Lead to the Canal

Experimentation had been intriguing but, perhaps, raised more questions than it resolved. 

The changing season had nurtured the urge to seek out that regular cold weather adversary, the roach, and not hand-sized roach but two-hand roach. Anything over a pound of silver would be considered gold.

Since spending a month increasing the carp P.B. by way of a distraction from the generally poor angling conditions other options had seemed so unappealling.

A couple of dawn sessions delivered only hybrids and smaller roach but the changing of the clocks and the prospect of a couple of hours trap-setting at dusk proved a suddenly irresistible challenge.

The idea appeared justified but the sound of oncoming narrowboats up to and after dark stretched the F, F&F congeniality reserves to the brink. 

After around five sessions of this nature it seemed fairly obvious that not to have started on a Sunday would have been wiser. Midweek has been more palatable but not a single evening has gently drifted by without it being punctuated by chugging death at a time so late to be at best plain rude and at worst in contravention of the CRT Boaters Handbook.

Initially the same bombardment of bread mash habitually applied at dawn was introduced on arrival but, with late boats, this was ripped, swirled and deposited everywhere but 'the spot', rendering the whole palaver futile.

Subsequently feeds were only introduced when it seemed quite unlikely that boats were just round the corner poised to send me round the bend, but, even so, on not a single occasion has this proven correct.

On that first visit it was very difficult to detect lift bites with an isotope so the wand was unearthed, fitted-up and engaged. A single swan-shot link was used with a flake of bread popped-up 2 to 8 inches, and, despite the boat irritation, on all but one trip the target aimed at has been hit.

Four roach from 1lb 4ozs 6drms to 1.5.8 have been netted but at the rate of no more than one bite per trip and always at dusk; leaving the post-daylight, apparently likely period, devoid of activity.

I'm left wondering whether bread is an unsuccessful option after dark. I've always thought of it to be a visual bait for roach and so it wouldn't be a huge surprise if that proves to be the case.

To advance this however there is another issue, that of signal crayfish being increasingly active at, and after, sunset and maybe a bait change would be necessary.

Emotionally it was a challenge on the most recent attempt, just yesterday...

A firm, determined pull on the tip on an unusually crayfish-free night resulted in a battle with a good strong fish. So much so that the clutch needed adjusting. Trying a new area, nothing above an ounce had been seen to rise at dusk and so even the bite was a relief but during the fight I allowed myself to dream.

It felt very roach-like and heavy. The pinkness of the fins on surfacing in heavily coloured water added further to that diagnosis but above all when the fish eventually lay flat and beaten on the surface it had that unmistakable shape.

A heavy sudden gasp for breath and the breathless words, "My God, it IS a roach" hissed out into the darkness like a burst tyre, and well over two pounds for sure; as confirmed when I had to lift it onto the bank.

Incredulous, wired and shaky, with the fish getting ever closer and the dream it represented then laid out on the bank, the head torch illuminating its features, blankness.

A vacuum of thought. 

Momentary confusion.

"This could be a hybrid".

It was.

As close a hybrid in appearance to a roach as one could imagine (in the dark), but a hybrid indeed, and somehow the disappointment barely registered. I've come to like hybrids for that extra fighting dimension and their ability to outgrow their slimier parent in canals.

There's time yet for a bar-raising roach with winter waiting to take over.

A Variety of Similarities.

A twittering, a chattering, a sip.

Leaning back under mature salix - gazing into the canopy - the innumerable gathering throng.

Blue, great and long-tailed they are. A post breeding flock of families slowly forage as a group yet frantically feed individually as they wend the willow-lined watercourse.

Hopeful I search. The occasional slurp of an ancient carp barely noticeable in distant fringing lillies.

Aurally straining. Yes, there is one there, and so is another

The most incomprehensibly evolved of passerines, the treecreeper, probing every crevice and fissure of the arboreal armour. A louse here, a moth there. A delicate call and the loose organic cloud rolling through the treetops is gone, but remains intact.

----

The forecast indicated cloud. The sky indicated continuous sun.

The latter prevailed.

The Gormless Old Duffer, shirtless, was not a pretty sight. Thankfully we had the lake to ourselves. I wished it had been to himself.

Carp, of no great size, cruised in teenage gangs in the shallows, terrorising anything resembling food like orca eyeing-up seals.

No matter, we knew the big fish would feed first and then, when the heat became too much, the action would subside. This was certain. Past experience would prove it.

Four balls of ground-ait and feed went in. The Gormless Old Duffer on the feeder with an alarm. Myself on the slider.

An hour or more passed.

The alarm was silent (we checked it was switched-on). The float, well, floated. Clearly I'd bought one without any bobs in it.

Then out of the blue the alarm went, the arm dropped...and...no contact.

The slider slid and a fighting roach of half a pound was grounded and returned.

Fish topped with playful abandon.

An idea. The lake was deep and the fish might have been in higher water layers.

The canal rig shot were redistributed and the float pushed-up to 7 or 8 feet.

Bites on the drop on corn, every cast but after five 2 to 5 ounce roach - instant boredom. This wasn't the game we came to play.

Chess please, not draughts.

Back to the slider and the float immediately lifted, then disappeared beyond the visible depth and a good one was on. No fight though. It must've been a stick. But no, a large signal crayfish burst through the surface to its legally required destiny.

