Arthur's Basket

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? 

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?! 

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. 

Now, fishing information is often distorted we find, do we not? 

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. 

If only. 

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. 

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). 

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. 

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. 

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. 

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. 

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. 

So the dear old characterful basket was soon extinct. A demise caused by man, but without any hint of global warming. 

Or so I thought. 

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. 

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". 

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. 

On Christmas day that great giver of gifts from the North left me with a dream materialised. 

A split cane rod, or two.

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...

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. 

It was only right.

Gold Mines and The Wrath of Zeus

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.

A change of rules this year, and so far it's proven quite intriguing.

If someone catches a fish bigger than the previous best of that species it gets 100pts, 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.

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.

In the last challenge of 2017/18 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.

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!

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The Driving Seat

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

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.

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A Long Weekend on Rising Rivers

Friday:

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

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!)

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...

So, immediately stumped as I was by confusion and a lack of ideas, this was the thought process:

"What the...?!"

"That's shocking, all that habitat 'tidied-up' and there was a major colony of that moth here"

"Where's the camera?"

"The shoal will still be here though, they never move..."

"...but how long ago were they cut down? It wasn't this week"

"The river could be strewn with invisible branches"

"I'll move back to the unaffected stretch"

(setting-up) "Maybe I should've gone somewhere else?"

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.

Yes, I should've gone somewhere else.

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.

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 sun I, decided to spend the afternoon in a known barbel haunt in the hope of a double.

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.

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.

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.

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".

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. 

He'd arrived two hours before sunset and completed the business he booked-in for. Only to be admired, that approach. 


Saturday/Sunday:
...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. 

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!

Monday:

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.

But we were focused. Oh yes, we could blank-out the neon signs and gold-encrusted cash registers.

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!

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.

Life in the Old Bog yet

Minus one and the iced mist drags itself from the water in an almost imperceptible spiral of a farmhouse in diameter.

Undeterred, the cacophony of April strikes up as the sun burns though the silhouettes of trees as if whitefire lies behind.

Then as a squeezed irregular shape, rays bursting through the stout timbers of a hundred years standing, the earth's candle fires up.

Beneath the surface those mucus encased shoals start to dream, but they dream of the confidence of dusk.

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.

This is spring in these neglected parts that only the chiffchaff and its cousins appreciate sufficiently to return.

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.

So Now What?

The Challenge now behind us, the future unfurling like mist gently drifting across a meadow. No specific direction, nor apparent purpose.

For me The Challenge has become such an engaging event that I am consumed by it for the whole 12 months of its existence.

Consumed by its capacity to include all possibilities; its ability to make one target species ordinarily overlooked or put back without a glance beyond perhaps initial i.d.; it's pitting of skills and wits between anglers who are capable of anything at anytime; its handed-down drive to need to break p.b's; it's breadth of interest and perhaps, most importantly, the inate need be comfortable enough to fish all venue types with a least a modicum of competence.

On that latter point I ain't no Dick Walker or Kevin Ashurst but the pleasure to be gained in learning new methods and techniques, then applying them to ever different situations, is huge and certainly it has been a source of amazement to me that those delicate, finely tuned approaches of my match angling past can actually be less effective than a heavy duty set-up to regularly tempt those big fish.

So currently, as I write infact, with the swim baited (as it has been this past month) the alarms set, landing net poised and camera at the ready, we wait again. And again...

...and again.

After numerous baiting sessions, too many to be precise about the number, out of the blue a proper bite and just a small hybrid comes to the net but it's a start and pretty much the 'species' I was looking then [for this was before the challenge ended and a specimen of such a fish would score maximum points (110: 100 for % of 'record' size plus 10 for biggest caught overall)].

Then as the challenge fizzled-out via a simply horrendous last weekends' weather one or two big bream started to be caught and in one early session I managed a four pounder (claimed to be the smallest in the lake!) at 06.30hrs.

An hour passed and at 07.30, the alarm blipped to confirm another fish and a second bream which proved all waters p.b. blitzer of 11lbs 14ozs, beating the 7lb plus from the Warks Avon last year by a 4lbs margin that didn't even touch the sides. Now that is how to raise a p.b! It does however make most, if not all, future bream less significant.

