The Transformer

I once heard the English fascination with caravans described thus: it's because we love things that fold away. Simple as that. Not because we yearn for the freedom of the open road or because of some deep-seated need to take our houses with us, but simply because we like sofas that turn into beds and sideboards that turn into tables.

I can sympathise. It's one of the reasons I like this here John Wilson Rovex 11-13ft rod, because it can be fished four different ways, as an 11ft float or quiver tip or as a 13ft float and quiver tip. For this flexibility (and because I'll be using it a lot this year and don't intend to keep calling it by its trade name) I've decided to call it something else: so Sir Rovex, I dub thee The Transformer - because although you don't turn into a table, you do allow to take four rods fishing but only one rod bag.

And there's another reason for the name. Fishing with Sam yesterday, I hooked a small carp first cast on the quiver after a bite so ferocious that it almost pulled the rod from the rest. As I struck and realised the fish was on, I let out a sort of weird, hooting chortle that - on reflection - sounded very John Wilsonesque. Maybe the rod has more transformational properties than I thought...

Sam with his biggest freshwater fish so far - a 4lb 5oz carp

Traces

About this pike, then. I've had it in my head to go pike fishing for months now, but as is the way of these things, have been put off by something simple - I'm too cheap to buy ready-made wire traces and I can't get the hang of tying my own; yet having spent a tenner on the all the required bits, I'm loathe to just give up. I'm also concerned about being able to care for all the pike I'm going to catch so I've bought long forceps, found a strong glove, have an unhooking mat and watched several videos on various pike angling sites. Nevertheless, it's all off putting.

But it's also the last day of the river season, so if I want to give it a go - and not let it gnaw at me for the next three months - it's got to be today. I take an hour in the morning and research various trace-tying methods online but they all seem to require tools or components I don't possess and in the end I put my glasses on, put magnifying clips on top of them and peer at the tiny instructions on the back of the trace wire packet that I bought months ago. It looks more straightforward than I remembered. So I have another go and after a couple of fails, I have something worth testing, so I tie on a 5kg weight, grab the carp rod and give it a try. The knots - and more surprisingly, the. crimps and various bits of folded wire - hold well enough. I make more and they come out like home-made rolls, all different shapes and sizes. No matter how I measure I always end up wasting wire and at the end I've got some traces twice as long as the others. But they feel OK and they look like the real thing.

The river is beautiful. Although in an official drought zone, the level hasn't dropped anything like as much as previous years and there are several anglers dotted along the half mile or so stretch. I walk to the top, tackle up with a little rubber perch-like lure (6 for £3.50) check my gloves, forceps and mat are all present and correct and begin to fish.

Three hours later it turns out I needn't have worried about my lack of pike handling skills since despite near-perfect conditions and the amazingly fish-like movements of my little lure, I don't get a single take. I do hook the bottom six or seven times though, and the only break I get is using the one shop-bought trace I'd had in my tackle box for about 10 years - my own mishapen, higgledy-piggledy ones work just fine thanks very much. So I'll claim a moral victory and return next year to try again.

As I'm packing up a small owl appears, following the course of the river downstream until it reaches the bend where I'm standing with my mouth open. Then it rises over the bank on the other side and floats silently into the trees.

You can just about see the lure above the creel. Sadly, not irresistable to pike after all...

Jupiter and Venus

The close season has snuck up on me and looking back on the entries to the blog, I can only give myself the following mark: must try harder - maybe the fishing book and a succession of articles for Waterlog have wrung all the stories from me.

Yet I know that can't be true. I've just read an absorbing little book called My Favourite Swims by Fred J. Taylor (signed by the man himself - thanks Dave) and what strikes me is not just Fred's love of fishing but his compulsion to write about it too - to get it down on paper for posterity so that these stories, no matter how slight, are not lost.

On impulse then, and realising that time was running out I took the new John Wilson Rovex 11-13 footer to the river, paired with a centrepin and 4lb line, the idea being that I would test its versatility by trotting for a bit before switching over to the ledger for the last hour or so. Bait would be small cubes of luncheon meat followed by worms from the garden. Mmmmm.

There were a handful of anglers there already, taking advantage of the sudden warm, shirtsleeves weather. The first was sat in a swim I'd never seen before, obviously created by club members who’d removed part of the bank upstream where the river splits and cleared out the vegetation choking it as it ambles back to re-join the main current. The result is a wonderful looking swim which flows fast over a gravel bottom before easing round the bend into deeper water. There's a nice looking slack on the far side and plenty of features to fish to. I shall have a go at that next season.

Further downstream for me then, to the bend where I've had several good sessions in the summer. I tackle up with the JW set at 13 feet with one of the new cheap plastic stick floats bought from Dragon Carp Direct (hey look at me Ma, I’m advertising…) which cocks sweetly yet gives me plenty of weight to control it. Half a dozen trots later I'm back in the groove. The rod is heavier than my 15 footer but handles well, is easy to hold and thanks to the relatively short handle, I’m able to move the rod around without hitting myself in the stomachs.