At first a carpet had been laid-out and a few ingredients were threaded onto the hook in desperation. Instantly the float behaved unusually and a nodding donkey was hooked. Never a battle to write home about but a fish that lights the F,F&F candle whenever it exceeds three pounds.

This slime-coated stinker hit the bar at four pounds six ounces and the day was made.

----

This had been part of an inadvertent trend. Though it had not been realised at the time and being, or trying to be, a modest sort made it all the more surprising.

A sort of introspective retrospective I suppose.

Bronze bream.

They had been prioritised on lake and river for quite a number of trips and, without quite realising it, I'd been involved in a campaign.

Of course any decent summer species is welcome when the water is low and clear and the prospect of anything other than carp on a lake seems increasingly unlikely.

I'd found a shoal on the river but in three trips only managed two fish within half an early hour of each other; catching them before they hit the morning snooze button.

The second was a river p.b. at 4.10 (I've dropped bothering with the silly drams now except for smaller species!) and a dark old bottom feeder he was too.

Lake fish peaked at 4.8 among a raft of other four pounders. A weight that suddenly feels the norm.

----

So with the species ticked in both lake and river categories today the trusty bus headed for the river with carp in mind on one rod and dace on the other.

Rest assured, like any other person, when a target is set there is the disproportionate likelihood for all to fail.

Maggots sprayed 3/4 across and boilies (yes, you heard right, boilies!) along nearside marginal lilies and streamer weed. A perfect swim. 7 feet deep between weed-beds and just enough room to trot through.

Thirty or so roach, dace and chublets later, the 'donk, donk, treadwater, donk' of a meaty adversary. So clear was the water that the fish came into view quickly. First thought was, tentatively, chub but on closer viewing the unmistakable outline of yet another bream was discerned. About three pounds was the initial assessment but in a decent flow and with a sixteen to two pound fluorocarbon between it and the net odds were very much against.

Nodding interspersed by cautious retrieval made for very little headway. This gave ample time for two things.

• Worry, and,
• Regular review of the predicted weight.

Step by step; nod by nod; draw by draw the weight increased to around five pounds by the time the fish, now with line wrapped around it's anal fins for interests sake, was scooped-up.

Into the meadow and nestled in the deep uncut grass this was no five pounder.

"That's six, surely", I muttered to the passing butter and damselflies.

Six pounds?

Nope. Way out.

Seven, six.

A river and overall p.b. by a clear 2.12

----

Of  course nothing could top this, even removing the pike that constantly marauded the keepnet was well adrift in the enormity stakes.

Yes, that would do. That would do nicely.

Thank you world.

The Thick Mists of Shocking Time [UPDATED]

Today was the first in a planned canal campaign devised only to put some points on the bloggers challenge scoreboard in the hope that three aims could also be achieved :

•  rekindle the flames of passion for my first love
• have a decent roach to run-up a few points
• add a perch, any perch, to the scoreboard

To my surprise I had no difficulty rising for the first early start of this increasingly autumnal period and, questioning my sanity as I pulled-up, I was barely able to see to get the stuff out of the boot

Travelling light, I did manage to bring the keepnet as I do like to look at canal catches on departing

The mist was thick but not so dense as to qualify for fog, in my estimation, as it didn't soak-in or build-up on clothes or equipment. Chances were, therefore, that eventually the sun would burn it off and it was simply a case of when, as the spot I was headed for would not produce a single bite after sun-up with clear skies likely later

Moorhens, mallards and those dubious hybrids of questionable origin scattered as I wandered through the murk and settled into the swim in a gap in the vegetation no doubt created by previously-moored boaters. I set-up well away from the water in the shade of the tall hedge. All was still and nothing noticeably topped. This being a location where roach will top if they are present it made me wonder if I had peaked too soon in the canal hunt but, as it was likely to be a relatively short session before Mr Blue Sky brought it to a close, it was of no great concern as we would, quite literally, test the water and then decide how the campaign might evolve from there

Flocks of gulls whooshed low overhead as they sought to navigate by visual landmarks given the shroud they had awoken to. Individuals, spilt from the flocks, constantly twisted their necks left and right in trying to keep in touch with their companions. The traditional sounds of the farm were evident but not visible

Bread mash down the middle and lobworm down the inside would be todays 'no holds barred' options. I rarely use anything else these days, though there were a pint of casters left in the fridge which I have been trying to keep healthy since last week for tomorrow morning

Fifteen minutes in on the lift bite method and bread flake produced nothing. Momentarily I wondered. When I have fished here before, on three or four occasions, bites have usually come quickly and then fizzled out just as quickly as there aren't too many bread-taking fish here but they are usually of a good size.

