The Lure of Angling

With a nice breeze skipping from the west over the shingle behind me, and the intermittent cloud cover, it looked a fine sort of day to begin things. The tide had two hours of flood left until it hit slack water and the wind was combining with the lapping sea just enough to make me smile. Even as inexperienced as I am, I know that too little surf makes for clear seas and lethargic fish, whilst too much can halt fishing entirely Hence today the early morning wind had the waves forming a thirty feet off the shore and the sea looked just about right to me.

My last encounter with sea fishing over six months ago had not gone well. Like all types of fishing there are good times and bad, and after many a good time I had fallen, flailing face first onto a bad one. The geography of the environment where beach fishing takes place can make it feel very black and white. By that I mean that more often than not it's a case of there is, or is not, feeding fish within casting range of the beach. So as I stood there with poised to cast with four ounces of lead swinging in the breeze waiting to tow my oozing bundle of peeler crab towards the horizon, I hoped this was not going splash down into fallow water...

I sometimes think those moments waiting for that first bite of a trip are the most nerve racking, with the tone of the fishing ahead hanging in the balance. Then when that first dip rattle or bleep occurs the relief is palpable and you can relax knowing that all will not be for waste. It took exactly five minutes for my first bite to develop. The initial single nod widened my eyes immediately and called me to the rod, but my brain reminded me I wasn't fishing for winter dace and waiting to strike would be more beneficial in this scenario. Two more nods and then the rod was heaving over like Moby dick himself was attached to my line.

On one hand sea and tackle take away much of the fight of captures made in the waves, but on the other they add to it too. Most rigs drag lead behind on the retrieve as the sea seems to try and suck back fish as you reel them in. Even reeling in the smallest of fish can be a job in itself. My fish was pulling back and had as yet remained a mystery as it kited across the last few waves. Then a pointy nose appeared from under the last wave before a miniature fin was seen in the receding wave and the tone of things to come was instantly set.

Smooth hound pups are undoubtedly cute and their tenacity to consume baits you would have always thought to large for them is commendable, but the capture of one on my first cast usually means the sea bed would probably be paved with them. Frankly though, I needed the confidence boost a morning of catching these little sharks would provide, and I did enjoy it as one after another they searched out my single crab bait on the seemingly featureless sea bed.

By the time the tide had stalled, then turned, I had caught dozens of them at all kinds of ranges and happily the size of the fish present on this beach seems to be increasing. As normally they they average a eight inches long and maybe half a pound but several were four times this size. Though this could be down to them being veracious little critters, like this one which was determined to gum my finger or hand, which resulted in my rather perplexed look!

Two days later I had had enough of smooth hound pups and was considering new marks further south. It just happened that early one morning as I drove towards one new area a road accident had closed off access to, that I diverted to a totally different bit of beach. Kessingland beach is a serious competitor for the most easterly point of UK and common belief in this area has it that in the next ten years it will gain enough ground to depose its close neighbour of this title.

After trudging across an endless sea of shingle I for one did not find hard to believe that Kessingland will soon become usurper to Lowestoft's crown. The bank of pebbles I had to descend down to the quickly sloping sand was nothing less than epic. Quite literally I had a small house sized bank of constantly moving shingle jutting up from the sandy bar where I stood at forty five degrees that ended in nothing but sky.

That first morning was certainly to be eventful. Bites weren't easy to come by and the few that did appear were nontheless from more smooth hound pups hanging out way beyond the sanctuary of the bay where most of their relations were residing northwards of. I was considering making a move when out of nowhere my rod really bent over shaking violently as it did. My instant thought was I had found my holy grail and a bass had found my bait beyond the surf... But I was mistaken!

The culprit really made me work hard to get it towards the beach and if it was not for the definite sideways movement I would have certainly said I was dragging in a clump of weed. By now the tide had begun pulling and that made a hard job worse, but my careful persuasion came good in the end. It was almost reliving to see my bright red line become my orange shock leader and when it finally passed through the top ring of my rod I knew I was about to my hands on a decent prize. Expecting a good bass to appear as the waves receded I was shocked when a rather much larger smooth hound of of maybe five or more pounds materialised. In a total panic I rushed forward to grab it just as another wave came in. Being a trainer wearing landlubber I backed off not wanting to get wet, only to see the fish get pulled back out to sea. I stupidly grabbed the only bit of the rig to hand which just happened to be the lead. A lesson was quickly learnt. Turns out me pulling from the lead end of the line and the sea pulling back too, as well as the shark thrashing around is basically to much strain for two feet of even 30lb mono line to bare.

I felt the line crack the instant it went and for all my vain effort to try and grab hold of the little sharks tail it was gone back to where it came from, leaving me staring at the waves where it had once been. I did re-rig and try again but that was my shot for the day gone in the blink of an eye, leaving me regretting not just holding onto the rod instead of grabbing at the prize.

I stewed all night on that loss and brewed new plans to return to the same spot early the next day to try and set the record straight. But as always the weather had something to say on that matter. At four thirty I woke, dragged myself wearily from my warm bed and set about brewing some tea. Cup in hand I drew back the curtain to be met by the sight of the blossom on the cherry tree outside our digs blowing across the lawn like snow. Overnight night the wind had swung round from the south-west to the south-east and had increased power by three or more times.

Not to be perturbed I headed out any way. All the way there I tried to measure the strength of the wind by various objects. Yes that bush is bending over alarmingly and yes that wind turbine is moving quite rapidly but I am sure I might get a few casts in. Wrong! Very wrong! Incan honestly say that I did not know that wind over sea moves twice as fast as wind on the land, so what according to the land lubbers weather forecast is a 16 mph wind gusting to 25 mph on the beach, is a 32 mph wind gusting to 50 mph.

The sea was smashing up the land. Waves rose well off the beach and as far as my eyes could see in the sand filled wind, the water swelled and throbbed as the wind wound it into a frenzy of white water.

I don't know if it was stupidity or just the curiosity to know what it felt like to cast in such conditions that made me do it, but I dug my tripod deep into the sand, baited a hook and fired the biggest lead I had out into the surf. That cast was a third the distance of what I am capable of and took less than a minute to break out of the hold it had and roll back up the beach. That cured my curiosity pretty quickly and sent me back home for the entire day in one single cast. Though with the wind behind me the walk back to the car was one of the easiest I have had, I must say.

Reports that the bass had shown up on the more northern coloured beaches had me head away from Kessingland and back to my old favourite jolly sailors mark in Pakefeild the next day. The locals being present was a good indicator of the sport changing too. I even saw two borderline legal bass in the bucket of a father and son pair just down the beach, but for my part all I could find amongst the seeming bass brimming sea was more and more starry smooth hound pups.

The report that tipped me off about the bass too also put a shining gem of information into my head. Apparently about a mile south of the area where I had lost the better smooth hound was a very rare and productive feature which is considered to be a banker spot by the locals. Now I have been fishing this area for a few years now and have never heard a thing about it but and adventure to find this sacred spot was just the sort of thing I was well up for. So the next morning I again was up before first light and slipping out the door to go and investigate, even though I knew full well it would be low tide when I arrived.

It was hard walk over loose pebbles through the dunes and half way there I came across the collapsed remnants of a pill box built to defend against the German invasion if it had ever come. Standing three hundred feet from it with maybe five hundred feet to the sea it's hard to imagine anyone could have crossed that bit of flat open land and made it to the other side alive even if the Germans did land on our shores. I nipped up to have a look from its point of view and standing on the very top of it I could see other relics of world war two sea defences along the coast and inland, which showed the full extent of how much of a key feature this particular area could have played should the war have gone another way.

It seemed more like five miles before I finally sited a small building on the horizon. Then as I neared fences and rocks became visible before I finally found myself a the mouth of the Benacre sluice.

Features on the east coast are rare and this sort of feature is probably the only one of its kind for a very long way. The Benacre sluice is essentially the mouth of a river. Like many places on the east coast the land is just about level with the sea and thus sea defences are needed to stop high tides claiming back that land. But rivers flow to the sea... So where this little trickle meets the tidal defences it has a pumping station and sluice to carry the water up and over the barrier.

When in use at high tide the sluice dumps out the contents of the river built up over the low tide into the sea, creating a small but prominent feature which is said to attract fish from miles around. Standing on the beach at low tide I could even see where the water entered the sea and the combined forces of both formed and trench where they flowed together.

It is not easy to see in the foreground but if you follow the dark trench further down the beach back up you can see the differing shade of pebbles at the bottom of the photo. The only difference between the beach and the trench is that the trench has no sand whatsoever in it were as the beach is a mix of both pebbles and sand.

Intrigued by this new found feature and with the tide now turned I made camp higher up the beach so as to have a go on this spot, even though I was going to be fishing at the worst part of the tide. I did suspect it was going to be a real waiting game so after making a cast I left the rod fishing whilst I mooched around close by investigating the area further.

From the rocks at the bottom of the sluice I could make out the full picture of how it has and does influence this mark. Directly in front of the rocks I could make out the skeletal remains of a predecessor. It looked like before the brick and rock sluice had been built a wooden one had been used and the random spikes of rotting wood that appeared jutting out of the waves got me wondering how far out they went. On closer inspection, and by closer I mean standing on, I concluded that the old river beds lack of sand to fill the spaces between the pebbles made for a very unstable bit of beach. The first foot I put onto that narrow swathe of pebbles sank about a foot into the single and really made me step back rather quickly. I now knew this was to be avoided when walking down to the surf to cast.

It was as I returned to my rod that I spotted it nod a couple of times before bending over. By the time I had got on the right side of my tripod the line was fully slack and lying on the beach. It was so slack it took ages to pick up the line and make contact with the rig and when I finally did the wondrous sensation of a good fish vibrated back up the line. As always it was a real effort to drag fish back towards the shallower water but thankfully the tide was right now actually helping my in my efforts for once. The fish was moving hard to my right and as it did my vision tracked the line moving in the direction of the wooden remains of the old sluice. My instant reaction to put more pressure on the fish I think may of made things worse, and no time at all I found myself snagged solid.

I had only made one cast and by some modicum of luck I had hooked probably my best ever sea fish and now I had snagged it up on the only flipping bit of rough ground on the entire beach. I tried every trick I know to try and free it; changing the angle, slackening off and slow pressure - none of it worked. I even just put the rod down in the hope the fish might somehow pull the rig out but nothing. In the end I had not choice but to pull the break. Sea rigs always go in the same place, just above the shock leader, and the little pig tail of curl indicated this to be the case here.

I was absolutely gutted that after discovering this wonderful place I had on my first trip here, and on my last session of the trip, lost what I can't help but think was a good bass, even though I knew full and well there could be some nasty stuff hidden out in front of me. Worst off all was it was my only chance too, as after re-rigging and risking the same cast again and again not another bite was forthcoming that morning.

Although it was bitter pill to swallow at the time I now have a slightly better understanding of this mark and even though it is a while away, I am returning east later on in the summer. I am sure with a bit of planning I will find myself on this mark again, fishing a better tide when hopefully the sluice is pumping and those bass are hanging round looking for tit bits.

Over the weekend I turned thirty six and it being my birthday all ideas of me doing any chores or DIY were summarily nullified. As per normal when asked by my better half, family and friends what I wanted to do for my birthday I responded with, 'I want to go fishing'. As no one was really going to question me on my birthday it seemed I was free to do exactly as I wanted, and given it was a bit of a nice weekend with a bank holiday at the end, it seemed it had a chance to turn into an impromptu fish-fest.

So after fulfilling my bill paying duties on Saturday morning I grabbed my ready-prepared gear and headed off into the Warwickshire wilderness to stalk some carp on my friends quiet woodland lake. Though I did have to make a stop on the way to pick up a prize which I found out I had won only a few days ago.

Any regular readers of this blog might remember last year I spent a large part of my summer fishing a venue I referred to as 'the lake' and for those who had not put two and two together already, the lake to which I referred to was Coombe pool fishery. I was lucky enough to win a free season ticket with one of my huge catches of bream that was topped off by a 10.2lb specimen. Prior to this revelation I really was unsure if I was going to return to Coombe after a successful season last year. But this prize has decided that for me and now ticket in hand I find myself planning for those sleepless slimy nights of bream fishing, and for the amazing dawns when the promise of big tench is almost too much to bear.

After finally leaving the bank holiday weekend meleé of Coombe country park, a short journey found me in the pure peace and quiet well away from the throngs. From the path leading down through the coppice I could already sight a few dark shapes cruising in the afternoon sun. Unusually the fish on the surface were not in the dream state they are often found in here in mid afternoon, and were in fact quite twitchy. It only took one lap of the lake before a viable candidate was located two feet out from the bank browsing along a small reed bed.

A cast was made and as if sticking to the script, the fish slowly drifted toward my sinking free lined bread,sucking it in and blowing it out in one deft movement before moving off. I tracked it down the bank to where I found it now only inches under the surface close to a small willow tree. This time a floating bit of crust seemed more appropriate. But after casting it over the fishes head and drawing it close, the fish clocked my ruse and slid away. Only moments later as I waited hoping the target might resurface right under my bait I spotted a chunky fish moving very confidently in the direction of my bait. There was no doubt about the outcome of this encounter! A mouth opened, the rod bent and the pin screamed as it made a very impressive run right across the lake.

This fish fought so hard I did wonder if it had some barbel in its lineage. When I finally slipped the net under it the solid common had a tail which stretched out was as big as the widest bit of the fish, which explained the insane fight that had left my thumb cramped from breaking the pin.

Four or five more fish were landed before they all seemed to disappear off the top. After spotting a disturbance over in a shady bank I moved up on them using the knee high nettles and shadows of the trees to mask my approach. This enabled me to stand only feet away from the fish as the patrolled along a lily bed between me and them.

Most of the moving carp seemed to look like other things might soon be on their mind, but just in the lillies to my right I spotted a very odd face poking from under the pads. It did look like this fish was in that hot summers day trance they get in, but it did seem a viable mark. I hooked on a tiny bit of crust no bigger than my thumb nail and lowered it onto the surface about a foot away so the slight tow would carry it into position. It worked a treat; the crust drifted naturally into place and after flaring its nostrils the fish moved ever so slowly to meet it. The suction was so slight the bread span round on the nose of the fish without going in. Then it seemed to hold it just in its lips for a ages before finally sucking it in.

Whether my strike was to light or whether it was too deep in its comatose world to know what was going on I could not exactly say. It just swam very obediently into my waiting net. I remember thinking that was very odd then as I lifted the net it suddenly woke up and went berserk trying to swim off in the net. Eventually I did manage to calm it down enough as to dare to try and get a photo as it was well worth a snapshot.