No bites though, so after an hour I take the rod and just potter about in the swims either side, fishing very close in, letting the float tickle the dead margin reeds. No bites but it's pleasant enough in the sunshine so I wander further afield, putting on a tiny worm and casting further out and suddenly the float's gone and I'm into a chub of two, maybe three ounces. A rod that catches first time out is going to be a lucky rod, and I'm pleased. There's a tiny bit of the worm left so I re-cast and get another bite, see the flash of a perch and then it's off again. The swim looks promising though so I amble downstream and get the rest of the gear, then re-tackle with a quiver tip section at the top, add a small Arlesey bomb, switch up to a 12 and put on a bigger worm.

Two things happen in quick succession. A stupid dog appears silently at my shoulder and barks loudly at me and out of the corner of my eye I see the tip judder and then pull round. It's a perch of about four ounces. Very welcome. I fish on.

Another bite, firmer this time and it feels like another perch and I'm taking my time, enjoying the scrappy little tugs and darts when the water in front me explodes. There's a moment when the river seems to suck in its cheeks and then rod's in a hoop, the tip almost touching the water and I'm attached to a very big and very pissed off pike. A pike so big that this can only end one way - and so it does, with my tackle up the tree beside me, hook gone, line sheared through, river still again, me laughing with the adrenalin rush. Amazing. It’s like having your very own Aussie croc story.

The swim obviously dead, I move on to see if that new spot the top of the stretch has been vacated. It has, but though I tackle up again and fish hard in the fading light I don't get a single bite. But it doesn’t matter. Above me in the west, Jupiter and Venus, the father of the gods and his consort are riding together high in the heavens, dazzlingly bright, lighting my way back across the field, over the stile to the car and in time, all the way home.

The rocket carp

My wife asked my this morning how fast carp swim. Seriously. I love that woman. I'd been talking about the wild carp (or near as dammit wild carp - lean, little torpedoes that look more like barbel than carp) in a local lake that I hadn't fished for years. I'd forgotten what they were like. Three casts in and I was mugged - float gone, line snapped, water in front of me all a-commotion, trousers round ankles (well, almost...). I can't believe anyone can actually catch these buggers they take a bait so fast and I've certainly never come across a fish with such pace.

I went to show Ray the remains of my line snarled around the end of the rod and we both laughed. I went back, tackled up with a cheaper float and had another go, this time holding the rod and waited.

There's an amazing thing that happens sometime when you're fishing. Something changes, the air almost crackles, the water comes alive, you can see shadows, sense movement beneath the surface, almost hear the fish as they move over the bait. Everything becomes hot and - let's face it - a little sexy.

So this time my early warning system went off and I managed to get the rod up and hold the fish when it tore off towards the reeds. Did I mention I was fishing with a size 14 hook, six pound line and a centrepin? Thought not.

What a fight, harum scarum, back and forth, left and right, zooming up and down the swim like a cat with its tail on fire. Ray came round about half way through to see what the fuss was about and stood quietly behind me as I huffed and puffed the fish into the net. I weighed it in at exactly 5lbs, my biggest fish of the season and a magnificent specimen - lean and solid, it looked as though it was cast in metal.

Afterwards, over a cup of tea, shaking my head I said again that I didn't understand how the carp could be so much faster than any other fish I'd ever caught.

"It's because it's so shallow," said Ray. "They can't dive, so they shoot off because they've got nowhere else to go."I looked at him, wheels turning oh-so slowly.

Of course it makes perfect sense but it had never occurred to me before.  I still don't know how fast carp swim, but at last I know why these ones seem to have rockets strapped to their backs.

As always, cheers Ray.

New book

I'm delighted to report that I've been commissioned by a publisher to write another fishing book. Can't say any more than that at the moment except that the outline will be finished in a few days and the whole thing wrapped up before the end of October.


- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

That's so hot

But not in a good, US TV show, sexy way, but in a it's-got-no-business-being-this-hot-at-eight-o'clock-in-the-morning way. If I'd got here an hour earlier then I would have stood more chance. But as the fellow club member I met as we both parked by the gate (Hi John) observed, it's just nice being out at that time of the morning. Just the two of us on a half mile stretch of river in early July, dendrabenas in the bait box, courtesy of Sean, and a new rod and centre pin combo courtesy of Dragon Carp Direct. Crumbs - as if an angling story would ever be an appropriate medium for product placement.

The 12ft twin top barbel rod was £20, looks a bit horrid but feels OK. The centrepin was £30 and looks lovely - not quite a Bob James, but not bad either. Despite an over-lively ratchet, it performs well, at least when catching two small perch and the world's smallest pike. Seriously, I didn't think pike started life that small - it looked like a garfish. Next time I'm going to try bread flake and see if that will sit on top of the weed because too often the end tackle came back festooned - those worms do like to burrow.

Still, I stayed true to my plan and fished and moved, dropping a worm into half a dozen likely spots over the course of four hours, starting off about 7.30am. Within half an hour my ears were burning. And not in a good, US TV show, sexy way.