I started to drop free-lined lobworms over the near shelf to my left. A first in terms of canal method, and taken from my recent river findings, but more in hope than expectation

Then, tempted already by the flask, I looked up to the see the lift bite had failed as the float was gone and struck at fresh air. 'Crayfish' I thought, often the cause of a rig being slowly towed under and not the greatest of omens so early in proceedings

A runner came by and we exchanged pleasantries, his with a breath of determination, mine in a cloud of uncertainty. The freelined rod twitched and as I struck an eight ounce probable bronzeXsilver bream hybrid shot out of the water and into my lap. I had forgotten this was the canal and that I had a 1.25lbs t.c. Avon in my hand

Then the float lifted, a fish was on, and comedy and chaos ensued as both rods produced bites too quickly for comfort for a five minute spell

The first fish to the float fought well. I was not as necessary as normal to be careful, with the overhead light levels low and the water colour perhaps a touch too cloudy for respectable bread fishing, and it was just as well, as my lack of recent experience with the tackle left the style and skill with quite a number of improvements to be desired

It was a roach, silver flash then red fins, and a good one. I knew if I caught roach there was a good chance they could exceed a pound here and when this one lay on its side in that 'okay, you've got me' pose it was well over that target. In fact, as I lifted it out, I guessed around one and a half pounds but, as I started to handle it to remove the hook, it's rear end was a touch empty and a reading of 1-5-8 on the scales was really no surprise

Roach size - increased from 10 ounces

The next few minutes produced another roach of exactly one pound from my only other bite on bread and a perch of one pound six on a whole lobworm

Perch size - increased from zero!

Then - motorised death.

This was a silty length of canal and any boat traffic would not help at all. It would kill the bread line and left me with only the near shelf to go at, so I fed it again and put the float rod among the wilting, browning loosestrife. At the same time, with the canal now towing this way, then that and back again, resembling the hokey-cokey, the decision was made to add a swan shot link leger to nail it down

A magpie laughed at me from a fencepost and a chiffchaff bizarrely struck up it song from a hawthorn through the mist thirty yards to my right. Perhaps a young one practising for next season. I wonder if it'll remember the words by next spring? Compared to many other species it should have a good chance. Only two words after all, albeit if he gets stuck only one of them is in the dictionary

Coffee was welcome at this point and that which propelled from spout to cup perfectly matched that served-up by the rotor of the 'pleasure' boats. Time to take stock. I tidied-up. Then I fed another bread swim 25 yards to my right and went to fish it. Nothing

The boats lulled and yet it was still before breakfast. Something made me take the lead off the line again and revert to a free-lined worm. Instant action. Obviously the natural fall of the bait was essential. If only I'd known that thirty years ago!

A bite. A strike. A small zander came to hand. My first the season and worth a handful of points maybe.

Then the line tightened again and the rod arched over before I could grab at it. The reel had been left to backwind inadvertently and the handle, and rotor, were fizzing round, painfully rapping the knuckles of my left hand and the ends of my reel fingers as I strove to do something to resist the challenger

As I started to gain some composure, species ran through my head. Loosening the clutch and engaging the anti-reverse gave some degree of contact and, as the drag was adjusted, I became aware of a frantic head-banging from below. As I tightened further the head movement became interspersed with surges, taking more line

Carp?
No.

Big zander, in the swim?
Yes, probably.

I settled for a 5 to 10 pound space invader and set about trying to land the worthy opponent yet half expecting the line to part on its sharp teeth, but, bearing in mind this was my river rod and reel, it was loaded with 5.6lbs line straight through to an 8 specimen hook, so I was in with a shout if the hook hold was conventional and the line was not being frayed

As I tried to subdue the monster the head-banging became increasingly severe the greater control I achieved. I walked ten yards to my left to shorten both line and odds. As I eventually started to feel like he was mine I became increasingly bemused by the head action. What fish could possibly move its head about that much unless it really was so huge. I could not really make sense of the situation. It was fighting like one might imagine a sea serpent would. Then it's white side flashed underwater. Zander, yes, it must be. Too pale to be anything else

Then it's smiling little mouth and tiny eye appeared and yes, my god, it was a snake! Almost.

The biggest writhing colossus I have ever witnessed, and it wasn't keen on daylight.

Wriggle and squirm it did and there I was with my canal landing net feeling utterly inadequate, baffled and excited in the extreme, all at the same time

I grabbed the net and shoved it into the margin from whence massive eruptions of silt and leaves rose and gave clues to the true enormity of this beast. Then I saw the whole thing. Keeping it off the bottom was the answer, but then - solid.

I gave it some slack. We were in again!

I tried feebly to get the net under its head but it was futile. However watching the way it contorted I estimated that if I lunged at the right moment I could have him.

"NOW!" appeared in my head and now it was. In, completely coiled, into the shallow net. Yeehaar!!! I think I said.

Dragging the net towards the bank I lifted at the last minute and surveyed this magnificent old eel. Back from the Sargasso who knows how many years ago little bigger than the lobworm it fell for and preparing over the years its physically almost indestructible body for the return trip

From the back issues of my memory I recalled that eels don't wriggle if they are on their back. As chance would have it the tiny net kept it neatly in that position as I fretted restlessly around the bank like a spaniel expecting his tea

4 pounds 9 ounces of natural power

What should I do, I needed to record the moment and savour it. It should not be like my first final and not remembering anything due to nerves. Pleasantries were now exchanged with what I should call a fish but the description doesn't do it justice. It didn't look like a fish. It had a certain aged wisdom about it. It seemed to know it wasn't in danger and that it was merely a question of time before either I released it, or he got bored and released himself

A narrow-boat passed and Mrs Tripper was gobsmacked, a state I have thought about imposing on boaters many times in the past but not in this manner

The eel was at least a metre long. A p.b. by about three pounds!

