRfIwPpHsJrFxvT0T0MKoxn4nLYrTj3WvY-0wmcBR-x77uxHdfB-cB4Ey_H3p9httTq6s-PaDVKyv-OqCaZZCb47KRo8SV2d96N0q8DvdfTqay7HQwYhGR9jRWN/w400-h200/IMG_20210124_101335.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>Yesterday it was 11 degrees C, overcast, breezy and yet, having double-checked, it was still January, not April.</div><div><br /></div><div>Last weekend however...as the frost formed a sparkling coat on Saturday evening, the likely swim for Sunday was labelled</div><div><br /></div><div>Leam levels had dropped significantly at the end of the week and, while water temperatures had been rising, with it a sudden change reverted it back to a meagre 4°C</div><div><br /></div><div>Identifying fishable slacks with a known clean river bed was a challenge but, on the basis that fish don't move far from their regular haunts, the first hole selected was where a small backwater met the main flow coming straight towards the bank and leaving a little slack perfect for the pole leger at 10-11m down the side of some linear phragmites growth while, to the west, a flock of 30 lapwing floated in a swirling spiral of apparent indecision</div><div><br /></div><div>A gentle breeze blew with the main flow and brought a brief sprinkling of snow pellets to wake the fingers and numb the face. Woodpeckers 'kecked' between the naked ash boughs as a male buzzard braked on urgent wings to briefly take-up position below them</div><div><br /></div><div>A Covid-inflicted alternative lobworm supplier had delivered a wizened and partly dead batch of otherwise prime turbid-water bait in the morning but, even had it been vigorous and healthy, chances were slim</div><div><br /></div><div>A sharp suck of freezing air, a split second after the snow, punctuated a deeply felt swirl in the slack. Not the kind of action one might anticipate but a trend that was to typify the weekend</div><div><br /></div><div>Soon, another crash down stream, but this time a precariously balanced piece of floodwater flotsam had become dislodged, fallen and resurfaced like a pole dropped, end-on, off a quay</div><div><br /></div><div>Lifting the rig, set at around 12' with the water on, would occasionally meet with a snag but nothing was lost and the odd thing was gained</div><div><br /></div><div>The turbulence of the swim became noticeably random once we became properly acquainted and, as one upsurge dragged the bite marker off line, like a grounded child clinging onto a roundabout, a chub of around two pounds burst the boil and surfed for 4 or 5 feet</div><div><br /></div><div>Why such activity in such a cold, tumultuous and treacly environment is beyond comprehension but that was not the end of it</div><div><br /></div><div>Nothing so exciting as a bite interrupted proceedings but that wasn't a deterrent to this PB clinging on for its life on one lift out of the bait. In fact it looked like a leaf until it started wriggling madly... </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFiT3sJdvo2WCJrSfJFgY8pOLuTNECLVKnnum16DtKH_Lt50nCh5XY78TP8KYg_r92zUHV29ocsDStb8X6mnhXSpcTZ1sOu19ach8r6dgHpApe4dfSPEUAxDAagcixKzr_6RmuvOAEdzB4/s3648/IMG_20210123_153117.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1824" data-original-width="3648" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFiT3sJdvo2WCJrSfJFgY8pOLuTNECLVKnnum16DtKH_Lt50nCh5XY78TP8KYg_r92zUHV29ocsDStb8X6mnhXSpcTZ1sOu19ach8r6dgHpApe4dfSPEUAxDAagcixKzr_6RmuvOAEdzB4/w400-h200/IMG_20210123_153117.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div>I'm sure a tiny one of these little beauties, that wouldn't look out of place in a rockpool, had graced the palm years before, but sadly the grey matter stretcheth not sufficiently to recall it</div><div><br /></div><div>Another couple of swims were tried but the dead or dying bait left little confidence in the jar so an 'X' was marked on the spot for the Sunday and a laboured walk back across a <span face="sans-serif">crispening sodden</span> meadow drew the evening to a close</div><div><br /></div><div>----</div><div><br /></div><div>Next morning, for no apparent reason, the 'X' wasn't appealing and the lower limbs headed the opposite way, downstream, where three nice slacks caught the eye and were gently tickled into, the hope of, action for half an hour or so each on a straight lead having attempted to fish the Saturday swim again but, with the water about a foot lower, it was pretty much unfishable due to the changed turbulence and after losing the whole pole rig that implement was thrown into the Land Rover and out came the trusty Avon Quiver. To no avail either, of course! </div><div><br /></div><div>Meanwhile, as warned by the wireless from London, the sky burned a smokeless fire from the east. A prelude to the epilogue</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQRNsPtIyiJTtgRWzDJ9_tLbTofLxbZafPcm9JYaNe7Cvt-fNiUlkhDjGEUqfPGxw7FMnMbKqA1Jk6Rha9Dt-KG7M5RAq791r8-6A3cij36QvFbYd-yVE_WYl_YFZ-5-17SVyW8eHevBIo/s3648/IMG_20210129_210610.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1824" data-original-width="3648" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQRNsPtIyiJTtgRWzDJ9_tLbTofLxbZafPcm9JYaNe7Cvt-fNiUlkhDjGEUqfPGxw7FMnMbKqA1Jk6Rha9Dt-KG7M5RAq791r8-6A3cij36QvFbYd-yVE_WYl_YFZ-5-17SVyW8eHevBIo/w400-h200/IMG_20210129_210610.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>While irritating the second swim such that it's mouth became clamped shut, more fish were splashing under an overhanging bush on a bend tight to the bank below me</div><div><br /></div><div>More inexplicable behaviour at a slightly reduced 3.8degC water temperature</div><div><br /></div><div>Moving to swim 4 of the session snow fell and fell heavily such that soon two inches of the fluffiest stuff had built up on all that was previously in view. Loose items such bait dropper, scissors and chopping pot had to be dug from the whiteness to be rediscovered and the wider scene became immediately Christmassy, a month too late</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-ivmprchI9fWK21LeovLPnRa7sRjqQ2b4-ET8EluZ_uWYBonX8JzvwmMn3bTzhvmb5CkP1dBimF2M2dqK0Pkd48oX2p0j_HotsZA2soK3YgmXTGWa60-umm6utIcN-vwiJMIIYFlDB5aV/s3648/IMG_20210124_100419.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3648" data-original-width="1824" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-ivmprchI9fWK21LeovLPnRa7sRjqQ2b4-ET8EluZ_uWYBonX8JzvwmMn3bTzhvmb5CkP1dBimF2M2dqK0Pkd48oX2p0j_HotsZA2soK3YgmXTGWa60-umm6utIcN-vwiJMIIYFlDB5aV/w200-h400/IMG_20210124_100419.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>Nothing moved for some time until a pair of Jackdaw flapped west followed a loose flock of Carrion crow. I flicked the rod tip to reveal a quiver again, just in the faintest hope, but that was all it would be. There really was no chance of a bite but the experience of sitting through a complete snowstorm from start, watching it build up, to walking back through its freshly deposited crunchiness was a rare event and, as I exchanged pleasantries with Multidogman by the car, we were in firm agreement that the opportunity to be out in it was not to be missed</div><div><br /></div><div>How much of our lives do we spend constrained by bricks and mortar in ignorance of the true realities of life?</div><div><br /></div><div>----</div><div><br /></div><div>His Artificial Liteness, Eric Weight, has again been working his magic with minimal input from yours truly based on autumnal angling fare.</div><div><br /></div><div>The results can be viewed <a href="https://youtu.be/Gf3lXV1vWUY" target="_blank">here</a> or via the tab at the top of the page</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>George Burtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07422749226358557982noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8890160818247783158.post-49644890904930318952021-01-06T23:46:00.002+00:002021-01-08T08:37:19.325+00:00The Snow Fish <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOfF5MyCA7rxnb0Qp1r0Xt-TLAnScxso01oIW_Cvjl2DHst5eNEjNBkXxilS9kpTO3IsJuaR9PqyjWcZAcaPvAkF8BdcQMZK0jsf2RlWwbI1bKzHFf2-oFD8yzdKn2PlhHtDb3h4oHxVxU/s3648/IMG_20201220_174906.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1824" data-original-width="3648" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOfF5MyCA7rxnb0Qp1r0Xt-TLAnScxso01oIW_Cvjl2DHst5eNEjNBkXxilS9kpTO3IsJuaR9PqyjWcZAcaPvAkF8BdcQMZK0jsf2RlWwbI1bKzHFf2-oFD8yzdKn2PlhHtDb3h4oHxVxU/s320/IMG_20201220_174906.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><p style="text-align: justify;">A snow chub had been on the agenda since returning to angling now some 8 years or so back</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Catching it took some time but the accompanying reward of an inner completeness was worth it</p><p style="text-align: justify;">The first with any snow on the ground was something of a disappointment as the snow lay neither deep, nor crisp and more thinly patchy than even</p><p style="text-align: justify;">At the second attempt, in proper crunchy, creaky, fresh snow, the anticipated satisfaction, if not more, was all around</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Opportunities in more recent times have been more limited however with less non-work, snow-hit days available for such pursuits</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Last weekend, the first of 2021, was not a contender but an afternoon session of around two hours at Rocky Res was always going to be a challenge even without any weather constraints at the time of year</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Hoping for quality roach at 3°C with light showers wafting in behind me from the west, two open-end feeders were deployed at distance with 18 hooks on short helicopter links and red rubber maggots offering the natural presentation of an unnatural snack</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Flurries of departing gulls headed to the nationally significant roost Draycote Water as the evening drew in. Coots were in and out of the water at each passing dog walker</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Four roach, three of them noteworthy, topped to my left as dusk hinted at its intentions and at a distance that suggested the feeders sat in the right area </p><p style="text-align: justify;">As the afternoon progressed so the quality of the angling regressed to the sort of state that left a feeling of hopelessness. It became seriously cold and at sunset, when the bell tolls for we lesser mortals without night tickets to packaway, odd pellets of snow started to hit the water, and. as I reached for various items to tuck them under the umbrella, the left-hand alarm struck up a shocking shrill chirp and an urgent glance down witnessed the bobbin hit the rest and drop back to the ground, confirming a self-hooked fish</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Lifting the rod, a very gingerly-played fish was slowly inched toward the bank, or so it was hoped. It became increasingly apparent that this probably was not the ultimate target and, as thoughts turned to the landing net, it took on that unmistakable increased power closer to the bank that can only mean one thing</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsZ0WHVIDne4jqL8se3sCPmt_FfRMyISydC3cJVUc2I2cSR67xPxotTIbOfaUrkxnrrdyjDeuhh6IIMeBL4h_UUSPg6kmm_EWRgZ_wjbZzezzfnyqhxeOTefzQ_E9HxHdoLLnnyOzThEUc/s3648/IMG_20210102_161429.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1824" data-original-width="3648" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsZ0WHVIDne4jqL8se3sCPmt_FfRMyISydC3cJVUc2I2cSR67xPxotTIbOfaUrkxnrrdyjDeuhh6IIMeBL4h_UUSPg6kmm_EWRgZ_wjbZzezzfnyqhxeOTefzQ_E9HxHdoLLnnyOzThEUc/s320/IMG_20210102_161429.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><p style="text-align: justify;">Who'd've thought it. Not a huge fish at 3lbs 9ozs but a winter tench, a January tench and a snow sprinkled tench too, all in one freezing finale to an otherwise fish free afternoon. </p><p style="text-align: justify;">Which surely supports the adage, "Never give up"!</p><p style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p>George Burtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07422749226358557982noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8890160818247783158.post-22415634435858466472021-01-02T22:17:00.001+00:002021-01-03T09:18:12.235+00:00Arthur's Basket<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjwFbzA-bhEE3tLTX8Hip03mBUgIjxs76qAnPSB_wmpXO6Yg5EwyURmXB9u2mR7c61dixmT4lG-3OzUrHctLdqHjzVvdY4raD5AdgGoesZ6NyFXL4gw2eMVgEVz4NCTEjCs5zAgQkALa-c/s3648/IMG_20201230_170143.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2736" data-original-width="3648" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjwFbzA-bhEE3tLTX8Hip03mBUgIjxs76qAnPSB_wmpXO6Yg5EwyURmXB9u2mR7c61dixmT4lG-3OzUrHctLdqHjzVvdY4raD5AdgGoesZ6NyFXL4gw2eMVgEVz4NCTEjCs5zAgQkALa-c/w400-h300/IMG_20201230_170143.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div><span style="font-family: verdana;">Isn't it annoying that the YouTube videos glanced at long enough to start rolling before ones very puzzled eyes find their way into your watch history by default? </span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;">I suppose I could bother to set it so that it doesn't, but then I'd be content, and how boring would that be?! </span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;">History in angling is very much at the mercy of the memory and, at that, the memories of others, often unknown and far away.
Unless it is deemed by the journalistic community to be of National significance, or committed via the words of a book, the truth is often difficult to pin down. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;">Now, fishing information is often distorted we find, do we not? </span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;">If it's not a match angler cringingly under-'estimating' their catch, it's a carp angler claiming an unwitnessed pound roach, caught overnight of course, to be a 'three'; or that person in the tackle shop (remember those?) who just cannot recount a tale without it growing one and running away with him, or her. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;">If only. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;">Just occasionally however the truth really can be the best story, honest, and, similarly often, there's one right under one's nose lost in the vast expanses of plain sight, and so it is with this. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;">When I was a boy, my grandfather, 'Pap', who was blind, could be found, daily, sat on a wooden dais, with his dog 'Sal' next to him on her blanket, weaving in his outhouse (he was weaving - not the dog). </span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZjTTP3eLB8La9LRl-h9rZhrGD1iZ_HvTkHUbk1MDEjfMmVFRvGgzLljFVwxvDbzOWIP_qHLyBsrl8lGl2QpBrBEJlHKXcM9RmMdD7NDfb97F-2FiNxGtdhu29PrV4CL9QLNfdEHF64cNc/s3648/IMG_20210102_220255.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1824" data-original-width="3648" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZjTTP3eLB8La9LRl-h9rZhrGD1iZ_HvTkHUbk1MDEjfMmVFRvGgzLljFVwxvDbzOWIP_qHLyBsrl8lGl2QpBrBEJlHKXcM9RmMdD7NDfb97F-2FiNxGtdhu29PrV4CL9QLNfdEHF64cNc/s320/IMG_20210102_220255.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;">Cane would be soaking in a vast tank of black treacly water while he felt his way round the seat of a stool or chair and made a perfect job of it without ever having seen it.
To a youngster, and that being all I had ever known of him, it all seemed unremarkable and it's only in recent times that I wished I had taken more notice and perhaps even learnt how to do it myself.
Apart from new stools, repairs, handled shopping baskets, etc., Pap also made the most sought after fishing baskets, 'creels' to some...to measure, and they could be seen standing against the wall of this house on fine days. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyKO4NQ-GLqdM1PkvPnKZJRFirclh8m4iYONC3GyFp0pewbHceOmB-9blQwTRxNhGbJcHjZpxqjaUOZv9zmTwLrQDN1UTsdkfx0hQboarUZznW7FHC83sf3lyMzGxnPGkm1hk3w01Ux_pE/s3648/IMG_20210102_220103.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1824" data-original-width="3648" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyKO4NQ-GLqdM1PkvPnKZJRFirclh8m4iYONC3GyFp0pewbHceOmB-9blQwTRxNhGbJcHjZpxqjaUOZv9zmTwLrQDN1UTsdkfx0hQboarUZznW7FHC83sf3lyMzGxnPGkm1hk3w01Ux_pE/w400-h200/IMG_20210102_220103.jpg" width="400" /></span></a></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;">Owning such a basket was a commitment. As they dried they would creak and eventually take on a fearful lean. It was a requirement of the contract to own one of these beauties that it were to be submerged in the bath every so often to swell the cane, tighten and straighten it up.
The more diligent would varnish theirs every close season and thus they took on a regal depth of woody hue that couldn't be beaten, but at a cost, they would get noticeably heavier with each coat. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;">The Old Duffer, as Pap's son, once had a basket made to the exact height of his flask, with 6 legs, and, once delivered, it was like the woven equivalent of a Chesterfield Settee. A work of manually-laboured art. A pale off-white cane for the panels and a richer red for the base, rim and lid. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;">I recall the little fella (5'-3" on a clear day) returning from its maiden voyage to announce, "It's no good. My feet didn't touch the ground!". I seem to recall he cut an inch off the legs and thus became happy again. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;">Many would paint their initials on the side so that they didn't get mixed-up on the club bus trip to a far flung river and end-up in someone else's shed.
Things moved on though. In came vast solid fibreglass seats with a veritable rectal effigy cast into the lid.
The scrawl was on the creel from that moment.
