There's been a lot of speculation about a three piece fifteen foot barbel rod from Harrison's. It's been announced on the web in a few guises by at least two rod builders. I've had enquiries about this blank myself.
Yes, there is a blank. One Torrix lay-up blank. One test curve. One tip. As of my latest visit to the factory earlier this week that's it. If you read anything to the contrary it might well be rubbish! From what I hear there is not much chance of any progress before October.
There is a new production blank available now though. A 12ft Torrix in 1.5lb with an eleven foot version to follow. I've not seen one yet so don't know how it compares to the 1.75lb - which I think is nicer than the 2lb. Less tippy.
At last I have got my hands on a 2.5lb Torrix blank (three of them to be accurate) and having taped some rings on it and run some line through them I think I have found my long range bream blank. If anything it's a 'light' 2.5lb. In a side by side comparison the overall power seemed pretty similar to my beloved Chimera 3s. The action a little more tippy. Not as stiff in the butt as the 2.5lb Balllistas I recently got rid off, and softer in the tip than the Chimera 3. It had that 'something' that immediately felt right - it may well become a Dave's Fave.
I'm pretty sure it's just what I've been looking for. The Ballista tip on the Chimera butt was close, and the Torrix is similar - and lighter too. I can imagine it being okay for barbel fishing, but there is something about the way those Chimera 3s bend, and bend, and bend that is perfect for the way I fish!
All I have to do now is decide on a build. At the moment I'm thinking Alconite guides and that's about as far as I've got. Or maybe SiCs? A 30mm butt ring seems likely, but how many more, and what size tip ring I can't decide. It'll probably be six plus tip - 30mm to 10mm. Cork handles, abbreviated Duplon, full or split Japanese shrink? So many options!
I chucked some pellets in the river on Wednesday night. Then reeled in some barbel. Not much more to it than that. A trained monkey could have done it.
Friday, August 07, 2009
Saturday, August 01, 2009
Better than a blank - just!
The rivers would be carrying extra water, the barbel would be feeding, but I quite fancied sitting behind three matched rods on a stillwater. So the sunny morning was spent in deliberation. Time was when I'd have done what I thought I ought to, but eventually I chose to do what I wanted to do. Three rods were put in the quiver along with the plumbing rod. It was a late decision. I had Test Match Special on the wireless as I made some sandwiches. Two Aussie wickets down with the first two balls of the day. Should I stay home and listen? Nah. I can just about get long wave reception with my fishing radio on the dashboard.
The journey was slow. Not stop-start, but slow. The cricket made it bearable as more wickets tumbled. I arrived at the lake later than planned, even with the late start. Although there was a strong south-westerly blowing I chose to fish with the wind off my back. There was one other angler fishing the same bank - the only other angler on the lake, and he'd caught a decent bream in the morning. I felt like I was in with a chance.
I mixed up some groundbait and fired out a dozen and a half balls to the marker float which was over 12 feet of water with a fairly clean bottom. Then two method feeders were cast out temporarily while I rigged the third rod with a simple running leger and shot hooklink, and baited the rig with two 9mm Tutti Fruti bolie pellets. The method feeders were then swapped to cage feeders on simple helicopter rigs. The clouds started to gather but it remained bright.
Ever since I spent a year on a 'massage the dole figures' scheme working three days a week on a nature reserve I have disliked them. They are totalitarian. The argument that anglers disturb wildlife and damage the flora is a nonsense. The path was alive with butterflies as I walked to my swim. Small brown ones, small blue ones, larger white and speckled ones, all feeding on the masses of flowers.
Butterfly heaven
The baits had been out nearly an hour. Time for a recast then put the kettle on. I was screwing the gas bottle to the stove when I was disturbed by the sound of an alarm. The middle bobbin was up at the top, the line bowstring taut and the alarm still sounding. I lifted into the fish and felt not the thump of a bream, but the pull of something else. My first thought was that I'd hooked a carp, but it didn't feel too heavy, maybe a tench - of which there are supposed to be a few in the pit. It kept pulling to my right and kited in. Now this could be a problem as the water was a good two feet higher than normal. Sure enough the fish ended up in the marginal reeds that should have been stood in inches of water.
I'd almost put my wellies on, but there I was paddling out in my boots. I soon went over the top of the left one. I backed out and walked down the bank to see if a change of direction would free the fish. It didn't. What I could see of the fish wasn't much, just a vaguely dark back and some ripples on the surface. It looked like a decent tench. I put the rod down, removed my boots and socks then tried to roll up my trouser legs that were already damp around the ankles. Rod in one hand landing net in the other I soon realised that wellies wouldn't have been much use anyway. With the water up to my knees (and my trousers soaked to the same depth) the fish rolled on its side. It was a carp. I'd got soaked for a small carp!
Small carp & wet trousers
I left the fish in the margin while I took my trousers off and hung them on the back of my chair, covering my pale legs with my bib and brace. I put my boots back on my bare feet - Gortex lined boots don't feel clammy against skin when damp so I was quite comfortable. It would have been a different story in winter, though.