After the celebrations I slipped him back a few yards along to my right and he immediately swam, calm and determined, into that turbid world to resume his life as though nothing had occurred at all

Perch and zander ensued and soon it was time to head for home. Just over three hours' canal fishing and just under twelve pounds of fish, less the eel, to admire at the end, though I hadn't noticed the net had become detached from its spreader during the boat traffic and so they went back a touch less pristine than I would have wanted putting a damper on the conclusion I must say

So the three targets were certainly hit today as I head off now to add points to the board and see where that leaves things. Hopefully with some slack to commit some more time to stillwaters before it gets just too cold to stomach that option

What a morning!


UPDATE:

Well the casters didn't have much impact but a second hook carrying a fresh whole lobworm, quite the thing at the moment it seems, upped the perch p.b. yet again from The Stillwater

Just the one bite but 3-6-8 of seriously chunky predator to show for it

I do love this time of year

Kids and Fishing (Chapter MCMXXVI), and Other Stuff...

There was an air of change.

In a period of a few increasingly short days waterside green had tended to straw and higher up some trees displayed shades of red.

Soon carpets would be suspended by that unfathomable phenomenon, surface film, perhaps as multi-coloured running contorting in the twists and turns of increased flow or caught as decaying rugs in a bay or against a fallen log.

The feeling of being fully alive as the chill takes to the air coincides with migration in birds and, largely throughout the animal world, hunger. This marks September to November as the time the coarse angler expects. Yes, autumn is peak feeding time for most coarse species.

Personally I had set the summer aside to add a few stillwater fish to the Blogger's Challenge scoreboard, in a season I usually avoid, thinking this would give me the best chance of whatever success I could muster but, with only one species to show for it and a handful of canal and river fish from May and the past few weeks, that tactic seems to have been somewhat high-risk. On the upside, there are two or three fish there that will take some beating locally but I am still too short in the stillwater department at a time of year when I will be inclined to fish canals if the rivers are too low and clear through to the season's end. I fear I may have to fit in some more stillwater sessions yet and rely on a more concentrated approach to the other two options later while stillwater fish remain likely to respond.

The Boy Wonder for his part has been unable to fish until the past three weeks but took his first ever ruffe amid great excitement after we discussed free-lining lob tails a fortnight back only to feel that nauseating sensation when he realised a guaranteed twenty points would be precisely zilch upon noting that the species is ineligible!

His high jinx continued to influence my own luck as I blanked that same ruffe day and also this weekend when he caught a two ounce chub in his first session touch-legering (a new method for every occasion this lad!). As we strolled back to the lay-by, inadvertently late for dinner, we pondered how many points this chublet might have been be worth and, assuming the chub record to be around ten pounds, figured ten points to every pound would be somewhere near so surmised one to two points. Tiny result though it was he was chuffed that night, as we filled in the table last thing before he went to sleep, to see that he no longer propped up the leaderboard and had at least five anglers behind him on the river chart.

 

A happy chap he was as I sat back with tipple in hand recalling his thoughts immediately after the points conversation.

"What would happen if you caught a new record chub? How many points would you get then?".

"Well, if you equalled it exactly you'd get one hundred as it would be one hundred percent of the record. So if you caught, let's say, to keep it easy, an eleven pounder how many points would that be worth?".

"Err, a hundred and ten".

"Yes, plus ten more for catching the biggest chub of the challenge...until someone caught a bigger record of course, then they'd get the extra ten".

"Okay, that's what I'll do then", he replied. Matter of fact.

I'm uncertain as to whether he meant the first record, the second or both, but it's gonna be fun finding-out!

We may need a bigger landing net.

In between being jinxed by my now returned companion, I did managed to increase my own river perch from a few ounces to one pound three last week from 'our stretch' of the Leam on a free-lined lob and then increased that again to 1-12-0 just yesterday a mile or so upstream using a 'new' traditional method to me, that of laying-on with a whole lobworm on a 6 hook and a large shot nailed to the bottom. Traditionally of course this would be balanced against a crow or porcupine quill but, in the absence of those, I was employing a thirty year old Max Winters stick float (anyone remember him?)...which I then duly lost on a snag later. The bites were un-missable and totally contradict everything I thought I'd learnt match fishing with, for instance, squatts on 26 hooks and 0.055mm bottoms.



One, three.

 

One, twelve.

Prior to this I had my own one-pointer, a perfectly-formed micro-pike!, and a lovely river roach which couldn't quite tip the scales at a pound, try though it did as I weighed it.

Don't ask

 

The undoubted highlight of the past between posts period followed the sound of crashing below me on 'the day of the ruffe'. The river was bank to bank with rushes downstream of the hole I was dipping tail ends of lobs into without success and as the noise became closer I expected the resident family of swans with four maturing cygnets to appear in series as they reached the open water I surveyed so it was with no little surprise that when ripples started to emanate across the pool nothing appeared to follow them. Until, that was, I became conscious of what could only be described as an intermittent double-snorting or snorkelling effect. Whatever was making the disturbance was tight under the near bank, out of sight, beneath overhanging rushes, nettles and grasses but it didn't take me long with my standard process of elimination to discard whale and dolphin and get to otter as a conclusion.