The fish had other ideas though, and I had to show this series of shots my friend Rob took of me getting a good old birthday slapping as the fish tried to do one over my shoulder into the undergrowth.

It's a bit wriggly!

Oh god it's trying to get over my shoulder!

Now it's vibrating like mad!

Both of us calm again!

The next day saw me heading off tench fishing to a local lake which is normally very good to me. All too often I find myself sitting behind buzzers waiting for my rig to do the business for me. Today though I had a load of maggot as bait and had also dusted of a fourteen foot power waggler rod which I wanted to see was in working order for a trip later in the week.

So unusually I found myself sitting tight to the bank regularly firing maggots at my black topped crystal waggler which sat statue like about three rod lengths out. As romantic of a session as I wanted to be, it turned out to nothing of the sort and I was forced to sit watching tench fizz appearing randomly around my swim as my float did nothing whilst other anglers down the bank managed to land a few using methods I would normally use. This Sunday session ended up being a total write off for me even though I knew there was feeding fish in my swim they seemed rather reluctant to take any of the baits I was offering.

The next day I had a score to settle and after chucking the float gear away and tooling up with my normal two rod long range kit I went back to find a wonderful breeze whipping up the surface of the lake. On still days you can spot the feeding fish on this venue, but on windy days they get their heads down in a big way as I was about to see once again.

I had only been cast out ten minutes when Baz turned up in the car park before coming down my way to see if the swim he was after was free. Then as he walked past me rushing back to get his gear my right hand rod jerk into life. The stuttering run ended in nothing, but then as I recast that rod the splash of the feeder caused another fish to bolt through my other line causing a screamer on my other rod that too ended in nothing.

When I had finally got both rods recast and Baz had also got settled in I popped over for a quick word. This inevitably ended up in me doing a sprint back as my one of my rods again melted off attached to this lovely gal.

Up until about eleven it was pretty regular action for me as most casts got some attention within twenty minutes. Four more tench hit the net and another found freedom in the shallows to my right after performing a spectacular kiting run. A small carp pulled exactly the same trick on me to by also flying into the bank where I found myself playing a fish on forty plus feet of line only three feet form the bank.

After my action piped down news reached me that Baz had just landed a mid double common which he was just setting free when I arrived. Not wanting to be away from my rods too long I made a comment I knew Baz was waiting for... The last time I told him I thought it was only a mater of time before he landed a good one from this lake, he landed a twenty plus fish! And after uttering some similar words you will never guess what happened!!!

Yes he landed another one and this time it was a spectacular twenty pound six ounce Ghost common which I was lucky enough to get to photograph for him. He was buzzing as we got some cracking shots of this rarely caught fish which he really deserved to catch.

What away to end a fish-filled birthday weekend, by seeing this wonderful fish fall to one of my friends. Three sessions in three days and a load of cracking fish crossing the cord... I reckon I could get used to this and it almost makes me want my birthday to come round quicker if it wasn't for the fact I don't want to wish my life away, as there are not enough hours in one life time for me to go fishing.

Over the past few years a lot of my blogging brethren and friends have ventured to the hallowed banks of Marsh Farm in search of big crucians. They have all done this as it is one of the only truly viable fisheries where anglers stand a chance of connecting with specimen true crucian. Why until now it is that I have not found myself looking over this meticulous manicured fishery I do not know. But just last week the opportunity arose for me to tag along with Martin Roberts and Jeff Hatt on a foray down south for a mid week session, and frankly it would of been rude for me to decline.

After an inordinately early start and disconcertingly easy passage along the M25 we found ourselves at the gates to our venue for the day. Only problem was that they were looked and not due to open for another hour as our journey had been predicted to be a little more hassle than it actually turned out to be.

The general look of the day ticket lakes was much as I expected it and whilst waiting for the tackle shop to open so we could obtain our tickets we took a amble around the lakes to scope out possible pegs. Harris lake I think was always going to be where we fished, as according to most information, this was where the better sized crucians reside. But I for one wasn't expecting the sight that met me! At seven thirty in the morning with a heavily overcast sky filled with incessant drizzle and a decent ripple I could see not only into the shallows but right down to the marginal shelf and beyond.

From everything I had read and heard regarding the day ticket waters at marsh farm I had built up a picture of margin fishing in well coloured water, whereas this looked more like gravel pit water, where the idea of getting a crucian into the margin may have had to involve me getting camo'd up like a sniper whilst hiding in the undergrowth all day.

As I waited in the queue for my ticket my pre-planned tactics seemed all wrong, and seeing a bait fridge loaded with casters I began reforming a different plan of attack. So loaded up with my gear I headed to the windward end of the lake accompanied by Jeff, away from every other angler on Harris. Here I knew it would be hard to contend with the ripple, but my thinking was that that ripple might offer me some cover in these clear water conditions.

The next step was to follow a little of Jeff's sage advice. He had said to me that one of the best sessions he had had here was when he simply found feeding bubbles and fished that swim. So we did exactly that and after locating what looked like a few feeding tench about two rod lengths out I plonked myself down in the swim close to opposite a gap in between two islands.

It was by no mean an easy start to the session as I struggled to settle. The wind cutting from my right was not only cold for the time of year but also made presentation impossible. When I had set up my rigs before arriving I had been banking on fishing the margin using a pole float to show all those slight touches associated with crucian carp. That rig never got wet and was superceded by a canal dart with a very fine antenna, which too was cast aside after it would not hold position with a hint of line on the bottom and got dragged under when laid on heavily. The next candidate was a crystal waggler which would hold bottom when laid on hard but with minimal line on the bottom slowly drifted with the ripple.

I was losing all hope of getting any where until I found a small Drennan tench float hidden at the bottom of my float tube. This was perfect. The fine peacock antenna was stabilised by a bulbous body well under the surface. The combination of me locking it in place with float stops so I could put all my shot low down the line, and the three inches of line on the bottom was enough to combat the worst tow. Finally I was fishing comfortably for the first time on the session and now bites could be indicated by dips and rises. I was performing a fine balancing act in the worst of conditions.

With having to fish a few rod lengths out I had to depend on the casters I had purchased from the onsite tackle shop. Normally I like to fish soft pellets for crucians but they stood little chance of staying on the hook in these windy conditions, and the last thing I needed was no bait on my hook when everything already seemed to be against me. My regular catapulting of shells through the air attracted not only fish to my swim.

This cheeky sparrow obviously had many mouths to feed as she danced under my chair all day picking fallen casters here and there.

As I found out marsh farm is not only renowned for crucian carp but tench as well, as I banked fifteen through the day whilst bumping off one or two and getting snapped off by a few as well. But the best by far was this immaculate chuck of a female which gave me a right run around and ended up stuck in a bush in my right hand margin. Luckily for me Jeff appeared just in time to help me scoop her out in a less than dignified manner.

The crucians unlike the tench were a different and awkward matter entirely...! From very early on in the day I suspected their presence in my swim and although that seems a blindingly stupid statement in a lake renowned for them, the fact remains that they were giving little away bar a few different bubbles. Tench fizz is my pornography, it really gets me excited. But those exciting fizzes of bubbles can only be tench. Individual small bubbles rising though is a great sign of feeding crucians, and I had a fare few emanating from my baited patch.

Slowly but surely my constant feeding of a pouch full of casters began to garner me some interesting bites. Even fishing a heavy rig at two rod lengths out I just detect the slight rising of my float. I must of struck at twenty of more hardly perceptible bites and a couple of tench sail aways before my float raised a good inch and half out of the water as a fish mouthed my bait. Half expecting it to slide away attached to another tench I waited, but the float just sat cock eyed and I had to strike. I wont lie and say I did not think it was a tench as it surged away sounding my lightly set clutch. But then low and behold a miracle happened and it gave up, surfacing for a quick roll in the ripple. I had been quite blasé about fighting the tench but a flash of real gold stopped me in my tracks.

It was undoubtedly a big crucian and the sight of it fighting me through clear water really had my arse going for sure. Then out of nowhere it just gave up totally and good as gold slid straight into my waiting net. No self takes were going to be struggled with on this one, so I was straight on the phone to get Jeff down to do the honours. Then who should turn up with him but my good mate Baz who had dropped by as he returned north after doing a job in the area.

Just seeing the fish resting under the water in my landing net I knew it was a PB but how big I could not say as I think crucians are a very hard species to estimate weights of due to their solid deep bodies. Baz though guessed it on the nose at 2.6lb just before it even went onto the scales.

That was it for me. If I did not catch another fish it would have been a great trip. But even after watching that one swim away in the clear water I looked up to see more crucian like bubbles appearing in my swim. For the rest of the afternoon I had them bubbling rolling and rising my float annoyingly just enough for me to strike but never enough for me to hit.

Finally after a slew of tench my float did a slight rise before moving left a little and my strike contacted another crucian of maybe ten ounces at best. This did however went some way to proving that a number of smaller fish were responsible for turning me over. Another hour later I hooked and lost what I am sure was a second good fish before I landed my third and final cute little crucian of the day.

I had set myself a packing up time so as to be ready to go when Martin, who had driven, was ready to go and just as that time neared Jeff strolled over for a chat. After a quick con-flab he turned and headed back for one last shot for a fish. Just as he turned tail a massive crucian came half out of the water only two feet from my spot. The sight of that certain three pounder turned my planned packing up into a very protracted affair, with my float rod staying firmly in position until the very end as I packed up everything else around whilst trying to watch the float out of the corner of my eye.

That big one never did grace me with a biet and nether did anything else. Even with my first experience of Marsh Farm being on a day when everything seemed to be against me, I know I worked hard to fish in a way I am not used to, and this hard work paid off landing me a whole mess of tench and the only crucians that were caught on Harris lake that day as far as I know. As for whether it was worth the long journey down from the Midlands. Well that's simple isn't it! First session there and new PB crucian, whereas on most waters you struggle to find them, if you can find a water that holds them. So yes, I will be back, and hopefully when I do return the conditions might be little more favourable.

My recent visit to Marsh farm has reminded me of how much fun light gear tench fishing really is. All too often I find myself fishing venues, or swims for that matter, that require me to use heavy set ups in order for me to constantly cast weighty feeders at range. Now don't get me wrong I'm not saying this isn't fun and it certainly is effective, but what I am saying is that the conduit of bite registration that is the buzzer, can remove us as anglers from interaction with the fish. When fishing a float however this interaction is just about at it's zenith and quite possibly at its most enjoyable.

The constant attention required of float fishing can more often than not enable you to see what is going to happen before actually happens. I think it is the focusing on the tiny luminous tip of a float and the surrounding few feet that draws us closer into the goings on in the water. A bubble or fizz, an oily swirl or a patch of colour in the water all serve to pre-empt the inevitable, or conversely, torture us to the point of paranoia over why we are not getting any bites when fish are obviously on the feeding whilst not eating our baits.

Then there is the language of the float, and that is a language that can be specific to any particular water. The myriad dips, rises and slides can indicate which species we are about to encounter before the rod even cuts through the air to finalise the deal. Ask yourself how many times you have watched a float dancing around on the surface of the water and before you have struck you have predicted out loud what the fish is.
I think that this visual translation is what makes makes float fishing so appealing to anglers. I don't think there is anyone who could deny that the sight of float coming alive after it has sat dormant for so long, is one of the most simply wondrous parts of fishing...

It's a hot afternoon and the sun seems the strongest it has been so far this year. Even sitting half dappled in the shade of two birch trees I am unable to totally avoid its burning rays. I know later in the day when the evening approaches the tree line behind me will offer me some early respite from the brightness and maybe to incline the tench to move, as most of the residents of this lake have melted away in the heat of the mid day sun.

One of the only signs of life on the lake come from the shoals of small rudd which ceaselessly move up and down the bank in front of me. They swim endlessly open mouthed gorging on microscopic morsels and every time they pass around my float it shoots up out of the water as they dislodge that tell tale shot from the bottom as they swim through my line in a cloud of silver gold.

Other than the rudd the only fish in sight are a pair of basking carp. Their black shadows betray them as the slowly cruise beneath the surface soaking up the suns warmth. Its the first time this year I have seen them bask here, but if the heat continues I know it wont be the last. I have often been tempted to try and thieve one from the surface, but the shear amount of water birds make that an impossible prospect, and today that as always it is only pipe dream.

My eyes focus back to the foreground and for a moment I panic and clamber my hand blindly for the cork handle of my rod. In the blink of an eye its hard to re-sight the orange float in the ripple. Eventually I spot it hiding between the light water of the skies reflection and the dark water a tree casts long across the lake and again I relax.

For hours I wait and even though nothing happens my attention never wains. I know a trap is set and also know it is set so fine that the merest of movements of that float would betray a fish. It is set so fine in fact that the tiny blue damsel which I can hardly see sinks the float down to a pin prick every time it lands on it. Half straining my eyes and half imagining it, I can see it barely keeping off the water as if stuck on a sinking ship. Then another blue damsel fly comes into its territory it chases it off, which causes my float to rise out of the water and every time I ready myself to strike until it returns and sinks my float back.

Not until the sun becomes hidden by that false horizon does the watery world begin to change. The rudd still gorge as they will well into the night, but the carp have gone. The water birds too have begun evening rituals. Canadian geese noisily take off repeatedly circling the lake a few times before landing again and now a moorhen has appeared from the rushes and now clicks as it moves into open water. For the first time this year I can hear a cuckoo whooping in the trees on the other bank. The world moves closer to dark and the time is at hand.

The first fizz is slight at first. Nothing more than a hint of different water two feet beyond my float. Then it happens again further off to the right. I can track at least three different fish moving in a pod along the edge of my baited patch. They seem a little standoffish, only seem to wanting to test the water. Maybe the bright sky still perturbs them.
For over an hour I watch them linger temptingly around the free food. I was just getting used to the hints of bubbles when a massive patch of bubbles break the surface all at once in an audible fizz. Either the waiting has become too much for one hungry mouth or an interloper has just barged straight in head down. Now it is business time and my hand grasps cork ready to strike.

The float has risen and fallen many times by now, as multiple fish mooch around sucking in mouthfuls of fishy bait. But not one has been tripped up by my single grain of corn and now I wonder if they might be avoiding it. So, I wonder, should I make that change? I have fed nothing but highly flavoured crumb and corn. Looking down to my left I have two other choices with me. Tiny soft pellets which seem oh so small to me and a diced tin of salty spam which has stewed sweaty in the sun.