Slowly, in fact probably quite quickly, baskets were discarded or handed down to sons or, more rarely then, daughters, and the brand battle in angling began in earnest. Stephens of Birmingham, Steade-fast, Brennan & Hickman. These were the forerunners of today's commercialised angling world. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;">So the dear old characterful basket was soon extinct. A demise caused by man, but without any hint of global warming. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;">Or so I thought. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;">A while back The Old Duffer's old fishing pal sadly passed. He was visibly shaken by the event and, as a memorial to their many years sat on sunlit banks together, his dear wife, 'Aunty Ann', she who once got her dentures stuck together on the riverbank on a Quality Street toffee, to the concerned accompaniment of cackling friends, gave the basket to him. A varnished one, for Arthur was indeed diligent. A man who always had the best cars but also the most terrifying cough that put my little heart in my mouth as a boy whenever he burst into one of his explosive, crimson-faced fits. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;">Time passed, The Old Duffer hung up his float tube, and now finds his entertainment at his marvelous care home in dominoes, quoits or snakes and ladders, but the reaction to an angling tale is always there via a twinkle in his eyes and fleeting smile, "That's good", he'll say, "I like that". </span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;">Slowly, over two years, his tackle has been distributed among the needy, but Arthur's basket?, well that stayed put and, as the ultimate inheritee, it recently came into and under my guardianship. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;">On Christmas day that great giver of gifts from the North left me with a dream materialised. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;">A split cane rod, or two.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDGKGi6jOd-wY0ezTI1Gi1nhjODlNZJSIAkQ79grjd-uWvhwYy0spegHcEb3I1vBJq2lKtIAiZAdT87geHbckyY_DOaxmVVF42xBNcqb7HLQrLd_ISIiVat_BKwgyK0qh_q4VMyaB9_gEx/s3648/IMG_20201225_091822.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3648" data-original-width="1824" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDGKGi6jOd-wY0ezTI1Gi1nhjODlNZJSIAkQ79grjd-uWvhwYy0spegHcEb3I1vBJq2lKtIAiZAdT87geHbckyY_DOaxmVVF42xBNcqb7HLQrLd_ISIiVat_BKwgyK0qh_q4VMyaB9_gEx/w200-h400/IMG_20201225_091822.jpg" width="200" /></span></a></div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;">10'-6" of dreamy, historic and quite beautiful, handcrafted exquisiossity by way of J. Aspinall's 'Avondale' float rod (thanks again Andrew!) comprised one half of the pair.
Matched with the J. W. Young 'Trudex' centrepin acquired about 2 years ago (thanks Martin!) there was only one conclusion...</span></div><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxjp7DvodPXA27bD8VP9OF2MCeeJvoFecrs0J81TnstYAkJBRis46wFifLq-S049_Y2T5JkTG_jGHS_LVL2XhgCJnwcPYf-ZVwU9GGvNDTkkI3hoEWJYkVJsbwqVR7GWxbkguRxqqADoWp/s3648/IMG_20201228_104312.jpg" style="clear: left; display: block; float: left; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: right;"><span style="clear: left; float: left; font-family: verdana; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /><br /></span></a></div></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote><div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLZ98F3egAeuMUw4mTNb8u-SyvTSKCZdboWQYpVIp2-JKHSdlqSVHewTTu16sgpJtChEt2BCF1LQU1sAtRkVPujNKkx4Hyyx7sJoZAhmj3K69NiJovmiwi5R9IL536WUNLn940CNKsG9s7/s3648/IMG_20201228_104312.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1824" data-original-width="3648" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLZ98F3egAeuMUw4mTNb8u-SyvTSKCZdboWQYpVIp2-JKHSdlqSVHewTTu16sgpJtChEt2BCF1LQU1sAtRkVPujNKkx4Hyyx7sJoZAhmj3K69NiJovmiwi5R9IL536WUNLn940CNKsG9s7/w400-h200/IMG_20201228_104312.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">The antique rod and reel then magically conjured a single half pound skimmer from a disgustingly-coloured Oxford Canal but it was a lovely if brief session, with a warm glow in the frost and all made possible by the beautifully preserved Arthur's Basket. </span></div></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;">It was only right.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEJVuMOb6gPDqEzv0hE-vpQ710PAY0KXW2O_elpWl5Ap4tVj_qOlt7prp3P0x4QiUnZ4v3h1RnG06bF7NE1jW7JDYRQfNcusWFDhmLyUev1cxM7_Avjw2P9BPYy09YbCkL812wgesYuO6V/s3648/IMG_20201226_091839.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1824" data-original-width="3648" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEJVuMOb6gPDqEzv0hE-vpQ710PAY0KXW2O_elpWl5Ap4tVj_qOlt7prp3P0x4QiUnZ4v3h1RnG06bF7NE1jW7JDYRQfNcusWFDhmLyUev1cxM7_Avjw2P9BPYy09YbCkL812wgesYuO6V/w400-h200/IMG_20201226_091839.jpg" width="400" /></span></a></div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><br /></div>George Burtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07422749226358557982noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8890160818247783158.post-31109837041843272562020-10-17T08:13:00.003+01:002020-10-24T07:20:05.651+01:00Early Shot<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMnG9hYO_rDYYwd0fzeJRGHeMPhDYUf6V-_xFZo8pXKMUvJ5rTrwrTrdUAGiRHYxnJNP2RRIFHT2VyOqm31fZtUbPbm34xsnu1-7apyrc6P6ethoMuig359XWVCrPT-xmojdZ3oSXZujXP/s3648/IMG_20201011_175841.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2736" data-original-width="3648" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMnG9hYO_rDYYwd0fzeJRGHeMPhDYUf6V-_xFZo8pXKMUvJ5rTrwrTrdUAGiRHYxnJNP2RRIFHT2VyOqm31fZtUbPbm34xsnu1-7apyrc6P6ethoMuig359XWVCrPT-xmojdZ3oSXZujXP/s320/IMG_20201011_175841.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p>Challenges remain unsated</p><p>A chilling sun illuminates early evening beneath cloud and over land, casting an eye-watering terminal October brightness over the angling day</p><p>Soon the sky would be orange, red, purple and unique. A photograph of a scene every day of a lifetime, would be ever-changed, and from minute to minute</p><p>The little river. Perfect in every way, wound like a rattlesnake on the move, it's curves carved like inundated lino cuts into the Feldon clays and gravels</p><p>Its flow was urgent, its depths compounded and, with a fish-confiding turbidity, the <span face="sans-serif">irresistible</span> combination exacerbated the attraction ten-fold</p><p>An urge deep within. </p><p>An urge to seek, to confound and trick. </p><p>An urge that would, within minutes, result in a bait descending those depths so gently, so disarmingly, as to tempt the terminally torpid</p><p>Silty and shielding, sinuous and yielding. The emotion driven by an autumn flood irresistible. Here was the fisherman. A challenge unsated. </p><p>This barely perceptible river had been an historic champion but could it again, in whatever form, diminished by time and the disregard of humankind? Could she again nurture chub and roach of unimaginable magnificence in her watery womb? </p><p>Those seemingly surreal targets had hung heavy on the angler like a lead-laden yoke. Through innumerable seasons he'd yearned and toiled on its oft-times treacherous or impenetrable flanks</p><p>Could a chub of four pounds, or an impossible roach of two, be lying undisturbed below. Could they? </p><p>He was to find out as his quest absorbed the strident confidence of this streamy, if not dreamy, provider and adversary, Warwickshire's lesser-loved River Leam. </p><p>Crouched, eyes fixated; a first sudden rap resonated with the senses. Sight and touch stimulated. A hair-trigger poised. The snatching turned to tug, to pull, to strike, to hook, and was on. </p><p>A slovenly autumn fish, subdued by the progressively chilling substrate through which it slid, offered little beyond the token in reluctantly accepting the duel. Not the bullseye but a surprisingly voluminous occupier of a high-scoring inner ring nevertheless</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkQsTIJv9QNeCqo6TJBODidL5G5C6OpK7A57A_MqPHhsBqEY2anG59fdWTh39VYK6d_0Vomw5H0abwSNCtACEtvzXUVxnBuGYWTK9aoSCMdMr_Da6f3AoGfElZxe1n5zLPmJueJ9aPrD8J/s5184/20201011214856.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3888" data-original-width="5184" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkQsTIJv9QNeCqo6TJBODidL5G5C6OpK7A57A_MqPHhsBqEY2anG59fdWTh39VYK6d_0Vomw5H0abwSNCtACEtvzXUVxnBuGYWTK9aoSCMdMr_Da6f3AoGfElZxe1n5zLPmJueJ9aPrD8J/w400-h300/20201011214856.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><p>Thirteen ounces adrift wasn't a shameful starting shot and hope took root</p><p>----</p><p>Soon, a gentler solution. Finer, lighter, smaller and <span face="sans-serif">tighter. Flow subsiding, shade tending to green. The stream was just that. No longer the receding flood</span></p><p><span face="sans-serif">Field maple, subsumed and released, left tattered by the subsiding flood formed a potentially darkened lair. The streaks and whirls of the flow, tickled and teased its leaves from below, while careering past a deeper slack</span></p><p><span face="sans-serif">A gentle flick of that the most irresistible of small river lures - daintily presented, like a petit four drifting, he hoped, to inevitable consumption - barely broke the surface and faded into the fishiness to accept its fate. A fate that proved instant. A fate that proved that perhaps there was hope of the least likely target being present</span></p><p><span face="sans-serif">A chub-like fight, passionate and self-respecting, outshone its predecessor such as to be confounding</span></p><p><span face="sans-serif">At the rim, chub turned to roach. A gasp in shock but there she lie, sparkling and true, one pound of solid previously unsullied perfection</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCYFFtQ1WuI10ly14yxwmSPNjDC0j64C5aJ-M00rN4EoM1bx8r3_zrcFd3viF__cYpu1msQN-lZCiyiVvzUunvwSXgunreVB4pQRuP6ovetImM_giXWy_YTP4uOIvPlge2_rbVOi3jlAJm/s3648/IMG_20201013_173216.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3648" data-original-width="2736" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCYFFtQ1WuI10ly14yxwmSPNjDC0j64C5aJ-M00rN4EoM1bx8r3_zrcFd3viF__cYpu1msQN-lZCiyiVvzUunvwSXgunreVB4pQRuP6ovetImM_giXWy_YTP4uOIvPlge2_rbVOi3jlAJm/w300-h400/IMG_20201013_173216.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br /><span face="sans-serif"><br /></span><p></p><p><span face="sans-serif">Signs of potential</span></p><p>Would <i>this</i> be the season to be jolly? </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>George Burtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07422749226358557982noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8890160818247783158.post-25908164802095569922020-10-04T00:08:00.002+01:002020-10-07T21:14:40.188+01:00A 'How to..' by Way of a Change and 'Why to..'. Perhaps by Way of a Whinge<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhztR1VphA3tdV1mAeOfK3k5e_OJy8aMdF2eu4WtiBdXFgmQZLMHVk88WpOXOojdiusvLV5Xz-I_SQ1H302gemcImBukD9twmkOiEW-Xmse3taaacuhzXnAqeatCJbJKLUBEBvxKrijHk7S/s3648/IMG_20201003_214844.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2736" data-original-width="3648" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhztR1VphA3tdV1mAeOfK3k5e_OJy8aMdF2eu4WtiBdXFgmQZLMHVk88WpOXOojdiusvLV5Xz-I_SQ1H302gemcImBukD9twmkOiEW-Xmse3taaacuhzXnAqeatCJbJKLUBEBvxKrijHk7S/w400-h300/IMG_20201003_214844.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p>Casters</p><p>A genuinely special, unique and almost magical bait</p><p>The shells of freshly run-off casters, glistening from a quick rinse, smelling meatily enticing and fading from bright orange to white, are surely one of the most enduring and selective of hook options available to the discerning angler </p><p>Evocative of sparkling nets of quality roach and chub but, capsule for particle, a selective choice for any one wishing to sort the men from the boys, in fishy terms, for pretty much any species</p><p>It is with roach however that the bait is synonymous. Even those bionic individuals that have become accustomed to the 8mm pellet aimed at a barbel are unlikely to turn their perfect little noses up at a regular rain of them falling in front of their eyes</p><p>So, one might expect them to be a perfectly well understood bait when it comes to preparing, conserving and use</p><p>Sadly, however, perhaps with the increased hustle and bustle of everyday life; the onset of instant gratification in the angling world; the ownership of tackle shops by non-expert anglers or the advent of general laziness one cannot be certain but there is little doubt that the knowledge of, and ability to, produce the best casters is a dying art</p><p>Many of the angling books that today would be dismissed as 'old school' (because the young don't need to learn from the experience of others anymore) commit whole chapters to the bait, and not without good reason. The plastic-packaged, gaudily-coloured, marketing person's dream that is the tackle shop bait shelf in 2020 and those, in themselves, a sign of the potential for the phasing-out of anything in the slightest bit messy, awkward, time consuming or a loss-leader, demonstrates the problem consummately. The bait fridge has become an incidental rather than fundamental requirement of the trade with even the mainstay of the whole sport, the maggot, the blue bottle larva, being pushed to the periphery such that some shops sell nothing but pellets, boilies and their derivatives.</p><p>What a commercialised world angling has become, but those that populate that world will probably not be interested in reading this</p><p>Casters buck the trend and in many quarters it has been forgotten that they are living things; a halfway house between maggot and fly, between terrestrial and airborne life. A stage in a quite miraculous process and this is the key factor, in terms of usefulness to the angler, the caster is short-lived and literally has a limited shelf life of around one week. The one complicating factor being that as the caster gets darker it reaches a point, at the deep maroon stage, at which it will start to float and become useless</p><p>Shrink-wrapped or chemically preserved casters are non-starters. The only purpose these methods of so-called preservation serve is to make them useful for filling a nearby bin as the bait will be dead and therefore decomposing unless used fairly instantly after packaging</p><p>For casters to be appealing in the long-term they must be fresh and most of all<i> alive. </i>Feeding stale to rancid dead bait will only serve one purpose and that is to sicken the fish and put them off next time they encounter such a 'treat'</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirVF-NyopAz6aDdZRc9ErKbl1857aasjxKeCDuL4EKyNw3NiXCSdiuG6M7faCwu_77tK774xfK7NuIzTAF7_1fjq857TtRk6SfJj9QK1achHOOAAv5U311wQ2FF5Eoy-IMIow9L0RgU_BW/s3648/IMG_20201004_165546.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3648" data-original-width="2736" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirVF-NyopAz6aDdZRc9ErKbl1857aasjxKeCDuL4EKyNw3NiXCSdiuG6M7faCwu_77tK774xfK7NuIzTAF7_1fjq857TtRk6SfJj9QK1achHOOAAv5U311wQ2FF5Eoy-IMIow9L0RgU_BW/w300-h400/IMG_20201004_165546.jpg" width="300" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Lovely early autumn caster caught Rudd of 15ozs</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p>So what is the protocol when nurturing the perfect bait?</p><div><p>Firstly, a good supply of the biggest, fresh bait you can lay your hands on, and if you can't find such a source then consider running your own off by purchasing a couple of pints of white maggots the week before you need them and riddling them regularly, a process that ideally means you are able to go home in your lunch break </p><p>Given a suitable supply though there are a few simple rules to follow to arrest the metamorphosis from maggot to fly such that you can keep the bait both healthy and usable, i.e. sinking, over the days between purchase and use:</p><p>- As soon as you get them home, open them up, swirl them gently round to get air to every one and then tie the bag with a bit of air space in it of about 1/4 the volume of the casters. Repeat this 2 or 3 times per day and they will stay fresh</p><p>- An alternative is to trap a sandwich bag across under the lid of a bait box with a small air gap under it above the bait. This is quite a nice way of doing things, especially for a canal trip. </p><p>- If you have time, it is worth picking through the bait to get rid of any dead maggots; small, rough, slightly curled chrysalis of other fly species and general alien debris</p><p>- Transport the bait in the same manner and, on arriving at the bank, give them another gasp of air and pour a couple of hands full into a tub, and no more. This limits the amount of bait exposed to the elements and starting to turn to a darker shade, creeping toward the floating stage of the life cycle. </p><p>- Covering the casters in water is another option that many prefer as it arrests their progress to a fly but again this should be done using smaller quantities, not the whole bag, as, if fishing for a good number of hours, they could have died and started to sour. </p><p>- It is always wise the keep the spare casters in the manner described, in the shade and cool. This way they'll be useful for a couple more days if they don't all get used </p><p>- If you start to suspect one or two are floating then immerse the whole lot in a deep tub and skim the floaters and any semi-bouyant ones off. These are of no use, especially if used in groundbait when they'll draw fish into the upper water levels as they float off.</p><p>- I recently discovered that black bags prevent what is known as 'bag burn' on the casters. This is a mark that looks like a burn from being scorched where the bait has been in contact with a clear polythene bag. It doesn't look good and seems to make the bait progress faster to a floating stage. </p><p>- After the end of the session commences the same storage protocol of occasional gasps of air. Eventually however, about a week after being run-off they start to show signs of ageing, even though they may not have been on the bank or at a floating stage. The shells start to look less bright and go a dirty sort of shade. At this point they need be used immediately as this is the start of their deterioration and soon they will take on a certain aroma, suggestive of the early stages of decomposition. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj77dIPFP32ZwwK4PSgIoGPMaYtv6RxskazFnvubVwGjJK0b0sE2bvT5MGVV_S29yfZEUNR5rUYP0SmHTkqOW_dPwogHS-TG8MVSpjC8FfyXPevebwtOtI-0l2CCzYiYf4mdpBNzemEpJGs/s3648/IMG_20201003_214824.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2736" data-original-width="3648" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj77dIPFP32ZwwK4PSgIoGPMaYtv6RxskazFnvubVwGjJK0b0sE2bvT5MGVV_S29yfZEUNR5rUYP0SmHTkqOW_dPwogHS-TG8MVSpjC8FfyXPevebwtOtI-0l2CCzYiYf4mdpBNzemEpJGs/w400-h300/IMG_20201003_214824.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p>So the key aim is to have fresh, tasty casters at all times and when this is the only bait you are using, or it's in conjunction with hemp, the better the bait, the better the fishing and the more chance that, as you use them increasingly, the fish will get a proper taste for them. </p><p>So that's the "How to.." bit out of the way. Apologies if I come across as preachy but I do love my casters! </p><p><br /></p><p>Onto the "Why to.." then...</p><p>'Everybody' fishes the feeder these days. I've been fishing the Severn and Warks Avon a lot this past year and a float angler is a rare sight indeed. There are certain stretches where the float is still favourite, such as Stratford Lido, but largely the scene is one of stiff rod tips in the air and wait for something to pull it round in a violent and unmissable arc. </p><p>Well that's fine in itself of course, each to their own and all that, but it does strike me that many anglers have found a way of catching the odd decent fish when conditions by chance coincide with this approach, when, with a bit of advice or deeper thought, they could be doing so much better. </p><p>A couple of weeks ago I was fishing the Severn in it's then incredibly low, clear and slow state. A time when ideally you'd apply crepuscular tactics and just fish first and last thing in the day, but living over a hour from the river, that's not a regular option in my world.