Just as soon as I thought it relatively risk-free I ran on feet as light as I could make them and approached the ruffe hunter while telepathically praying he would turn round without speaking, which he thankfully did and I was able to give him the accepted 'silence' signal. We sat and waited as I pointed urgently downstream. Nothing. Then, slowly, an impression of sound. Then out came her head, oiled in arrowheads and pallid beneath the cutest of carnivorous chins. Sure enough a female otter in broad daylight. We watched her make her way under far bank hawthorns getting tiny glimpses here and there and all the time conscious of her blowing and then sucking in fresh air between each dive, occasionally punctuated by the crunching of snail of crayfish.

Otter bait

For me the otter remains the holy grail of native mammals and a sight I wouldn't have believed I'd experience locally in my lifetime until maybe five years ago, and now three in a year or so within a mile stretch.

Ripples of the passing otter

Sometimes life really can be so rewarding, it makes those sessions jinxed by The Boy Wonder all the more easily forgotten, until he reminds me of course...

...and when he's not fishing he makes a mean chef too!

What Constitutes a Good Day?

An impromptu possibility Wednesday morning was ignited by a somewhat startled little owl standing on the edge of the road as I headed out, remarkably blotchy bundles of feathers that they are. If a silverfish was an omen last time out surely this could be one this time, or so I had hoped

I figured that owl was worth about 25% of what could be considered a good day

A peg was selected that The Old Duffer used to frequent prior to his canal angling retirement. Relatively narrow but with a vegetated natural bank across and grass neatly manicured by fluffy, big eared, powder-puff-tailed Roman imports to sit on

A lot of small fish were topping and the bird song was almost so prolific as to make some of the species i.d. confused by the noise

Little happened initially and I fed another swim in a marina mouth as Plan B after about half an hour, having wet a line at about 5.30am. On returning to the swim and casting in the lump of punched bread the float did some strange gyrations and a two ounce roach had somehow managed to swallow a bait about four times the size of its mouth. A few casts later a similar thing occurred but this time it felt like a good-sized fish but without much much fight, it soon appeared near the surface. A black shape from the depth of reasonably clear water and those curvy fins unmistakable as a tench. Only the third I had ever seen from this cut, having taken two back at new year 2013...and suddenly, on seeing me, it took flight...then it was interesting! The nearside shelf soon became clouded as the slippery customer sought refuge in it's silty bed, and among rocks and roots beneath my feet. First one way then the other but somehow it was possible to limit the line it took and the baited area was not ploughed through. After what seemed quite a few minutes, but probably wasn't, the fish tired and was drawn towards the, suddenly tiny looking, big roach net

This took the percentage of a good day up to 80% minimum on the joint ticket of rarity and size

Overhead a pair of warblers, possibly chiffchaffs, chased wildly over the water perhaps in shared celebration of the capture resulting in one actually hitting the surface but managing to shake itself clear and escaping into the bushes, only to be pursued again

A trot along to the other peg indicated a serious infestation of crayfish with fine fizzing bubbles covering the still canal top over the fed area and sure enough the action under the water confirmed it. After a few minutes it was decided to return to the first peg but to little avail

The temptation of a never before fished area the other side of the nearby road bridge grew greater and, as I made my way there, the paleness of the far shelf was evident in this tree-lined darker cutting contrasting with the relative open airiness of the starting area. Soon after introducing both bait and feed a hand-sized silver bream obliged and was reintroduced to the water some fifty yards to the right

Then, an unusual event for this canal, a genuine bow-wave of a far side fish off the edge of trailing brambles. Seconds later a dark shape drifted in the same direction under my nose. A three pound fish. Species unknown.

Within seconds a positive bite, as a blackcap struck-up its liquid song in opposing scrub, and a more than decent fight. Again unusually for the canal the need to allow the centre-pin to give line off the ratchet took hold as this powerhouse fish took flight. What could it be, another springtime mega-hybrid perhaps?

No delayed confirmation this time however as the first time the fish broke the surface, not something I encourage of course(!), it exposed it's whole self to view as its flank gleamed that of a massive chub. A CHUB!

Only a week or so ago a friend asked if this, to all intents, crude bread fishing method ever caught any carp. Well the answer was 'no' (as they are not numerous in the canal and I tend to fish it down the middle, whereas canal carp of course tend to patrol far bank shelter) but it has to be said that an undoubtedly, by sight, three pound plus fish far outweighed any canal carp I might, or rather might not, have caught

I'm sure I will have stated this before but north oxford canal chub are, while statistically less rare that tench, very, very uncommon. In the 1990's there was one peg on some brambles where they would very occasionally show, some five or six miles east, but I don't recall anything above a two pounder and, other than that only two fish spring to mind, one around a pound and one just under two above Hillmorton Locks

This fish only just fitted the net and as the connection, pole to net thread, was somewhat dodgy I lifted the net itself with two hands from the water...and wondered.

Three nine it went, three nine. I keep repeating myself. Did I say it was three nine?

All those hours spent chasing River Leam chub and here was one, dare I say, caught by accident from the bloomin' cut that would sit second on that river list! What a beauty though and as chunky as a tin of pedigree chum...with scales

So, as by this time we were up to around 150% of a good day, 'one more cast' was risked. A proper and surprisingly quite instant bite after the commotion brought a roach of half an ounce under the pound into the bizarre early morning equation. This alone would have been 20-25% of a good day under normal circumstances.