I'm a giver, me

It's nights like these that I feel extremely fortunate to be living here and now. There's enough wrong with England in the 21st century - this spiteful government for starters - that it's easy to forget places like this still exist, pretty much on your doorstep. It's also easy to forget that one of nature's properties is the extraordinary ability to ease a troubled spirit or make still a restless soul. There's a rejuvenating side to fishing that non-anglers - who see only the caricature of sitting by a canal in the rain, chin in hand - don't get, but if you've been lucky enough to experience it, you'll know.

A quick raid then, with Sean as a guest, to see if we can't sort out his recent tendency to blank whenever he looks into the water. To be fair, this is because he's been on the Avon three times already this season and is after not just a particular species (barbel) but a particular fish (Hubert? I don't know, and Sean's not telling). Anyway, given Sean's skill level (high) and the water's inhabitants (plentiful, obliging) I'm pretty confident we can do something about it. Last time I bought someone here they caught a 22lb personal best mirror carp. Bodes well.

It's overcast but warm with a wind from the west and conditions are pretty nigh perfect. We both start catching roach and rudd, Sean on some mad strawberry mini-boilie and me on sweetcorn (I've also brought a couple of handfuls of crumb from the tail end of one of my home made loaves which produces the best, stickiest groundbait I've ever used). I catch a little tench. Then a bigger one, then Sean shouts something. I reel in and scoot along the bank to find him deep in negotiations with a rather large fish. Because he's using 6lb line and a centrepin, this turns out to be great fun. I video it and we take turns in guessing the weight. I start at 12lbs, mainly because I can't see the fish yet. When I can it immediately becomes clear that this is a mirror carp that won't be seeing 12lbs again - it's considerably bigger. Sean plays the fish gently, coaxing it round the swim, calling it 'fishy' from time to time as if in reassurance. There's the occasional powerful run but mainly it stays deep, pulling hard rather than tearing off. When it finally comes to the net it looks nearly 20lbs and turns out to be a spit over 17lbs. It's a beautiful fish as you can see. Sean's the one holding it, looking ridiculously pleased with himself.

I went back to my swim and caught more roach and rudd, a smashing 4lb 1oz tench (I love having a set of scales after all these years) and then inspired, tackled up a carp rod and tried the swim next door on the other side of the tree which I'd been baiting up with corn and bits of luncheon meat. If this were a story I'd have saved myself a 20 pounder to insert into the day about now but all I got was a couple of taps from a passing rudd.

So that's Ray and Sean sorted out with big carp from the lake, both from the same spot. My turn next.

Spit or swallow?

It's good to be fishing with Ray again, even if we don't arrive at the same time and don't even sit together, and it feels to get re-acquainted here, at the little lake where we started fishing at this club all those years ago. June the 16th it was, when there was still a close season on the lake and everyone arrived the evening before so they could start fishing on the last stroke of midnight, even if it was just with one symbolic cast. I caught 17 tench that day. Seventeen. That's more than I've caught in 10 trips to Blenheim Palace lake.

I got there early, while Ray was still working out the kinks by doing his yoga routine (and shaking off the effects of Yvonne's birthday party the night before). Despite the forecast, there was no sign of the sun, only a damp mist that hung over the fields, broken by the necks of dozens of bright-eyed alpacas, as the car bounced down the track to the bottom. Not a soul about (unless alpacas have souls) and a wonderful time to be out and about in the world. I wandered over to my favourite corner and baited up with the last embers of my opening day maggots (they'll only last a couple of days indeed - take that, tackle shop owner) then opened the plastic bag of casters to be greeted by a smell so foul, so sweet and mealy that it swept me back to the days when we holidayed with auntie Margaret in the little house next to the piggery. Strewth. I smelled my fingers. How am I going to eat my Ginsters?

Now I've watched my share of John Wilson videos where he cooks up a ground bait concoction of maggots, caster, bran, beer, corn, all the kind of stuff and then balls it up for the fish, but smelling my fingers again and looking at my static float, I just can't see it. No fish is going to want to put that in its mouth.

The float sails away twice in two casts. Both times I strike perfectly and completely miss the fish. It's as if they're trying to eat the bait and spit it out at the same time. After a while I give up and switch to luncheon meat. After the casters, this smells like little pieces of chopped and shaped and mechanically reclaimed heaven. The fish think so too and in quick succession I catch silver bream, roach, rudd and then a couple of nice tench. I've got a set of digital scales my daughter bought me and they're pressed into service for the first time today on the largest of the bream - a good 2lbs 1oz. Lovely.

I fish until the midday sun gets uncomfortable and then pack up. The vile maggots and caster are flung into the pond (interestingly, the little dark frogs that hopped round my feet all morning have gone to town on the luncheon meat but steered clear of the casters - and they say youngsters will eat anything) and I walk round to where Ray's fishing in the opposite corner just in time to see him catch this lovely little tench.