I decide I can't trust those tiny pellets so I reel in and bait up by pulling the hook through a finger nail sized cube and just twisting a little before bedding the nook in. The float and meat fly through the air well beyond the action and I see the meat go into the water still on the hook. I dip the rod and reel hard to sink the line. The float stands very proud of the water and I envisage the fatty meat slowly sinking between those fish and as it does my float again settles until only the florescent tip shows.

Finally it happens! The float first dips as the bait is sucked in. It rises a little at first as the weight is taken of the line. Then as the fish angles back to chew and swallow it,s mouthful my float rises confidently to the point where those two tell-tale shots are way off the bottom, and the float comes four or more inches prone of the water before lolling to one side. In slow motion I watch the line pick up off the water and the rod move into curve in one seamless movement. Then that moment of pause before panic sets in and the fish streaks off.

Now it's just a case of going softly as is always the case when the poundage of line is outweighed by the poundage of fish. First the long surging runs are quelled by a well set clutch. But once that is over it becomes a battle in the margins were my finger adds fine tuning to the spool and the arch of rod cushions the head shaking. The fight is nearly over once the slapping of tails is heard here and there. Until one final run ends in a gaping golden mouth and my net engulfs the fish I have sat vigil for hours for.

And later when it is dark and I lie in bed, I know the vision of that float rising will be relived again and again, whilst the picture of that perfect float caught tench will send me to sleep with a smile for sure.

After that jaunt down south two weeks ago looking for big crucian carp I have been left with what I think is a mild case of crucianobsessionaris. Seemingly I can't get the idea of those most gentlest and our only native carp out of my head. I had plum forgotten how much fun and how much I enjoy to catch these little pixies on warm summer days, and once I again cast after them I seem unable to leave it alone.

We are lucky here in the midlands as we actually have quite a lot of access to some decent waters that hold what to all intents and purposes are true crucians. I reckon I can think of at least ten waters within twenty miles of my house that contain them. Some are age old places where a few gnarled old giant,s which are the last of their line, and others have recently been stocked with thousands of bright little discs. One of my favourites though is a bit of a mix of the two. Snitterfield reservoir has had crucians present for many years but the controlling club, Leamington Angling association, have just recently augmented their numbers with a generous injection of new fish, a necessary action of which they should be commend for. You see for some reason the population had seemingly stalled. Whether it was time that got to them and they stopped breeding, or whether it was lack of suitable spawning sights or conditions I am not sure, but the fact was that no new recruitment was being seen in their ranks. So in went a batch of perfect true blood crucians and the effects of this may have been more far reaching than expected.

It was two years ago I think when I last targeted crucians at Snitters, and on that occasion I was fishing a few months after the restock. Now anyone who fishes this bleak yet inviting pool knows on average the water is very clear and on my the visit I now recall it was as clear as I have ever seen it. So much so that I could see the ledge over which I favour fishing. On this occasion after depositing a light bed of fluffy ground bait and a liberal scattering of pellets I amused my self catching rudd whilst I waited for the spot to stew accordingly. I had not even considered fishing the spot when out of the corner of my Polaroid covered eye I spotted movement close to my bait.

What I saw has to be one of my all time top ten fishing sights. A group of five of the larger original crucians slowly drifted along the ledge homing in on my bait and behind them was a massive shoal of tiny new crucians. Although only related by species, the little ones were learning the ropes from the old guard in what I can only describe as poetic passing of the torch.

That day I caught seven of the originals and three of the tiny new fish. The babies were little more than a few inches long and no more than two ounces back then. But by now I wondered how big they might have grown and what of those old fish. Had they all drifted away as old crucians seem to do or what? So Sunday I headed back half filled with the urge to catch crucians and half filled with curiosity to see how those new crucians have done in the last two years.

In the early hours I descend the road leading to the lake and hoped as I free-wheeled down the hill that one of the few pegs I love to fish for crucians here was free. Turns out they all were and so I set up stall in a particular favourite of mine where a weed bed fills the space between the bank and the ledge. For there is no more romantic vision of English summer than a float framed by lillies or weed as it fishes for crucians. I spent my summer holidays fishing like this as a child watching floats on baking days next to a myriad of weed choked ponds fishing for crucians, hence it is a love I think I will never die for me.

Time has passed since my youth and gone is chunky old rod that used to make my arm ache from casting all day, and ultra light piece of carbon nowrests on my knee. Though what I am using to catch them is irrelevant to me as I become instantly engrossed by the tiny shard of orange float just holding above the water. The first two bites are missed they are that subtle. Then on the third I connected with a fish which straight away makes all the right moves. I love that surging fight crucians make in close quarters. There constant vibration as the move quickly up and down in the water betrays them instantly. So light is my line that I dared not lift this one out and so I overcompensate by netting it, and the first fish of the day is one of the new crucians.

These new fish have at a conservative estimate tripled in size in two years and are now perfect little crucians of around six ounces. Their bodies have grown deep and the silveriness of youth is replaced by deeper gold and hints of black like the older fish. If these fish continue in this vein then it wont be long till they make a pound, and hopefully the few fish with the right genes in their blood and what they could achieve size-wise, might make Snitterfiled the best big crucian water in the Midlands.

As the morning wears on many more perfect little discs of gold get caught and something else becomes apparent. They seem rather happy! I can't say I have ever seen this behaviour anywhere else other than at marsh farm which is also stacked full of crucians. But the still youthful little ones repeatedly jump out of the water all around my swim. Its not like carp whose breaching generally seems for a reason, and its not like the laboured rolling of tench and bream, its more joyous. Like they are doing it for fun because they are happy. I am sure there is some scientific explanation but to me right now they look like kids bombing into a swimming pool.

Around mid morning I am sure I bump off a better fish in a less productive half hour. After topping up the bait and switching to try and catch roach of the top for a while until I gingerly recast on the freshened spot and straight away something is interested. A slight rise and slighter dip is enough for me to strike whilst crucian fishing and on this occasion I was dead on. A similar fight to all the the others ensues but this one put a much better bend in the rod as it leads me a merry dance around the weed. Though it keeps very low in the water and out of sight I know for sure its a crucian. Then I spot it circling through the clear water and I can see its a good fish. Then when it slides into my net I realise it's a decent size fish for this venue and maybe a little above the average size, or is it....

For as long as I have been fishing this lake the old crucians very rarely make more than a pound and a few ounces. This one though is knocking on the door of two pounds. Now either I have by pure chance caught one of the biggest residents on my first session back, or maybe that injection of smaller fish has added a little competition to the older fishes stagnant lives. Having those new hungry usurpers gallivanting all round the place may have actually served to gee up the old fish and caused an inadvertent growth spurt late in life.

Later when the bailiff comes round to check tickets the subject was broached, and low and behold it turns out they do seem to be getting bigger. Though his stories of three and even four pound fish are a little hard to digest and the recent picture of a three pound plus fish that emerged may hint at some guestimated weighing. But nonetheless, this long narrow strain of crucians might well be getting bigger and that thought alone is more than enough to make me start planning one last mid week foray back, to make further float fished enquires into the matter.

When I went back to Snitterfield the other night I had the preconceived idea that as dusk crept in it might be the best possible time to ambush some big crucians. On a more idyllic evening that might well of been the case, but the night in question was less than idyllic by far. The day leading into the night was a real doozie. Swirling winds and interment squally showers had cooled not only the air but the water too.

My first real inkling that a major change had happened was when I dipped a bait box into the edge to damp down some ground bait. The moment my hand touched the water I realised the temperature had fallen by a good few degrees. When I last dipped my hand in the clear water four days prior it was noticeably hot, like an indoor swimming pool. Today, although not shockingly cold, it was much cooler and that alone was enough to rise my suspicions.

When I cast my uber light pole float rig out over the weed the random wind towed it all over the shop and when set over depth by my normal inch or two, the movement was enough to submerge my delicate float. A bit of perseverance resulted in two respectable silver roach, but that in itself was a worry as if the marauding roach were over my bait then the crucians weren't likely to get a look in. A quick change of float was made. A still fine but slightly more weighty Drennan antenna would enable me to hold fast against the tow, whilst still registering those tiny hints of bite crucians give should they be able to get on my feed.

Re-rigged I swung a small cast over the spot, reeled down hard to sink the line and put the rod on the rest. Moments later the float rose a little, the tell tale bottom shot weight removed as a fish mouthed my bait, and in the blink of an eye it disappeared and I go to strike. But the rod never got higher than my shoulder as the fish powered off. As I was setting up the new float I had seen a patch of tench bubbles further down the bank, so I assumed that a good tench had moved onto my bait and was now attached to the end of my line.

Even using a light match rod, three pound line and size 18 to 2.8lb silver fish pellet hook link I thought if I went easy I could maybe, just maybe, land the fish. Moments later my idea it was a tench went out the window when I saw a white belly flash deep in the lake. Now thinking it was a small carp I reassessed my predicament and concluded yes, as long I am very, very careful I should be able to beat a small carp.

Fifteen minutes later my rod was hooped in a very worrying way and my line was singing as it cut through the wind. This was by far a much larger carp than I thought and my little 20" net was looking a little under gunned for the job ahead. Luckily Thad the bailiff was fishing not far around the lake and quick call had him scampering in my direction with a much larger specimen net in hand.

How I did it I will never truly understand, but after a monumental and very careful fight I finally managed to get it onto the surface after a couple of abortive attempts. Fish always look smaller in water and as it passed over the cord we both exclaimed it might be a bit bigger than we thought. When we took a hold of the net and lifted, it suddenly looked huge. On my diminutive unhooking mat it looked even bigger... quite possibly a twenty. The scales don't lie though and after carefully zeroing the wet sling the digital display flickered between 19.10 and 19.12, before sticking on the latter.

I was in shock for the rest of the session, as was my swim which had not only been smashed to bits by the carp, but I suspect had also been cleaned out by its cavernous mouth. More ground bait and pellets were potted in but as the night drew in I saw no signs of crucians, and the only fish to pull my float under were a few overzealous tiny tench. Mind you I didn't really care as the thought of that seemingly impossible capture more than made up for the lack of crucians whose activity seemed to have dropped right off with the fall in temperature.

I had been umming and ahhing for quite some time prior to the weekend over what, where and when I should fish on the first day of the season. Both the river and Coombe pool made tempting prospects and I even at one point considered the shotgun start on Coombe, then packing up at lunch time and heading down the Avon to fish till dusk. Sense however prevailed and I shelved that insane idea as after all, I am just one man.
My biggest quandary in this venue toss up though was the crowds. Facebook had been alight for weeks with proclamations of intent as well as statements regarding weeks of pre-baiting, and frankly I wanted no part in this blue cross sale like madness. Before now I cannot deny getting caught up in this fervour, and like many others I have gone out tooled up with half a years worth of bait weighing me down after rising in the middle of the night, to run down to the river or lake and chuck the whole lot in as a fanfare plays in my head! And how often has my June 16th ended up being a rather inglorious phaaaarp. Well the answer to that is far too many times.

So fully expecting my favourite river haunts to have their highest bank side populations of the year, I opted to instead take it a little easy, rose at leisurely hour and drove all of a few miles round the corner to Coombe, with the intention of just squeezing in somewhere and enjoying the day with no real expectations in some seriously beautiful surroundings.

Although I had taken one illicit sneak peak a few weeks earlier and kind of knew what to expect, the sight that met me as I looked down over the meadowland towards the age old lake framed by ancient English woodland was nothing less than resplendent. Hoards of swifts whirled overhead in the blue sky, dropping effortlessly at unimaginable speeds towards the ground before pulling up at the last moment and skimming down the hillside towards the lake. On my slow descent down the narrow mowed, track rabbits of all sizes scattered in every direction. All apart from one cheeky youngster no bigger than my fist who nonchalantly carried on munching on what must of been a very choice tussock of grass.

I left my tackle leaning against the fence while I went to investigate the bank, as on my descent I had spotted many alien olive domes hidden amongst the bank side vegetation. My suspicions that it might be a little popular were correct, though I didn't really care as there was enough spaces for me to squeeze in here or there and try and ply a meagre two rods for a tench or a bream.

In the end I settled not too far from the gate with a massive reed bed to my left and one or two spare swims to my right. Nestled alongside a few trees on a newly mown patch I looked over one of the widest parts of the lake, which shallowed very slowly from the bank. I knew I would not be casting a lot, but the casts I made would have to be long to put me into decent water.

Not long after deciding on my swim I found myself sitting back looking over two rods at the lake on which seemed to sit every possible type of waterfowl, including a gaggle of peeved looking greylag geese whom suspect I may have evicted from the peg upon mu arrivel. A pair of reed warblers busied themselves in the big reed bed as another unseen and much larger bird rooted around deep in the rushes, annoying them.

I hadn't even noticed the time passing quickly as I sat absorbing the atmosphere of being back in this amazing place. Before I even knew it ten o'clock approached, and thoughts of a move began to creep into my head. Another swim that I had seen was free and soon began to seem a better option, for a tench at least. So slowly I tidied up getting ready for an imminent move. The sound of a land rover engine was heard well before I spotted Joe the head honcho slowly drive along the track behind me. I think I must have been the first angler he encountered that wasn't sitting behind three carp rods and he stopped for a chat on our favourite subject, tench.

We had only been chatting for a short while before he quickly pointed out over the water towards a patch of flat water in the ripple where he had just seen a carp roll. Tracking his arm to the area about seventy yards out, I looked just as he said, "...in line with that bushy tree on the other bank." My mind had hardly time to compute the information that it was pretty much in the area of one of my rods when the indicator screamed into to life and the reels spool began spinning.

'It couldn't be!' was all I could think until the I lifted into a far too aggressive fish to be a bream. I'd have loved to think it was a massive tench, but that carp rolling was just too telling. Trying to keep my cool, the drag was quickly eased to cater to the seemingly unstoppable first run. The fish was a long way out which gave me enough time to prepare for its hopeful arrival close to the bank. Joe reeled in my second rod to clear the path, and not long after I realised it might not be an easy job getting a hard fighting carp to cooperate and come down the channel between the reed beds lining either side of my swim. The thought that if it did not play ball I might be going for a paddle soon became a reality as it swung hard to my right. That was it! I began rooting in my pockets and throwing valuables onto my seat. Wallet, car keys and like were all tossed out. By then the carp had made up its mid that the bank was its only chance of escape and in doing so confirmed I was getting wet...