I guess I can now see that is the curse of the true specimen hunter I've just fallen foul of - hit the target...and then what?

So the baiting continued, having sourced a supply of consistently large maggots.

One thing I always have done in prebaited swims, and this includes bonus fish areas when match fishing, is not to feed it before having an exploratory cast. Many's the time when baiting over the heads of feeding fish has caused them to scurry away.

Sunday morning was no different in this respect, although the heavy, rape pollen inundated mist hanging over The (millpond-like) Stillwater was a bonus; shrouding the sky from the fish and the angler in expectant mystery.

First cast made over three rods, 2 set-up for tench, 1 for bream, and an instant indication saw a bobbin banging it's head against the alarm, but the strike met with only fleeting resistance.

Often this can be the only bite of the day as demonstrated by a torrent of cussing and blinding immediately thereafter.

The recast met with a similar event however, this time no mistake, but equally a surprising lack of resistance from the foe. Winding-in, in clear water, a perch of just over a pound came into view.

A recast and further action. This time to strike met brief solid resistance before going slack.

Thus far, not so good, the redeeming thought being that they were clearly 'having it' and it was only a question of time.

Soon a hard fighting, clearly male, tench was on and as I played it well away from the other lines on what had been the middle rod the left alarm burst into techno song, the bobbin dropping-back to the ground as the feeder slipped. This fish went 4.9.

Soon enough though two further tench were banked. 5.6 and 5lbs dead (when I say "dead"...).

I started to wonder where this would end? Four tench and maybe another perch or two? I wasn't being greedy but wanted to make the most of what was undoubtedly goung to be a brief and rare opportunity.

The three rods sat, poised.

Left and middle 1.25tc but the right hand rod, a classic old 2.25tc and rigged for a rather different species, was next to feel the tension. A really solid fish, nodding slowly as they do, and kiting right, towards submerged rushes, but with suitable angles and pressure it was eased to the top, held there and slowly drawn to inescapability.

At first glimpse underwater it had looked around seven pounds but with the challenge of having to carefully lift the net over the other two, still expectant, lines it became clear this was a touch more special.

Having had that demolition job of an 11.14 p.b. a few days ago however I knew it wasn't quite in that bracket but on the mat it looked a 'double figure' fish, to these somewhat inexperienced eyes at least.

Sure enough it weighed in at a "get rough, get tough, 10.10" (as Heaven 17 would have had it, apologies to Messrs Ware and Gregory).

10.10 'Fight in Progress'

On return, this fish shot off in a very unbreamlike fashion as though it enjoyed the whole experience so much it had an urgent need to find some more bait...it didn't.

A further tench ensued of 4.14 together with a decent lost fish when a second alarm distracted me and the clutch wasn't adjusted quickly enough as a consequence.

Something then catches the corner of my eye.

Something tern-like but simultaneously something 'un-tern-like', both in size and in not being white.

But no, wait a second, it was a tern.

An individual black tern.

The first of the year and always an outstanding experience, such wonderful creatures that they are.

No sooner had the migrant gone out of sight than another monster bream was on the hook. Straight for the emergent rushes it headed but again it was eased up and slid across them without only the slightest twitch of anxiety.

On the scales, this second of the day's brace, registered 9lbs 15ozs (if only it had succumbed an ounce later in it's growth!).

That signalled the end of the string of bites and, totting time and total, the eight fish rolled up at forty seven and a half pounds; the bites spanning only three hours' or so of fishing and not a carp in sight.

By far the best fishing since match fishing ended and way beyond my current, and most likely future, wildest dreams.

Roll on next weekend. Ye Gods!

THE 2017-18 BLOGGER'S CHALLENGE CONCLUDES

At midnight on Monday the biennial Blogger's Challenge came to a close with the conclusion of the 2017/18 competition.

Challengers had generally been seeking as many species, to as great a percentage of the British Record as possible, across all three water types; river, stillwater, canal.