You'd think

You'd think I'd know by now. That I wouldn't fall into the trap of believing that the same thing can happen twice in a row. I mean, who'd be daft enough to go back to the river three days later with the same tackle and bait, arriving at the same time and expecting the same outcome? I'd had a different swim in mind of course - can't go living off past glories in their entirety, because where's the fun in that? So off I wandered, heading downstream to the swim where Ray used to fish a lot, where we both caught rainbow trout that mad June 16th five or six years ago (hell, everyone caught a trout that first morning, the silly buggers were everywhere).

You'd think that all the swims would be the same but they're not. Can't get near this one because the bank's too high and overgrown and it's too bloody dangerous. I need a longer landing net handle, a stouter rod, 6lb line and some freelined luncheon meat or cheese paste, not all this trotting gear.  Still, by the time I realise this, I've had a perfectly good walk and ended up back at the first swim I fancied, round the corner from I where I fished the other evening and the first port of call for lazy anglers who - like me - have parked by the gate. I always feel ambivalent about swims like this. On the one hand the fish here are accustomed to food, on the other, they may also be a bit knackered.

You'd think it wouldn't take long to tackle up but it does, mainly because my first float has a split in the eye at the bottom so having attached it to the line and tied the hook, the line pops out at the first opportunity. So I take it off (and put it back in the float tray so I can make the same mistake again in a month or two) and re-tackle with Thursday's float. It's deep here, a good 18 inches deeper than round the corner. Slow too. I see shoals of dark bream filling my keepnet (not that I've got one) but intsead, third cast I hook a big chub and then lose it.

You'd think I wouldn't be using the same size 16 hook that lost me all those fish on Thursday, but there it is. How do I know it's a chub? Because I can see one of its scales on the hook. Judging by the size of the scale, that was a big chub - the scale is almost bigger than the roach that I haven't caught yet - and losing it kills the swim. I move upstream, catch the tree on the far bank on the first cast, the reeds in front of me on the second and then the bottom on the third. The supid, fish-ejecting hook refuses to give way and each time is returned unharmed. Then I sit on a slug.

You'd think that after a fishless hour in the new swim I'd resist the temptation to move back to the scene of Thursday's triumphs but I'm too weak-willed and moments later I'm at the same buffet, catching nothing but a tiny perch, barely hooked on the outside of the mouth, who looks up at me with his angry little eye as if to say 'only just mate, only just'.

Yeah, you'd think...

The lost fish and the Loch Ness Bream

The river's been fishing pretty poorly of late. When I think back to when I first started coming here (after the initial getting-to-know-you phase was over) there were good fish to be had. We caught carp to 10lbs, bream to 5lbs and chub to over 4lbs; pretty good for a river that in parts, you can almost jump across. Recently though, those fish seem to have vanished, or at least moved off to pastures new and trips over the last few years have disappointed. Truth be told, the river has sometimes felt a bit fished out, as if it was in decline and unable to renew itself.

But it's June 16th and that means I have to be here, even if the weather's like a jack-in-the-box and there's a smart wind blowing hard from the west. Despite going through the motions (choosing my 15 foot float rod, centrepin, 4lb line, a few stick floats, going to the tackle shop to buy maggots with a bait box so small that the guy there smiles and asks if I'm taking the kids) I don't seem to want to go. Haven't been since March and it's only later that I realise my last two trips have ended blank or with just a couple of little fish to show - small wonder I'm not motivated.

Nevertheless, I'm here, wading through uncut, thigh-high wild grass down to the river, delaying my first sight until the last possible moment, until I have to see it or turn back and go home.

It looks good. Despite the lack of rain it's not too low, there are lilies in the slow stretches but it's not overgrown with weed and stone me if it doesn't feel a bit fishy. There's only one angler on my bank (everyone else must be upstream on the other side of the road bridge) but he's tucked away out of the wind and approaching rain under a brolly so big that I can't see him at all - just the tip of his rod pointed at the river. It makes me think of Strider's pipe poking out from beneath his hood in the Prancing Pony.

I walk down to the willow and - remembering an arm-wrenching take from  few years back - nearly set up there, but the swim's been cut a bit too large for my liking so I carry on downstream, past the old tree and round the corner. I see a large fish drifting in the current, just below the surface. At first I think it's an enormous roach but then it flicks a steadying tail and I can see it's a decent bream. I make a note of the spot for later and move on.

I've decided to fish the bend. Although it's completely exposed to the elements I like this spot because it's a bit like a buffet. You can fish close in to the left, trot through slightly further out, trot the far bay and then pull the float round in from of the lilies before letting it travel on downstream, or flick it round to the right and let it sit in the slack or pull it out into the current and hold the float back so the bait rises in a tempting Crabtree-esque fashion.

I tackle up, cast out and the fish come. I get pretty much a bite a cast for the next two hours, starting with dace, then roach and then perch - the biggest of which you see here (it's only when choosing the photograph that I notice something has tried to take a chunk out of its flank). But I'm also losing fish after fish, and not in a barely-hooked-one-tug-and-they're off kind of way, either. One of them's certainly a jack (the line comes back minus the hook) but others are not - one feels like a good perch while another has chub written all over it. Stepping up to a size 14 makes no difference and although I catch continuously, I'm still losing almost as many as I land.