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU9u-6yKZpgpkt4WZH7rBTDq2PqMB5_Nu3c0_iKmIpKeVwqbPHydN_Jz_P4Zk_aYR9wEsRWSTfPYwe2k3Wvr8Vy866-Tuy9OPdZ426PGzfRaHkDPKqu7AS0Pry51Qonf7-6zcIykDUy1EH/s3648/IMG_20200926_191527.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2736" data-original-width="3648" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU9u-6yKZpgpkt4WZH7rBTDq2PqMB5_Nu3c0_iKmIpKeVwqbPHydN_Jz_P4Zk_aYR9wEsRWSTfPYwe2k3Wvr8Vy866-Tuy9OPdZ426PGzfRaHkDPKqu7AS0Pry51Qonf7-6zcIykDUy1EH/s320/IMG_20200926_191527.jpg" width="320" /></a><br /><br /></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">A 4lbs+ chub taken loose feeding a low and clear River Severn last week when very little action was evident</span><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p>In my youth, rubbing shoulders with experienced river and canal anglers at their peak, was a source of valuable information, as little gems fell from their lips in everyday conversation that have been glued into the memory and reinforced by personal experience since. </p><p>Hoofing a 3 or 4 ounce feeder full of groundbait into a shallow, clear river doesn't even register as an option in my head but, for many, this is probably what they've read and seen being done and so it's taken, literally, as read that this is the method; but angling has never been about one method or approach. As conditions vary, so too must the angler, and his or her tactics, targets and expectations. </p><p>At the age of 15 or 16 I gleaned one of the most valuable nuggets of information I ever heard, from a member of the local 'National' team, as we used to say, by the name of Pete Jarvis. I don't recall how it came about but he said, "I thought I could get away with more groundbait today, as it (the river) was so coloured". </p><p>It took a while, but over the years this short statement infiltrated the thinking and has influenced so much of what has proven correct on the day. I now have a simple adage that rarely fails; clear = loose feed; coloured = groundbait. On a river therefore, loose feed can be coupled with the straight lead and groundbait with a feeder; again as with anything, it's not 100% reliable but it's a fair guide.</p><p>Most things are not universally applicable. You might fish a block-end feeder and bronze maggots in coloured water, you might use bread mash on a clear river but, generally speaking, the principle is sound. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-Nz2j1WUULwIhDWLPS06zXh3vA8skZ2Xe8wOQ8356b0f9sElOq1ScQBwgb9ytV6jfsXqfGbPNdJmsPUrcIz1BrYvA962Lrl7HIqdU5XIn_EscVDrelnN4Rr45cbmidn567OuvwgXP7ACF/s3648/IMG_20201003_192424.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2736" data-original-width="3648" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-Nz2j1WUULwIhDWLPS06zXh3vA8skZ2Xe8wOQ8356b0f9sElOq1ScQBwgb9ytV6jfsXqfGbPNdJmsPUrcIz1BrYvA962Lrl7HIqdU5XIn_EscVDrelnN4Rr45cbmidn567OuvwgXP7ACF/w400-h300/IMG_20201003_192424.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">A 3lbs 2oz chub taken this very evening on bread mash and flake from a rising and coloured River Leam. The best of two fish in a brief and rain-drenched session either side of dusk</span><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p>So, when I see anglers doing as I described above, with heavy open-end feeders pounding into clear water like Howitzer shells, following a pattern that works by chance from time to time, it's baffling, but if the angler hasn't had the benefit of long experience, punctuated by snippets of golden information, where is the knowledge to come from? Surely life is too short to work it all out oneself!</p><p>Videos are largely product-driven and similarly limited to match fishing commercial fisheries. Top match anglers will always hold something critical back (otherwise how do they remain at the top?) and it is not since the days of genuine pioneering, ground-breaking anglers such as Kevin Ashurst and Ivan Marks that we have had their evolving ideas, failures and successes laid bare in the weeklies. Having been a long-standing match angler, albeit decades ago now, I <i>know</i> that there is more to angling and success in it than meets the eye, and most of it boils down to reading a swim and doing the thing(s) most likely to succeed on the day. The more often we can achieve this, surely the more enjoyment and satisfaction we can feel from having cracked the code on the day. </p><p>Angling is very much divided between commercial, so called 'specialist', pleasure and carp anglers in 2020 and, while there is undoubtedly a massive catalogue of information out there, very little of it is genuinely what one might term 'watercraft'-related, in an era increasingly insistent on instant success. </p><p>There used be a 1970's product, it might have been one of Green's, the Quick Jel makers', and the strap line was, "Just add an egg". Fast-forward to today, and the righteous indignation at having to add an egg would be palpable. </p><p>Moaning, commentating or inviting a better future? 'Not certain but it's a fact, nonetheless. </p><p>As the Great Man himself said, </p><p><i>"I've got a grapefruit matter, it's a sour as s**t, </i></p><p><i>I have no solutions, better get used to it". </i></p><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p></blockquote><p></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p></div>George Burtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07422749226358557982noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8890160818247783158.post-47203024414952844982020-09-21T23:18:00.001+01:002020-10-10T08:30:45.307+01:00Plan C<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZej8UAbKSVIldMeplu5Hn80A26L3bDOj38ZwsyQoVZDDQQ70-GOc1vybBhtDEpVjy13aGaMcw5mtx61D9GWF70OQHu42Z_7q_fliQLB3G_3hA5-7-HUREpKSaAZ84YO8u71SYvFz0GXBu/s3648/IMG_20200920_191612.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2736" data-original-width="3648" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZej8UAbKSVIldMeplu5Hn80A26L3bDOj38ZwsyQoVZDDQQ70-GOc1vybBhtDEpVjy13aGaMcw5mtx61D9GWF70OQHu42Z_7q_fliQLB3G_3hA5-7-HUREpKSaAZ84YO8u71SYvFz0GXBu/s320/IMG_20200920_191612.jpg" width="320"></a></div><div><br></div>It wasn't to have been the first time I had gone fishing, or with the intention of fishing, without critical items before. Most famously rods, for a far flung match, and, most recently, hook bait. <div><br></div><div>Today though, today was a day to send all previous efforts into the bin marked 'pathetic attempt' forthwith. </div><div><br></div><div>Fancying an evening behind alarms for a change, the Land Rover took me to the Old Lake with a view to a 4pm start. Travelling light, with as much kit previously set-up as possible, it took only a few minutes to be in a position to kick-off, or at least it should have done. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br></div></div><div>I've been spending some time experimenting with open-end feeders packed with hemp and the smallest amount of liquidised bread to hold it in place in search of lovely untouched roach with perhaps the odd rudd and tench. </div><div><br></div><div>The approach on this evening, with a strengthening breeze off my back and dropping temperature, was to try a large bread punch (13mm) on a short helicopter rig. </div><div><br></div><div>So, clipping the feeder and 3" hook length on, I moved to punch some bread...only to find it was still at home. </div><div><br></div><div>Brain racking time.</div><div><br></div><div>Ah yes, rubber maggots, they would do. </div><div><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUIprpHUdc9sZDxSNOYCzvt3WwVYYuW5gsVra4WMtOR8ojkcu0ZjB7xaEX_y9ZOvHnMS5IrAntKb_oIJSOObhyIQV45bqqQCCtv1C6hb1sTlW9_P_3Uf5nzKrrJ_c4VaaCLhT-bewJJ3IP/s3648/IMG_20200916_161725.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3648" data-original-width="2736" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUIprpHUdc9sZDxSNOYCzvt3WwVYYuW5gsVra4WMtOR8ojkcu0ZjB7xaEX_y9ZOvHnMS5IrAntKb_oIJSOObhyIQV45bqqQCCtv1C6hb1sTlW9_P_3Uf5nzKrrJ_c4VaaCLhT-bewJJ3IP/s320/IMG_20200916_161725.jpg"></a></div><div><br></div><div>Casting the first of the matching pair out about 30m, I leant across to set the rod in rest and alarm as I tightened it up. Ah, no bobbins! </div><div><br></div><div>So how to resolve this? I hastily built a little bobbin using 7lb line in lieu of chains and a quick change swivel linked by silicon tube, but I soon found the swivel stayed on the line after striking and rattled in the rings. </div><div><br></div><div>Some method of creating a clip that would readily pull off the line was a challenge. An inverted gemini clip worked to a degree but the tight area was too short and engaging it too fiddly. </div><div><br></div><div>Then a penny dropped. A little upward nick in the side of the silicon tube would hook over the line and pull off perfectly on the strike...and sure enough it did, quite nicely in fact!</div><div><br></div><div>A few swan shot completed the never to be repeated article and the fishing commenced in earnest. </div><div><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8BiCSPtARVQ4ZQCY9b1zOudWMv9lwW6CFvYUa9-AZ7fpjOluHuXDg5j3ELrWURz9lE91s3SmDVdG_F9zqsE4YsKxzwdJg65M3anGyRDgQ4Oa7gqLGULt_cz-9CWwciLjQLnqh2IFKBsZ7/s3648/IMG_20200916_170043.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3648" data-original-width="2736" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8BiCSPtARVQ4ZQCY9b1zOudWMv9lwW6CFvYUa9-AZ7fpjOluHuXDg5j3ELrWURz9lE91s3SmDVdG_F9zqsE4YsKxzwdJg65M3anGyRDgQ4Oa7gqLGULt_cz-9CWwciLjQLnqh2IFKBsZ7/s320/IMG_20200916_170043.jpg"></a></div><div><br></div><div>Somehow the home made bite indication made the evening all the more enjoyable until, to cap it all off neatly, the batteries in the left-hand alarm died and the mouse-like mechanical squeak of the cheap roller had to suffice as an early warning system. </div><div><br></div><div>A few nice roach in the 2 to 10 ounce range followed at dusk but a rudd of just a few drams below a pound took the beauty prize on the night. </div><div><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi_b0xeH-30GQXX0nDIuJZgDHjn2ElQC_74iHgN6xd9nxJxE9pKXaSeEITHPk0Daa0a8qd9Zmxy8C_lSdn962KEqznlXW7XTujIhm6WOJ9G3hpfGI1HyfH_j4i7q_tlURWwmwIn-qVTx5Y/s3648/IMG_20200916_174057.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2736" data-original-width="3648" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi_b0xeH-30GQXX0nDIuJZgDHjn2ElQC_74iHgN6xd9nxJxE9pKXaSeEITHPk0Daa0a8qd9Zmxy8C_lSdn962KEqznlXW7XTujIhm6WOJ9G3hpfGI1HyfH_j4i7q_tlURWwmwIn-qVTx5Y/s320/IMG_20200916_174057.jpg" width="320"></a></div><div><br></div><div>By the time another cast was made there was insufficient light to work with and this wasn't to be afforded the 'into dark' commitment I might on other occasions stay-on for so the odd bit of tackle still in use by dusk was tucked away and loaded into the car. </div><div><br></div><div>As I sat on the tailgate, swapping wellies for Scarpas, tawny and little owls were calling with apparent urgency and Daubenton's bats hovered over calm water close-in, in the lee of the fresh breeze. </div><div><br></div><div>All was well in this little world and the need to have improvised had added to the trip immeasurably with the majority of the fish coming to single red fake maggot. </div><div><br></div><div>Perhaps I should forget more kit more often. </div><div><br></div><div>Or maybe not. </div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div>George Burtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07422749226358557982noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8890160818247783158.post-3807725445593039642020-04-18T15:41:00.004+01:002020-04-18T15:41:43.225+01:00Three Weeks In…The Hiatus at Home<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<b>A Long Season Behind & a Long non-statutory Close Season to Follow</b><br />
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There was a time when life was simple<br />
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A time when a close season was accepted, when fishing was uncomplicated and when people knew where they stood<br />
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They knew right from wrong, in a sense<br />
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The glorious 16th. Of spring fishes, sharp mornings, misty views, gritty eyes and the heartbeat of uncertainty<br />
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Those of unfathomable feathered feats of migration would start to trickle in. A few waders, the odd martin or swallow; overwintering chiffchaff and blackcap might start to sing, boosted by a far greater number of visitors and, conversely, some would leave; redwing and fieldfare most notably, but they can also be noted hanging around seemingly far too long (7 fieldfare in a mature garden aspen just 2 weekends ago)<br />
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Wildfowl leave and wildfowl return; cetaceans follow prey into the waves warming coastal waters and, somewhat intriguingly, become spotters’ fantasy sightings<br />
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Frogs, toads and newts; snakes and lizards; invertebrates; fish; every living thing becomes caught-up in the palpable swell of Spring<br />
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Except this year, 2020, when we British humans are to be denied our Spring<br />
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Questions are begged<br />
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"But what about the League?!"<br />
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Liverpool, perhaps Coventry City, Celtic, Dundee Utd, Cove Rangers they could all be declared champs and not many would be bothered but when it concerns tight current positions like those of Leeds, Crewe/Swindon, Raith Rovers, etc., plus the numerous also rans seeking promotion and those trying to drag their legs from the rubber towel holder of relegation, what’s to do? Well okay the, disrespectfully so called, lower leagues have been scrubbed but firstly, does it not seem quite incredible that none of the leagues seem to have rules set-out under the heading “Massive Disaster Contingency Plans”, especially as the majority of them survived at least one and probably two World Wars?<br />
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Surely the simplest solution is that if a delay of more than ‘X’-weeks occurs the places each team occupied at the time of suspension will be their finishing positions. If the rules state it there is no doubt and everyone goes into it with their eyes open, but to take decisions in multi-million pound situations mid-flow could/would result in complete chaos with the legal system being swamped with claims and counter-claims arising therefrom. One would think they’d be ready<br />
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So that’s just one issue in this crazy COVID-19 world of isolation. I’m told there may be others<br />
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For F, F&F though there are bigger fish to skin and many ways of frying a cat (to use dear old Psycho’s method of phraseology. For the can’t be bothered at heart, he once said, “We could see the carrot at the end of the tunnel”) and some of those creatures will be positively contributing to this, the Hiatus at Home, while others will suffer<br />
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Research, conservation, breeding, crime, birth rates, death rates, sales, mental illness, wealth, etc., will all have wildly swinging fluctuations of fortune and we’ve just got to bite the bullet and make the most of what we have without any great release other than conversation, community spirit, siege mentality, gardening, home decorating, health and fitness, families being drawn together, helping each other, playing games, cooking. Blimey, sounds quite plausible actually.<br />
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So, for our part, it’s been a case of writing up angling notes, imagining what one might need to prepare for and what options might present dependent upon the timing of our release.<br />
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Revisiting those notes is always rewarding, not least because the number of hopeless trips become apparent and being confined to literal gardening duty seems nicely profitable in comparison to those<br />
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One aspect, it being a Bloggers’ Challenge season, is the noting of those slightly more special fish. There’s a little schedule that qualifies a fish in FFF-land and anything above gets underlined in red. So it’s quick to glance through and see how successful a period has been in terms of fish that have hit the mark of being noteworthy, albeit they all get noted anyway<br />
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They’ve become known as Stone-fish<br />
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<br />
PB’s merit a red box around them. Any type of PB. Best for rivers, canals, lakes; best for individual watercourses or lakes or of course the actual overall, indisputable, species, ‘with knobs on’, Lifetime Personal Best<br />
<br />
PB’s came along like mornings when the Float & Flannel elements of the Blog were growing and the first Bloggers’ Challenge entered was underway. A few years on, a PB has become more of a rarity as the number of pyramid topping species has racked-up. Indeed, it’s become more a case of seeking epic moments than PB’s in their own right.<br />
<br />
But is this right? Is angling all about breaking previous barriers?<br />
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<br />
The Bloggers’ Challenge is all consuming.<br />
<br />
The inner competitor breaks-out of dormancy and influences every move.<br />
<br />
What points-scoring fish do current conditions suggest the most likely? Catching it is uplifting but there are many, many failures and its easy to look back at a year via the notes and (lack of) underlining to see the fact<br />
<br />
Some nice fish have been to grace the net, certainly, but the whole period has been more about quantity and filling the scoreboard with ‘nice fish’. The final part of the plan, this current river close season from mid-March to mid-June, was to have been the icing on the cake but of course, chances are it won’t now happen at all<br />
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<br />
Post-Coronavirus I envision a world quite different<br />
<br />
When nature bites humankind on the proverbial, there is usually a quick return to whatever normality is, and it’ll be different things emerging from this pandemic that will stay with us. Sadly however, it will probably be the easy things that have little effect on people’s everyday lives that will be retained<br />
<br />
In reality of course its the more fundamental far-reaching changes that need to become the norm, family, community, walking, supporting nature, growing food; all locally undertaken. British holidays, and, as the air now clears, a massive reduction in air and car travel, and so on<br />
<br />
Personally it strikes me that if this lockdown has taught us anything surely it is that we’ve lost touch with the natural pace of life. The increasingly confusing, rushed, frantic daily grind that is neither natural nor healthy, nor sustainable is the new black. A place of darkness driven by the constant search for economic growth. More of this, more of that and less/no actual time to simply live. A pace careering to an inevitable collision with mental health and physical issues, which all begs the simple question, “Why?”.<br />
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One final question:<br />
Could CORVID-19 be caused by a flock of rooks?<br />
<br />
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">Seat photograph: Copyright Florian Müller</span><br />
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<br />George Burtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07422749226358557982noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8890160818247783158.post-22760216484174828532020-03-24T06:59:00.002+00:002020-04-11T08:23:04.201+01:00A RECORD BREAKING WET WINTER<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