That's not to say everyone had the same plan. Far from it. The 16 competitors, as it happens, drawn from all over the southern half of England had their own ideas on what appealed to them.

Some sought everything, everywhere. Some just the rivers. Some everything except the venue type they didn't like and some simply wanted to catch the biggest of certain species; barbel or carp perhaps. Then there was the more complex tactic of attacking a certain type of water but also achieving preferred species sizes, or trying to; followed by contestants who entered their fish as a by-product of their everyday fishing without changing anything.

The rules were very much similar to 2015/16 but with added smaller species - gudgeon, ruffe, etc., and anglers had to post pictures of the fish before claiming the catch. The small fish however proved more difficult to track down for the more northerly of us than one might have anticipated.

The early months and through to Christmas proved very productive for most but the continuously unsettled winter and early spring weather made the latter half of the active year very hardwork. I can't recall a more difficult winter's fishing simply due to the fact that fish respond to steady weather and water temperatures but we barely experienced any such circumstances.

So the pre-race favourite at unbackable odds was James Denison, based in South London, and, as previously, his skill and venue knowledge proved decisive in the quality and regularity with which he was able to tempt big points scoring fish. If it wasn't a 6lb river chub it was a 25lb canal carp.

James proved a runaway winner of the river competition by quite a margin and this proved the difference in the end taking that and then the overall title by over 200 points.

Brian Roberts, unusually for him, being a pike nut, took the year rather seriously and really went for it with a variety of methods and species he wasn't used to. Travelling with James from time to time, he emerged in a very much worthy overall third place, but also won the Stillwater category and came second behind James on rivers. To my mind, the performance of the past year.

Other performances such as Mick Newey doing his level best to get 2nd in the river category behind James but getting pipped at the post by Brian, and Dave Williams seeking out and landing the biggest carp and barbel of the whole competition stand-out as other highlights.

The fish of the year though will surely be James' 10lb 4oz canal bream. I would not have believed such things existed, but it seems they do, or, at the very least, it does!

So there we are, no prizes, no competition this coming year and certainly less communication...the WhatsApp group a small bunch of us joined certainly took a battering, at times I feared my phone would melt!

Personally I look forward as positively to the year off between challenges as the competition itself, as it makes for a perfect contrast, and, along the way, seeds of ideas for maximising opportunities for 2019/20 will be sewn.

Well done all and thank you for a great challenge, and I very much look forward to a purely amateur locking of horns next time around.

[Final scoreboard takes a few seconds to.load]

Bloggers Challenge Run-in

Onset of April marks the start of the final month of the Bloggers Challenge 2017/18.

One or two anglers have been able to put some good points on the scales since the New Year but most of us have struggled. However, today is the turning point in the weather with temperatures set to rise over the next fortnight to fifteen centigrade in the day but more importantly five degrees plus overnight, enabling the stillwaters and canals to boost the possibilities of some late 'summer fish'

Brian had a tremendous burst of quality fish toward the end of the river season which cemented his place in third for the time being, a hundred points behind my dear old self, sat 200 behind runaway leader James.

Scorecard

So, in the knowledge that 100 points is just three cracking fish for Brian to overtake me, I've set myself the challenge within a challenge of adding as many points in the next four weeks as I can glean and really give it a go; almost as if it had only just commenced.

It can be a fizzling last few weeks of the competition and so the prospect of some excitement in it is not to be sniffed at.

Scouring the potential identified a few species that slipped through the gaping holes in the ramshackle landing net, some of which (say it quietly) should be quite easy to catch. Others not so.

This past weekend The Canon took me to a pond known to contain ide. Thinking of it as a day-ticket fishery it still appeared to be one as I arrived, if a little full to overflowing across the path in places. On closer inspection however it was clear that under that increased water level sat platforms seemingly inches apart; a sure sign that this was a commercial fishery.

I immediately felt quite queasy but found putting my fingers in my ears and repeating, "La la la la", helped, as I stemmed the flow of blood, quite neatly actually, with sticks of pop-up foam in each nostril.