As I mused my way back home, and ultimately to work, I pondered the conundrum; although football managers believe it is possible to have more than 100% of something the rest of the sane world realises this is impossible, but had it been achieved this exceptional morning?

'No!', I decided...it must have been 100% of a very good day, very good indeed.

BIG CANAL BEND, BIG FROST, BIG BREAD PUNCH...BIG ROACH!

A crisp overnight frost had turned the usually hideously wet towpath into something approaching solid ground as I made my way towards canal-sized bronze bream heaven

I hasn't revisited this area, another wide bend, since snaffling two unseasonal tench two New Years' ago

No big roach had been taken here before and I fancied a go at canal bream on the pole and bread flake

The rising field opposite would shield water from the morning sun somewhat later than more exposed areas and, knowing the sunlight immediately turns the bigger fish off, a few more minutes activity could be looked forward to than had the decision been made to fish elsewhere on a day promising blue skies

As it happened in the event a creeping thin blanket of cloud kept bright sunlight away but nevertheless there was also the likelihood of boat traffic and that would cause a similar result with a low population of good-sized fish that seem distinctly reticent to suffer daylight and disturbance

On arrival some bread was soaked before setting-up and the bottom of the far shelf was found at 10.5m where three blobs of mash were hurled across to the spot. No need to cup them as spreading it around a square metre or so is preferable when seeking big fish

Second put-in what felt like a bumped fish (crays were also present) could easily have scuppered the whole session, given that they are necessarily brief, but then genuine surprise as the orange and black cane-tipped float neatly rose out of the water and we were into a good fish, somewhat plodding and bream-like in its action

As it approached the location of the net the no6 elastic failed me somewhat and the fish, now identified as a roach well up there on the biggest canal specimens chart, bombed around under my feet until it eventually tired sufficiently to be drawn into submission

Not the tidiest of fish with a mark on one side and many discoloured scales but tipping the scales at 1-5-2 it stood seventh on the all-time FF&F canal list and the first decent canal roach for some months of course

Again the biggest fish came first and was all-but followed by one that slipped the hook just three inches from the net of around the pound. Two skimmers around 12 ounces and a half-pound hybrid came later, interspersed by a further nice roach of 0-13-11

At times the bird song was deafening with a good number of species all in full voice at the same time but only skylark was really of any interest.

The first boat predictably killed-it and, despite also feeding a line at 6m on the inside of the bend, no more bites came and the car called when the second boat appeared half an hour later (which bizarrely sounded its horn but I had found my alarm clock quite successful too and was well awake by then, the roach made sure of that!

Wednesdays are now the day as, on Doctors orders, I have to relax...what a shame, all that time by the water. So where to go in the afternoon?

The rivers were dropping and looking at the Env Ag website the Leam looked promising and I knew from now quite extensive experience on the short stretch I have fished that roach would be keenly biting there too

Wandering the whole field one accessible peg stood-out as offering the steadiest flowing least turbulent water. Precisely the sort the roach would settle into and so the usual idea of baiting numerous swims was deserted and just the one concentrated upon

Like the North Oxford Canal the River Leam in its middle reaches above Leamington  Spa is not exactly alive with fish but there are usually some better specimens to be enjoyed with a careful attitude.

A topper and centre-pin produced nothing in the first hour but then a change to a link-leger produced instant bites and a two perfect roach of 12 and 11 ounces graced the net. The larger fish are usually the only ones to provide hittable bites and so it proved as I fished-on into dark amid the barking muntjac, hooting owls and mystery unseen plops.

The session ended with four good roach but still, after two winters in their pursuit, still only the one over a pound

I am sure that a maggot approach would result in a wider catch of smaller fish but personally, until now, I have remained more interested in targeting the slightly bigger ones. This coming weekend being the last until June however tempts me to try it just to see what might be present...minnows, probably.

 

When you're on a Roll, Butter it and add Jam

Saturday's events left me reeling with the suggestion that a fish I had not given a second thought as anything other than a hybrid might be the roach of a lifetime, or perhaps a hundred lifetimes...with tapeworm

As the warmth of home was left on Sunday morning for another pre-boat traffic mildly frosty dawn start I had no clue where to go. As usual I was armed with the simplest of baits, lobworms and a loaf of bread, but I really could not go back to the same area as the previous day as it would have become a pursuit of the impossible. Equally I couldn't go somewhere with any potential and so in the interest of a challenge the least likely place to catch a decent roach I could think of mysteriously rose to the top of the list of options, but, the lobs could come into play as it was possible that a few perch might inhabit the area, as well, these days, as zander of course

The infinitesimally tiny likelihood of a decent catch from this stretch cannot be over-exaggerated. in matches it would often be missed-out, of such dubious repute was it. I had never seen a weight of even two pounds from there in around 25 years' knowledge and didn't recall personally even having a pound of fish from it in the former angling life before the late 1990's. Not great then. I had not considered the prospect of the crayfish population either, not yet having had much trouble with them this year, but this was one of those places they might relish, deep inside, shallow across, a rocky towpath edge and a tree-lined far bank

I introduced the now customary three helpings of mashed bread down the base of the far shelf at the start despite the lack of form on the basis of an emerging notion that the quantity of this type of feed is important to stop a marauding roach shoal in their tracks in a manner that white crumb or liquidised bread simply appear unable to match