The winter of 2019/2020 will no doubt be recorded as "the wettest since records began" in due course. Everything must be labelled thus in the 21st Century; biggest, smallest, worst, best, hottest, coldest, was Ben Stokes' Ashes hundred the best innings ever? Does it really matter?<br />
<br />
The rivers only returned to anything like normal level toward the start of the beleaguered close season following what seem to have been interminable grey skies accompanied by heavy rain<br />
<br />
Locally in fact, in terms of human impact, it wasn't that bad but certainly the situation once the ground became inundated was such that each time it rained the rivers were quick to rise with any additional precipitation finding no traction on the land. Thus it was difficult to predict levels from one day to the next. Throw into the equation the further determining factor of falling or rising water temperatures and it made for a quite unfathomable mix on the constantly warm angling front.<br />
<br />
On one occasion at the water, that time approaching normal level but still with a strong tow and silt-coated banks, littered, thankfully, with barely any man-made litter, a great tit struck up a seranade. It's urgent 2x2 tune as if summoning passengers to the ark this winter had conjured in the minds of many a joker.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-qMKb87EV0sOdG2U0j2hpvcvm74lme52_cU1Voo92NK43xrte0ueHGRpAFO1TpPbVRPiVC2NYOxfwpPMV_D3W3Ww2mFeq1Xa6RgqYk2yz5UJfZF-ZhTkX-LzKezMiBGfFuOl6iU-RF2du/s1600/IMG_20200221_111537.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-qMKb87EV0sOdG2U0j2hpvcvm74lme52_cU1Voo92NK43xrte0ueHGRpAFO1TpPbVRPiVC2NYOxfwpPMV_D3W3Ww2mFeq1Xa6RgqYk2yz5UJfZF-ZhTkX-LzKezMiBGfFuOl6iU-RF2du/s400/IMG_20200221_111537.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The View from Here throughout the Winter. Fishing into Cold Tea. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Collectively and collaboratively, for FF&F and Artificial Lite, it had been preordained that the rivers would be targeted through the whole winter to support our forthcoming film but, never being tardy in the acceptance of a challenge, it was immensely taxing and thus worthwhile in a personal satisfaction sense when something actually happened.<br />
<br />
It wasn't so much getting bites that was the issue but the late Peter Stone's influence over the perpetual search for those bigger fish in the swim was certainly stretched like no.6 pole elastic in a carp fight at times.<br />
<br />
Checking weather forecasts, river levels, predicting whether water temperatures were increasing or simply increasingly cold were daily events. If they were rising and the target river was falling, then we'd be erecting our aerials for barbel on meat, if not it would be anything that swims, usually with lobworms.<br />
<br />
Selecting swims took a good deal of wandering the banks, but some cracking (looking) options were identified and became so called 'go to' places dependent upon the above factors combined with wind direction.<br />
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As for the rest of the tale? Well, it's currently being narrated and edited.<br />
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----<br />
<br />
So, season over, it has become customary to take up residence at Rocky Res. Not the prettiest of backdrops to illuminate the quality of the fishing, which has never been better, but for a few bites and the chance of decent tench (regularly up to five or six pounds), roach averaging 12ozs but often over a pound and other mix'n'match treats along the way, it's a veritable fishing sweet shop with the word 'STRIKE' running through it much like its sugary seaside namesake.<br />
<br />
...and strike we did.<br />
<br />
A number of us from the Warwickshire Bloggers Angling Syndicate (WBAS), took the opportunity to move toward our second anniversary, with a few bites, the winter having been so tough for all of us.<br />
<br />
The first few minutes, waiting for that first run on goal, always seem interminable and when utilising the now standard short link heli rigs for roach the opportunity that presents itself is often blasted over the bar.<br />
<br />
Slowly we get into it and memory serves to advise that with a suitably balanced set-up the strike isn't actually important. If the feeder and bobbin are suitably matched a dropback indication confirms the fish is hooked as it's moved the feeder; similarly the bobbin repeatedly bashing against the alarm is a fair sign too!<br />
<br />
Beyond that, the only interest was in the fish with no bird life of note to occupy the inter-bite lulls, and it was undoubtedly the latter, the bites, that stimulated endocrine system to ooze adrenaline as, on a couple of occasions, a fish was being played to the tune of the second alarm, singing like a canary in need of a good slap. Baitrunner engaged, rod thrown off the alarm, fish going who knows where!<br />
<br />
Th<span style="font-size: 1em;">e wind stiffened into its own adrenaline trigger between events as dense showers billowed across the valley like a stage curtain caught in the flatulence of an open fire exit. </span><br />
<br />
First time, a sight unimaginable to me just a few years ago. A roach of 1.6 sharing the bunk with a 5lb tinca. This followed later by two tench of 4.12 and 3.9, the one seemingly cradling the other. The ripped old net ('tempted to put "man" there!) was straining into shock but on neither occasion were fish lost and the effectiveness of the method was emphatically confirmed.<br />
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<br />
Soon of course swallows and martins will be coursing and swooping over the ripples. Warblers will be warbling on maximum volume and everything will seem fine again; while, at Rocky Res, it certainly is giving that impression already. 24lbs 8ozs of roach and tench followed by 14lbs in less that two hours on a subsequent visit is not to be sniffed at and not a fish under about half a pound.<br />
<br />
----<br />
<br />
So (why does everyone start sentences with "So" these days? I blame the scientists), approaching the end of the rifling through of various venue options, Google Earth, forecasts, river levels and the like; a break, a distraction, was required. Blogger's Challenge points had rarely been boosted through the muddy months and canal perch was one column needing to be populated with a two pounder, as a minimum, 100 points available to the taker if it exceeded two pounds and three ounces.<br />
<br />
Cue a jolly to the banker swim. The journey brought a definite hint of a chill and it started to influence the inner workings. Parking up this was momentarily lost a t<span style="font-size: 1em;">he unbridled beauty of the song of the thrush accompanied the preparation as the extra layers initially felt bracingly cold against the skin. It rang out through the trudge to the waterside until he became consumed by a new urge. </span><br />
<br />
Caster feed and lobworm chopped in half, and both sections impaled, against the resistance only a lobworm can display, on a delicate little size 8 forged heavy metal hook would be the tactic on my beloved 10' wand. Now usually when you snap the tip off a rod the whole thing becomes quite useless but 2" off the tip of the wand, damaged in transit, and neatly cut back to what was the penultimate eye actually improved things for this exquisite little tool in the bigger fish stakes.<br />
<br />
No need for anything elaborate here. Simply drop the lead to the right, quiver straight out and wait for the enquiries to start while sprinkling caster heavily (for a canal) over the top. Always been partial to casters have big perch.<br />
<br />
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<span style="font-size: 1.00em;">Poised for that first bite and suddenly that clarion of small bird alarm calls, as, sure as strike follows bite, silent death. A female sparrowhawk on her early morning sortie. A smash and grab raid before breakfast. Without a whisper she was over my head and through the confined invisible, impossible (impassable even) tunnel of a route through the facing hedge and out of sight, not a feather ruffled nor a wing beat. </span></div>
<br />
Soon enough, a few tentative pulls and then the fish was clearly fully committed. A sharp strike in the hope of setting hook into boney mouth and the typical 'digging' run of a decent perch ensued. After quite a battle, the rod again served the purpose with ample reserves and this beauty was there to behold. Laying spent and sparkling under the blanket of heavy cloud<br />
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<br />
On the scales 35.3ozs, or 2lbs 3ozs 5dr to give it a precise conversion.<br />
<br />
Points in the bag and a parallel apology to dear old Ben Henessy, whose 100 pointer this would usurp by just a quarter of an ounce, was certainly in order! (Still feeling guilty Ben).<br />
<br />
That's the precis of the story anyway. As luck would have it, in the short session the following list of perch, tempted by an unexpected feast, from this apparent super-shoal went as follows:<br />
2.3.5, 8oz, 6oz, 2.1.5, 1.2.10, 1.14.0 & 1.3.0 plus roach that moved in at the end of 4ozs and 10ozs.<br />
<br />
Those latter suspects came as a complete surprise, so involved had the perching become but they did trigger a little reluctance to leave, even though bites had generally tailed-off significantly.<br />
<br />
<div dir="ltr">
<span style="font-size: 1.00em;">As an angler however, that feeling of confidence that a bite could come at any moment never wanes. It is probably the greatest cause of being late for whatever follows. One more cast. Well maybe another then, if I put it just...there.</span></div>
<br />
Now why did I spend all winter on the rivers exactly?<br />
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<br />George Burtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07422749226358557982noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8890160818247783158.post-33295777981663842942019-12-30T23:40:00.001+00:002019-12-31T07:49:04.718+00:00The Pre and Post Christmas Rush<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
PRE-CHRISTMAS<br />
<br />
Sinking into the marsh, subsequent steps no deeper than before but each consistently sucked in by the peat-like soil, slowed the walk but did not diminish the enthusiasm as the river was to be at a high level and, with the summer weed now ripped-out and flushed through by a month's heavy rain, the opportunity to apply pole feeder tactics in slack water was irresistible<br />
<br />
'Anything that swims' would be in order, as the first priority is to avoid a blank, but there would be that Peter Stone-style aim to pick-out a bigger fish, as always<br />
<br />
Choosing a slack below a bridge where the main flow hurtled to the far bank, toward the overhang of hawthorns, the water appeared steady with barely any flow and, closer in, flowed against the main torrent but, there was an 'eye' to this back eddy, centrally, where the water stood still<br />
<br />
The essential of offering an attraction of feed on the river bed in such circumstances is limited to a bait dropper or swimfeeder and, with the most recent rain at that time having been cold, this needed to be in limited quantity. The introduction of a single chopped lobworm plugged with a minimal but heavy mix, containing a sprinkling of worm extract, would be introduced and only for the first three lowerings of the rig, after which the ear would make decisions on the state of play<br />
<br />
Bites would be expected to be early and consistent, if they came at all should there be any fish in the slack, and sure enough this came in the shape of a rare river gudgeon, and a surprise boost in Challenge points. The marker quivered and disappeared with a disproportionately positive vigour as compared to the size of this tiny mottled brown visitor, which weighed in at just 0.54 ounces on the mini-fish scales<br />
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<br />
Adding challenge points at the time of year, and with such weather affecting all possible options, is largely an exercise in luck, most of it bad, but the great thing is that the flood, if it produces anything, often produces pleasant surprises, unseasonable species being one of them but also bigger fish than we might anticipate<br />
<br />
Ones natural reaction approaching such a situation is to think that anything will do and therefore be happy with a little fish of any species simply to rescue the day from a blank but regularly this can be found to be a negative and pessimistic attitude. That's not to suggest that big fish will be caught from each and every slack. Indeed, some of them won't appear to hold any fish at all but on average it seems every other trip might throw up something a little more interesting. This past week, for instance, a chub of 4lbs+, an eel of over a pound and a string of pristine hand-sized roach have sprung from different swims on various days<br />
<br />
For a few weeks the canals locally had been like milky tea, the lakes shocked into the dormancy of winter by the first cold weather and rivers in and out of the fields with varying degrees of turbidity, pace, level and temperature<br />
<br />
The most recent rain, a brief but violent downpour on a Friday, of the increasingly prevalent 'climate change'-driven type, was warm, as the weather turned, and, although the river was rising, it was not now carrying much debris. Consequently the fish were more obliging. Simply more hungry, and, thankfully, a series of chublets and roach came to hand in the ensuing couple of hours accompanied by the incessant twittering and wheezing of starlings on the wires, and the occasional whistling of teal<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyrNrykxEm_odRBCAcvimmmltfI1WY4yD_gRYH62bh0D0djQcyc46FDDwHWagLCO9nLsNtCmW2n5rIWEGl2-kQb8-otpM0l-xGNiIpU8dfaZBLr3FtvnEG-oxIHXVWktOhdKlckkvVFfXG/s1600/IMG_20191129_124357_BURST001_COVER.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyrNrykxEm_odRBCAcvimmmltfI1WY4yD_gRYH62bh0D0djQcyc46FDDwHWagLCO9nLsNtCmW2n5rIWEGl2-kQb8-otpM0l-xGNiIpU8dfaZBLr3FtvnEG-oxIHXVWktOhdKlckkvVFfXG/s320/IMG_20191129_124357_BURST001_COVER.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
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<br />
POST-CHRISTMAS<br />
<br />
Rocky Res would be the location as temperatures were expected to be steady and mild for a couple of weeks<br />
<br />
Bleak Midwinter, and windswept at even the most enticing of times, this was not a place for the tentative, sensitive nor indeed the unprotected angler<br />
<br />
Visits must be preceded by careful analysis of wind direction and speed plus the likelihood of rain, otherwise the most uncomfortable, nigh-on unbearable, sessions are bound to be endured<br />
<br />
The first visit was to be the now standard winter stillwater roach approach of maggot feeder and closely positioned two inch heli-rigged hook-length, also loaded with maggot, usually double but part of a constant merry-go-round of hook-bait options in search of a 'killing' combination<br />
<br />
HonGenSec beat me to it on the first trip, as usual (albeit biteless at that point), but, even though there were a few carpers and pikers ensconced, swims were going aplenty<br />
<br />
Ultimately it became apparent that my negativity in hook size would come to haunt me, catching four fish and losing five due a surprising interest from tench in just 5degC water temps [no one tell Len Head!]. The best roach was 12ozs, for each of us<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3csWH-9SvdWlHRoOe-q2eYPoA4p80ZvM2m7d_dTjMoV4U_DH3YyOsRNF7YR-CagN0GSAXtlwYFD_LlOzXWbrlbL5DZiQvVjwa_n_GhrLts6OvObp4qEJgEu9R0xcRtau0TAIX4ciqMUpE/s1600/IMG_20191223_143007.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3csWH-9SvdWlHRoOe-q2eYPoA4p80ZvM2m7d_dTjMoV4U_DH3YyOsRNF7YR-CagN0GSAXtlwYFD_LlOzXWbrlbL5DZiQvVjwa_n_GhrLts6OvObp4qEJgEu9R0xcRtau0TAIX4ciqMUpE/s400/IMG_20191223_143007.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<br />
Next trip and HGS was well in front of me and had 5 or 6 roach to 1lb before I'd even turned-up.<br />
<br />
The approach was to be different this time, and new. I recalled having a tube of 'sticky mag' in the bag and, combined with a slider rig, this was to be the challenge of the day fishing into 10' of water at around 20-25m. How this would take me back!<br />
<br />
Never having used sticky mag it was a bit of a challenge to even get it to work, but it did, and very effectively too. It was easy to roll 20 gentles into a ball and fire them out with a standard catapult. It did require a bowl of water to swill the fingers in, as the stickiness was staggering. I had imagined it would be like a cornflour-type thickening agent but in use it seemed more like powdered toffee, or the like. So adhesive was it that the bait became rigid under its power<br />
<br />
My recollection of the slider rig (it had been a while) wasn't the best and I did suffer with tangles, however subsequent seeking of advice from experts, a couple of errors with shotting and casting technique are now resolved. I think the hook bait was attached directly to the float for 50% of the session! Not good, but maybe you gotta make mistakes to learn sometimes (I keep telling myself!)<br />
<br />
The upshot of the session was that HGS kept trotting along showing me roach of ever-increasing size, to over the pound mark, in fact, while I kept plugging away. It was during one of those chats that I actually had a bite and landed a very respectable perch of a pound thirteen. Later came the light-bulb moment that this might even have represented more unexpected challenge points<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRqTpAUd7q9GAzjHfaQuzt5BuNa6mFuxkZJ-wpLHf_SNvNENxDlwo4y2zf4HiuPNa5j9Y4JeiYvcb2jQ1cwA9uftCRBpm0WA0-R8gPegr1gbVA1WP1AtjqOrKc_KGWcmrBk6lHjScHUkne/s1600/IMG_20191227_155021.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRqTpAUd7q9GAzjHfaQuzt5BuNa6mFuxkZJ-wpLHf_SNvNENxDlwo4y2zf4HiuPNa5j9Y4JeiYvcb2jQ1cwA9uftCRBpm0WA0-R8gPegr1gbVA1WP1AtjqOrKc_KGWcmrBk6lHjScHUkne/s400/IMG_20191227_155021.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
It did, sixty-odd of them!<br />
<br />
Another 10oz roach followed but then the dark set-in early with heavy cloud and mist. HGS had by then quit for the heated car seat option but his catch of nine roach, all over ten ounces, for a total catch of around seven pounds, would do more to keep the home fires burning than any amount of hot food<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
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<div style="text-align: center;">
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Next day, the third visit, there could be no excuses. I knew where the bigger roach were, the rig, the slider episode was out of the system and I had doubled-up an eleven foot 1lb t.c. rod prior to the holiday and matched them to alarms and bobbins. The heli-rigs would be back in action!<br />
<br />
Arriving just after sunrise, the light southerly would again be from behind the chosen spot, if it was free. Again there was total cloud cover (very much akin to the Dutch 'Total Football' but without the game itself being in anyway involved...unless a perch was caught, obviously) and no one else there, (a Saturday!), again, the water was around 5degC<br />
<br />
Pilfering a few rocks from the bank, the rods were set-up perfectly (this time). Maggot at first, then a few flavours proved nothing until bites started to emanate. Inquiries at first then full-blown backdrops; never frantic but regular and generally hit-able<br />
<br />
Firstly roach, in fact the first fish was over a pound and followed by a couple of twelve ouncers<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWqg1UzRviqjQ4j0tvvG-CQyLinzi5gtjdZDB6_22YO0tYcguxsfuO0EgXtZ3MUTgbRcrJsG5WpGGJ3NHwq6shwiQLJkZUKcJsf-gEreqVugLM7KJhar23uMV8VzX2cevhtN1vvtuLtt27/s1600/IMG_20191228_090731.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWqg1UzRviqjQ4j0tvvG-CQyLinzi5gtjdZDB6_22YO0tYcguxsfuO0EgXtZ3MUTgbRcrJsG5WpGGJ3NHwq6shwiQLJkZUKcJsf-gEreqVugLM7KJhar23uMV8VzX2cevhtN1vvtuLtt27/s400/IMG_20191228_090731.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">1.1.5</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Then the tincas moved in, inexplicably smaller than the average summer fish initially, at two and half pounds, but cracking fish to take in Christmas week<br />
<br />