Now I had never seen an ide and had to Google it so that I could recognise one and apparently it's just a naturally coloured orfe. If a zander is a 'pike-perch' (it isn't) then an ide is a chub-roach.

A bit more research suggested the most likely method, keeping it simple, would be float fishing on the drop with regular maggot feed. I knew it could rain all morning and so rod and line was preferred to the pole.

The Canon left me to it and wandered off to find a suitable bread punch swim peg (commercial after all) less affected by the high water having advised the water was 18"-2' up on normal...and it was coloured. Well, I knew such fisheries were often coloured due simply to the action of their inhabitants and, looking at it, I felt if it had been a river I would be rubbing my hands. I set sail therefore with some self-promoted confidence.

At this point there was no one else there but, slowly, a trickle of vans bounced and splashed through the water-filled potholes just behind me and as the first one passed, a bite, a strike and the devil incarnate was hooked...a commercial carp.

Clearly there would be some risks taken here; I was after ide in a venue the population of which was generally unknown to me so I set up with a 16 hook to a 3.5lbs fluorocarbon hooklength and 4.4lbs reel line. A 4BB insert waggler with 3no.8's down the line would act as the middleman. This set-up would give me some chance of landing Satan should he bite without too much affecting the ide prospects, or so I thought.

So this carp is hooked but the hook pulls out soon thereafter. Minutes later the same event precisely. Then I hook one that doesn't seem to be in danger of coming-off and my light match rod suddenly seemed incredibly under-gunned making the fight long and, toward the end arm-achingly long-winded. Upon inspection of this 6lbs 8oz common carp the reason for the lost fish became evident. No lips. Let's call him "Marchello".

At this point a little flurry of estates and vans pass and pull-up 100 yards to my left, the occupants of which then disembark and proceed to shout to each other about the conditions.

"He's catching down there", floats down wind into the shell-like. Well, why wouldn't you? It's coloured and clearly stuffed with fish.

Soon after, a 7.4 version was dragged to the net like an unwieldy channel swimmer...with horns. This one, hooked on the outside of the orifice formerly known as a mouth, was never slipping the hook.

The maggots continued to be drizzled in. 10 at a time and constant, rather like scaled-up squatt fishing. In fact it took me back about 30 years.

So, here I am on my lightweight chair, under the gamp with my trusty centrepin offering encouragement to the blinkered pole fishing masses who decide to stay, unlike previous visitors who turned straight round and headed for breakfast.

I think there's five in this mass and they're having a 'match' albeit they seem to choose their pegs but I simply may have missed the drawer for numbers. They shout at each other while moving their gear.

"He's got another" accompanied the second fish as a water vole, yes a water vole, swam between banks. Apart from the ide the highlight of the morning.

On the drop - a smaller fish. It could be a roach, rudd, hybrid...or...the target. On the retieve it became roach or ide alternately two or three times before I swung it to hand and my first ide was banked at 8ozs. Unfortunately, in the rain and excitement, I forgot to photograph it and then dropped it back in anyway but thankfully the Challenge guys agreed the six points could count.

"You had a bite yet?"

"No mate"

"You on pellet?"

I hook and lose, after a long battle, a third sack of evil.

"You got one?"

"Yeah"

...."You lost it?"

"Yeah it's come off"

At which point the rest of the competitors shout and laugh at him. Inwardly I'm thinking, "Really?!.

The Grumpy Old Man in me is tempted to comment that, in my day, open matches started at thirty anglers and went up to 200 plus. On the odd occasion something went wrong and only a handful turned-up we'd go pleasure fishing. This wasn't a match, it was at best a knock-up and at worst a practice session. Let's face it, you'd only get Matchman of the Year points if there were a minimum of 60 competitors.

It gets harder now. I try chopped worm and hook a fourth of these dark satanic ills that again pulls-out.

The float rig gets an even more risky 18 hook in the hope of a further ide but the only other bite comes from a bream of 3.1

So I've had seventeen pounds odd of fish and lost (taking an average carp size as six pounds) 24lbs = circa 41lbs of fish due to the light tackle. The two matchmen in my 'section' are blanking.