I would've gone down to just my boxers but never got the chance. Just my trainers were left neatly on the edge of the bank and I stepped in. The water wasn't cold which was nice, the silt however was deep. Six or eight eight inches squelched around my ankles and up my trouser legs, and the stink really made the moment. Years worth of rotten debris and gas bubbling up around me every time I took a step out into the the lake. I must have been twenty feet out from the bank before I got control of the fish and turned it round as it came within feet of the reeds. Of course then it charged straight at me, and I struggled to wind the line back on the spool quick enough. I saw it go past me not far out just before I turned to ask for a net. Joe was well on top of it and the net was already floating towards me. Two little runs and it was over. I had done the impossible and netted a June 16th Coombe Abbey lake carp.

It wasn't a monster but anyone who knows this lake knows that these fish are like rocking horse droppings. Better anglers than I have given years of their lives over to trying to catch one and not succeeded, and here I am on the first day of the new season holding probably a never before caught perfect little mirror carp from one of the hardest carp waters in the Midlands.

That was my first day made in one fish, though I never got to see it swim away as my paddling session has turned the normally rather clear water in a rancid silt soup. It was as we chuckled over the whole farce that I took stock of the disaster zone that was me and my swim. Looking at my chair where were all my valuables now resided and something was missing... Slowly reaching down into my left leg pockets I felt a shape distinctly mobile phone-ish and was about to start cursing when through the wad of now liquid toilet roll I felt the shape was thankfully my little key wallet instead. Luckily my phone had been in my fishing bag when I went for my paddle, thank god.

I think I may have made Joe's day with my little June sixteenth adventure and the capture of the first carp of the season. After shaking my hand he chuckled off back to his Landy and left me soaked from the thighs down standing in a swim peppered with goose shit and oh, what a state I looked.

This might seem totally insane to anyone who reads this but after I settled down and got dried off I decided to make that move after all. The fish I sought were definately not in the area I was fishing, and rather than recast and sit it out again it seemed the better option for me to head off towards that free swim right up at the top of the lake, where I knew I stood a much better chance of coming across patrolling tench.

My journey up the bank was just about as farcical as my little adventure prior to it. The news had already shot down the bank quicker than lighting that a carp had been caught, and carp anglers were all a fluster at the news. Everyone who I spoke to as I passed had heard it and they were flabbergasted that it was me and that I had moved straight out of the sacred spot. No word of a lie I saw at least one chap running off in order to try and drop in the now vacant swim.

Turned out I could not get into the swim I wanted as another anglers line was intersecting it, but I wasn't bothered; the next one along was free so I set up shop in the very first peg on the bank, well away from everyone else, and cast my two method feeders onto a previously productive line a little over half way over the lake where the tench often patrol.

By late afternoon the weather had gone from sunny to overcast and back again. All that had shown interest were two skimmers of a pound each and something that gave me a very promising run that stopped before I could get to the rod. It became what sessions at Coombe are all about as far as I am concerned, waiting! Through into early evening I watched the water like a hawk for all but one hour when I nodded off in the late afternoon sun. As I watched I did spot a tench or two roll out towards the opposite bank but sadly the line in which they were travelling was a bit out of range of my Avon rods.

Although it had not been a busy day bite wise as far as I was concerned it was more than a success with that chance carp capture. To be honest it went pretty well by first day standards and I really enjoyed spending the day on the lake. The fish I feel may of been in a little shock after months of no one on the bank then hundreds of people showing up and smashing a load of bait in hoping to bag a big one straight off. I know it will take a few weeks for the lake to settle down into a new routine and by then the banks will be a more sparsely populated and I will start getting a few nights in. One thing there did seem a lack of however was mozzies. In fact they were conspicuous by their absence! Both of the two swims I fished seemed rather void of any buzzing annoyances. Mind you my new organic insect attractors may have distracted them and drawn them off to their doom, like moths to a flame.

Not wanting to commit to any night sessions yet due to the still high populations of carp anglers dug in around the lake with their masses of new season hope still fuelling them through blank nights, I find myself just fishing by dropping in here and there to test the water trying to get a good idea of what is going on below the surface on this poker faced water. To say this shallow and secretive lake is like no other place could be the understatement of the century. Considering you would be lucky to find a spot deeper than four feet, the water is so massive that it seems to take a long time to warm up and cools even quicker, hence the bream spawned just before the season started and the carp did so just five days ago.

Only now after three sessions of squeezing in between the myriad of bow taught lines do the bank side populations seem to be falling and I begin to have the choice of swims. Though I am not moaning... as I like many non-carp anglers who frequent the lake have much to thank the humble carp obsessive for. Coombe, as with other waters that are heavily carp fished, has seen an increase in the size of the fish that all that bait is not intended for. The season here on the lake being little more than a week old has already seen the capture of some very special fish... oh and two carp!

Finally with the season seven days old I popped over for a few hours and found the banks practically deserted. I half expected to find a match was scheduled for the following day but it turned out hunger and need for proper sanitation had pulled them away leaving me free to take advantage of any leftover bait. Over the week it had become evident that some decent populations of fish were residing in a large swath of water pretty much centre of the lake. It was from this area that those special green and brown fish were caught. And why shouldn't they have been caught here after all, as it was this bit of water has received focus of the attentions of most of the anglers, all depositing kilo after kilo of boilies hoping for carp, but in reality feeding bream and tench. So now as the sound of throwing stick drifts off on the wind it seemed a perfect time to take advantage and cast out to see what might linger over the top of all those lovely washed out boilies.

So finally alone and armed with the knowledge that what I sought was in the area hopefully eating old bait, I found myself looking out over an age old estate lake on a typical English summers afternoon. Of course by typical I meant wind gusting to nearly thirty miles an hour interspersed with sheeting rain; a sky that was one moment black and the next pure azure. The rain and changing light I could deal with, but the wind was coming in just the right direction to zip straight down the entire sheet of water, making for some interesting attempts at the seventy yard casts into the areas I had seen being feed.

It turned out to be a real 'wait for a window' weekend. Time and time again I found myself waiting for the tiniest break in the wind to punch my feeders out. Once that was done settling the line and trying to claw back the bow in my line became another job in itself. Then after every cast I was subjected to the the incessant random bleeps as the tow pulled up the slightest slack in my line.

Undoubtedly I would eventually get my line to settle and the buzzer to shut up and then yet another battle began. Shelter is one of man's simple requirements for survival. I used to have this amazing brolly which sheltered me and helped me survive. It was made of super light weight nylon and folded down to nothing even though it was 50"across. That gem is long gone and the brolly I own now is a C.....! I don't use that word lightly trust me. The umbrella in question was only meant to be an interim measure until I sourced a better replacement but somehow through this and that it stuck around and it has turned into the devils umbrella itself. Its heavy and floppy and given half the chance it with flip inside and stab you in the leg doing so. Just trying to keep out of the wind using this stupid contraption of an umbrella became a farcical fight and I am dam sure I heard a guy over the lake laughing at me. It didn't take long for my patience to dwindle and that evil folding devil to be discarded back to the quiver. I then field tested the new Chris Yates MK1 session shelter which in the light rain proved itself amiably

New for 2013 Chris yates MK1 session shelter

Somewhere in the slapstick carry on scene I did actually get onto the fish and it was a new and different tactic that got me some bites. After two or three hours of fishing the only thing to pull on the end of my line was the tow of the lake, and by then I was thinking that it was not going to end well. Knowing any drastic baiting would be foolhardy, I dipped into my bag looking for inspiration and found something straight away. Half a kilo of sardine and anchovy 10mm boilies that were tucked away in the corner and the sight of them made me wonder. If the carp anglers had been just firing out boilies maybe the fish knew the distinctive sound of them hitting the water was related to food.

Before beginning I recast both my rigs with boilie hook baits and a load of chops crammed into the method mix. With both in place I filled my pockets with baits and began slowly raining the boilies all over the swim... Then you would never believe what happened. After fifteen minutes both rods sparked into life even though there were no where near each other. They weren't ripping runs more dithering jangles. The bream had arrived! I did not leave adequate time for the first two fish to get snagged an struck at nothing but after those I hooked my first Coombe bream of the year.

In my last two hours my buzzers hardly fell quiet as fish bumped into my line rooted around my feeders and sucked up my baits as the browsed over the swim. Two sub adult skimmers and five proper bream got landed that afternoon. The best of which was just under eight pounds and considering most of them were very slim after their recent spawning there was some nice fish amongst them.

It was almost a shame to leave, but I know there will be plenty more bream filled sessions later in the year when they have regained some condition as well as they inevitably stick their noses in when you're not fishing for them.

I suppose the thing that has me wondering now is, was it just coincidence that those bream showed up over those boilies or have they actually come to associate the sound of boilies hitting the water with tasty morsels peppering the bottom. There is no doubt that only boilie hook baits brought fish on this occasion as I tried other baits like corn and worms and they couldn't buy a bite for love nor money. I have seen on other waters when carp have learnt the sound of spods mean food and on bits of river where the sound of hemp hitting the water brings chub out of places you wouldn't think they hide in. But do these bream now know plops mean food and how big can they grow if they eat just about every boilie that lands in this lake?

Rivers by nature are reborn all the time. Courses change over time, the winter floods wipe them clean and change their features year on year. Though most places will look similar there are undoubtedly changes that can be seen if a lifetime is spent walking their banks. On the other hand there are places on most rivers that through time, stand still and hardly change at all. These spots that never seem to change have a strange feeling of age about them, and the stretch I had chosen for my very first trip to the river of the new season feels old, very old indeed!

Ask anyone who fishes Saxon mill and they will tell you that once you cross that bridge and step onto the ancient cobblestone path you undoubtedly feel as if you are stepping into history. The graffiti alone reveals just how long the weir has been channelling that water into the weir pool and just sitting next to it, the notion of how many other anglers for hundreds of years sat in exactly the same spot before me, doing just the same.

I don't know exactly what it is that causes that distinctive smell that weirs produce, but I do know that smell is food for the soul of the early morning angler. Later in the day it dies away as your senses become accustomed to it, but by then usually the mystery of the turbid waters takes hold and you become immersed in your surroundings as you try to fathom where, in such a complicated environment, might be best to drop your bait.

I think it is mystery that draws us to weir pools. Its obvious what sort of fish we seek in what areas of them, but you can never rely on what you know with a weir pool. You might cast into a slack hoping for a carp and catch a tench, or run a float down slow water looking for a roach and catch trout. Either or any way you never quite know what will come next and this is the mystery that draws us to them.

It was that mystery that turned my head the other morning. I should have walked straight on by after looking from the bridge on my way to my intended spot, but I just could not do it as the lure of the weir was just to much. I just had to have a go. Ask yourself, could you walk by when it looked this good...

'Just a quick cast then on I go' I told myself. 'You probably wont get a bite' I said in hushed tones trying to reassure myself I would move on as intended. Then moments after the lead found hard bottom; tap tap bang! A small chub engulfed my meat. That sealed the deal, I was staying a bit longer than one cast. The next one again found a lovely clear spot towards the tail end of the run. With tension on the line and the random patterns of flow tugging gently at my rod tip, I sat back to wait.

It didn't take long for a single knock to indicate a little interest and sit me upright in my seat. Even knowing a fish was around, it still came as a shock as the rod buckled over and the spool began to spin. My strike met solid resistance and hooped violently over. I cannot and will not deny verbalising my thoughts out loud to myself that I had hooked a barbel. However the initial violence subsided and when no savage runs were forthcoming my hopes of a barbel, or a carp for that matter, faded.

Whatever it was, it was giving me some serious stick in the powerful water and I had no idea of its identity until it seemed to pull backwards. Cursing myself for forgetting, I remembered this had happened to me before many years ago on the first peg downstream of here; the same situation only on the first day of the season, and that day it turned out to be exactly what I now suspected this was. A big river eel.

Two casts into the Avon and I was going to get royally slimmed up. If it wasn't that I actually quite like catching eels I would of been livid. With my expectations adjusted I was very happy to see a thick green body spinning in the current attached to my line and this one, like the other, was no boot lace ether.

Self takes are not easy at the best of times and self takse holding small eels are impossible. Trust me I know from experience. But once they get above a certain size eels seem to behave not too badly on the bank, and this 2.7lb one was almost cordial as it lay in the folds of my net in the long grass. The hook was right in the centre of its bottom lip and once that was out it kept quite still as I gently lifted it up for a quick picture.

I don't know why I cast again. I know that normally where there is one there are others, hence my next cast ended much the same way only with a smaller eel on the hook and that one ruined my hook link irreparably. That did move me on.

My next intended port of call was the very first peg of the downstream section and the very place that I had been duped before. Even though I knew there was a chance the same might happen again I still ventured forth as other more special fish have grace my net in that spot. I had not though taken into consideration how much time might have changed this swim and after forcing my way through the head high nettles and cow slip, I was confronted with a much altered swim that seemed not to be a good option, with a large log only a few feet out and dead centre of the swim.

With little choice I carried on downstream using my seat like a shield to defend myself from nettles, trying to limit my already growing collection of stings. The only real option for a cast was right at the bottom of the run where the river breaks hard left at forty five degrees, in a swim known as tramps corner. Its a bit of bleak place as its name implies. Most of the chancers and poachers that sneak a cheeky day here spend their day drinking Special brew or Tyskie under these trees. Apart from that its not a half bad swim; carp and tench often can be seen in the shallow slack on the opposite side of the river where lily pads grow out of the flow.

My first job was to scatter a liberal amount of pellets into that slack to hopefully get any passing fish to stop and have a feed. Whilst that brewed away I amused myself by fishing worms for perch just off the flow. In the past I have had some decent perch from this swim but I don't think I, or anyone else, has ever seen the true potential this swim has to offer.

A few casts in and the perch dutifully turned up, possibly attracted by the maggots I was distributing upstream or maybe by the flashing of silver fish intercepting them as they fell. After an hour I was building the swim up nicely and the fish did seem to be getting bigger, up to a pound and a half. Then out of nowhere there was an awful commotion and the swim erupted with dace flying in all directions. At first I suspected a pike had arrived which is not unusual here, but the the worst culprit possible popped out up right over the spot I was saving for later. A huge cormorant with a white throat bobbed up with a still wriggling dace in its beak. It pancaked, flapping desperately to get airborne just as I was scrabbling for a projectile to throw at it.