Not one, but two bailiffs, approached me at various times to see if anything was stirring and both were genuinely pleased that the answer was, "Yes", as the lack of bums on <strike>seats</strike> bivvy bed-chair thingies demonstrated that things could only have got better<br />
<br />
Then a passing couple or two. It was a dead-end. They had to come back so it was easy to lose count, honest. Suspected as angling husbands and non-angling generally frozen partners suffering the event in the hope of ending-up somewhere warm later, maybe?<br />
<br />
My final visitor however was actual angling royalty in the ever-upright form of 1960's England International Hubert Noar; now in his seventies; still match fishing on canals; still seeking bigger fish than the youngsters, albeit more so with perch than roach these days, it seems, and still drawing more than his fair share of what we used to call 'coin', I suspect<br />
<br />
"Didn't expect to see you here!" he said, binoculars at the ready in case the regular passage migrant from Norfolk, a bearded tit, should emerge from the reeds<br />
<br />
We reminisced<br />
<br />
Old names, old techniques, preferences and, as always with anglers of this stature, a couple of nuggets; gems, if you like. Apparently back in the heyday of the middle Great Ouse, when anglers from Rugby Federation, it is fair to say, dominated, it seems Hubert used to come to Rocky Res to practice the unique long float technique into surface drift-affected deep water rather than driving for ninety minutes to the actual venue between matches. It paralleled my own experience, teaching myself to fish bread punch in readiness for a Grand Union Canal NFA National in North London by using the Leicester Arm of the same canal, it would be similarly clear, in the early mornings at the very least, and, sure enough, it worked in that manner too.<br />
<br />
Suddenly - resounding bleeps on both rods at once<br />
<br />
I struck into what was clearly a better tench on the left-hand rod combined with a solid drop-back on the right-hand rod leaving the alarm bleeping constantly. Hubert was desperate to help-out so I let him pick up the r.h. rod and he held it until I had netted the tench and soon it was joined by a good roach in the same landing net<br />
<br />
A quick weigh put the tench at 3lbs 8ozs and the previously unmolested form of the freshly minted roach at a cracking 1.5.3, and (just) more unexpected Challenge points<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFiw7hS3ZzDkEbYyNNvojzurzr4jTR2NceBQoJTA5GFqVP9ccLBmZ_gJ28PMidSMoVfktua494Q9dcGE3oCTZhcO8N_SD1qha6HyNexXzzR_ekOKc6wjeJbQzh15YxTl3Jrw4Hg7bESF6-/s1600/IMG_20191228_144425.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1201" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFiw7hS3ZzDkEbYyNNvojzurzr4jTR2NceBQoJTA5GFqVP9ccLBmZ_gJ28PMidSMoVfktua494Q9dcGE3oCTZhcO8N_SD1qha6HyNexXzzR_ekOKc6wjeJbQzh15YxTl3Jrw4Hg7bESF6-/s400/IMG_20191228_144425.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Best tench of the day</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
"I expect you'll be doing a film about this place next then?!", he enquired. Very much matter of fact<br />
<br />
"No, I think there are plenty of people who know more about this place then I do Hubert", came the reply. His response was indeed flattering, yes, but, I have to say, very much wide of the mark<br />
<br />
According to my build-up of notes (no keepnets allowed) the catch comprised 5 roach and 4 tench for a total of exactly sixteen pounds with the smallest fish again eleven ounces.<br />
<br />
Quality fishing at one of the best stillwaters in the area<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTsL0D1C4Bbgn4mtr_d2qa0P1bx2TBoBhbz38R70m-cblVMQMcYkr215JxRFCKC8Y7i4bQHOKMlhGE9VCBYbpA48JLyDQ8CRPlJkknMZfv8gdw__z-sbhyE7wCN5Heqbb_R8Lm2WVATVXQ/s1600/IMG_20191228_144547.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTsL0D1C4Bbgn4mtr_d2qa0P1bx2TBoBhbz38R70m-cblVMQMcYkr215JxRFCKC8Y7i4bQHOKMlhGE9VCBYbpA48JLyDQ8CRPlJkknMZfv8gdw__z-sbhyE7wCN5Heqbb_R8Lm2WVATVXQ/s400/IMG_20191228_144547.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Best roach of the day</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: center;">
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Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year to all, let's hope the fishing is on the up at last!<br />
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<br />George Burtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07422749226358557982noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8890160818247783158.post-57487762794763923822019-11-21T22:39:00.001+00:002019-11-21T22:39:34.189+00:00Lights, Camera, Action or The Written Word?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoBB1WtN7FT0f2g2ovDDxpTruXTklYwQSSpL_ve46c_LpvG3oL4jvffemwpEnP2yawrkFPkDTPSVeorAedA9xKXmgL31SMt0PR1L-p1WgSNLsgSYeoG-fLbU5us-TKfgu47O1sLBaHNcBo/s1600/IMG_20191115_160914_BURST042.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoBB1WtN7FT0f2g2ovDDxpTruXTklYwQSSpL_ve46c_LpvG3oL4jvffemwpEnP2yawrkFPkDTPSVeorAedA9xKXmgL31SMt0PR1L-p1WgSNLsgSYeoG-fLbU5us-TKfgu47O1sLBaHNcBo/s400/IMG_20191115_160914_BURST042.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
The recent foray into film with fellow blogger Eric Weight of <a href="http://www.ericweight.co.uk/artlite/artificial%20lite.html" target="_blank">Artificial Lite</a> represents quite a departure from the usual F, F&F fare. It has caused less time to be available for writing, and certainly less to say, as the focus has sharpened elsewhere. Combine that with the Blogger's Challenge running this season and opportunities for the wide angle of variety found so absorbing in angling is hugely diminished.<br />
<br />
The release to date of three films, all accessible across the tabs at the top here (popcorn extra) has put our combined little worlds into a whole new orbit, it seems. What started as a kernel of an idea during a chance encounter on the banks of Rocky Res one sunny morning, zoomed into an idea to keep the pair of us amused and then, a little while after initially putting Big Canal Roach on YouTube, it must have had some kind of boost somewhere as views rocketed and, before we could gather our thoughts, our little film, made initially to challenge our own aspirations, hit 1000, then 5000, then 10,000 and, now, closing-in on 25,000 views.<br />
<br />
It's a job to know what to make of this. Many of the comments have cited calming, nostalgic, easy viewing as a heart-warming feature. Others like, what we like to think of, as the original, perhaps even unique, type and flow of information. Certainly though, the fact is that many videos, while claiming to be of the 'how to..' type actually pass surprisingly little useful information on and often concentrate on the product and/or the 'wow, look at this/me' factor.<br />
<br />
All this is fine of course, in its place, but it wasn't for us.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdOQulxdwOgPsiDHqPcsW_KPS_-KpHYf6HHQDzSVA6np6d3-dZafp5osJjO_T61ev0HRqhvM6xD8LdTD3KyjHEcMhko6vZBMnx406XewVhuA44ynbX2aPzVNWmdzQWXZB8Tg5BMKcobkEh/s1600/IMG_20191018_150413.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdOQulxdwOgPsiDHqPcsW_KPS_-KpHYf6HHQDzSVA6np6d3-dZafp5osJjO_T61ev0HRqhvM6xD8LdTD3KyjHEcMhko6vZBMnx406XewVhuA44ynbX2aPzVNWmdzQWXZB8Tg5BMKcobkEh/s400/IMG_20191018_150413.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A fine mid-afternoon 6lbs 8oz river bream after the height of the Warks Avon floods. Anything is possible under such conditions. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Firstly, one of the driving forces was that it doesn't matter who markets the rod you use, it need neither influence the achievement nor the pleasure of the pursuit. The kit we show in use is above budget/entry level but not in the expensive bracket, it's lower mid-range 'specialist' kit on average, or quite old, and perfectly adequate either way. The only extravagance was the centre-pin, which was a 50th birthday gift, and the only other thing we might habitually spend that bit more on would be line, as poor quality in this critical link is not to be entertained, but even in this department we see no need to advertise the fact, all quality tackle firms offer good enough lines, and, even for the beginner, tackle dealers will be quick to point out stock to meet the need.<br />
<br />
Nothing is fixed, and anglers, above all others perhaps, will have their own preferences on tackle choice. We could easily have had the chance to catch more fish for the camera had we fished with match tackle, we would have lost more chub in some of the types of snaggy swim we were concentrating on in the knowledge that fish were likely to be present, but that would be misleading the viewer into believing this could be a sensible approach when it certainly would not be. "Hit and hold" is essential in such circumstances, both in terms of levels of success in landed fish and also fish welfare. We don't want to leave any fish tethered to roots, etc., due to inadequate or under-gunned tackle<br />
<br />
Secondly, the making of any video had to be a pleasure in itself and this is where the 'bang, crash, wallop' manufacturer-type approach certainly didn't fit the bill. It had to try to stand alone even in the absence of any angling interest. Ideally though it would be a case of combining both aspects in a mature manner and one that would sit neatly in the 'roaring fire and nip of single malt' category, maybe even stretching to a puff on the old pipe.<br />
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Conversely, while one might always aspire to something of the quality of that benchmark in angling films know simply these days as "Passion", we preferred to avoid the retro-vintage tackle/eccentric country boys approach.<br />
<br />
As Eric put it when we discussed the lack of a proper net bag one day, "It's just a bloke going fishing. I don't care if you've got a bin liner with your net in. That's the point". This is the ethos that encapsulates all of the above.<br />
<br />
It's just a bloke going fishing.<br />
<br />
So, Big Canal Roach having been released, we set about truncating the process as that took far too long, we felt. Not least in editing time, 90% of this for Eric.<br />
<br />
Then, suddenly, dilemmas. Lots of them. The reception for the first effort - would it become a milestone round our necks? How would we move forward? Should we just stop there? What could we do that we know enough about to, a/. Be convincing, and, b/. At the very least match it in all other respects?<br />
<br />
To give it a parallel in popular culture, imagine The Jam, or the like. Cracking, intense, true, passionate, heartfelt, <i>real </i>debut album, "In The City", when they really meant it, with no record deals in place as songs were written; then confronted with the <i>need</i> for follow-up albums after they've put everything into the first but there's nothing comparable left to share. The eye comes off the ball, so things get more far-fetched, more experimental and less real. In their case there's a contract and a deadline, it's now a living and everything depends on it, cue "This is the Modern World".<br />
<br />
Thankfully in our case the only pressure we felt was a combination of our own desire and regular requests for more from commentators.<br />
<br />
We put everything into the roach offering without holding anything back for the future. We did have a loose list of half a dozen ideas we might have considered a series but we never sat down and planned them in that manner. It was far more of a, "Let's try it with this one and see how it goes" approach.<br />
<br />
The idea of a shorter, "What about this neglected misunderstood fish", silver bream option, though it always going to be of lesser interest, broke the potential for our heads to slip into a metaphorical noose 'early doors' by purposely deviating from the initial philosophy somewhat. For a start, it wasn't winter and it included more asides, especially with the rudd incident knitted in there, albeit unintentional, but that's fishing isn't it? Things happen and, more regularly than not, it's not what you might previously have planned or wished for.<br />
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The third offering was enhanced by two factors, mainly Eric's imagination, particularly in respect of the nostalgic element, and the first use of underwater footage. The latter, being my department, I have more to talk about and what a fascinating period that was. Thankfully in this respect at least, unlike the current one, it was generally a dry winter thus enabling a good deal of experimentation to be undertaken with the benefit of clear water. Angle of camera when settled, location, depth of field, scale, flow, ,varying waters were all to be resolved and dealt with. I estimate it took 20-30 hours of film to produce the few seconds of footage, twenty of those until we even saw a chub! Gudgeon, minnows, roach, dace, even a tench and then perch were all 'caught' prior to a chub sucking a piece of flake up in the murk and, even to this day, not a single view of the actual hook bait!<br />
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The main benefit of the sub-aquatic camera was the lens into a different poorly understood world. The difference in natural food levels between the Avon and the Leam for instance was an eye opener, the Avon having been polluted in recent years, and the step-up from those in winter to a shallow reservoir in spring was beyond belief where the array of life was falling over itself, so densely was it populated.<br />
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The camera we used wasn't expensive, I think £60-ish, but it saved straight to a micro SD and could film for a few hours, laying down the data in short segments which made for easy reviewing and labeling.<br />
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All of the above was very simple, which it needed to be in my case, and added a new dimension to the angling as well as the real purpose. No longer did I personally expect the fish to line-up, regimentally, as a tidy shoal awaiting their breakfast for instance, and a more chaotic scene is now imaginable as various dabblings are made.<br />
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So what of the future of video for Artificial Flight?<br />
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There are a few ideas floating around and one we are about to embark on sparked by the recent seemingly interminable rain and flooding, an exciting prospect, for me at least, and one I'm immensely looking forward to starting imminently. Quite what it will bring that's different and progressive in our film making remains to be seen, but I'm sure we'll come up with something however basic it may be.<br />
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After all...it's just a bloke going fishing!<br />
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<br />George Burtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07422749226358557982noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8890160818247783158.post-77319004408314177082019-10-04T08:18:00.000+01:002019-10-09T18:06:09.029+01:00Gold Mines and The Wrath of Zeus<div style="text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: 1.00em;">The recent distinct chill on leaving Chez Flannel signals the start of the Bloggers Challenge proper in the vortex that is the space between the ears. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 1.00em;">A change of rules this year, and so far it's proven quite intriguing. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 1.00em;">If someone catches a fish bigger than the previous best of that species it gets </span><span style="font-size: 1.00em;">100</span><span style="font-size: 1.00em;">pts, and the prev best a %age of that new top weight. So, covering all regular species right down to bullhead and spread across rivers, lakes and canals, there is plenty to target, year round. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 1.00em;">What it does mean is that no one can sit on their laurels and, in fact, for me it's very much been the usual approach of piling fish onto the leader board, no matter how small, and then trying to better them as the year moves on.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 1.00em;">In the last challenge of </span><span style="font-size: 1.00em;">2017</span><span style="font-size: 1.00em;">/18 I recall setting a series of unexpected P. B's but as I was starting that competition with the PB bar set very low that wouldn't have been difficult. Now that they are set, and some have since been further improved, none have been broken to date this time. It's a struggle therefore to pick out highlights but a river tench of 4lbs 3ozs from the Fens and a cracking Grand Union roach of 1.12 stand out at present.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 1.00em;">On the downside, perpetual champion, James Denison, has been laid-up by a serious back issue (and, no, that's not an injury caused by old copy of Financial Times) so his challenge hasn't really fired-up as yet but we all know the threat he'll pose when fully functional so it's useful to get a head-start! </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 1.00em;">The Lady Burton and I recently agreed the impulse purchase of a little 'pre-loved' river boat moored on the Nene which will trigger a serious change of scenery for us on available free days. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 1.00em;">The FF&F bus hasn't been to the Nene for thirty-five years but I'm sure it will soon be able to find it unaided. It's far enough away to feel like a holiday, yet close enough for a quick visit or indeed to get back from when The Boy Wonder sets the house on fire.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 1.00em;">Nene fishing it seems is very much unchanged from the old days, I'm told. Plenty of small fish, mainly roach and skimmers with proper bream, chub and even barbel in places...and still the odd river carp. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 1.00em;">River Angler TV has taken a hammering, and its creator, Mark, has been very helpful in pointing the noddle in the direction of some good tickets to consider, fishing locations and the like. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 1.00em;">From this coming weekend the Nene challenge will therefore commence. No preconceived ideas in place, it'll simply be a case of prepare for anything, and be prepared for any thing. The lure of weir pools and backwaters however maybe too tasty to ignore for long! </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 1.00em;">The marina, one might imagine, would hold good fish, possibly larger than the river from past experience, and so a beady eye-out for rolling fish will be kept. The margins are certainly teeming with one and two ounce fish of various species, much as one would expect in a pool with a gravel base. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 1.00em;"><b>A Long Weekend on Rising Rivers</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 1.00em;">Friday</span><span style="font-size: 1.00em;">: </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 1.00em;">Arrived to the kind of car park I have a real love of...empty...just after dawn my minf set on bream with the possibility of a barbel or a carp</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 1.00em;">The early autumn rain earlier in the week had caused a rise and colouring of this most sullen of Warwickshire Avon stretches. The sort of murk, pull and flush that usually triggers those fascinating river bream to feed (please excuse the unintentional toilet metaphor!) </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 1.00em;">Wandering the field edge looking to avoid dodginess underfoot I became conscious of an unexpected brightness in the air and looked up to find all of the willows where the bream live looking like this... </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 1.00em;">So, immediately stumped as I was by confusion and a lack of ideas, this was the thought process:</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 1.00em;">"What the...?!"