I pack the stuff in the car and visit the Canon, who slips in that he has started catching bream...on bread punch. No pellets here either? How odd.

Approach the venue; assess the situation; fish to the conditions. It's not, as they say, rocket science, but then it's the match angler's job to know that, not mine.


With apologies to the memory of William Blake

A Reflective Surface

The fields rolling and falling though marsh to the rush-lined margins, bleached and wrung-out by winter.

A consuming stillness save for the calling raven, finches and thrushes. Artificial yet real, but isn't it all?

Three moorhen career through the pasture's edge headlong as if to fall in a chestward heap, legs in cartoon motion to the rear. How many are they, these ever-present canal rails? Thankfully more than sufficient to gladden the heart on all-but every gongoozling excursion, without doubt.

Here a major chunk of F, F & F history would be recalled. Negotiation, advertisement, commitment, engagement and satisfaction in the pursuit.

This was a stretch of the most picturesque Midlands canal snaking, as it still does, from dark tunnel to complex locks; through ancient parkland with its mature oaks and chestnuts; cutting through sheep pasture like a chisel to linocut. The result the same. A work of human art.

A change had come. Rush beds extended, reedmace beds established. A wide, now narrowed, bend and whereas, in decades past, the plate glass surface would be punctuated by the innumerable concentric rings of myriad small roach. Now- nothing.

Here, one imagined barn owl and drifting hen harrier slipping over rough grassland untouched by beast or harrow from decent to recent times.

There, a badger sett high and deep in the clay bank.

Then otter-marked brick paving. "Private, trespassers will be persecuted", it said to anything capable of interpreting it.

Today so different.

In years gone, sixty brethren would gather in the dawn-time mist. A fleece and nylon clump of pink-eyed expectation and laughter. "That's a posh shirt you're wearing there George. Are you trying to raise the standard of match angling attire?"

Of those a handful would remain to be showered as they coveted; the clump dissolved to all corners; glitter cast on the worthy.

Perhaps a shoal of bream, a 'juicy' tench or carp, a hard-won net of sparkling roach would attain the jewels, and otherwise perhaps just a handful of tiddlers as winter set in.

The crinkle-cut towpath edge, a straightened pastry cutter, still beats out those reminders with a numerical rhythm.

Twenty-three, the first; through thirties, a favourite 52 and up to 74, a narrower tiddler-filled straight.

Today though it was the teens and in pursuit of that toothiest of adversaries, pike. They had always been here. A slowly raking, shallow near shelf overhung by branches but the turbidity would prove to work against us and only the nuthatch, dunnock and siskin would keep us from sliding into tedium.

The historic stone wall, consumed by ivy yet still partly intact beside the massive oak and, more distant, fresh lamb; twins and triplets in red and blue. How closely the ewes knit their lanolin-infiltrated wool to the reins of their excitable young.

March violets quietly bloom, a modesty instilled by evolution, on woodbanks and in the lee of hawthorn hedges. Hints of green among the marginal rushes and young rabbits, all dewy-eyed twinkles and bobbing white tails, conscious of the soaring threat of these cloudy skies.

Spring, and the sweet shop is again open.

Canal Research gets Silver Liting

There was a time when the pursuit of big canal fish was a combined effort. Committed anglers pooling information to inform a common goal.

Then that all changed two winters ago and since the furrow had been ploughed alone with neither horse nor spreadsheet.

A chance encounter with a bankside acquaintance has changed all that however with our work on 'the project' stimulating the latent traditional angler in an otherwise rubber fetishist mind (as a hitherto devout lure angler).

Witnessing the early morning success of bread on the canal had inspired him into a burst of activity on a canal I last fished in an NFA West Midlands Junior Championship precisely 40 years ago.

Results have been comparable with those I too have experienced and at last there is a sounding board out there, a catch-it net from which to pluck some rebounds.

Eric Weight authored an excellent lure fishing blog "Artficial Lite" which he then had to mothball due to the age old problem, but now it's back and now adorned with a separate glittering subsection "Silver Lite" in which he eloquently sets-out his findings in this new venture.