That was it for tramps corner. Every fish had scattered in a panic to get away and my once highly active swim swim seemed dead as a dodo. Going downstream where it had emerged from seemed a senseless move and with the two upstream pegs not much of a better option, the weir or higher seemed the only prospect. Just as I packed up Baz let me know he had turned up to trot on the mill race so my only option was the still free weir pool.

Luckily no one turned up as I raced through the undergrowth, though once ensconced again Baz did come down for a chat as the white throated bugger had circled the field, landed above his swim and pulled the same swim ruining ruse to him. As for the weir, its time had passed and not much action was forthcoming at all on my meat line. The last hour saw me contact a slew of beautiful perch fishing a light rig out in the slack area but as for the chance of anything big, I did not hold out much hope.

A few months away from the Avon and I had forgotten how fickle it can be. If you're in the the right swim and the fish are on the feed you can bag up, but it does seem like when its low and clear as it is right now, there is only a small window to catch. Add a few predators into the mix and and the fishing can be over and done with in the blink of an eye.

I fancy that Coombe pool fishery holds some monster eels. How can't it! It's a prime looking bit of big eel water. The only thing it has against it is the overflows exiting the lake. These two escape points could give any eels present in the pool an easy exit from the lake, thus so turning what I wish was a prison where trapped eels could balloon, into a... say hotel, where they can live the life of luxury plumping up on the veritable larder available, before slipping over the spillway once the itch to head off on a one way trip to the Sargasso takes hold.

For now though I am going to assume that this lake does in fact hold as yet unseen leviathan eels thicker than my arm. And why shouldn't I assume this as I know for a fact at least two eels reside in the lake as I relocated them after finding them languishing in one of the drains. But these are not the only anguila-like leads that I have encountered over the last few years whilst fishing Coombe. Only two weeks ago reports of a four-pounder being caught from an area which looks very eelish graced my ears, and last year a trio of carp anglers reported nightly harassment when fishing with blood worm flavoured boilies at range.

All the information seems to point in the right direction and my gut feeling is that this lake has to contain more than just a few surprises. So all that remains is time - time spent on the bank waiting for a big old eel to sniff out my baits in the dark of night and rouse me from my (more than likely) dreams of eels.

The opportunity to do my first night had been a little pragmatic in arriving. You see whilst trying to work full time and fish part-time, I am at home removing and replacing what can only be described as a galleon worth of decking boards which make up the patio right outside the back door to our house. Its a beastly job, and as the good weather is here to stay and the impending date for the delivery of the new materials marches ever closer, I find myself lacking in time and excuses to sit lazily bank side waiting for night to approach. This in mind the ingenious idea to just actually sleep on the bank entered my head.

It sounds perfect doesn't it? Get my gear ready the night before, go to work for the day, come home have a quick feed before back in the car with my gear head down the lake. Bait up/cast out then get my head down for the night, maybe land an eel here or there, then pack up head home and work in the garden all day ripping up bad wood...

Turned it was never going to be that easy or go that well. After huffing and puffing all my kit into the car I arrived at Coombe already sweating like I was wearing a fur coat in the Kalahari to find hordes of cars in the car park. By the time I had walked the bank, located an area full of small fry I fancied and packed my kit down the water side the sun was already worryingly low in the sky. By then I was in no mood to have to do what I was about too. But the gallon of wretched dead maggots wasn't about to spomb itself out any time soon. To top it all off the flavouring I was adding to the dead maggots is quite possibly the worst smelling additive invented my man and after I had sent multiple spombs onto two different spots the entire bank was humming with flies attracted by the stench.

Eventually after much business I found my toiling done and with one rod cast onto spot far out in the lake which was liberally baited, and a second spot only a few feet off the bows of an oak tree which caressed the water, I went round to chat with and apologise to a very nice chap called Dave who I knew from another lake we both fish and who was bivvied up for a night of bream fishing just down the bank.

Really I held no hope that anything would be forthcoming until the lake had been shrouded in dark for a good while. So when my inside line went off like a rocket just after dark I was little more than surprised. It never bleeped or stuttered once before melting off and forcing me to sprint through the narrow gap leading back to my swim. Even the excitement of a instant one toner could not override my expectant excitement of what might have consumed the quiet literally humongous ball of worm I had attached to my hook. Honestly how many fish are big enough or tenacious enough to consume four large worms cut into quarters before being threaded onto hair and hook?

The answer to that question so far is one... and a tench at that! some how this greedy male had been grubbing around over my lovely eel bait when it came across my golf ball sized bait. Where it proceeded to cram it in its mouth along with my size 2 hook and 40lb hook link.

Although it was probably not what you could call a sporting fight on fifteen pound line and my three pound rods, I should count myself lucky of the action considering the night ahead.

The warm night passed with little disturbance from anything under the water. The creatures above the water were a different matter entirely. As I tried to calm my mind and get to sleep the little owls began a a lake wide conversation. I then heard what sounded like a daddy long legs buzzing on the roof of my bivvy only to discover when I turned the light on that it was in fact a mosquito that looked like a prop from Jurassic park buzzing around my head. After a few hours sleep I was roused by three beeps on my right hand rod which after I hovered over it for ten minutes came to nothing and was followed by Dave getting a run from a nice bream. By now it was three so I decided to recast both rods just in case and after doing so a pair of tawny owls began hooting in the woods over the lake which was followed by a male muntjac deer barking for a while. Some how I did manage to get back to sleep before the dawn chorus began.

By six the sun was already up and getting very hot. The lake was flat calm and from my bed I had a good view of a large swathe of it. Surprisingly nothing was rolling anywhere in sight and that's when it struck me. All night even with a load of bait spread over my swim I had not had a single liner on my long line which was fished taught and popped up of the bottom. The bream should rightfully have driven me mad passing through my swim but nothing had seemingly moved through it.

As I packed up for an early exit the carp anglers started stirring and news came down the bank that it had been a very quiet night all over with My tench and Dave's bream the only action all over the lake. I think the closest I may have come to an eel was that three bleeps in the night. I also think I may have gone a little over the top for just a single night by putting out all those dead maggots. Next time I think I will be a little more frugal and try fishing an area with a few more features rather than targeting an area full of prey fish

Through the weekend the temperature soared as I slaved away sawing old decking boards into manageable chunks. Always in the back of my mind I fancied I might have another session. But the savage sun made the prospect of even a short session at Coombe seem pointless. So instead I opted to link up with Andy and head down to my old mate Lanny's lagoon to do the only thing that seemed a viable prospect in the near thirty degree heat, surface fishing.

We weren't disappointed on arrival either, as close round the island was black with carp. By the time Andy turned up I had already bagged three powerful commons in three casts, fishing a free lined hunk of crust just off the massive patch of scum collected in the corner of the lake.

Sometimes it's just fun to leave the challenges at home and just head out to have a laugh with your mate whilst putting some serious bends in your rod. Which was exactly what we did bagging countless commons and mirrors, with a few strange hard fighting little wild carp mixed in for good measure.

I have been on holiday for a week and when I say holiday I don't mean I was sunning myself on some Mediterranean beach. Though it could be said I was living and working like a Spaniard! With the temperatures knocking close on thirty degrees I have spent my time slaving early mornings and late evenings building a new patio, whilst in between taking siestas away from the midday sun. Somehow I have managed to avoid sun stroke and now have an beautiful new bit of stone sun deck that catches the early morning heat a treat but is perfectly shady come the evening.

Even with labouring to be done I still managed to find time to squeeze in a few fishing trips here and there. Though in all honesty they have been much of a muchness in this savage heatwave. Thrice I visited the Avon in search of a barbel. On the first two attempts I got the distinct feeling I was wasting my time. On one of those sessions the eels, of which I am seeking on another venue but not the river, were so ravenous that anything I cast into the river seemed to attract them. Meat, pellets, boilies were all devoured by them and although one of the many usurpers was a respectable two pounds plus, they inevitably ruined my session. The next time it was bream who would not leave my baits alone and no matter how big the baits were they in the end managed to engorge my bait and hang themselves up.

My best chance I think came when I paid a visit to the BAA stretch of the Avon at wasperton. After arriving and finding the pegs I fancied occupied I opted to fish a large run of willows on the opposite bank around two thirds the way up the stretch. With no one insight I fished right at the top of the trees in a slow but covered swim and was able to tuck my bait under the cover and trickle in bait without fear of having anyone else drop below me.

It was one of those nights when the conditions felt very right. With the sun gone the air was cooling, and not long before dark crept close my rod tip nodded a few times indicating possible interest. As I crouched excitedly behind my rod waiting for a bite was sure was about to come I caught a rolling thumping sound which seemed to be getting louder. They appeared fast a flash dashing down the field behind the trees and straight towards the willows I was fishing. That old saying of tread quietly meant nothing to this excited string of horses and as they thundered past my rod tip arched over bouncing back and forth as unseen fish scarped out of the swim.

All that was left after they passed was what looked like a dozy old Irish cob scratching its arse on a tree, whilst I sat agog at what had just happened. By waiting till well into dark I did scratch a couple of tiny chub which came back into my swim as the dust settled.

Though I considered other outings the only firm plan I had made was to do the night at Coombe again at the start of the weekend. Eels once again my target species I trudged my kit around to the early pegs on the Lindley bank. It's not a long way, but it ain't an easy way either! Even with a well mown path the general unevenness of the ground topples even the best stacked barrow. Hence I carried my kit in two trips.

After a fruitless previous visit on a different part of the lake, which in hindsight I think may have been a little featureless, I set up in a the more feature filled narrow section of the lake hoping it might be a little more conducive to eel fishing. Just down the bank was an excited carp angler who upon arriving had found a large group of basking carp in residence and who informed me the area was alive with fish of all species. This seemed just right to me a duly I set up slowly aiming to cast out an hour before dark.

It turned out to be another duff night of eel fishing although I have to say it was by no means quiet. Having made the decision to only fish worms I soon discovered much to my annoyance that the large numbers of fish out in front of me were all determined to eat my bait, no matter how small they were or how big my baits were. From the moment I cast out till the time they had pecked my worms to bits my bite alarms constantly bleeped. Fishing baits off the bottom made no difference and by two in the morning I had been casting repeatedly all night and all I had to show for my efforts was a single shocked bream.

With wanting to catch no more than a forty winks, I in the end gave up and left them to the worms until the buzzers fell silent. After awaking naturally around six I decided to recast and let the rods fish until I was packed up ready for home. Once again the buzzers began and disheartened I began to strike camp. But! Just as I had my head in the shelter folding up my bed my left hand rod sounded a slow but constant take. Its always the way it is just as your about to leave something takes an interest.

I don't think I could believe my eyes when the small but determined fish surfaced out past the reeds. It was another Coombe carp. Anyone who does not know this lake will think me a little mental for getting excited by such a small carp. But quite truthfully I have heard of carp anglers fishing for years and never catching one and here I was with my second albeit a tiddler.

As I travelled the short distance home the presence of all those fish kept coming back into my head. On the session I had just fish they were no more than an annoyance. But if I was to return with lighter set-ups and if they were still in residence, maybe I could make a little hay whilst the sun shone. It is not that often that you find this water coloured up and with fish willing to feed with such gay abandon in day light hours. So I decided to return to the area within twenty fours hours with a good nights sleep in between.

The day between the two sessions bought to light an uncomfortable truth I hadn't realised! Not being a massive fan of mosquito repellent I try and avoid using it where ever possible and instead rely on mosquito nets and staying well covered where possible. I had as far as I was concerned been very diligent on this occasion. Turned out I hadn't been so careful as I first thought... No less than twenty seven red lumps arose all over my body. My left hand which must have been uncovered for some time well led the way with eleven bites all in a row. Some horrid critter had even bitten me through my trousers which I didn't think was even possible. But far the worst of all was a single bite just under my left eye brow which I suspected might be troublesome and was, as you will see later.

Sunday morning I returned and luckily no one had moved into the area. Maybe the news a carp had been caught hadn't got around as normally one whiff of a carp coming out and the carp lads are running for the area. I even got back onto the exact spot and even dropped a bait onto the same clear patch I had found in the weed a day ago.

Not wanting to over do it I baited one long and one short spot lightly and plopped a method feeder on each. Initially I fished popped up corn on both rods but from the general liners and nudges on the feeder I was getting I soon switched over to bottom baits. Fish were topping all over the area and soon enough the bream turned up and I landed three well conditioned fish up to seven pounds. The last of which I did a self take of. It was after I had recast and went back to have a quick look a the photo that I realised my left eye was more than little swollen.

After seeing that picture I suddenly became aware that my eye was well on the way to closing up with the swelling and maybe I might need to seek some attention before it got much worse. That was until I had a screaming run on my inside line. That run came to nothing but that combined with a tench rolling over the fresh cast bait confirmed I would take my chances and stick it out for a little while longer.

There was certainly tench around and the were certainly driving me crazy fizzing all over my baits whilst not taking a single one. Desperately trying to garner a hook up I went through the entire choice of baits available to me until I finally switched to the last few remaining lob worms I had from my ill fated eel session just passed.

Whole or split worms got interest but never produced. It wasn't until I cut a worm into small sections and threaded it onto a hair rig that I cracked the problem. It was only skimmers that fell foul of this rouse first but just after I decided it was my last cast three different tench fizzes surfaced all at once and I held off leaving...

The bite was one of the worst I have ever had jingling the bobbin up and down a few times and when I struck it felt like a skimmer had once again got hooked up. Half way back, which wasn't far at all the fish increased power tenfold causing me to quickly loosen my drag. A big swirl on the surface changed my mind on the culprit and I then suspected a small tench. It did a pretty spectacular run at the reeds next to my swim then turned and swan straight at my already submerged net. The fight had only been seconds and suddenly it was over the net so I lifted quickly shocked at what had just eased over the cord.

"eeeh!" those were my exact words as I looked into the net. I wasn't long but it was like a breeze block across the shoulders and when I lifted the net it was satisfyingly heavy. Then on the mat it was so deep and perfect I could hardly believe my eyes or eye for that matter. There has been reports of some big tench caught at Coombe this year and I saw a few swimming around the season just passed but this looked huge. Then when the scales stopped flickering I was really pleased. A new PB tench of 8.2lb and the fact that it came from this rock hard water and it was so perfect made it so much better.

I never cast out again after that as even though the fish looked amazing in the photo my eye seemed worse. So after packing up and yomping back to the car I headed off to spend the rest of the afternoon at the walk in centre waiting to see a quack to get to treatment for my eye.

I think I have lost my mojo of late. It was inevitable that it was going to happen as after a high always comes a low. Three times I have fished in the past week and each time something has not been quite right in all honesty.