Soon it was apparent that a substantial crayfish population did indeed exist here with the float constantly being pulled about by the line caught around them...and those tell-tale tench-like bubbles they create punctuating the surface immediately above the feed. Casting slightly away from the fed zone to avoid them gave had a tentative lift, little different to those movements attributable to the crays, but, enough to make the trigger finger twitch. the result was the head-banging resistance of a roach of around 8-10 ounces from which the hook pulled-out in mid-water

Not dejected as such but nevertheless convinced that was my chance for the session gone the worms were reached for together with the wand. Feeling around in my bag and behind me the realisation...no worms. They, it seemed, were conveniently tucked next to my shoes in the car boot. A blessing, perhaps, that would ensure I stuck to the bread, fully focussed. Some prospect however!

Constantly checking left and right, primarily for signs of topping fish and then for approaching boats I glanced back at the float to see it twitch and postively sail away. This was either a crustacean on speed or another creature with bream-like tendancies. I struck into a fish which took fully five minutes to land, a monstrous hybrid the like of which I could never have dreamed existed in any water let alone this narrow little canal

Humungus mixtupipiscillana at 3-14-0

I hate to keep repeating myself, genuinely I do, and my limited writing skills don't help when attempting to convey the exponential levels of amazement at the current 'form' of the canal, but, yet again, the hybrid PB has been broken with this lump of fish flesh and scales, the progeny of both roach and bronze bream. Although it is never perhaps fully conceivable that one might be impressed by a hybrid, simply because the disappointment at not having caught a pure roach or bream get's in the way of those feelings, I could not deny this was something special. Yes, despite the monster of the previous day that was more roach than bream, this more bream than roach example was over half a pound bigger, the largest North Oxford canal fish I had ever caught for the third week in succession! Surely this would not be beaten ever again unless a rare carp or large zander entered the equation?

This session was unusual from there on to it's conclusion three and a half hours after setting-up, in that bites then came at regular intervals rather than in a burst of 3 or 4 bites in quick succession as was fairly standard when a shoal passed through. Roach then took centre-stage as they moved-in and for a change apparently stayed hovering over the feed which had been topped-up every hour with two more helpings if bites had tailed-off

The first was a fish of 3 drams over a pound, followed by a fourteen ouncer and at this point I became drawn in to the incredible bird song surrounding me so started to mentally compile a list of species from song as a bit of additional entertainment. Warblers were making themselves known in some numbers for the first time this year and a swathe of violets carpetted the bank as it dipped toward the hedge behind me. A hybrid of just under fifteen ounces intially interrupted the test but great tit was the obvious starter for ten, 'Teacher, teacher!', the male urgently cried as the contrastingly contemplative, 'Chiff-chaff, chiff-chaff, chiff', emanated from a distant twig in tree-lined scrub to the south. Blackcap, greenfinch, mistle thrush and stock dove joined the musical throng as the list approached twenty species, the larger proportion of which were not ever seen

Perfect roach of around the pound started to show-up

The third roach was a muscular chap akin to the barrel-chested 'All Canals PB' of the previous weekend. The fight was something he or she could be proud of as it continually attempted to get round tree roots under the near bank and, at one point, managed to somehow get the line behind a log laying in the side which increased his chances of returning to the shoal considerably. Fortunately (for me) however the help of the landing net in dragging the log to the right brought the line back out into open water and the fish apparently became disorientated soon to be beaten. For the third time since the new year I was convinced this fish could be another PB but with the 1-7-3 fish in the back of my mind this time I knew it would be close and not a huge increase, if any. The capture of pound roach earlier in the session helped to gauge the scale. In the wetted bag the read-out appeared to gleam the result with some excitement as 24.3oz...converting to 1-8-5 and, yes, another All Canals PB to boot

The best roach from a canal so far at 1-8-5

Another thickset spawning season fish but how had they eluded me last year at this time I thought? In fact, checking 2012's notes they hadn't, I just have a bad memory but that ceiling of around 1-4-0 was quite obvious and the average was slightly smaller than this year, they are a year older after all. Could it be that simple? Well, it could but a theory is starting to formulate on this which I will share in a future post when updating current thinking on the tactics of this big canal roach quest

As a hint of water movement started to take effect a last bite of the day produced a fourth roach of just 8 drams below the pound as the first willow warbler of the year struck-up its melancholy descending song and soon after my photography ability was found wanting trying to make something of the literally fantastical catch of six fish for nine and half pounds from this previously angler-forsaken stretch. I shall not be rushing back there though, much preferring instead to seek-out a new challenge but it will not be ignored so freely in future certainly!

The whole nine and a half pounds of the blighters

In the words of the recently deceased Baroness Thatcher, "I'm enjoying this!", but how much longer this streak of unfathomable luck can continue I have no idea. I feel destined for that inestimable balancing event known as a series of blanks to descend upon things any day and I could not complain if it were indeed to do so

Soaring buzzard and kestrel sought thermals over the road and reflected the light-headed mood as I headed back not noticing either the load on my back or the ground under my feet, angling gets no better than this

The four canal roach in all their spring sunlight glory, totalling 4-5-11

Species list:
Rabbit, roach, (roachxbream hybrid), great tit, blue tit, mallard, moorhen, canada goose, heron, wren, chaffinch, bullfinch, carrion crow, woodpigeon, blackbird, mistle thrush, willow warbler, chiffchaff, robin, greenfinch, blackcap, skylark, stock dove, dunnock, buzzard, kestrel

The Combined End of the Beginning

A weekend struck-through by a third bout of man'flu this winter set me thinking more widely than the usual particularly narrow field of view...