Initially Eric has had little difficulty in depicting my dear old self as a complete know-all (clearly he is a good judge of character) but hopefully by sharing what we've gleaned through the research and ramblings of F,F&F he can subjugate the learning process and cut to the chase of the chase on the cut.

Silver Lite is proving the fish of the Ashby de la Zouch Canal to be more akin to heavy metal by the weight of numbers of large hybrids Eric has teased into the net via dawn, and even pre-dawn, presented flake.

I joined him for a tough session on a recent Saturday morning and found the canal very much reminiscent of my local North Oxford Canal in appearance and, possibly, stocks. The main noteworthy difference being the sheer size of its armoured space invaders; one of which I had to net and must've been nigh-on half a pound!

Eric has been having some great early morning catches and has recently tracked down some decent roach to just over the pound mark so there is potential in that cut, albeit, for myself, it's a few minutes further than I like to regularly travel.

Interrogating the map however reminded me that other lengths of the Ashby do run closer to home and must be worth some attention this winter, especially in sheltered countryside locations.

Thankfully it is generally a rural canal.

----

And so the canal campaign begins...

Today I sit writing with rising, recently seeded fields before me, migrating skylark and occasional meadow pipit calling overhead. The water now turbid as the passing narrowboats exceed double figures.

On the inside of this wide piled bend I had hoped.

The clarity at dawn was perfect for some 'bread fish' as well as those susceptible to the odd large worm.

These mornings however can never be lengthy. If the canals were closed they would soon be clear so, yes, we do need boats but the resultant short sharp sessions need to be very focussed to avoid wastage.

Good things are always possible...



Roach X bream hybrid 2lbs 1oz

 

Roach 0.14.2

 

Perch 2lbs 1oz & a few more challenge point

The above formed part of this mornings 11 fish, 9lbs catch from an area I'd been meaning to visit for three years but for various reasons didn't make

It was certainly an education and were it not for a mad spell of fifteen minutes during which four bites came to both rods simultaneously and all ended-up being completely missed.

It's clearly going to be a while before we get back in the groove!

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BLOGGER'S CHALLENGE UPDATE:
1 James Denison 999
2 George Burton 771
3 Brian Roberts 623
4 Danny Everitt 503
5 Sean Dowling 428

In Search of Wonderment.

Deep summer has never held much appeal.

As a kid The Old Duffer and The Old Trout didn't care for the sun and I guess it stuck.

We used to amuse ourselves with hemp and tares and at this time of year, the harvest, it was peak seed fishing season.

Now though, with the bonus fish commitment truly engaged, the prospect of a stream of victims up to the occasional pound limit just does not tick any boxes nor spend any of the emotional budget.

We're in a "stick cleft" (sic) as someone used to say; a dilemma; a damned if we do, damned if we don't time of year.

There are fish to be caught and, Bloggers Challenge-wise, some of  summer stillwater species have been banked but the rivers have been pretty dreadful locally, when low and clear. The recent rains have brought hope but even a swim I felt certain would produce a decent barbel or chub has been piscatorially ravaged on three or four occasions to no avail, other than three measly additional points for a 3oz 2dr dace.

The lake carp are too easy to catch and the canals are nose to tail with disrespecting and dim-witted holiday narrowboaters.

Has the picture been painted?!

So, what to do?

The inadvertent bream campaign culminated in two consecutive 5lbs 4ozs individuals from a pool I've become strangely fond of but I really need to move-on.

Only two weeks or so hence the little Johnnies  and Janets will be brimming the schools; the hire narrowboats will be scrubbed-up for next time and life will be on the up. Big and long-established autumn and winter targets can be pursued with methods of great enjoyment.

Until then however a few important things have eluded my bloggers challenge submissions. River and canal carp, tench and rudd being the main ones. It would be these that ought to form the basis of the next month's action. Canals can be identified where these are all quite possible, perhaps even from a single peg. For any of these species on a river however it's far from a certainty and this must be where the bulk of the homework is done.