Chasing bubbles

We have all done at one time another and undeniably sometimes it pays off. But chasing bubbles if you think about it is quite possibly a futile pastime. I mean yes, there are times when those attractive bubbles that you see dimpling the surface of the smooth surface can mean nothing but a fish is causing them. Like when tench are hard on the feed and vast clouds of tiny bubbles break the surface all at once making an audible fizz, or when you can actually see a carp rooting round on the bottom sending large blooping bubbles up to the top. But these few examples of fish-related bubbles although specific are probably quite rare. Consider how many bubbles rise on even a tiny pond through the course of a day, never mind through a prolonged period of warmer weather and soon you realise that of what we see hit the surface, probably less than twenty percent is fish related.
The possible origination of any one bubble that defies gravity in itself is massive. Ignoring the overly romantic idea that most of us anglers have that bubbles are fish falling for our infallible rouses, the fact is that any one of hundreds of possibilities are the cause of a bubble. Most can probably be attributed to the decay of previously living matter, whether its the relatively quick breakdown of last years leaves or the long term breakdown of silt, it is more than likely this that is responsible for the majority of what we see.

It was this temptation which I fell foul of when I last visited the lake. Arriving early evening I found which I assumed to be fish feeding all over one area of the Coombe and yes, in a what I can hardly describe as a minor moment of misjudgement, I foolishly spent an entire evening casting to what I was convinced were feeding fish. It wasn't until the sun dipped behind the wood on the far side of the lake and the shadows grew long that the bubbling petered away that it clicked; the dropping water temperatures reduced whatever was causing the gases to rise from the silt leaving the water like a mirror and me feeling kind of foolish.

Trash fish harassment

I have heard the reference 'trash fish' used colloquially by some American anglers more and more since the Internet has broadened our angling horizons, and from what I can tell the reference refers to fish that are considered to be second class or a nuisance. Although I would never agree that any fish is better than another, I could not possibly deny with any clear conscience that ocassionally I find some fish a nuisance when fishing for another. So it is through clenched teeth that I use it.

Sunday after some well needed rain I, like many others, skipped happily towards the river thinking high temperatures combined with a higher water level and coloured water would mean the Avon's Barbel population would feed with the gay abandon of a kids in a sweet shop. Frankly they probably did somewhere in the river, just not where I was fishing. But I must say at this point that even if they were there and did feed, chances were that they never got near my baits as the local bream population had become rather stimulated by my bait and antics. It hard to be ungrateful with a bend in your rod but on this occasion I did a pretty good job of it! As time and time again those snotty brown buggers hung themselves up on my rig, and even with a respectable daytime match weight to my name, I could not help but think of this a failure of a session, hence no pictures.

Not one thing right!

We all have bad sessions when you can't do a dammed thing right, I know. But knowing that does in no way stop us from beating ourselves up when it happens. Hence on a slightly detoured trip I found myself a guest on a stretch of the Avon which has a good reputation for barbel fishing, that was in prime condition and even worse was producing multiple catches of barbel on that very night...

You all know the sort of session I had. It was one of those ones where you just can't settle. Where the next peg along looks better than yours and when you do move you find yourself thinking, was I better off back there? My tactics didn't fit and nether did my attitude considering the time constraints.

I must have fished five swims between seven and ten and not one did I feel I fished well. Worst of all I got the distinct feeling that in at least two of the afore mentioned swims there was certainly fish. In those cases I reckon my atom bomb antics may of alerted any fish present to my presence. Every cast I made seemed to end up in the wrong spot or go in hard and my teeth were left cold time and time again from my incessant inhaling of air.

In the end and on the verge of just leaving I opted to just go up to a swim near the exit of the fishery and camp out in the simplest of swims and wait. Considering how badly I had done and how loudly I had gone about it I saw no harm in switching from lead to a feeder. Frankly it made no more noise than any of my other rigs had entering the water and after waiting half an hour until my white rod dip began to merge into the dark my tip bent round. It was no barbel that took pity on me but instead a chub of less than two pounds. That was it for me; I was very, very done.
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Looking back now I could happily remove 26th of July - 3rd of August from my fishing life. But then again maybe I shouldn't! Its true that when we have these runs of bad form it makes you feel pretty crappy but conversely when it comes good after a bad spell it always feels that much better when it ends. After all, if its all good you stop appreciating what you've got when you have it all the time. So a little perspective can only be a good thing. That's the way I am looking at it anyway and roll on next week.

I think I might be in love with a fish.... or should I say I am in love with the idea of what a specific fish should look like. You see this year I have tried to be a little more species-specific in targeting what and when. For an extreme example, carp fishing in January would be a no-no, whereas pike fishing in October would be an, ooh yes. Though these are extreme examples it gives an idea of what I have tried to do. The whole reason I am attempting to keep up with this ethos is quite simply a case of time management. Having so many species I wish to fish for throughout the year it makes sense for me to fish at the optimum times when I am more likely to catch them, rather than wasting time fishing fruitlessly for other species because want has superseded sense. It is this want that has in the past resulted in me missing my window of opportunity to fish for one species whilst fishing for other. It was one such missed opportunity, and the species involved, which inspires me now.

I nearly went to the canal the weekend just passed, but when the idea of returning to Snitterfield to fish for Crucians arose, it just seemed the right fish at the right time. I still kind of regret not fishing it last year and having done so well already there this year I had to go back again, and boy, how well it went.

To regale a story of me fishing a classical lift float would be an honour, but it would also so be a lie. As great as this method is for registering awkward bites I think in all honesty there is more sensitive methods. You see, once upon a time I harboured a real passion to become a garish clothing clad match man; I had all the gear and diligently practised the art of pole fishing, and although that phase of fishing passed for me lot of the techniques I learnt have become very useful parts of my now more specimen orientated approach.

Specifically two aspects of pole fishing have blended integrally to my crucian fishing. The first is the use of a pole pot. Quiet, accurate and reliable these ninja like devices get bait onto tiny areas with zero noise and disturbance. They even allow you to do as I did on this occasion and deposit small compacted balls of ground bait which break down on the bottom along with loose fluffy ground bait which clouds up the water dispersing scent far and wide at the same time.

The second is the use of float floats. Until anyone truly begins pole fishing a lot they have zero appreciation for the millions of types of pole floats available, or what they are used for and when. The simple fact that makes me use them time and time again is the resistance factor of zero they possess. This is where they win out for me over any other methods float fishing for crucians. The tiniest rise on even the finest float fished lift float style translated to a pole float is a sail away.

So Sunday morning I arrived a very low reservoir and began plumbing up the spot I liked with my 4 x 10 kc carpa straight ace float. The float was only one part of my attack for the session and the other main component was a fourteen foot float rod which I intended to use rather like a pole to keep my rig on a very short line. With a clear level spot located I potted quite a large quantity of my all time favourite Bait tech special G green ground bait in along with some generous amounts of 3mm halibut pellets. It is at this point that I think the match angler in me might have been thinking 'I might be overdoing it a bit' and where the specimen angler in me would was just telling me to 'wedge it in and they will come'.

By the time I had finished setting up, the spot was bubbling like a cauldron and I was thinking I may have done for the crucians and attracted the bream, but first flick in my pellet made it to the bottom unhindered then the float dipped slightly before sliding away and my first crucian juddered off around the swim.

The first cast contacting a crucian was a good sign. Then the flood gates opened and they flowed through one after another. I was truly amazed at how much of a dominant force this new stock of crucians have become in snitterfield. I landed easily ten of them before they went off the boil and not one other species managed to get a look in. Their growth rate seem phenomenal too! I caught a few of these on my last visit only two months ago and compared to then the average size seems to have increased by a large amount. Every single one was immaculate. Deepening bodies, scale perfect and fighting fit.

After topping up the swim I switched to fishing an up-in-the-water rig over a area I had been trickling maggots onto. I am little haunted by a roach I saw caught a few years ago which was massive hence every time I have fished snitterfield since I have always spent some time fishing up in the water where these roach seem to hang out in the summer. Before even switching to this second line I had seen swirls of flashing silver shortly after each pouch of maggots went out.

First chuck I hooked a strong fish which turned out to be a roach bream hybrid of well over two pounds. Then after that it was pretty much all roach! I had five around a pound on the trot. The biggest being this long lean 1.3lb fish. In autumn condition it would easy make one and half and if it had a deeper body type it might even make that sacred weight on a good day.

Its surprising how much maggot you can use trying to keep these fish frenzied up in the water. In no time at all I was scrabbling around in the bait tub trying to scrounge the last of my two pints of maggots up for freebies. With them gone so were the fish, just like that.

Maggots gone it was straight back onto the inside line after those perfect little pixies. And they were there and waiting. Six or more brought a smile to my face before a carp turned up. I wasn't as lucky as on my last visit and the culprit smashed me up quicker than I could blink. I once watched a carp clean out a swim I had built up all morning in about two or three sucks here at snitters. So before re-rigging I once again topped up the swim.

After settling back into the swing of thing the crucians came along in small spurts. Once I caught one then three, four or five more would follow in quick succession. The only thing that put a dampener on this crock of gold was the slowly increasing rain. Thinking it would only be a shower I neglected to bother with the umbrella and as the wind was coming straight into my face it just would never of worked. Even with the crucians still obliging I could feel my self getting wetter and wetter even though the water proof top was holding off most of it, the damp still found its way into my clothes.

By the time I had had enough of the incessant rain I reckon I had landed maybe twenty five or more of these perfect little crucians and although I didn't get into any of the big old fish this session has reiterated to me of what potential this water now has.

With so many text book crucians like this one feeding as hard as they are and seeming growing so fast Leamington angling association might well have one of the top crucian waters in the entire country on their hands in years to come, and I just love them so I can see me being a Leamington member for years to come.

I paid an unusual visit to Coombe pool one night the other week. Though me going to Coombe for an evening session is not actually that unusual, what I went to do was! You see on my last few visits there has been some different goings on afoot.

To fully explain this I must go back in time a few years. As I have said before, the lake that is Coombe pool has loomed large in my life ever since I was in my early teens and I first cast into it's difficult water. Back then it was a different place entirely. Just fishing a simple float rig in the edge twenty years ago would bring a veritable cornucopia of fish. As I grew older and found myself in my late teens and early twenty's my angling had evolved as had my tackle and around 1997 (I remember that year specifically as on the way there one day I heard on the radio that Princess Diana had died) fishing a waggler at the end of the lily beds over a good bed of ground bait you could fill a net with skimmers, bream, big perch, tench and roach that went from 'ugh' right through 'oh my god'. I don't remember when it happened for sure, but some time after this the sport seemed to just evaporate. I do remember a year when skimmers became so prevalent that the water boiled with them. From then on the things just got harder and the once great bream water of yesteryear seemed to decline away from its former glory.
On and off from then till last year I and many others dipped their toes into Coombe's water and again and again we all walked away vowing never to return. After many years of fishing away from Coombe I began to gain some perspective on how hard other waters can be and I think it was that idea that got me pondering Coombe again. Then last year by fishing 'bait and wait' tactics I realised for myself that the were still in Coombe, it's just their habits and environment had changed. Before in the wonder years Coombe always had a distinct tinge of colour, the sort of colour that has self respecting barbel anglers speeding towards rivers like tramps towards chips, whereas now most of the time it resembles more of a gravel pit style water, with gin clear water and excessive weed growth. But this might have come full circle now, as on one occasion last year the water coloured up and suddenly the fishing went mad and now this year, for the second time it seems on the same path.

The indicators of change started bleeping a few weeks ago when I fished two eel session on back-to-back weekends. On the first one I never got harassed that much, but Dave the chap fishing next to me got a lot of attention fishing maggot rigs. It was the next session that drove me insane as my worm baits got smashed up very quickly by small fish. Then again when fishing Coombe on few days later, the amount of small fish topping seemed rather excessive.

It was the intrigue to find out what was going on that drove me to go down to the bank only armed with a light feeder outfit, to try and see what sort of silver sods were harassing my bait. Oh and to have a crack at one of the most hair-brained things I have ever attempted on the lake and which I will only discuss if it ever works...

Knowing that the weed is romping up in the water I decided to fish a clearish area I know and to use dead maggots in both my ground bait and on the hook. The area was conveniently at the very limit of my light feeder rod so no clipping up or line markers were needed to hit the spot. It was just a case of firing the feeder as far as it would go.

I was very happy that my first cast resulted in a nice six ounce rudd but then I was not so happy when I cracked off my feeder second cast due to the line wrapping round the tip ring. Once set up again the next cast another rudd then that was followed by another then another then a roach. It went on like that all night and by dark I had put together a very respectable catch whilst confirming that yes the silvers were back in force or that they had never gone away. If they had always been around the current feeding frenzy must purely be down to the colour in the water as at the moment visibility is at around six inches tops.

It was towards the end of the session that the most amazing thing happened and I hit that one in a million cast. After missing a sitter of a bite I began reeling in and felt a dull resistance on my line. On several casts I had picked up some random bits of weed so that what I thought I had done. Turned out I had hooked something but not a fish or weed. I saw the three metres of line trailing from it first as it surfaced then it clicked I had picked up someones lost rig. No I couldn't be mine I hear you say. Well it was! I had managed to actually hook my own feeder off the bottom and the hook was in the feeder not on the line.

Since that session I have mulled over this upsurge in fish activity and concluded that the colour in the water correlates to the recent rains we had. Much like the rivers, Coombe colours up when extra water enters the lake via the brook in the park. As with many bits of river the fish come on the feed hard in these turbid conditions. Which is purely a confidence thing, as the fish in Coombe have more predators on their doorstep than most of the other fish in Warwickshire combined.

It was an interesting enquiry to say the least and after coming to my own conclusions I have to offer this bit of advice to anyone who might want to take advantage of this micro up turn in sport and relive the wonder years of Coombe "wait for it to hammer it down for a week then get on it!"

I did not have a successful weekend angling wise. Though I cannot say I did not enjoy it. Spending time on the river though fruitless, was enjoyable. So rather than bore you with a tome about me blanking I will instead spend a short time extolling the virtues of what I consider to be one of the true wonders of cuisine. The scotch egg!

The scotch egg was claimed to be invented by the department store Fortnum and Mason in 1738 as a picnic food, though most believe their less spicy version was a revamp of the Mugul dish Nargis kofta, where a boiled egg is encased in a spicy kofta meat before deep frying. As to whom invented it, I care not. I am just glad it was invented.