</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 1.00em;">"That's shocking, all that habitat 'tidied-up' and there was a major colony of that moth here" </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 1.00em;">"Where's the camera?" </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 1.00em;">"The shoal will still be here though, they never move..." </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 1.00em;">"...but how long ago were they cut down? It wasn't this week" </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 1.00em;">"The river could be strewn with invisible branches" </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 1.00em;">"I'll move back to the unaffected stretch" </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 1.00em;">(setting-up) "Maybe I should've gone somewhere else?" </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 1.00em;">The forecast showers hurtled down and the accompanying, surprisingly fierce winds, hurled the rain sideways into the new and remarkably flimsy brolly as the fish, if they were present, stayed in their sleeping bags with their woolly hats on, as The Lady Burton likes to imagine them. Sometimes the peerage rests ever so lightly on her finely sculpted candy floss shoulders. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 1.00em;">Yes, I should've gone somewhere else. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 1.00em;">Five hours of inactivity later it was time for lunch and to receive the usual unwelcome at the 'community store', where you are looked upon as a criminal while handing over your hard-earned cash if you weren't born within a rod, pole or perch of the door. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 1.00em;">After an hour spent eating some very nice smoked salmon and seafood slop between two slices of corrugated cardboard (and trying to apply for boat insurance online via the phone) in the </span><span style="font-size: 1.00em;">sun</span><span style="font-size: 1.00em;"> I, decided to spend the afternoon in a known barbel haunt in the hope of a double. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 1.00em;">I was using the River Wye groundbait stodgy mush stuff I concocted 7 weeks or so back, and they didn't like it. Nothing but the odd sharp chublet twang. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 1.00em;">So I started loose feeding pellets and cubelets of meat which happened to coincide with the river taking on the task of a drainage ditch with dirty water and debris from a downpour driving through. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 1.00em;">The tip though whacked round and the clutch was giving a touch of line before I reacted. The usual surging run interspersed with relatively easy pumping of the rod indicated a spirited but not huge barbel had taken the plunge. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 1.00em;">Soon in the net, he went 6lbs 13ozs and made the first day-off worthwhile. Nothing of note ensued apart from a very active and successful Kingfisher and, at dark, while packing stuff in the car, a voice, "Y'alrightmate...you'ad'oat?". "Just one", I replied, "'You done any good?". "Yeah, I just had a nine five, I wondered if you'd come and photograph it for me". </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 1.00em;">So, sliding more sideways that actually moving forward in the wheel marks now sodden from showers, the bus trundled to his swim and the deed was done. 3 deeds in fact as, in the first one, mateyboy looked somewhat unprepared, his eyes in a state of blinded flux waiting for the flash. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 1.00em;">He'd arrived two hours before sunset and completed the business he booked-in for. Only to be admired, that approach. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 1.00em;">Saturday/Sunday:</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 1.00em;">...and then it started to rain, and before we could draw piscatorial breath the rivers were getting distinctly wider. So the weekend proved a washout apart from a trip to the marina to sort out paperwork, etc. In fact, I don't recall Saturday actually happening. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 1.00em;">This included selecting a mooring. There were 6 free albeit it seems a bit of a 'park where you can free for all' in reality, rather like unallocated spaces in a complex of flats but we did find out that the central pontoon is occupied by a few anglers with boats. We had the lamp on them in no time and within minutes realised the angling potential of the marina itself. The result of this being that if we catch anything to even half the size they suggest we'll be happy!</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 1.00em;">Monday:</span></div>
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HonGenSec had been scheming. Stillwater Barbel and Chub for the challenge was the offer. £7 a day, proper cafe, nice surroundings. Some textual negotiations ensued and before I knew it, there we were. Brollies at the ready. Flowing aerated water, that distinctly off-putting commercial water colour, manicured banks and hook-blind pet carp cruising the surface.<br />
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But we were focused. Oh yes, we could blank-out the neon signs and gold-encrusted cash registers.<br />
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I hadn't realised quite how many pet barbel there were in the puddle and expected catching one to be a fluke, but no, fishing different methods we both had two and HGS's were the best two at a cuddly 5 and 6lbs, losing another, compared to two juveniles at 3.15 for myself. A couple of nice pet crucians and roach were further reward however and at least we can now move on from that grotesque spectre, Challenge points bagged, and put it behind us!<br />
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The rain commenced around 3.30pm and, once started it continued. This was a forever cloud that culminated in such heavy rain on the following day that my four minute drive to work started with me walking to the car in a few spots and after two miles it was so intense the road was heavily awash as to drag the car sideways on invisible tarmac at every concealed lake of rainwater. Thankfully the brakes did work at the roundabout and it was neatly circumnavigated as we sailed cautiously round, spinnaker unfurled.<br />
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George Burtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07422749226358557982noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8890160818247783158.post-62925721370637743292019-08-22T08:01:00.000+01:002019-09-12T09:30:06.755+01:00Tesco's finest. The River Wye. <br />
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It may come as a surprise, or maybe as much as a shock, to see the headline here, but fear not, this ain't no advert...<br />
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The self-styled Stillwater Barbel Group annual August Wye trip was into its last day. The main group had been there since the beginning of the week when I joined them late on Wednesday, having had to work the morning due to a pressing deadline.<br />
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The river was falling from a small rise and rain was predicted on the middle of three days. The Wye, being a spate river, runs low and clear with more difficult fishing between the rising, colouring and falling of the water after rain upstream of wherever it is one might be having a dabble.<br />
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Arriving at the first day venue to find little caught, and the storm that sent Mr Tidy scuttling home early, as well as causing me not to be too concerned about having to work, to have been another inexplicable figment of a weather forecasters' imagination, was both a relief and a worry, of sorts.<br />
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Arriving, just as the afternoon feast was about to be prepared, the, by then, well-practiced routine unfolded. Given the kind use and, as it happened, unnecessary shelter, of a nearby salmon hut, life could have been made simpler but, unhindered by such luxury, an Alice in Wonderland-type scene, both physically and metaphorically, manifested before the eyes of, this, the observer.<br />
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Table, chairs, 3 gas rings, plates, cups, cutlery; steaks of both beef and gammon, par-boiled potatoes (were there carp here?), sausages, mushrooms, tomatoes and a huge bag of pre-chopped onions. Not to mention the remnants of Mr Tidy's annually hand-made, and exquisite, pork pie.<br />
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Thankfully The Lady Burton had donated a loaf of her best homemade granary bread; Bluebell had donated 6 of her richest garden-bug based eggs and a four-tin pack of baked beans completed the contribution of the FF&F delegation.<br />
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That feast concluded without excitement but the following day it was far more daring.<br />
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Halfway through cooking Ms Y Walker happened upon us, complete with pooch.<br />
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"You're a bit early", was the perhaps obvious quip.<br />
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Lacking bankside kitchen worktop space it soon became apparent to the observer (me) that getting all this food ready was not as simple as first appeared. Even with three rings ("give it three rings!") the food was necessarily cooked in relays, so where do you put it all during the process? The only real option was on the ground or on bags, tubs of bait, etc.<br />
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Cue the farce.<br />
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Three of us became aware of an equivalent contingent of fox red yellow labradors approaching, having formed a kind of advance party split from their so-called handlers.<br />
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HonGenSec and I immediately saw the potential here but Des, Les...Wes was oblivious, stooping as he was with his back to them, dispensing veg onto his plate full of tasty meats.<br />
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On the ground.<br />
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"Mind your plate Wes"<br />
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"Wes move your plate"<br />
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"WES, THE DOGS ARE COMING"<br />
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Quick as any man approaching his four score years and ten could react, the plate was scooped-up before the salivating pack could pounce. Frankly they didn't appear to have been wanting in nourishment, such was the message from their suitcase bodies, but they circled the area licking up spilt morsels like a pod of dolphins rounding up bait fish.<br />
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There had been a shortage of bags suitable for hemp at Chez Flannel prior to the trip and so lateral thinking decreed a recently emptied resealable museli bag a suitable, and suitably capacious, alternative.<br />
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I imagined a row of pre-loved museli bags lined up in the freezer holding 2 pints each of perfectly individually polished seeds.<br />
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It was a good bag. Much tougher than your average supermarket sandwich bag and more robustly sealable. As most anglers are aware, keeping hemp fresh for two days without sealing and refrigerating as long as one can is all but impossible, unless you happen to be roach fishing in Iceland (a potential Toyah album title perhaps?).<br />
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On the last day of the trip, a day bequeathed as an extra by Mission Control, HonGenSec and I, then deserted by the Mountain Goat and Des, Les...Wes, left the Assassin's B&B after the usual hearty breakfast and, expecting a colouring, rising river, arrived at the Wye to find the water unchanged. We selected swims but at that moment I had that irresistible urge that makes one wish you'd stayed closer to home fifteen minutes longer.<br />
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I soon found myself behind the salmon hut wondering what manner of bitey bugs might be disturbed by my rummagings.<br />
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This being a posh place I couldn't bear to leave <i>anything</i> behind and so I emerged from the undergrowth clutching toilet roll in one hand and the formerly empty hemp bag, now leaden, in my left. 'Tesco's finest', displaid to the couple who walked by at that very second (why, oh Wye?).<br />
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"'Morning", I announced figuring an air of confidence, rather that the air filled with buzzing flies, might help distract their thoughts.<br />
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It didn't, Mrs Couple averting her gaze rather too abruptly to have that urgent need to inspect something far off that didn't exist, and no doubt battling the suddenly growing queasiness in the oesophagus.<br />
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After 12 noon or so the river did start to rise and it rose at the measured rate of 1"/20 minutes until sunset, when the tide turned. The colour intensified and, by mid afternoon, the power of the Wye became evident.<br />
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First weed and twigs, perhaps the odd dislodged log; then branches and, ultimately, two whole trees, one still in leaf, were swept south on the torrent. By this time we had both decamped and taken up new safe positions where the bankside topography would enable a gradual creep higher as the levels rose.<br />
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The increasingly rushing river ripped through from a third of the way across to the far bank, but the nearside third was steady with the eye of the building eddy easily reachable and indeed holdable with a 60g feeder and my secret concoction.<br />
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Bites were immediate, consistent, declining and finally regular, as dusk closed upon an excellent three and a half days.<br />
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This time we caught the weather and conditions right. Each time the F, F&F bus goes to Wye it seems to improve. Privately (so don't share this) I'd like to think we get better at working the river out, but in reality I'm certain it's more a case of catching the river right than any kind of improving skill.<br />
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As I stood up to gather the widespread kit, a feeling of dampness overcame me in a department not without incident this same day. A massive orange slug had fallen down the back of the chair and I had been sat on it for forty minutes or more. The slimy undesirable, indescribable gungy mess has soaked through to the skin. Beautiful.<br />
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As I trudged, dragging my reluctant self, back to the car and ultimately home, I was reminded of those events earlier in the day; the bag of Tesco's finest leaning against the rear wheel to be picked up, packed away and, later, properly disposed of.<br />
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Next August I hope to be back again for what has become an annual and quite irresistible pilgrimage.<br />
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<br />George Burtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07422749226358557982noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8890160818247783158.post-40177121834388916142019-07-28T22:42:00.000+01:002019-07-28T22:42:44.853+01:00The Intentional and Unintentional Roach Angler<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXNmlhsigGlg6Pww-J3AiOlZ7kGxAIh94gwa3EnvIW6_b0CSVxcOAaHFLu_AyKV2xcsvMMPPUWnbTwurUB9iXLu22Ex0UWFbUdwqN5CbocdVadVlIWzKJiXpjVrtdFgojJgjKRIimIUZZ1/s1600/IMG_20190710_202950.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXNmlhsigGlg6Pww-J3AiOlZ7kGxAIh94gwa3EnvIW6_b0CSVxcOAaHFLu_AyKV2xcsvMMPPUWnbTwurUB9iXLu22Ex0UWFbUdwqN5CbocdVadVlIWzKJiXpjVrtdFgojJgjKRIimIUZZ1/s400/IMG_20190710_202950.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Strange Roach?!</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: 1em;">The, so-called, tench campaign out of the system, it was time for a new challenge but not before the usual period of indecision when confronted by the sudden ditching of a plan, and this was an end as abrupt as Thomas crashing into the Fat Controllers house at breakfast time</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 1.00em;">For a start, no feelings arose as a guide for that next step. Nothing at all in fact. So we had a few canal dabbling sessions (resulting in some tenchlet's strangely enough, I'd only had 3 tench in a lifetime minus 10-15 years on the Oxford canal, yet in two trips another six were added with only two over a pound). </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 1.00em;">Good signs. I'm certain most of these 'exotic' canal captures come from adjacent fisheries that, over time, for various reasons, end-up with their contents mingling with the established fish populations of the canal. In this instance they have obviously since bred successfully</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 1.00em;">So that was an interesting interlude but, to be f</span><span style="font-size: 1.00em;">ra</span><span style="font-size: 1.00em;">nk, it produced insufficient water to float this angler's boat</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 1.00em;">Then a chance chat (while clearing the car of the spare gear) with Committee Keith provided the answer, the Lure Wizard then concurred and Bailiff 1 soon confirmed without any necessity for a preemptive retaliatory strike - big roach were being caught at Rocky Res. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 1.00em;">Okay, that's interesting, but it's summer. We don't fish for roach in the summer! </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 1.00em;">But hang-on a minute, The Old Duffer used to. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 1.00em;">In the late </span><span style="font-size: 1.00em;">1970</span><span style="font-size: 1.00em;">'s the holiday destination for anyone who was anyone in angling from our part of the world was the Great Ouse. A sixty-mile/80 minute trip to, what we then considered, angling paradise. Catching fish in the heat of July and August was boosted by early and late sessions combined with all day trips using a single bait, in fact, as far as the hook went, a single bait</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 1.00em;">In those days the (roach) pole was in its, early stages of renaissance but, as with all things angling, the technique would ultimatel</span><span style="font-size: 1em;">y transform many an angler into a fish catching machine</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 1.00em;">The Old Duffer was one of them</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 1.00em;">I can see it now - iconic 22' Shakespeare pole (very dark brown/black with gold taped bands and a white wrap on the centre of the handle); Ivan Marks bristle float, black and slenderly bottle shaped like the Milo 'Siro' that would follow in the '80's; classic Mustad </span><span style="font-size: 1.00em;">90340</span><span style="font-size: 1.00em;"> barbless hooks ("You can't use barbless hooks, all the fish'll get away!", "Not as long as I pull back they won'</span><u><span style="font-size: 1.00em;">t</span></u><span style="font-size: 1.00em;">!"); bait waiter, comprising metal baitbox-shaped square 'hoops' on a bank-stick; a circular 'spoon' landing net with handle to match the (roach) pole and a ring around the base, like one section of a keepnet; a wicker basket ('seatbox') and, finally, a bag of just-cooked hempseed, as fresh and gorgeous smelling as possible. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 1.00em;">There are many good tales emanating from the use of hemp in fishing</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 1.00em;">¬ It drugs the fish!;</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 1.00em;">¬ It only works at harvest time;</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 1.00em;">¬ You should cook it in 'bicarb' (bicarbonate of soda) to make shells go black to contrast with the white shoots. 'Problem being, cooking in bicarb also turned the shoots brown so we soon sought non-other than, then World Champion, Ian Heaps' advice, "Cook 'em in sugar", he commented, and so we did. Not just black with white insides, but they also tasted good (I'm told!).</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 1.00em;">In 1976 we had a summer like </span><span style="font-size: 1.00em;">2018</span><span style="font-size: 1.00em;">. Wall to wall baking sunshine. The Old Duffer was fishing with the above gear and trickling in a few grains per slow run through, the river being low, until the roach were sent into what can only be described as a frenzy. Ultimately they were so mesmerised by the bait they were literally eating anything that floated past within the feeding zone; leaves, flies, feathers, nothing was safe. It was only roach though with just the odd hybrid amongst them and generally 3 to 6 ounce fish with occasional bigger ones. Thirty pounds and six ounces of them, culminating with the fish so close they were simply swung to hand</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 1.00em;">...and so it proved everywhere we went. There was barely a venue where hemp didn't work under those conditions and it appeared to draw the fish from a good distance but, as the Somerset Shubunkin noted recently, they were fish one wouldn't even suspect to be there were it not for this, the most magic of baits. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 1.00em;">Armed with these memories and the knowledge that big roach could be drunk in on the rocks, off</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 1.00em;">we set with 10m pole and a few grains per 'cast', maggot on the hook but immediately small rudd were pests. A swap to double caster produced a, string of perch in the 3 to 6ozs bracket and then slowly but surely bites on hemp started to occur just tentative at first but with a bit of fiddling with the depth combined with the breeze, and therefore an undertow striking-up, it wasn't too long before perhaps every third bite was a proper one. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 1.00em;">First fish was a 12oz beauty (and another thing these hemp roach were immaculate, strange for a heavily fished water)</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 1.00em;">The list I jotted down went like this:</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 1.00em;">12ozs, 9ozs, 7ozs, 8ozs, 2ozs, 1.0.0, 2ozs, 6ozs, 7ozs, 10ozs...and...</span><span style="font-size: 1.00em;">1.3.10</span><span style="font-size: 1.00em;">, 13ozs, 1.1.0, 14ozs.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw0pePAlOj9UGG-xAVzZXNpBGLHsgSCvWfcaMwH11QKrNDEPAlNsGwRMjE0LAqKBPq9RSpKzx3H37JTvRYDMUTOr1d0qGwafIqOW87MA-rhm_Zm6TsRvichk8Lw_j0y5hwVnfl-a7VYgCK/s1600/IMG_20190721_104056.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw0pePAlOj9UGG-xAVzZXNpBGLHsgSCvWfcaMwH11QKrNDEPAlNsGwRMjE0LAqKBPq9RSpKzx3H37JTvRYDMUTOr1d0qGwafIqOW87MA-rhm_Zm6TsRvichk8Lw_j0y5hwVnfl-a7VYgCK/s400/IMG_20190721_104056.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The best of the lot</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: 1em;">Those last four fish all taken with a mid-depth bulk and a few droppers, held tight against the pole as it settled and all of them taken with ferocious bites on the drop; just as I had to leave.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 1.00em;">Unfortunately the next fish in the sequence was dear old Cypry, leaving the rig and elastic looking like a schoolgirls multi-coloured string collage. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 1.00em;">It was time to go anyway. Back in the day, hemp was one of the most successful baits I used, so quite why it has taken so long to remember this when I'd had such confidence in it is beyond me, but then, many things are it seems.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 1.00em;">So, to add mystery to the mayhem, I went to the canal. To an area of the Grand Union I could rely on for bream, and big ones. Feeding maggot over groundbait towards a tree opposite for those beauties but with a separate hemp line near side of middle to the right, purely as a change method. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 1.00em;">Needless to say, I had one small perch that must've been irritated by a grain of hemp for some particular reason and then a huge canal roach of 1.12 on the double maggot bream rig. </span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXx4yCFMNYyIsk2MAxduPE51PzXhNHGQyN6b9EzSROikb0Qkr61HJ7GzXk2HcMp-_sfiqIyvZdkFSztlCRUhpzx-t9TCCTXW5Vz4iq0M6tDw7LcOy8xZzVjbMp_VSwQ9mb8OdCKB8a7zWZ/s1600/IMG-20190711-WA0000.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="719" data-original-width="959" height="296" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXx4yCFMNYyIsk2MAxduPE51PzXhNHGQyN6b9EzSROikb0Qkr61HJ7GzXk2HcMp-_sfiqIyvZdkFSztlCRUhpzx-t9TCCTXW5Vz4iq0M6tDw7LcOy8xZzVjbMp_VSwQ9mb8OdCKB8a7zWZ/s400/IMG-20190711-WA0000.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fourth biggest ever canal roach...by accident!</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: 1.00em;">The all-time F,F&F best canal roach list now looks like this:</span><br />
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<ol>
<li><span style="font-size: 1.00em;">2-3-10 (2013) Oxford</span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: 1.00em;">1-15-5 (2016) Grand Union</span></li>
<li>1-13-0 (2015) Oxford</li>
<li>1-12-0 (2019) Grand Union</li>
<li>1-11-8 (2015) Grand Union</li>
<li>1-10-0 (2017) Grand Union</li>
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<span style="font-size: 1em;">Fishing. It simply makes no sense!</span><br />
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<br />George Burtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07422749226358557982noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8890160818247783158.post-62825672646200210782019-07-17T13:01:00.001+01:002019-07-17T16:28:21.521+01:00... AND THEN DESPERATION SET IN<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLra5inFD71Vb4QsSFetY-pqyFlVJfUUf1QOZW8eCeETj9GiS7nmERQwZ1X_gqNrdrvl3ZbgVvGXojmMjKoyA2oM9kCVniMT3n3PqNA9LI7fq_H5kYL1kSyqDh4Ar6AwTTZyEXPW98RnEY/s1600/DSCN5575.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLra5inFD71Vb4QsSFetY-pqyFlVJfUUf1QOZW8eCeETj9GiS7nmERQwZ1X_gqNrdrvl3ZbgVvGXojmMjKoyA2oM9kCVniMT3n3PqNA9LI7fq_H5kYL1kSyqDh4Ar6AwTTZyEXPW98RnEY/s400/DSCN5575.JPG" width="300" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">There were eighty to one hundred hours of opportunity, occasionally punctuated by bursts of excited activity from our aquatic adversaries that would make a spod rod curl, and in all that time around seven or eight real indications of fishy presence plus one actual, positive, definite, undoubted <b>bite</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Fish brushing against the line is one thing but a proper bite? Well that was simply an unwelcome interruption to the interminable slumber</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The target, I recalled, had been a tench. 'Consensus was The Stillwater could produce a 'double' this year, with 2017's best around 9lbs and last year's 9.8</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Certainly, the water was slow to warm up this spring and, when it did, a burst of persistent easterlies injected the type of temperature drop that would resurrect Damart. The odd few fish caught in that period clammed-up with their brethren and cousins, and, to this day, have barely shown any willingness to accept the anglers bait</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The crux of the problem is that the density of natural food available in the fishes own habitat is so deep and diverse that anything needing anglers bait to survive is either already close to death or too incompetent to be referred to by whatever name humankind may have imposed upon it</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Baiting every two to three days, and fishing an evening and a morning pretty much every week, from March until the beginning of July became the normal routine. Running the gamut and vagaries of accommodating birders (thank you folks!) to access the swim, off-roading for about a mile in a, so-called, 4x4 and inundating the grill with grass seeds in the process, fascination turned to determination, turned to obsession and, ultimately, simply to boredom</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Yes, the birding was good initially but, as summer ignites, the bird world takes a inversely proportional dousing in the adrenaline stakes</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">There were a few though, osprey, hobby,'Channel' wagtail, even a possible, unconfirmed, nightjar, together with an array of butterflies and dragon or damselflies to keep the unrelenting lister in currency</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUaJmfvlk1LcYpH5Y87ow1KOpyi_5qunBXKLhLFeUrKYdXiT_gnAVJ6_RrIFVUaSK6JX2H8hZBokVsKyEteLHxNWJAoQS3VslNnI1UxvLViyvr_h-NnahtoBngwC7QmZdd_xEEoCnDXtrC/s1600/BLACK-TAILED+SKIMMER.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUaJmfvlk1LcYpH5Y87ow1KOpyi_5qunBXKLhLFeUrKYdXiT_gnAVJ6_RrIFVUaSK6JX2H8hZBokVsKyEteLHxNWJAoQS3VslNnI1UxvLViyvr_h-NnahtoBngwC7QmZdd_xEEoCnDXtrC/s400/BLACK-TAILED+SKIMMER.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Recently emerged black-tailed skimmer I believe</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">What were we taking about? </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Oh yes, tench! </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">So, it being Bloggers Challenge year, under new rules, I figured a 9lbs+ tubby tinca plus the odd spin-off specimen in the process would be a great start come the sound of the nationwide starting pistol on June 16th</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">At least it can be confirmed that the real bite came after that date. 80-100 hours, 50-odd pints of bait, 680 miles in 25 minute trips, an unhealthy ingestion of Ronald's finest sustenance at awkward hours, but a 'nice' fish at seven pounds four ounces for sure</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Well, jigger my kumquat, or should I say, "Blimey", what a campaign for that reward!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">A pic? </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Oh go on then... </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDz_h6_SgVnyMafWyTEut92S31zz_iP7aXL5WutbUkoiOfFHuvVS9LQBOUoHDPi3I6SEClWOnTetrLU8k0QU4D6wOz0Zp6hZsuwZTiq0PtgOgmffHzpsJGZ28cldIQ78X-mfhyphenhyphend021s1wE/s1600/IMG_20190623_074058.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDz_h6_SgVnyMafWyTEut92S31zz_iP7aXL5WutbUkoiOfFHuvVS9LQBOUoHDPi3I6SEClWOnTetrLU8k0QU4D6wOz0Zp6hZsuwZTiq0PtgOgmffHzpsJGZ28cldIQ78X-mfhyphenhyphend021s1wE/s400/IMG_20190623_074058.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<br />George Burtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07422749226358557982noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8890160818247783158.post-74094021774218849702019-04-13T12:59:00.001+01:002019-04-17T08:20:39.469+01:00Life in the Old Bog yet<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixirCybC1_7uTBmIunomStQEo80pFV2rnxIwOCI42MyOhnQrIohZncvSIlDYTYrsMhJxGogMInLK7VdvE0Cs3DbjHWJKEFutU4qxGx0SEyj78D-hKsq1TN65dHFmYDjsn9G_FRfcyXmELq/s1600/IMG_20190413_062355.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixirCybC1_7uTBmIunomStQEo80pFV2rnxIwOCI42MyOhnQrIohZncvSIlDYTYrsMhJxGogMInLK7VdvE0Cs3DbjHWJKEFutU4qxGx0SEyj78D-hKsq1TN65dHFmYDjsn9G_FRfcyXmELq/s400/IMG_20190413_062355.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: 1.00em;">Minus one and the iced mist drags itself from the water in an almost imperceptible spiral of a farmhouse in diameter.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 1.00em;">Undeterred, the cacophony of April strikes up as the </span><span style="font-size: 1.00em;">sun</span><span style="font-size: 1.00em;"> burns though the silhouettes of trees as if whitefire lies behind. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 1.00em;">Then as a squeezed irregular shape, rays bursting through the stout timbers of a hundred years standing, the earth's candle fires up. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqHaZM2f0UbH2aGNLqqwYTKkB6tIWec_MMV9yqc6Uk862Q3428e20qUL1oC7uoSB7G4i1yAB6VUKedgvJZHy6AzogyRvymH9ARW01DVMMj8DFGB14kXeZqwvNTWmRkeOw-Zr_XsBSlRFu2/s1600/IMG_20190413_074018.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqHaZM2f0UbH2aGNLqqwYTKkB6tIWec_MMV9yqc6Uk862Q3428e20qUL1oC7uoSB7G4i1yAB6VUKedgvJZHy6AzogyRvymH9ARW01DVMMj8DFGB14kXeZqwvNTWmRkeOw-Zr_XsBSlRFu2/s400/IMG_20190413_074018.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: 1.00em;">Beneath the surface those mucus encased shoals start to dream, but they dream of the confidence of dusk. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 1.00em;">Teetering over the margins, the butterbur, having thrust out of the now frozen ground, stand reluctant, their florets pendulous, as if ashamed of their emerging splendour. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm1f4Mhv6uunvsGXlBZbbEU83vGxJ_yacoZ0qRW5MtSoM5O6E3zGPCuk97dTGinokEDzpq54ccOFsdioD1icpwBq0gORasncs7E2wxxw1CG-JYfLoPO6VqJFsYIgX1sTuYPjDqpJfxbn-C/s1600/IMG_20190413_072400_1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm1f4Mhv6uunvsGXlBZbbEU83vGxJ_yacoZ0qRW5MtSoM5O6E3zGPCuk97dTGinokEDzpq54ccOFsdioD1icpwBq0gORasncs7E2wxxw1CG-JYfLoPO6VqJFsYIgX1sTuYPjDqpJfxbn-C/s400/IMG_20190413_072400_1.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: 1.00em;">This is spring in these neglected parts that only the chiffchaff and its cousins appreciate sufficiently to return.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 1.00em;">As that most modern of woodpeckers, the great spotted, drums a beat on a galvanised steel mast the wide-eyed silver bream, bathed in sky blue iridescence and salmon fins, lies spent and still in the magnificence of its defeat, teased again by the most lowly of baits. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwHeZvce5o-hX7FvxXV4Weq8bwbwEQOq15iCPaDAnz60BkybmkcrtIIl39-IhFdyDmmbKioXlqbAp-_hzDz8ixbFu-4KFEDO9SQUdXrDB0wJaXnGWshDMFHCMecGoSrZHEOIeYvNFT4sDN/s1600/IMG_20190413_072552.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwHeZvce5o-hX7FvxXV4Weq8bwbwEQOq15iCPaDAnz60BkybmkcrtIIl39-IhFdyDmmbKioXlqbAp-_hzDz8ixbFu-4KFEDO9SQUdXrDB0wJaXnGWshDMFHCMecGoSrZHEOIeYvNFT4sDN/s400/IMG_20190413_072552.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
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<br />George Burtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07422749226358557982noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8890160818247783158.post-75456941298128056162019-04-01T23:08:00.001+01:002019-04-01T23:08:09.252+01:00SEASON FINALE & SYNDICATE OPENINGS<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: 1.00em;"><b>A BACK END CHALLENGE</b></span></div>
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Daylight gone, gales dropping, beta light wagging gently in the post-peak flow, as it had through the previous hour. The few items in use were pushed back into various pockets and whipped up and over the hood such that it nestled comfortably under the right arm. Rod and net in right hand and chair in left, the vacant walk back across the meadow progressed, the sheep now invisible, as progress was made the glow of the rod tip bobbed like the lure of a deep ocean angler fish illuminating the way.</div>
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The perennial challenge had peaked in recent weeks at around three and a half pounds. That 4lb Leam chub still eluding capture. That fish does exist however, of that we can be certain. A recent acquaintance has had two or three around 3.13 and the closest we got this past season was but a minnow short of the bullseye.</div>
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Coupled with this though, fuelled by extensive research and inquiries, was an as yet unwritten target of increasing the river roach P.B. At the time this particular line of enquiry was gestating, memory (never a good source of accurate information) announced that the river best was a 1.4.6 fish from Leamington A A stretch, perhaps a handful of years ago. However, in a rare moment of I.T. enlightenment, a list of best roach appeared out of nowhere; this included, not one but two, fish of 1.8 - one from the Trent and one from the Warks Avon - in the mid-1980's.</div>
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The plan was simple, concentrate on local rivers most likely to produce the biggest roach and, when time allowed, start to suss-out and understand the River Severn as the only river within about an hour of Chez Nous known to contain more than the odd individual over two pounds (being, of course, the ultimate target).</div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 1.00em;">The challenge bar had been raised and with plans afoot to break this barrier, a twelve ounce Warwickshire Avon fish being the best to date, the tension became palpable.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 1.00em;">In attempting to narrow viable options, a list of potential rivers and venues was drawn-up based on distance combined with their potential to issue forth 2lb fish, this on the basis that fish of that size would be newsworthy and traceable via published reports. Limited areas of Warwickshire Avon & Leam, the Severn. Nothing else.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 1.00em;">In these parts of Blighty the prospect a 'river 2' is comparable with an ageing plum tree most unlikely ever to bear fruit. More than the fish of a lifetime in truth, the phrase implying the possibility in every anglers lifetime. Not so. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 1.00em;">So, should these fail, I promised myself a trip south as the sunset on a scratchy season to tackle a chalkstream or two, guided by local wisdom. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 1.00em;">The first session on the Blogger's Syndicate stretch of upper middle Warwickshire Avon was tough, fishing the deepest hole, but as the light faded into a frosty grave, a 12ozer found irresistability in the face of a grain of corn, but, despite lingering in the spreading sparkles brought to life by moonbeams, no more.</span><br />