----

Bloggers Challenge Update:
James, of course, has torn-off into the lead but if the above species can be weighed-in his lead could be whittled down to manageable proportions, for now at least

Current Top 5:
James Denison 828
George Burton 626
Brian Roberts 506
Daniel Everitt 423
Russell Hilton 401

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All that apart, since returning from the Wye, where after, now, a total of around ten days experience at this barbel fishing lark it is starting to make some kind of sense, the Warwickshire Avon's barbel, in some areas, including this, fish of legend, would be under the microscope.

At first, and, as it happens, for around half a dozen sessions, a tactic of either 'bait droppered' hemp & pellets or cage feeder produced not even the slightest indication of fish presence.

Then this weekend, in a down in the mouth chance encounter with Stealth Mode Gary while loading the cars after drawing yet another blank, a little pearl fell from his lips and shone like a Time Square neon advertisement. It was simple and it was instantly eating at me. Immediately it was clear this was the answer even without the accompanying tales of 12.13's, 10.6's, etc., and the obligatory, "...and he lost one at the net he said made those look small...".

So, with rain pouring on arrival (this was serious) and barbed wire scratches on the new-ish car as a bonus the 'Royal we', settled in.

Brolly like a mushroom in the still air and yet room to cast to the right we sat peering-out into the closing gloom for the last two hours of the day. It would be dark early but with a rule of no fishing after sunset it would be dusk forever on an evening like this. Sunset would be prolonged and, as prime big fish time, if it was going to happen it would be today.

Baiting-up and casting-out with confidence we sat back and exchanged idiocies with our Challenge contemporaries. It was not long before the realisation that we'd put the bait just beyond a significant fallen branch (suggesting continuing in this fashion was folly in the landing a fish stakes) caused us to start feeding further-out by catapult.

Giving it twenty minutes to settle in the squelching, overwhelming twilight the prospect of a cast with that sparkling pearl on the hook became necessarily irresistible.

Out it went. A touch out of position and, sure enough, nothing was doing. Second underarm flick to mid-river beyond the snags and we were in business.

A minute or two passed and a definite but slight quiver suggested sub-aquatic interest.

We reached for the rod.

The proverbial three foot twitch had barely materialised when the strike met with unexpectedly mediocre resistance. It was either an enthusiastic big bream or a subdued chub.

Plodding it's way toward us under decent pressure, it morphed. The plodder became a 100m runner. Belatedly out of the blocks and stripping line from the clutch with a sound like a cheap electric drill everything came to life.

It's been like this for me. The first few outings with a certain method or ambition never really have the Heineken effect until that day, usually  sat alone, when a simple tweak to the idea and suddenly it will sing and dance.

Battle continued.

We could, by now, see the fish in the shadow of a dense tree canopy. It looked disappointingly small at depth as I has braced myself for a 'double'. This was partly a strange notion, given the p.b. of only a few weeks prior was 7lbs 14ozs, and partly the result of knowledge. Not many barbel are offered-up by this stretch but when they are they are usually eleven to fourteen pounds.

Meanwhile, back at the branch, the fight was culminating in a series of increasingly desperate clutch-squealing lunges and on the final one, as soon as this fine adversary gave a hint of relaxation, over the string he came to be engulfed in brown fishnet like a shapely leg.

It continued to pour and as she hit the net the fish seemed 'small' in the sense that I had braced myself for a monster, for Barbus maxima.

In the weighing sling and at least four inches broad across the pectorals however this was surely a leviathon as compared to anything I'd seen previously. The 7.14 had seemed massive, this was significantly bigger.

The scales fluctuated between 173 and 182 ounces as she shuffled for comfort beneath. The sling would 'go' sixteen ounces on a dry day, today more. I prayed to the great fish god Gobio that it would come to rest at in excess of 176.

It did not, but no matter; a fish of nine-twelve was impressive enough in the flesh and, soaked in the gloom as we were by the incessant downpour, beaming smiles illuminated the scene.

Barbus notquiteicus slipped back with gusto and there had to be 'one more cast'.

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.