I, like my good friend Baz consider myself to be rather an aficionado on the subject of scotch eggs. Having had a job which let me travel all over the country I have tasted many localised versions from a variety of suppliers, some big some small.

One local example the loss of which I mourn regularly was the simple freshly made version made by Garners of Spon End, Coventry. On a Friday morning you could purchase them, still hot, from a metal bowl on their counter. Now sadly Garners is gone and the proprietor reportedly refused to ever share her recipe with anyone before retiring, so this shining eggsample was lost to the passage of time.

What it is that appeals so much to me about the humble scotch egg that it is meal all in one, or even better, a breakfast all in one; a boiled egg, sausage meat and bread crumbs - all the ingredients of a sausage and egg butty in one convenient transportable package. And what inspired this is the personification of my convenient breakfast vessel theory.

Whilst perusing the stalls of Warwick market I came across the Cotswold Pie and Pudding company http://www.cotswoldfarmfayre.com/CPPHotpies.html and amongst the veritable temptations they offer I discovered the 'Black watch egg'! Named after the Scottish regiment, this edible wonder combines my all time favourite food, black pudding into the sausage meat to produce a true breakfast experience suitable for any anglers early morning sustenance.

'Get some!'

I have often thought myself and Barbus barbus are like two positively charged ions, we seem to repel one another! After a few fruitless forays and a shove by a good friend in the right direction I think I might be becoming a bit more of a negative in this dynamic, and in doing so me and my old adversary might actually seem to be a little more attracted to each other. Not that I was never attracted to them, more that anything that could go wrong, would go wrong when I tried to catch one.

My first session on this venue was disaster, my second was somewhat less so; on that second session I did at least come in contact with a barbel if only briefly... In an awkward swim where the best place to cast was just out of reach I persevered fishing a small mat formed around a trailing willow branch, and after numerous chub-like rattles on the rod tip I got the now sacred three foot twitch. After hitting and holding, the fish swung quickly out into the flow and then equally quickly back, ending up well and truly stuck in snag. I will go on record as saying this was the sweetest lost fish I have ever had in my life as after trying every trick I know, from slackening off, changing the angle and trying to pull through, the dull thumping on the end of my line stopped. I hate having that feeling that I have left a fish possibly tethered and would rather never catch another fish in my life than leave one caught up. With great sorrow I concluded my only option was to pull for the break and hope that my free running rig would drop off the soon to be broken line.

The one thing I did discover in this crappy situation was how good the integrity of my rig was, when the drooping willow branch soon started to move under the strain of my locked up clutch. Then low and behold, the lead appeared followed by my hook link. The joy at finding the fish had got off in the snag was what made that loss so sweet, and soon enough an ounce an half of lead flying through the air had me diving into the undergrowth.

My next session I fished a recently vacated swim down stream of the snag swim. I knew there was fish in the area as Baz had landed four from the every swim earlier in the afternoon. Knots checked, I cast out towards the opposite bank and waited. It's hard to sit on your hands when some very determined chub are plucking your pellets so hard that you're getting bites that would normally be manna in the winter. But hard as it was I waited and sure enough after a while the rod buckled over as a barbel turned off bait in mouth.

Personally I feel that in the first few moments of a barbel fight you can never know how big a barbel is, as they all go like stink on that savage first run and this one was no different. With my rod held low and maximum pressure, that first run was subdued and a sprightly spirited barbel came out into the safety of the main flow. Truthfully I could not have cared if it was three or thirteen pounds as it crossed the net because for me, getting that barbel jinx off my back is the hardest thing every year. It did turn out to only be a little one but I can truthfully say it was one of the most satisfying.

After that first one I didn't have to wait long for the next bite either, though how I turned a proper 'fish on' bite into striking into thin air I don't know. That didn't matter as my next cast again hit that sweet spot a foot off the willow leaves, and my third bite came moments later from a powerful near six pound fish which took me on a merry dance around the swim.

Whether six fish out of the same swim in one day was too much pressure or whether the fish actually came out of the snag and into open water as dark fell, I couldn't say, but weirdly the activity dropped off as the bats appeared in the night sky. I did not care at all as the monkey was well and truly off my back and I could now start enjoying my barbel fishing properly.

If I wasn't keen enough to return a few days later I nearly boiled over when a couple of decent downpours topped up the river. After watching a small spike appear on the Environment agency graph it looked like the Avon might for once be in the right condition when I arrived.

When I first saw the river in the half light I could just see the normally highly visible fronds of weed were at least half obscured by the clearing water, as I headed back to the previously highly productive area. Sadly though after an hour and a half of perseverance I had only had a few lack lustre chub nibbles. Not wanting to waste good time in a swim which I was convinced should have produced quite quickly, I upped sticks to fish another swim I had my eye on.

With my bait comfortably cast to an over hanging tree on the inside edge I thought it might take a while for a bite to emerge, so I set about knocking up a few more PVA bags of pellets. Yes and you've guessed it, the moment I began twisting that first bag ready for knotting, the rod was rammed around. I wasn't sure if it was a mad-ass chub or a barbel as the bite was so vicious, but the initial fight was not too savage. Then as the fish vibrated upstream the line fell slack. Undeterred I quickly finished making a few bags before recasting, but no others materialised.

Now I found myself in a quandary; should I stick it out in a known hot spot or take my chances upstream in the shallow but coloured water? A week prior to this I had walked all through the shallows checking out possible holes to fish, and save a few blasé chub and pike it seemed rather lifeless, but I knew some of the snags held barbel and this colour might have inclined them from there hidey holes. This might be my best opportunity to take advantage of the coloured water. So I took a chance and went off to search them out rather than wait for them to find me.

I ended up fishing a jungle of a swim I had clocked out the previous week. The main flow of the river gets channelled into a rip right down the centre of the river by a jutting reed bed on which I was sat and a very extensive bit of cover on the opposite bank. At the start of the over hanging willow was very shallow but from what I had seen previously it deepened off under the cover and ended in a big slack behind it.

The river here is so narrow I could just about swing my rig into place and almost cushion its landing as it went in, it was that close. In a way its an awkward swim to fish with extra water in the river, as my line was cutting straight through the main flow and my bait had ended up just at the end of the cover on the crease formed by the fast water and the slack meeting. My hope was that any of the fish that I assumed normally were tight under cover might be either out in the deeper water, or may move in and out of it looking for passing food in the faster water.

There was certainly some small fish topping in the eddy behind the trees and they were even quite interested in my baits initially, but soon enough all went quiet. The rig was holding so rather than recast I held fast and waited. After about half an hour my phone rang and it turned out to be one of my little brothers calling for a chat. I automatically use my left hand to hold my phone when I am fishing and thank god I do as a few minutes into our conversation my rod jumped forward a foot as an attached barbel dived under the cover. Squealing like a little girl that I had a fish on and would call him back, I tossed my phone over my shoulder hopefully onto the ground and applied maximum pressure to try and extract the fish from under the willows.

Finally after a real tug of war, I spotted a flash of colour at the edge of the over hanging trees before I watched the vague shape of a barbel glide out into the main flow then dive back towards the cover, stripping line off my reel. This turned out to be this fishes major tactic. Three or four more times it did the same before settling deep down in the main current just holding head down. Careful patience won the day though and a big rubbery mouth soon appeared just off my waiting net.

With the fish safe and recuperating in a convenient notch in the reeds I went about looking for my abandoned phone, which I found standing straight up in the mud and still saying I was still on the line with my brother. After establishing he had long rung off I began trying to calm down and get everything in place to sort the fish out. She certainly had recovered and was a little lively to say the least. But lucky for me I had my Korum sling mat with me all wet and ready to cradle her.

I was well over the moon to catch such a lovely lump of a fish from such a tiny and intimate swim. She even acquitted her self amiably whilst I carefully did some self takes before holding her in the flow and watching her slide across the flow back under the trees into her snaggy home.

Canals have always occupied an important position in my angling, largely because it was there that I cut my fishing teeth. Even as I've grown older and have looked to fish different types of waters I still find myself attracted to them. For most part it was the allure of zander and carp fishing on these untapped waters, but more recently the copious amounts of large perch on one particular section have drawn me back time and time again.

It was a case of checking in prior to autumn that called me back just now. I wanted to see where those fish were at after a summer of fry bashing, so as I might know what to expect when I returned in two months time. Two pound fish are almost disgustingly common on this section and the odd fish among them stands out as getting ever closer to the three pound mark. And it is those odd fish which intrigue me; just how big do they grow, or how big could they grow given the unusual dynamic of this perch sanctuary.

On this occasion though, the normally predictable sport was unusually difficult. I began just after first light in what I would normally consider to be a banker of a swim, fishing as I always do just off the inside self. Doing this in conjunction with the slow trickling of whatever feed I should desire to use, can normally bring in the fish and coax some decent bites, even on a slow day. But today the most I could seem to tempt was small sub pound billies.

After two hours my efforts had begun to seem rather futile. That these fish were not in the mood seemed to be the obvious answer, considering my normal fruitful approach wasn't working. I decided a change to a second banker swim might confirm my theory, and once in place with another hour passed it did seem I was correct in my assumption. Only the fact that the little ones were feeding stopped me walking away early. Maybe the fish were just not in their regular haunts, and by haunts, I mean where I have in a blinkered manner become accustomed to catching them.

In a last ditch attempt to unlock this quandry I discarded my finely honed under-the-rod-tip rig in favour of a more suitable rig, which would allow me to lay my bait on hard on in the slow but persistent tow. The whole idea was that maybe the bigger fish were reluctant to leave the deeper water of the main trench. So I set up with a medium crystal waggler set over depth by some twelve inches, I cast my lob worm bait into new territory and waited...

Less than five minutes later the float dipped and I proved to myself its not what you think you know, but in fact what you are prepared to try that often makes the difference!

The first perch was just under two pounds, as were the next five. Even with the odd boat ploughing straight overhead these perch were more than happy to feed; but they would not venture out of the boat track for love nor money. You know when perch are having it, as you start having to really search through the bait tub that was once crawling with worms just to find one. Having just done a quick count when a barge passed and found my fifty worms were now seven, I re-baited and dropped the float back into the small area I had been sparingly baiting.

The next bite was different from the rest... Perch being perch generally just bury the float after a quick dip. Personally I have always thought that the dip is when they suck the worm in and the bury is as the move. But this bite lifted the float as the two small shot that I had placed to help hold bottom and then the float began gentle moving with the tow. Believing a fish was causing this I struck and found a small roach was the culprit. This was quite unusual as I have literally in hundreds of hour fishing this stretch, never caught one other roach and that was at least a pound bigger than this one.

Wondering if there might be more, I dropped the bait exactly were the last one had come from and straight away there was interest. An identical bite as before was hit, and I was expecting another little silver thing to come splashing in, but no, this fish bent the rod well over and began flying around the swim. One single flash of silver and my heart was pounding. The second flash and I was begging out loud for it not to come off... And then it was in the net.

Looking down at the fish resting in the net I truly and honestly thought I had a two pound fish. Just seeing the length of it as it lay on the soft grass I was convinced it was a two. Over twelve inches long and as perfect of a roach as I have ever seen in my life. This one looked like it had never been caught ever before.

My second big roach from this amazing little bit of canal and it was only three ounces shy of two pounds. If one pound thirteen ounces is summer condition, surely that can only mean that this fish will be two pounds once its stored up the necessary supplies of fat for winter. Even though I intend to go back to try and break that special weight later in the year, it was truly a high point of my angling life to have been lucky enough to catch such a wonderfully perfect roach as this, and I thank old Isaac that I changed from my normal tactics as I don't think I would have caught this otherwise.

A change is afoot and I know you all feel it. Darkness creeps in ever quicker and a certain chill now and then has appeared. The world too smells different and the heady floral scents have been dampened my a slight musty smell. The swaths of wheat that have coloured my county gold still remain, but the textures are changing as the farmers begin to bring in their crops. I get the distinct impression that these could be the last days of summer and that leaves will all too soon turn yellow and red before they fall to the ground.

A gift such as a glorious late summers day should never be squandered, as all too soon the enjoyable autumn will pass and we shall all freeze once again. And when that time comes the memories we make in those idyllic halcyon days will be needed to carry us through the cold, dreaming of those days as we are equidistant between memories and plans.

With such an evening at hand and after spending a free day picnicking on the well manicured lawns adjacent to the Avon, which looked more like a regatta venue than my faithful friend, I was more than in the mood to enjoy what could be one last summers eve in the company of two other fond friends, pin and carp.

As I sat in the soft evening heat watching my quill float just past the pads, I felt in a reflective mood. This summer hasn't been a bad one by English standards. Sure we have had the odd downpour here and there, but they were quite welcome at times. The sun hasn't been that punishing ether, though it had had its moments. As for me I have done as planned and enjoyed summer fishing while I could, and sitting on my seat made from an old log I hope it goes on a little longer with this soft heat.

Then as if on cue my float dips then jerks unnaturally up to lie flat on top the pad, and before I can strike slides clean off the pad and away under the water. It must be nearly my tenth carp of the evening but I don't think I could ever tire of hearing the noise my old speedia makes as a carp powers off angry at being caught out by such crude rouse.

Its another common, though I suspect this one has something more colourful in its linage a few generations ago. This one unlike the fantastic little mirror that preceded it, did not wriggle and slip off my mat back into the pond, instead sticking around long enough for a picture.

I really hope as I walk out of the coppice that this is a slow coming autumn with possibly a hint of an Indian summer, which would be nice way remember the warmer months in times to come.

Looking forward to something is a dangerous game! By putting a particular thing on a pedestal if it doesn't quite live up to your expectations then you're only ever going to be let down. Conversely if you don't raise something up in your mind then normally you stand a fifty-fifty chance of it exceeding your expectations and you're happy.

Since my last ruffe safari a year ago I have been really looking forward to having another go, as I ripped them up and landed a new PB in the process. I was thinking that my return this year with methods already devised and swims pinpointed, I once again stood a good if not great chance of cutting them up. Arriving early after a trouble free journey and after bundling my clothes into a wardrobe as only a man can unpack, I slipped off for a quick reckie session to try and see how the land may lay.

Bait the hook, cast the rig, float dips under, strike and land the fish. For two non-stop hours this was my mantra as a stream of hungry perch and roach time and time again took my bait. The only other thing to go through my mind was 'it's only a matter of time till my target species comes along'. Another hour later and my hopes were waning. Half an hour on top of that and I was walking away with a rather perplexed look on my face. How in gods name could I catch so many fish, even have at least one repeater and not catch possibly the most gullible herbert down there? Worst of all that was my number one banker swim.