So many memories from the old days. So many days when luck was on my side and yet plenty when it wasn't, memories that mysteriously emerge heavily rioting from a fog like a ponderous bream from murky water as I attempt to draw them out for recollection

There have been days when one's fortune seemed overwhelmingly unjust to others and others that are simply forgotten, and for justifiable reason

I have been lucky to have found the outdoors, or maybe it is the other way round, but then that is no doubt the mantra of anyone who enjoys thoroughly an enthralling pursuit away from their work which is more than just sport or a hobby but a way of life, a state of mind

This for me is how I view being anywhere in fresh air but particularly imbibing the sights and being stimulated of the senses in the countryside, even though there is nothing natural about it if one takes the view that man's influence renders things 'unnatural'. There is not a single plant or organism outside the influence of man, without doubt, and the great outdoors is only great within those limits and set against that context. The range of our everyday lives is wholly subject to the influence of ourselves and our ancestors

50 years I have wandered where the feeling took me and at every turn there is regret, occasionally at my own stupidity, but more often over the actions of others

As a teenager, and maybe before, it was fundamentally obvious that unendingly and obsessionally tampering with what I will call 'life' was a means to a gloomy end. Even at that formative time of life it was beyond being unquestionable that there was no need for any car to be capable of less than even 40mpg; there was no logic in straightening watercourses and literally destroying the food chain and webs supported by them to such an extent that, even when the error is identifed, it can never be corrected as the true loss is just a faded memory; there was a noticeable decline in what is now termed biodiversity (yes, give it a name and we can all live with it, "My child is out of control!, He has attention problems", well have you considered that feeding him a diet of blue smarties, coke and electronic games might not be natural?); development goes ahead paying lip service to biodiversity because national planning guidance says it must, and for that reason alone; agriculture rapes every last inch of land and can only be diverted from its destructive combine by subsidy

It is no risk as far as I am concerned to state here that it is possible that in ours or our childrens' lifetimes the world as we know it may come to an end. I do not consider this the miserable rambling of one obsessed by 'doom and gloom' but just a calculated statement of fact

To my mind it has long since been questionable that the earth behaves as a single organism and that it can't be that long, in terms of the time-line of life on earth, that it is about to change, as far as we are concerned, for the unfathomable worse

Highly likely is the possibility that the extinction of one too many organisms will act as a fairly sudden catalyst for massive change as we head for the inevitable restructuring of Gaia to the exclusion of life as we know and enjoy it

Today was a strange one, two of the family were ill with heavy colds and yet we needed to vacate the house as building work was underway which we wouldn't be able to live with. The day therefore became one of wanderings and, in that now somewhat old-fashioned way, we drove. We drove partly so that we didn't visit friends or relations and spread the bug to them and partly to revisit areas of countryside we hadn't seen for a while south of home and into the north of Oxfordshire

We drove about forty miles and, in all that way, through drift-crisped verges and scenes of wild desperation; through stiff easterly winds biting on exposed arable fields; under snow-laden branches of apparently lifeless trees we saw just four mammals, two pair of roe deer, and I remarked how odd it seemed to see them wandering the fields and yet not being owned by the landowners but, of course, we should be used to the presence of wild animals we should expect them to be there and not have to search for them with a metaphorical nit-comb in the flea-bitten wig of the outdoors

Yes, so many memories. Memories of water voles pushing tiny flared nostril-speared bow waves and diving at the last minute sight of my presence through their tiny glistening pin-head eyes pursued to the edge by released mink and hanging like a milk tooth on its last eye-wateringly painful thread of flesh; of myriad multi-coloured butterfly species now seemingly lost for ever in any number and maybe soon for good; of vast shoals of tiny gudgeon now quite simply devoured by the dim-witted alien attack of the zander; on catching the diminutive native freshwater crayfish in a minnow-trap, inspecting it with wonder, and returning it with care to the stony sun-sparkled and commensurately tiny River Swift; of hundreds of yellow wagtails falling in fields from migration brighter than custard such that it seemed the whole population of the country was descending on us at that very moment; of hoardes of chirping house sparrows attacking the breadcrumbs in the back yard of youth; and imagined memories that can only be gleaned of a balance of existence never fully experienced from an era, indeed another world, when otters and bitterns, water meadows and working mills, red-backed shrikes and adders, lush growth and a vast and wide array of lifeforms washed around in a delicately poised environment such as we will never see again nor appreciate to even the most infinitely miniscule degree as common-sense fades away hand-in-hand with the advancement of the modern world

How I wish that, just occasionally, time spent by the water might be punctuated by the 'plop' of the water vole, how fulfilled life would again be

"But we're alright, we're nice and warm here,
No one to hurt us except our friends"

References:
Gaia - James Lovelock/Oxford University Press 1979
The Combine - Paul Weller/Universal Music Publishing Group 1977