Things slacken off about 9.15pm and it's then that Nessie makes her appearance. A bream of perhaps a couple of pounds comes wobbling through from my right and heads upstream to the top of the swim, then turns and comes back before making a tight little circle in front of me and disappearing back the way it came. It - sensibly - ignores the bait I try and drop in front of it's questing snout (twice) and for the entire visit keeps its back a clear inch and a half out of the water. It doesn't seem distressed in the slightest, by the way. It's just moseying.

The bites die out around 9.45pm and I take a last look round and pack up. Heading back up the field to the car in the dying light I realise I feel terrific.

Thank you.

Bob

Sometimes it doesn't take much to sum up a fishing trip. There's always the temptation to over-think or over-write what's gone on, but usually the fewer words you use, the better. Especially when there's not actually very much to say. The day was bright - too bright as it turned out - and the water still cold from the long winter, so it wasn't surprising that the fish weren't really interested. I saw one carp banked - not by me - and it came in like a small sack of spuds, barely bothered enough to flick its tail. Nice fish though.

As for me, all the action was concentrated into a single moment just as the sun went down. Bob, went the float. Bob. (That's me repeating the same bite for emphasis, rather than me describing a second bite). And that was that.

Readers expecting a bit more action than that after all this time, I'm sorry for your trouble and I apologise if you feel you've wasted the last two minutes. You should have been there for the other four hours...

Reelin' in the years

It's not often that I've had my rod  pulled in - or nearly pulled in. It happened on Munky Island once on the Thames when I returned from a crafty slash to find my rod, reel and everything to do with both had just...gone. I eventually spotted the tip of the butt end poking out of the water about 20 feet downstream and then when I retrieved in and wound in there was a single large bedraggled swan's feather on the end. That was nearly 40 years ago.

But the other night, no sooner had I cast in with two grains of corn on a 14, light ledgering where I imagined the shelf dropped off into the main lake, than the rod jerked off towards the water and I had to drop my camera, grab the butt, lift the rod and strike all at the same time. The culprit was - another - roach and by this time I'd caught 15 or 20, between four ounces and maybe a pound (I've still no scales) and all in  beautiful condition. Add a three pound tench, the fact that I caught in two swims using float and then ledger and that I spied not another soul (unless deer have souls) all evening and it was my best catch of roach since the Latchmoor pond days.Nothing to match the glory of that maginficent river roach caught earlier in the year but just as wonderful. This here's a typical fish. What a beauty.

Back on the horse

I nearly bottled it. Driving back from Bucks through sheets of rain (and only a poncho in the boot because the brolly's still under Marion's bed) I just thought I'd leave it. I'd get soaked, the banks would be beyond treacherous - and recalling my last visit, well... But as my brother had joked earlier: "Back on the horse," and as I drove south the skies cleared, my mood lifted and I thought - why not? I'd return to the same swim, fish the same way with the same bait (some things will never change) and hopefully, catch some nice roach and rudd.

What a difference five weeks makes. Last time I was here I could barely get in the car my knee was so knackered (plump actually, like a strange knotted fungus) yet here I am, almost tripping gaily down the hill to the lake - which despite expectations is empty - and then opening the gate before stepping gingerly onto the bank proper and looking around suspiciously.

Hmm.This doesn't look slippery at all. In fact, it's just like any other bank that gets wet from time to time so that when some eejit...etc.

There's been talk that the unpredictable weather ("it's hot!" "it's cold!") has confused the silver fish so that they might either feed like the fury or be off spawning, but I'm hopeful because it's warm, overcast and there's no-one here to see me fail. On such an evening, what could go wrong? Well, there are no bites for a start. I remember to feed little and often, I move the float around the swim, I lift it and let the bait drop, but there's nothng happening here. The Canada geese are having fun though. It's really hard to tell if they're fighting or asking each other out - but whichever it is, there's a lot of screeching and flapping about, flying off as if they don't care, then wheeling back to renew hostilities. Of course it doesn't help that to a human they all look the same, so there are probably all sorts of subtleties that are escaping me.

But what's this? I get one of those lovely deliberate bites that looks as though someone's leaned in and rubbed part of the float out really quickly - and then clicked 'Undo' so it pops up again. Then there's amother nudge and the float wanders off. It's a smashing little rudd. not as golden as the one I caught last time, but very welcome. I re-bait and re-cast. After a few minutes there's a similar bite, though if anything it's more deliberate. I strike and things start to occur.

First, it's clear that this is a much bigger fish. Second, it's clear that it's half-asleep, because it feels like a wet bream in washing machine and third - crikey-heck - it's woken up.