The next few sessions over the next few days went much along the same lines only with less fish. The broad was not fishing well by all accounts, and everyone fishing was suffering due to the bright conditions and the strangely low tides. Fishing tidal venues is awkward when you're not used to it; you keep having to remind yourself to either increase or decrease the depths of your rig accordingly. Its even more demoralising on the ebb as you can just see the fishing getting worse as the level of water over your quarry's head reduces.

It was the evening of day three when a little light finally shone on my ruffe fishing exploits. I had fished through all the reliable swims thrice over and was making my second pass of the day when my float began to wander. Something had hold of my bait and unlike the suicidal perch which just sink the float, or the cagey roach which dither with it, this fish seemed to be eating my lob worm section as it moved round in a small circle. It had to be and couldn't be anything else other than a ruffe.

I think the most common reaction to catching a ruffe by most people is the surprised exclamation of "oh its a ruffe", normally shortly followed by a plop as the much maligned fish is discharged back to the bottom to carry on its scrounging ways. But I implore anyone who reads this to stop just for a moment and look closely next time you catch one, as this easily overlooked herbert is quite possibly one of our isles best looking fish. Its just that no one bothers to look closely enough to appreciate them.

I was on the board, my account was open, whatever you want to call it, I had landed a ruffe finally. Two more followed that session but all three were peas in a pod at 0.6, 0.8 and 0.6 drams. I am still not convinced that the first and last one weren't the same fish that swam straight back to the baited area and got hooked again.

On the matter of the sea.

I can't visit the coast without doing at least some sea fishing. So taking a break from the intense powder keg world of ruffe fishing, I got out the old broom stick beach rod and packed the other half up ready for a day on the beach.

Hot summers days at the end of the school holidays and beach fishing are best compared to that time when you were a kid and you wondered what would happen if you made a milk shake using orange squash. It seems a viable idea before you start but that as the two combine you suddenly realise they don't mix that well at all.

Wall to wall blue, the sun beating down on your head like the dessert, and kids all around makes swinging an big chunk of spike clad lead very uncomfortable. Not only was little Tommy and Gilly splashing around in the surf making it difficult, but the general lack of bites made the idea of trying to squeeze in a cast here or there pointless.

For miles up and down the coast anglers had become nocturnal and stayed well away from the throngs, only to come out at night in search of the sacred sole. That was apart from one chap who my fishing radar detected instantly from half a mile away walking up the beach having caught a delicious bass. Turned out he had landed three of them and they all lay gutted under a damp towel. That was enough to spur me to have another go on the same beach. Though all I caught that day was the sun on my neck.

All in all the sea fishing was hard! Too hard for me and the best I feel able to offer you, dear reader, is this picture of a random tall ship which passed by; truthfully the most interesting thing I saw at sea.

Back on the ruffe hunt things were looking up though and a few more slight examples turned up the following night as I eeked my session right into dark. I pushed my luck and hung on thinking surely a better one had to be around. And for once I was right when my barely perceptible float slid slowly under. I would love to describe an epic battle at this point but can't as this is ruffe fishing, and even on most sporting outfit the most that can expected is a little thrashing and splashing. Fight aside this was the best ruffe and last ruffe of the whole week, and although it was way off last years giant two ouncer it still seemed a very special fish in the context of things.

Rumours had been flying around the broad and the local tackle shops all week of some monster perch turning up in the broad. Even as an angler I some times take these things with a pinch of salt and frankly I had discarded the information as soon as I heard it. Especially as after five days of fishing half lobworms over chopped worm/maggot and had not seen a perch an bigger than half a pound, of which let me say there were thousands, if not millions, everywhere!

The morning in question I had slipped out very early to bag a spot I fancied that for the previous four days had a Geordie match angler firmly entrenched in it, and who had, incidentally, caught naff all fishing a feeder at range. I fancied it as it was the only swim I hadn't fished and it had some nice cover in deep water a rod length out.

However the queue of small perch waiting over my baited spot seemed endless and by the time the sun rose high enough to burn the mist off the water I was already counting my worm baits thinking I would be off soon. Lucky for me it quietened off a little and with my ruffe fishing experience growing I knew this was normally the time the ruffe turned up when the party had ended.

Half an hour of no interest and I was wishing anything at all would take my worm never mind a ruffe. Moments later the float just went! It didnt, dither, bob, slide or dip. It just went! Lucky for me I had the clutch set on ruffe. Because when I answered with a swift srike the fish battered off like a freight train. The first run had me convinced I had hooked a jack pike by the way it surged off. When it got thirty feet from the bank I was sure it was a pike. Thinking it wouldn't be on long, I tightened the clutch and waited for the inevitable snap of my line in its teeth, but the fish turned and kited towards a moored boat further down the bank. A little more pressure and I managed to avoid that hazard before it came out into open water, making a big swirl as it did. On the next turn a spiky fin appeared and pike turned into perch. Seeing that I eased off fair bit I can tell you. A few more violent runs and it was ready for my waiting net.

I am normally very prepared when I land a good fish and if it was a giant ruffe I was prepared. But even a British record ruffe wouldn't need an unhooking mat, you just hold them in the net. This fish though I needed to be careful with and here I was fishing in a land of concrete without so much of a hint of padding to lay this fabulous fish on. Sadly the best I could do to unhook it was to lay it on a pile of soft ropes I found attached to a boat. Even laying momentarily on that it looked so perfect I couldn't resist a quick snap.

Luckily for me the sight of my bent rod had attracted another angler over who I commandeered into taking a trophy shot. Though this was a risky business in itself, as the chap in question was quite elderly and I could in no way ask the poor fellow to kneel down on the concrete. So instead I risked it, gripped onto the fish for dear life, and stood up for this shot with the most perfect three pounder I have ever caught.

Hanging fearlessly mid-water in the shadow of the old log she bristled in a state of constant readiness for the attack. For years now she had been the number one, the apex predator of the confluence pool and the arrival of the log in the very centre had only cemented her position further. Some time during winter just passed it had been lifted from its resting place high up the brook by the swollen waters and drifted slowly down to the pool. After a few days churning aimlessly round in the eddy, the water level fell as the rains abated and the log had grounded on the silty bar just off the main flow. Though its resting place was pure chance, the log was perfectly positioned for the pike and her brethren to use as an ambush point, from which they attacked the flashing silver shoals of prey that darted back and forth constantly.

Much like the log, she and hundreds of other microscopic pike had found their way down the brook into the pool. As per normal they had been gorging the tiny daphnia close to the surface to feed their constant hunger. In doing so they had inadvertently strayed too close to an invisible force which had sucked them against their will down into the brook. Many died in the initial fall, others were taken from above by stabbing birds that appeared from nowhere, but those who survived made their way into the pool where other predators waited.

The years passed and as they did perch, kingfishers and cannibalism all took their toll on the little pike. But she soon had begun to exceed her brothers and sisters in size and now she too had become quite partial to eating her kin. Now after many turns of the seasons only three of the originals remained, her and her two smaller brothers. The smallest of their trio had moved off over the shallow water for easy pickings in the small pool by the wall. She though was too big to dare try the journey. Only three nights past she attempted to get over shallows only to get stuck in a panic in the dark. But that was all forgotten now as some other disturbance had focused her and her scared brothers attentions on the pool in front.

Not long after dawn, out of the blue a bounty of tiny red grubs had fallen on the water. The silver roach and golden rudd were quick to harvest this bounty and in no time at all they were in a frenzy. With the nights growing cold their hunger had increased and such a wondrous source of food could not be ignored if they wanted to survive the winter, so they fed with unabated gusto. It was that activity that raised the attentions of the pike, but it was the vibrations of panic that made them strike. It was a thrashing perch that brought the little male out into the open, but it was the second one he sensed that he struck moments later. For a small fish it resisted more than normal when bitten but a few savage thrashes and it was his. It was her turn now! The small male had circled round to swallow his meal under the log and so any panicked fish were hers and hers alone. It took a while for it to happen again and when it did the panic was too far off for her to strike. Then moments later a sulking perch skulked back into the deep water all spines flared indigent at its ordeal. Before she could chase the perch a silver mass of terror flashed above. Without thinking she struck, grasping the fish side-on before turning back to the bottom. She too felt the resistance stopping her from swimming away but a surge of power brought a sudden end to it.

As she went around the log swallowing her meal she passed the two carp and their tench companion mooning in the roots of the undercut bank. Neither paid the other much heed as size had removed fear from all parties. The panic continued on and off but it wasn't until the last meals had stopped wriggling in their stomachs that the pair re-set into attack positions Again the small gung-ho male attacked first, missing his target as he swirled high in the water. Then something fluttered down through the water not far in front of her. It didn't flash and it wasn't panicked, but its wriggling attracted her and its size decided it. It had been a long time since she had eaten worms, but it was food and she wasn't about to pass up a free meal of this size. Unlike the speedy thrashing fish, the worm would not make a hasty escape so calmly she drifted forward stopping only inches away. Focusing on the gently writhing worm she manoeuvred herself into position before calmly opening her mouth enough to suck in the worm. As she turned off slowly back towards the log she felt a stabbing jolt in the side of her mouth and sudden resistance prevented her from moving. Unaware of any real danger she didn't panic and just hung motionless. Slowly she began moving backwards, then as the surface neared she bolted off towards safety Again and again she made a bid for the log but time and time again something prevented her escaping Now her panic rose as she did in the water and her surges to escape became more frantic, until finally her energy gave out and the force pulled her towards the shallows grew.

The one last ditch attempt to escape at the sight of the strange foreign object she was drawn towards came to nothing. She felt something rise around her before the normal comforting water dispersed under her and she found herself pulled into a cold alien world. Moments later she felt herself laid down onto something soft. It was then that the predator appeared in her eye line. Survival took over and she thrashed violently but this just drew the assailant onto her where it grabbed her by her chin. With her mouth forced open she felt the pain in the side of her mouth twist then fade, then again she was laid on her side as the predator loomed over her for a while. Suddenly the alien thing engulfed her again and she felt herself moving. Light and dark was all she saw for a while then it just became light, bright light that was blinding Then water rose around her and she could again breathe. Confused but happy that she was back in her world, she rested a moment before drifting slowly away. But this wasn't the pool, it wasn't even her world this was bigger, a million times bigger. Caution took over and she moved slowly to the safety of some weed to figure out this strange new place.

"I've got you this time!!!"

The jack pike had been plaguing me all morning ever since I had first deposited those first hand fulls of maggots to inspire the fish to feed. I had lost a few fish already to the pike and they had chased many more. I'd had to tie on new hooks when other had been severed from my line my the razor sharp teeth of the jacks. But finally one had actually taken my worm and it seemed like I had a clean and honest hook hold on one so maybe my light line would hold just enough for me to land it.

The snag was the problem. It had appeared after the winter floods and had annoyingly got stuck just about in the centre of the pool, essentially cutting the pool in half. I knew the tiny tench I sought to transfer back up to the lake liked to hang out along the under cut bank like there big relation that I had seen hanging around with the carp. But with the snag now in between me and them, I could not risk casting beyond it as I knew fish would get tangled under it. So I had resigned myself to fishing the main part of the pool in front of the snag in the hope that I could draw the tench up to me instead.

Saying that, the snag wasn't the only problem. The water level was low and it had concentrated all the fish into a very confined area, pike included, and they were having a field day in the shallow water. Although we have had rain here and there, it would seem that not enough water had fallen this summer to keep the lake topped up enough to keep the spillway flowing and this was reflected in the brooks. The brook to my right was reduced to only two foot wide strip that hugged the bank.

And the brook that entered the pool opposite me through the wood with its dry pebbles had seemingly become subterranean.

Even with the low water level the fish were in the mood to feed as the nights had grown a little colder with the on set of autumn, and even with the few fish and hooks lost to the pike I had already landed a slew of nice perch up to a pound and half.

But now I was hooked into something much bigger after my rod tip had pulled slowly round with intent. My light feeder rod bent double as it seemed that my hook had found safe purchase after one of the pike had taken my worm. The three pound line was holding as my lightly set clutch allowed enough leeway for the little pike to run but not snap me up. Now it was a case of just going softly until it was tired enough to land. I could see it hanging in the clear water before it surged off towards the snag yet again but this time it gave up half way there and it looked like the fight was soon to be over. On seeing the net in the water it did that classic one last surge to escape the net that pike always seem to do, but that came to no avail.

In the net and as I rested it onto the mat the fish was calm as you like. But when I bent over it all hell broke loose like I was about to eat it. So I quickly chinned the thrashing little pike opening its mouth to see where my lucky strike had set the hook. Just as I thought the barbless hook had caught home just in the scissor,s and upon trying to dislodge it with my forceps I found there was no way that one was coming out in the fight. A quick wiggle and it was out and the fish was unhooked.

I had to get a picture of this immaculate little pike and as I did I dawned on my that maybe this one might be getting a little to big for the confluence pool. I had in the past put any smaller ones back into the pool but this one was way bigger than those. The bailiff had told me before that any bigger fish could go back up to the lake from where they originated and this one would make a fine addition to the pike populations of the giant pool above.

It's only a short journey up the ancient man made bank up to the lake so I put her back into my net and scarpered back up the bank to the concrete outlet. After resting her in the water she soon righted herself and hung in my net. I knew it would be a bit of a new world for her in the massive lake, but as she slowly swam down into the weed to rest before going off to explore the place of her birth, I hoped she would have the opportunity to breed and start the whole cycle again.

Sitting on the point that dominates the pool I poured another cup of tea and watched the water settle. Already I could see one of the other small pike attacking the roach in the clouded water I'd stirred up. As I sipped the hot brew from my old tin mug I wondered whether now she was gone maybe one of the other two smaller pike I had seen this morning might rise up to become the king of the pool, now that the queen was gone.

sharks pups and south easterleys

A colourful birthday slapping.

A fine balancing act.

The joys of fishing light.

Happy little fishes.

Gently and gingerly does the trick.

The lake # 17 An adventure on June 16th.

The lake #18 Taking advantage

Old rivers.

The lake #19 Warm summer nights and baking summer days.

The lake #20 Hola tenca

Thank god that weeks over.

I luurve gold.

The Lake # 21 one in a million cast

Scottish fruit

Not quite as easy as one, two, three.

Thinking outside of my box.

Could these be the last days of summer.

Rough ruffe fishing.

The Lake #22 The queen is gone! Long live the kings.