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<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-EOaR8SPXvlY/XKBzsMtRoGI/AAAAAAAAMWY/BYbAQK0TxOAppeKEYoA09nQyXSjBGRA4ACKgBGAs/s1600/IMG_20181126_162504_BURST001_COVER.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-EOaR8SPXvlY/XKBzsMtRoGI/AAAAAAAAMWY/BYbAQK0TxOAppeKEYoA09nQyXSjBGRA4ACKgBGAs/s400/IMG_20181126_162504_BURST001_COVER.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 1.00em;">Christmas, and a Birmingham Anglers Association (BAA) 'book' (nowadays disappointingly a card and a mind-blowing venues map book) arrived. Come </span><span style="font-size: 1.00em;">January 1</span><span style="font-size: 1.00em;">st it would be possible to begin sampling the delights of big River Severn roach. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 1.00em;">Pouring over various forums, some good, some plain irritating, a pattern started to emerge. Firstly that Severn fish hadn't been really been written about for a handful of years, secondly reports suggested they tended to be caught mid-river in summer on pellets and, finally, that a noteworthy portion of those river locations reputedly held good shoals in winter. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 1.00em;">On the basis of this loose information HonGenSec & I hatched a plot to start targeting the river over a couple of long weekends, January to March. He for barbel and chub, parallel with this roach commitment. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEim0tphDRow6b8hEeqEyHqquB6YoGySYxsE2Cby4pF2AT7FFpdFKg4Wh9WZkZP9R6XxmwwfDjwq5ujJEQ0ehy-GofBH8dHS1gx5lfukphLHhPnQv1JtUwcPbdVV3N90f_0rGBk08NGqTl6E/s1600/IMG_20190128_092434.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEim0tphDRow6b8hEeqEyHqquB6YoGySYxsE2Cby4pF2AT7FFpdFKg4Wh9WZkZP9R6XxmwwfDjwq5ujJEQ0ehy-GofBH8dHS1gx5lfukphLHhPnQv1JtUwcPbdVV3N90f_0rGBk08NGqTl6E/s400/IMG_20190128_092434.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 1.00em;">Overall we spent four full days together on the river plus a couple of hours when we met before dusk at the tail of my compadres fifth day. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 1.00em;">A tactic was hatched to start on the float where possible after bait dropping and loose feeding caster with a touch of overcooked hemp, such as to not preoccupy any fish. Various tweaks to this approach were applied until settling into a routine of 2 hours float fishing, followed by a 30g feeder just below the upstream and of the 'trot' and a light straight lead halfway down on the same trotting line. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNNJBW7Vo__zrOTSDKCu4bJ2Dha8XR91SYeWng_K59l4_O5C8UzMHJUx21k7rS3gswAMOZnQ6NyjnPrpuS7nB-2YmiCBPDcyM4hHONj_qUssAh5xboO5ILoXd2xnbjGqab7MO9lKqYyL5b/s1600/IMG_20190215_151235.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNNJBW7Vo__zrOTSDKCu4bJ2Dha8XR91SYeWng_K59l4_O5C8UzMHJUx21k7rS3gswAMOZnQ6NyjnPrpuS7nB-2YmiCBPDcyM4hHONj_qUssAh5xboO5ILoXd2xnbjGqab7MO9lKqYyL5b/s320/IMG_20190215_151235.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: 1.00em;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 1em;">Three things became apparent in this process - the fishing was generally poor, many anglers were blanking; it worked for barbel and chub but there wasn't a roach to be seen!</span></span><br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5gv3F0OBiAp2wfPAP5OxFavK7bV0P4BROqUNeJteGD3C8TubDNFMFagaeLZnRb2u4H-W7dylmy1hmNWSKKrui2mRsFuWTUVphz-dN8eKir9KqfKOjXf64ipy3x8aUyc8pfIkE3tAJxsdo/s1600/IMG_20190302_214710.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5gv3F0OBiAp2wfPAP5OxFavK7bV0P4BROqUNeJteGD3C8TubDNFMFagaeLZnRb2u4H-W7dylmy1hmNWSKKrui2mRsFuWTUVphz-dN8eKir9KqfKOjXf64ipy3x8aUyc8pfIkE3tAJxsdo/s400/IMG_20190302_214710.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">4lbs 10oz Severn Chubster. Little point hiding the mug now its all over YouTube!</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiH3nPvtL0YHSGHTs_k1UmfnUWTl9jVtuyuYOlOBjuCCPpIjimBdO0Tt4UAGr5n_uVXPTQJ_c9xvr3d4P-Xl-s58y1u40uolLXfVe0i8R-doDlO32kBdwX5SFjTSkYh2FwoMyAfNH4DpDAP/s1600/IMG_20190218_210244.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiH3nPvtL0YHSGHTs_k1UmfnUWTl9jVtuyuYOlOBjuCCPpIjimBdO0Tt4UAGr5n_uVXPTQJ_c9xvr3d4P-Xl-s58y1u40uolLXfVe0i8R-doDlO32kBdwX5SFjTSkYh2FwoMyAfNH4DpDAP/s320/IMG_20190218_210244.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Best Barbus went 8lbs 2ozs and took some taming on a 16 fine wire roach hook</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 1em;">In desperation 38 angling hours into the Severn campaign a local tackle dealer offered the following nugget, "The cormorants have herded all the roach into towns and the only place you can catch them is under bridges". That didn't fit the criteria at all and at that point the back-up plan came to the fore.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 1.00em;">Thus far, approximately 50 hours in total and one 12oz Warks Avon roach to show for them, and with the end of the river season zooming-in, it was time to take-up the very kind offer of </span><a href="https://jamesthespecimenhunter.blogspot.com/" style="font-size: 16px;" target="_blank">James Denison</a>'<span style="font-size: 1em;">s generosity to pursue what would, with any luck, be first-ever chalkstream fish.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 1.00em;">An monotonous trip down a </span><span style="font-size: 1.00em;">Monday</span><span style="font-size: 1.00em;"> morning motorway lead to the meeting point in an urban setting. Rolling through it though was a stream that defied its surroundings and survived as a viable ecosystem despite the pressure of civilisation pushing, squeezing and towering over it like a mid-pounce leopard, the spots of which would never be lost but only grow yet larger. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 1.00em;">First area, a mill pool, produced it and it alone. A three ounce roach of such immensely striking colours and contrasts that it could easily have been a different species compared to its pallid Midlands brethren. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 1.00em;">The life in this challenged stream had to be sen to be believed. Even the laundry had water lice living in it</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYo1B29tgS0zMYGPIoyTsOJgusgq6180LISEk9HLturB43XEouKJD_W7JHJezjfWcNli2M7k62ufH5TSz2F82m0S_VwXQXTbHZ3gboqqUKT4NHzIHBoMTJXmCsVIWWnu4EoYwQiqWtn4g-/s1600/IMG_20190311_095320.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYo1B29tgS0zMYGPIoyTsOJgusgq6180LISEk9HLturB43XEouKJD_W7JHJezjfWcNli2M7k62ufH5TSz2F82m0S_VwXQXTbHZ3gboqqUKT4NHzIHBoMTJXmCsVIWWnu4EoYwQiqWtn4g-/s400/IMG_20190311_095320.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 1.00em;">Moving on, scaling walls, running the gamut of traffic, joggers, people with the perennial question preceding the movement of their lips, dogs (and of course their proceeds), other anglers and life itself we tested-out another area where the machinations of society displayed in all their dubious splendour.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 1.00em;">Notably, all swims were nothing like anything experienced anywhere before. Rapids, slacks, back-eddies, features largely comprising the trappings of human occupation rather than the natural, comprised the watercraft exercise of the day. In a nutshell the bottom was visible in 2 to 3 feet of water and it was a case of flicking a float into the darkest, most mysterious areas of water, and finding the fish by trial and (plenty of) error.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 1.00em;">Once an out and out river angler, the rust had grown so think in the joints that the supply of skill testing swims took all day to (not quite) get used to, but occasionally a trot would be about right and the resultant roach - big, bold, beautiful - were suggestive that penetrating oil had made the difference.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 1.00em;">The bite was never-ending and the response to steady, gentle feed rewarding.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 1.00em;">The best, of four around the pound mark, went one pound three ounces and in between came a couple of lovely dace; the best at 0.</span><span style="font-size: 1.00em;">8.13</span><span style="font-size: 1.00em;"> being the best of this current lifetime. Reincarnation? Don't rule it out!</span></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkK7YACJM6p_IAR9481UZMU3pXaqq7dcW7biVEQoP9XZNAShLx-4rKHhi7L-FLzKqCRwmZZWLIAQgl6URnTexmomJsTvaG2YH8iZ3Z7ti0waYFO21Nj7BLymXPeQ7_t4r0zJ3cVymPw9be/s1600/IMG_2843%255B1%255D.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1067" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkK7YACJM6p_IAR9481UZMU3pXaqq7dcW7biVEQoP9XZNAShLx-4rKHhi7L-FLzKqCRwmZZWLIAQgl6URnTexmomJsTvaG2YH8iZ3Z7ti0waYFO21Nj7BLymXPeQ7_t4r0zJ3cVymPw9be/s400/IMG_2843%255B1%255D.JPG" width="266" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: 1em;">The last legal river fishing day was washed away in the remnants of another transatlantic storm and so one pound three ounces will have to suffice for now.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 1.00em;">Plenty of time to improve things next season. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 1.00em;"><b>WARWICKSHIRE BLOGGERS' ANGLING SYNDICATE</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 1.00em;">The first season of WBAS has been and gone so quickly.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 1.00em;">I think it would be fair to say it's been a resounding success with some cracking venues trialled and plans hatched for the future.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 1.00em;">One thing we do realise is that the will to obtain access to exclusive waters means we must increase our number from ten to fifteen members to cover the cost but also retain the high likelihood of a solitary day on the bank without having to grapple with others for swims. Even then, if we all chose to fish at the same time, we would have a third of a mile of bank space each!</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 1.00em;">Currently we have access to three small Warwickshire rivers, a prime stretch of Warks Avon and a pool just over the border in Leicestershire that we are developing from carp and small fish to, we hope, quality tench and pure crucians.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 1.00em;">So, if you consider yourself like-minded; are attracted by solitude and good fishing for quality fish (in environments as natural as one can still find in the area) please do comment on this post providing an email address, and we'll remove that message from public display before responding with further information (please note that prospective members will need to be proposed by current members or contacted for a conversation by telephone). </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 1.00em;"><b>----</b></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 1.00em;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-size: 1.00em;"><b>NEXT UP:</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 1.00em;">A bream and tench campaign on stillwaters when time allows and big canal fish when it doesn't. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 1.00em;">Otherwise it'll be the next Blogger's Challenge starting </span><span style="font-size: 1.00em;">June 16</span><span style="font-size: 1.00em;">th under new points scoring rules...how very traditional we are! </span><br />
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<br />George Burtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07422749226358557982noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8890160818247783158.post-61258941607246332952019-01-17T08:25:00.000+00:002019-01-17T16:12:06.979+00:00The Evolving Situation<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXhyphenhyphenrS1Vz0EsBNqOtEXqs8CywbnAdfHQpVQoO5laKpnEHKPm_5EpqeO-xC-3UNux7GWLp0SgjrE17NctJStAQtaadriMh8eQoSSWj_5ZTWs5bfgW607y-wY1krXz3xIQh2M8uJVaCiLrb6/s1600/IMG_20181230_091248.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXhyphenhyphenrS1Vz0EsBNqOtEXqs8CywbnAdfHQpVQoO5laKpnEHKPm_5EpqeO-xC-3UNux7GWLp0SgjrE17NctJStAQtaadriMh8eQoSSWj_5ZTWs5bfgW607y-wY1krXz3xIQh2M8uJVaCiLrb6/s400/IMG_20181230_091248.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: 1.00em;">The Bloggers' Syndicate stretch of the Upper Warwickshire Avon has transmogrified into a perfect meandering stream over the past month</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 1.00em;">No longer the sluggish, eutrophic, apparently lifeless ditch. A bank-high torrent has flushed activity into it like steady rain to a recently drilled field. Suddenly the scum-clad becomes the pristine and, to the piscean stomach, comes hunger. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 1.00em;">The tinge of colour suggestive of feeding fish, combined with swift narrow runs flanked at bends and obstructions by gentle glides, slacks and tiny whirling depressions easing through the creases and slowly, imperceptibly, diminishing to nothing, had raised expectation to unprecented levels. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 1.00em;">Over-excited surface-bursting fish remain rare, but they are now occasional, while confidence and competition for a morsel in the chilling, constant curvature of the channel abound.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiacTTdln_OdQ7eOjoulFd_Sj8IgHkQP3qZzD9Qp50Ygtpi9SgnQT-RIqdw-lSPML_6C8QnLGvPOS8wsHsxc-yrGXgV9rC6mrGN6CfMIp76fxFODi7h9rrij3n_hxJqePq42voMPetPgLU2/s1600/IMG_20190106_094154.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiacTTdln_OdQ7eOjoulFd_Sj8IgHkQP3qZzD9Qp50Ygtpi9SgnQT-RIqdw-lSPML_6C8QnLGvPOS8wsHsxc-yrGXgV9rC6mrGN6CfMIp76fxFODi7h9rrij3n_hxJqePq42voMPetPgLU2/s400/IMG_20190106_094154.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: 1.00em;">A week ago, the tiny River Leam sought to issue forth all its Chub in one magnificent morning.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 1.00em;">Fish were so ravenous as to tear-off with large chunks of crust before the anglers' contact with them could be affirmed. Rod tips pulled round barbel like and clutches squealed in otherwise rural tranquility. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 1.00em;">Eight fish between 2lbs 1oz and a touch over 3lbs came to the net in a couple of hectic hours while a match angler harvested eleven of these aquatic omnivores for a catch of over 27lbs the following day. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 1.00em;">Quite unprecedented action. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 1.00em;">Those 19 fish averaged 2lbs 6ozs, a fair reflection of the state of this oft misunderstood stream, it's potential shrouded by a paucity of suitable conditions, and yet it has recently been said this is "A River in Decline".</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 1.00em;">So the era when global warming manifests physically in the feast and famine of fish is firmly established. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 1.00em;">Clear or coloured; low or threatening the fields; stagnating or vigorously flowing. Such are the extreme phases of the midland river in the 21st Century. A time when partly forced predation combined with the above climatic influences is turning, or has turned, our fish to increasingly nocturnal behaviour. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 1.00em;">One wonders whether angling clubs of the future will need floodlights. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 1.00em;">In a recent exchange with that expert Specimen fish pursuer James Denison, we were agreed that we can live with the natural balance that otters will ultimately create once back to a population balanced with their environment but when it comes to the invasive signal crayfish and ever increasing displaced cormorants there is no obvious solution, and, as with all these things, the answer will be considered long after the piscatorial horse has bolted. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 1.00em;">What will this leave? </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 1.00em;">In New Zealand there is a purge on non-native fauna but where would we start, with so many established former invaders and introducees that one wonders what would be left if they were removed from the landscape and how that loss would now affect the indigenous species.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 1.00em;">Perhaps rewilding, with the reintroduction of long-lost top predators and landscape-shaping species, would impact these flourishing animals the dissipation of some of which is now ingrained in our culture. The rabbit for instance.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 1.00em;">No. It is far too complex to contemplate a solution but, one thing is certain, pot-shotting the odd fish-eating bird changes nothing. If it is man that has changed the balance of nature then it is men that have to live with it.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJVxf-qMx1tDFoAiI0m7Td6m9QC4jugoJi4nG7QGIFA5MzDoVhjiQuKuXIVJx7rxXg8a8GWaxIn4ZHLJDmuGMik5nXTcTBvdlkVuMHxlQq1mKbBdxw-LmVDT4-YWmLyua4_9U0bN8bz_Nf/s1600/IMG_20181229_140834.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJVxf-qMx1tDFoAiI0m7Td6m9QC4jugoJi4nG7QGIFA5MzDoVhjiQuKuXIVJx7rxXg8a8GWaxIn4ZHLJDmuGMik5nXTcTBvdlkVuMHxlQq1mKbBdxw-LmVDT4-YWmLyua4_9U0bN8bz_Nf/s400/IMG_20181229_140834.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: 1.00em;">Moving-on!...</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 1.00em;">'Bumped into Zed-hunter extraordinaire Mick Newey on a new stretch of the Leam the Bloggers' Syndicate is trialling just after the aforementioned floods, and prior to the colour completely falling away.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 1.00em;">Dressed resplendently as always he leapfrogged my swim at the very moment I had my best twang on the new wand, on its first outing.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 1.00em;">Rather than plough the usual chub-likely crease, the day was to have been one of experimentation. The mini method feeder idea recently tested for big canal roach seemed, on the face of it, to be equally suitable for small stream, smaller species.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 1.00em;">So arriving at the first swim, a bag of 'liquidised' at the ready, a long, steady glide around three feet deep looked ideal - nothing. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 1.00em;">Working upstream, any fish facing away from me, a deeper hole concealed in trees caught the eye. Tap, tap, quiver, twang and a handful of Chublet was eased back into the protected shallows bankside.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 1.00em;">...And so it continued, until we met. The bite was struck sharply and a sparklingly silver fish twirled in frantic action in the clearing water. It had the look of a battery powered silver bream but of course it couldn't be. Soon the net slipped under the biggest dace I had ever seen in the pearlescent-clad flesh. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 1.00em;">Now when I say biggest ever, the excitement must be tempered by the fact that I have never seen one over five ounces, but nevertheless the fact remains. Mick felt it could go seven or eight ounces and I underestimated, match angler style, the fish ultimately weighed-in at seven ounces four drams. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNO1wIY8xKE6rZDzCwG_mm5KnZcNlD3TVtxS5MCCSV8wnp54A1is5C9-ryZFcx-lK8uO8SehsVBbGTP00bEqEYvscFNRMpmm872sSFEH9PwScdIyltOdTIHYD4VAT93lRD1cllTuTr2vsN/s1600/IMG_20181230_102302.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNO1wIY8xKE6rZDzCwG_mm5KnZcNlD3TVtxS5MCCSV8wnp54A1is5C9-ryZFcx-lK8uO8SehsVBbGTP00bEqEYvscFNRMpmm872sSFEH9PwScdIyltOdTIHYD4VAT93lRD1cllTuTr2vsN/s400/IMG_20181230_102302.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: 1.00em;">Perhaps a feeble P.B., but it was one, and that would do me, and, for me at least, that moment was enough to confirm the potential of the water. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 1.00em;">Further swims produced other previous P.B.-shaking dace. All from steady, shaded glides over gravel.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 1.00em;">The 'mini-method' displayed an additional virtue that could, just possibly, set it on its way to being a standard technique in the F, F & F armoury; it enabled the swim to be searched without risking over-feeding the wrong area and wrecking it before casting in. The rig could be flicked around various spots until the fish were found and then the feed built-up cast by cast, and, by increasing the stop shot size, casting weight could be adjusted neatly too.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 1.00em;">Certainly with more flow and depth on the stream would take float fishing as well but it shows signs of being a tactic to employ with some regularity, and far less crude on casting than a standard feeder set-up, however tiny 'they' might make them. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 1.00em;">That said, it is perhaps time to confess that the past as a 95% float angler has been completely turned on its historical, not to say "hysterical", head in this second, and last, wave of angling submersion. It didn't take long for the taxed and diminishing grey matter to twig that the effort and, let's be frank, discomfort of float fishing for bigger fish really is not worth it all that often.</span><br />
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<br />
Catch Mick Newey's blog <a href="http://calamitymn.blogspot.com/?m=1" target="_blank">here</a><br />
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... And James Denison's <a href="https://jamesthespecimenhunter.blogspot.com/?m=1" target="_blank">here</a></div>
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<br />George Burtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07422749226358557982noreply@blogger.com12