Now I've never been one to trouble myself too much with the technicalities of reel drag, but for some reason I remember setting up properly this time - probably because I recall colliding with a carp some years ago in almost the same spot. So blow me down if the reel isn't set almost correctly when chummie wakes up and starts parading round the swim as if he's serious about getting off. And he nearly does. It's like real fishing this - the sound of the drag, the reel being wound fast and hard in short bursts, the grabbing of the landing net to shoot it forward into the water ready for the moment when the fish is coaxed towards the bank, hooking the rod butt under the arm slightly to relieve the strain on the elbow before - bugger me - he's off again, haring over to the left towards the reeds, then back again towards the lilies on the other side. All the while the rod - all 15' of it - is thumping up and down and up and down. Then I see it - a big common carp - and I sneak a look at the landing net, then back at the carp, then back to the net again. Oh, oh. Expecting silver fish I've bought my Adur landing net and as I eventually ease the fish over the edge I watch as it keeps coming and coming until there's no more net left to hold it. Fortunately, right at that point, there's no more fish either and the tail folds neatly into the net.

Up on the bank I unhook and photograph it. I don't possess any scales (there's never been much point) so I estimate the weight. More than 10lbs and less than 15lbs. I give myself 12lbs, which makes it my joint biggest fish ever. He goes back and I fish on, but my heart's no longer in it. There's no point anymore. The lake has given me more than I could have hoped for so I pack up and ride my horse slowly up the field and back to the car, stopping at the top to feed him an apple. Then everything goes into the car, the gate opens, I drive out, stop, close and re-lock the gate and return to the car. Minutes later I'm back in the world.

Sweetcorn works

I've got a new lake. It's not really my lake because I share it with a few other like minded fellow anglers, people who prefer to take things a little more slowly than most and who enjoy a beer and a chat as much as a barbel and a chub. (Well, maybe not quite as much).

At two and a half acres, it's barely a lake really, but there are some nice carp here, big perch and plenty of decent roach and rudd that not many people fish for (until now heh, heh). I've been before as a guest, but this was my first trip as a full, fee-paying member.

There was a lot of weather about as I arrived, but nothing untoward and having parked up, secured the gate and scanned the water, I fancied my chances.  Croc wellies on, basket slung over the shoulder and 15' float road in hand I marched off down the hill, following the loose stones on the path going down to the lake where I could - it looked pretty slippery - before heading across the corner of the field, through the gate, left down the bank and then whoa....?!? Hmm. Why am I laying here face down on the bank with mud up my nose?

As I lie here, mud slowly permeating my frontage, let me tell you briefly about my knee. It was like most knees until November 14th, 1978 (not that I remember or anything) when it fell off some scaffolding and then rammed into a brick wall. It has spent the subsequent years in remarkably good nick considering the bone graft, the various manipulations, the arthroscopy and the fact that it still has two large Welsh screws inside it. It walks (a little haltingly) and likes cycling - though not enough to let its one not-so-careful owner stand up on the pedals. What it doesn't like is being wrenched, twisted and then fallen upon, even if that fall is broken in part by the aforementioned 15' fishing rod. Oh mother and toss.

So I stand up, pick at the mud disconsolately and flex my knee. It feels like an enormous tube of not very bendable rubber. It really doesn't want to bend. Or straighten. It certainly doesn't want to fish, but having come this far and established so far as I can that nothing's broken, I'm going to give it a try.

Amazingly apart from a slightly bent ring, the rod is in one piece (or rather four pieces, but at least it's supposed to be) so I feed the swim with some sweetcorn, tackle up with 4lb line straight through, a barbless 16 and a nice float with a bit of weight on the bottom which lets me add a single shot about two feet from the hook - the idea being that I'll attract bites on the drop as well as when I reach the bottom. I'm also aware that someone's said there could be a lot of silt on the lake floor and reckon that the terminal tackle and bait will be light enough to not disappear.

I get a bite first cast. Who'd have thought it? It's a small roach, though not so small as I normally catch. It's followed by another and another and then a fourth. After half an hour it occurs to me that this is the most frenzied fishing I've enjoyed in years (see the last entry for a more typical experience - three anglers, all afternoon, one bite, no fish). Sweetcorn obviously works and I sit looking happily at the float while down below my knee throbs grumpily at me - it's a bit like having Gimli the dwarf stuck to your leg. Another club member drops by for a stroll and to feed some bait in. We chat and he sympathises before wandering off - both his knees seem to be working just fine.

So I stand up, try and put some weight on it, wince and sit down again. I catch a tench of about a pound a half and my mood lifts. I stand again and it sinks. Then I catch this lovely, dark rudd, almost caramel coloured in the fitful sunlight. But I can't sustain it and although I'm still getting bites, the walk (hop?) back to the car is playing on my mind so I pack up and waddle slowly back to the car. It's a pretty ugly sight, really.

The drive back isn't much fun but it doesn't feel as though anything's permanently damaged. So I end the day propped on the couch with a couple of cushions under it, a glass of wine in one hand and the remote in the other, while on my swollen, sorry knee there sits a bag of frozen sweetcorn. Well, if it's good enough for the fish...

Farewell John Wilson

The Sussex Adur in winter

No, not TV's Mr. Angling, but rather the rod that bears his name. I've owned and enjoyed the original Avon/Quiver for over 10 years now. It's a quality little rod - though the lack of a threaded reel seat means my Mitchell periodically falls off and tumbles down the bank - but it's finally had its day. After the glories of last episode's massive roach, it was back to the Adur for a last chuck before the end of the season with Ray and Tom. Warm, overcast, a decent flow...the river looked good and with bait boxes full of the finest maggots I've seen for years, we all had high hopes.

Once again, the Adur, old friend, old trickster, got the better of us. No-one caught. I had one bite all afternoon on trotted maggot. I'd quiver-tipped for a couple of hours with a small feeder without any joy but was enjoying the afternoon sunshine when I got tangled up in a large unfriendly bush. I managed to bully the hook out but as the end tackle flew behind me I neglected to cushion its flight. Result? An ugly snap, and the end of the quiver tip just shattered. I was remarkably sanguine about the whole thing which leads me to believe that deep down I didn't really care for the rod (if it had been the North Western I'd have been much more upset).

That's when I switched to the other tip and tackled up with a small float and centrepin. Much more fun, and it produced a cracking bite and tense, foreshortened fight before the fish - surely a chub - came off. Nice afternoon though, and now I have the excuse to buy my first new rod in years.

A long way from Latchmoor

I once held the record for the most roach caught in a day from the village pond - 40, if memory serves. I caught them all on tiny bits of cheese fished on a size 16 hook with a matchstick as a float. In order to reach the fish I took off my shoes and socks and waded into Latchmoor pond, then fished right in front of me. Forty roach in one day. Herculean. Of course, it was only a 'record' among myself and my friends (or rather friend, Chick) and I had no possible way of knowing whether anyone else had ever caught more fish in a day than I had. Still, as with many of the things that happen to small boys, the 'fact' stuck.

I had plenty of time to think about all those roach (and 40 fish of any description take a while to process, no matter what their size) as I sat on the motorway, late for an 8.00am rendezvous with Sean. I hate being late and didn't much like the idea of beginning a day on one of the finest rivers in southern England by not turning up on time. I should have known there was no rush (at least not beyond common courtesy). There rarely is in proper fishing, where there's a genuine chance of catching a monster, and as I nose the car down the lane I can imagine dark shapes rising to sip from the surface, skirting the roots of old trees or tucked under overhanging banks, fast asleep.

We park up and Sean shows me the river, like  magician doing a reveal. He starts to explain how we're going to fish and I realise this is the first of many lessons I'll be learning today.

So let's see now. First, grayling really are as lovely as everyone says they are; second, they smell like roach and third, I could fish my local river for the rest of my life and never catch a fish like the one that waits at the end of this story. In other words, in order to catch a really big fish you have to go where they live.

It's self evident really, but until today I didn't realise that the quality of the fish you catch depends on the quality of the water you're fishing. This is both troubling and liberating. I've always directly equated my fishing successes and failures with my own levels of skill and concentration - that peculiar combination of muscle memory and practice that an angler feels when, rather like a footballer, he's on his game. Now it turns out this may not be the case. It may actually be easier to play well at Old Trafford than it is at Vicarage Road.

Here skill seems less of an issue. For a start the river is exquisite. On a cold winter's morning, clear and bright, it shines like a silk ribbon laid across a bolt of green cloth. I also know - and not just because Sean has told me - that it's full of fish. You can tell just by looking at it,  and it suddenly strikes me that I'm about to experience the leather seats of a Jag when I've spent my whole life in the back of an Escort. There are two pound-plus grayling in here, and roach the size of which I've only ever seen in Bob James' landing net on the telly. Second, I've got a secret weapon - Sean. He knows the river and during the course of the day he will do everything but catch the fish for me - re-tackling at regular intervals, re-tying hooks, leaders, the perfection knot...and re-applying lost shot with endless patience.  At various points we even take turns using the same rod and the 15 footer and Leeds centrepin I've brought do a great job.

In a current like this, where each cast is over almost as soon as it's begun, trotting suddenly makes sense. It's also easier than it's ever been before because Sean's chosen the right float and the river does the rest, peeling line from the pin while I do nothing except stare at the glorious stretch of water in front of me and try to follow the bobbing float as it tears off downstream. In quick succession I hook and lose a large chub (note to self: apparently there's a difference between playing a 4lb fish on a size 6 and 8lb line and playing it on an 18 with a 2.5lb leader - who knew?) and then a trout which stays on just long enough for Sean to identify it, then buggers off. I have a last cast in the same swim and in seconds the float has dashed 20 yards and vanished. I strike gently and then (as instructed) follow the fish downstream, treating it - and the stupid rice noodle leader - with ridiculous restraint. The fish fights powerfully, using its great sail fin in the current to good effect, but soon gives in and moments later is in the net, then in my hands. A 2lb grayling is an extraordinary sight. It's metallic with hints of camo green and perhaps just a dash of peacock. Its body feels solid in my hands, like a miniature barbel.

We continue downstream, stopping occasionally to run the float through various likely looking spots, trying a slack here and a faster run there. The sun flashing on the water makes it hard to see the float but the bites are steady enough and we catch trout and grayling and chub throughout the day before turning for the clubhouse and the roach hole above the bridge. The roach hole. There, I've said it. The hole where Sean says, my favourite fish of all is waiting.

On and off during the course of the day, Sean's loose fed me stories of the roach hole, of five enormous fish over 2lbs in as many casts, how it'll fish hard for 20 minutes and then go dead, that it's home to the largest roach in the river, and that - aargh - the swim might already be taken by the time we get there.

We negotiate the walk back, the clubhouse, retrieve the extra maggots from under Sean's car (where fat robins have gorged on them all day) and have a friendly chat with the landowner. All the while I'm inching towards the gate, desperate to get across the road and upstream to the bend and the roach hole. Finally he leaves and with a final wave, we can get into the next field. There's a pause. The banks are empty. We're set. Sean talks me through the swim, explains where the run is and how to pull the float back and into the slack at the end of the trot. "If you hook one," he says unnecessarily, "don't lose it."

What's peculiar is that the whole thing is over so quickly. In my case, catching the fish of a lifetime takes only a couple of minutes between flicking out the tackle, watching the float  settle and then waddle down the swim, seeing the bite in slow motion, feeling the resistance (praying it really is that 'jagging fight') at first truculent and then just heavy, remembering the fragility of the hook length, the size of the hook, and then drawing the giant roach over the landing net and letting go, sinking back down into myself with relief. Relief that I haven't messed it up. Relief that I haven't let Sean down. Relief that I have delivered such a fish. Of course, down the years I've rehearsed a short speech in my mind, practised how I would look into that beautiful eye, breathe in the roachy perfume and then share my innermost thoughts with the waiting world.

All that comes out is "Fuck."

"Fuck," I say again, looking at the sky. I think that's all I say for about the next five minutes, over and over again.

The roach is weighed Passion for Angling-style in a plastic bag on Sean's digital scales. No room for doubt then, it really is an enormous roach. Strange how something so profound can be demonstrated so easily and so unequivocally. Stranger still that I can't wait to get it back into the water, as if I'm afraid it'll disappear in a puff of smoke or I'll wake up. As I watch its tail give a final, slow flick before disappearing back into the depths I get the most curious feeling - as if it is releasing me back into the world rather than the other way around. Exit, pursued by a roach.

On the way home, something occurs to me. Maths was never my strong suit but assuming that each of those forty Latchmoor roach weighed an average of one ounce, then by my reckoning that gives them a cumulative weight of  2lb 8oz, exactly the same as this singular,  magnificent fish that I don't deserve and will never forget.

First of the year

Sometimes fishing is supposed to be difficult. I don't mind that. It makes the moment when you winkle a bite - or even a fish - out of a swim that's beligerently refusing to play ball, that much sweeter. But sometimes, nature turns her back on the angler. She just shuts up shop and hangs a sign on the door that says 'Go Away', and yesterday was a bit like that.

For a start, my chosen swim was underwater; actually it was under freezing water. If you look closely at the picture you'll be able to see the tops of the poles at the end of the platform, poking out of the water and looking a bit sorry for themselves. Second, the promised temperature rise barely happened. The thermometer may have read seven degrees, but even the gentle breeze made it feel half that - and later when the light began to remove itself, the way it does in Winter, layer by layer, I could hardly blame the fish for their no-show.

So, no fish and no bites. I quiver tipped into the corner, having liberally loose fed with red and white maggots before setting up. Trouble is, this little club lake is so weedy that even in Winter, you can't guarantee your bait isn't simply buried beneath all the gunge. In Summer the fish may be enthusiastic enough to follow the scent of maggots, but in this cold you can tell that they're not bothered.

Good to see Ray and his son Tom though. It's been years since the three of us have fished together - probably a local carp lake and probably more successful than today - and it bought back happy memories. And despite the cold and the complete absence of fish, I felt comfortable on the bank for the first time in ages. Time past and time passing.

Inspiration

Still searching for it really. Planning a trip to the Adur this Saturday. The temperature's inching up and it doesn't look like rain. I've been watching a John Wilson video on stalking summer chub and in a weird way it's energised me. At the moment my fishing mojo is so low that I'll take anything I can get.

What the hell, he said nice things about my book and I find the way that he always uses his own branded products in the videos - even the ones that aren't much cop - oddly heartening. Wish me luck.

No coffee

The swim above the bridge, complete with rope swing

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

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

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

On Golden Pond

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

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

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

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

Bites Galore

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

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

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

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

The River Where?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Day at Blenheim

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

Physics part II

The bottle actually looks rather like me

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

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

Ray and I

Another moment of high angling comedy

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Physics

The river's over there on the right somewhere

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

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

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

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

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

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

That's Why I'm Here

The river at sunset (fish not pictured)

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

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

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

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

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

My friend Paul

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

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

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

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

In the next life, Paul.

Did you hear the one about

the Frenchman, the Swedish guy and Bob Nudd?

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

More news when I get it.

Waterlog reviews 101 Golden Rules Of Fishing

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

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

Move Along

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

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

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

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

A thousand words

Where's the weir?

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

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

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

Warums again

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

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

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

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

Blankety Blank

Sorry about that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Lady Of The Stream

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

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

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