Luckily it was a good drying wind. Two hours later the trousers were dry enough to put back on. The clouds had coalesced to one grey sky. Bad light stopped play at Edgbaston. Then the rain arrived. Intermittent spots at first, falling lightly now the wind had dropped to a mere zephyr. Then getting heavier, but not heavy, and steady. I sheltered under the Aqua Rover.
What I wanted to do, not what I thought I ought to be doing
With the cloud cover, and the shortening days, dusk came around nine. I hoped to see the dark backs of bream rolling, but none showed themselves. Although it wasn't cold my feet were turning chilly. I packed up early, in the dark and rain, at half past nine. It could have been a better session, but it had been eventful in its way!
The journey was slow. Not stop-start, but slow. The cricket made it bearable as more wickets tumbled. I arrived at the lake later than planned, even with the late start. Although there was a strong south-westerly blowing I chose to fish with the wind off my back. There was one other angler fishing the same bank - the only other angler on the lake, and he'd caught a decent bream in the morning. I felt like I was in with a chance.
I mixed up some groundbait and fired out a dozen and a half balls to the marker float which was over 12 feet of water with a fairly clean bottom. Then two method feeders were cast out temporarily while I rigged the third rod with a simple running leger and shot hooklink, and baited the rig with two 9mm Tutti Fruti bolie pellets. The method feeders were then swapped to cage feeders on simple helicopter rigs. The clouds started to gather but it remained bright.
Ever since I spent a year on a 'massage the dole figures' scheme working three days a week on a nature reserve I have disliked them. They are totalitarian. The argument that anglers disturb wildlife and damage the flora is a nonsense. The path was alive with butterflies as I walked to my swim. Small brown ones, small blue ones, larger white and speckled ones, all feeding on the masses of flowers.
Butterfly heavenThe baits had been out nearly an hour. Time for a recast then put the kettle on. I was screwing the gas bottle to the stove when I was disturbed by the sound of an alarm. The middle bobbin was up at the top, the line bowstring taut and the alarm still sounding. I lifted into the fish and felt not the thump of a bream, but the pull of something else. My first thought was that I'd hooked a carp, but it didn't feel too heavy, maybe a tench - of which there are supposed to be a few in the pit. It kept pulling to my right and kited in. Now this could be a problem as the water was a good two feet higher than normal. Sure enough the fish ended up in the marginal reeds that should have been stood in inches of water.
I'd almost put my wellies on, but there I was paddling out in my boots. I soon went over the top of the left one. I backed out and walked down the bank to see if a change of direction would free the fish. It didn't. What I could see of the fish wasn't much, just a vaguely dark back and some ripples on the surface. It looked like a decent tench. I put the rod down, removed my boots and socks then tried to roll up my trouser legs that were already damp around the ankles. Rod in one hand landing net in the other I soon realised that wellies wouldn't have been much use anyway. With the water up to my knees (and my trousers soaked to the same depth) the fish rolled on its side. It was a carp. I'd got soaked for a small carp!
Small carp & wet trousersI left the fish in the margin while I took my trousers off and hung them on the back of my chair, covering my pale legs with my bib and brace. I put my boots back on my bare feet - Gortex lined boots don't feel clammy against skin when damp so I was quite comfortable. It would have been a different story in winter, though.
Luckily it was a good drying wind. Two hours later the trousers were dry enough to put back on. The clouds had coalesced to one grey sky. Bad light stopped play at Edgbaston. Then the rain arrived. Intermittent spots at first, falling lightly now the wind had dropped to a mere zephyr. Then getting heavier, but not heavy, and steady. I sheltered under the Aqua Rover.
What I wanted to do, not what I thought I ought to be doingWith the cloud cover, and the shortening days, dusk came around nine. I hoped to see the dark backs of bream rolling, but none showed themselves. Although it wasn't cold my feet were turning chilly. I packed up early, in the dark and rain, at half past nine. It could have been a better session, but it had been eventful in its way!
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Books, writers and writing
I mentioned in an earlier post that I'd read Casting at the Sun recently. I also got a copy of My Fishing Days and Fishing Ways by J.W. Martin (The Trent Otter) at the same time. Two reprints from the Medlar Classics series - affordable hardbacks produced in an appealing format. I'm not a book snob and think books are meant to be read not objects to be admired, so the cheap price appeals to me. Paperbacks would have been even more appealing.
It must be me getting old, as I usually prefer books that are instructional rather than intended to invoke the spirit of angling, but the Yates book is a very good read. An evocative tale of his journey through carp fishing to catching the record. But for me it is spoiled by the section relating to the Golden Scale Club.
Nostalgia is fine, but trying to live in a romanticised Enid Blyton world in the modern age makes me spit. If Yates wants to fish with old tackle to catch carp, great. But please leave the silly names and ginger ale out of it. If I get the urge to read the book again I shall be taking a sharp knife to physically excise the offending pages!
The Martin book, on the other hand, is a genuine piece of history, having been written in 1906. For me the sections about the Trent and barbel are the most interesting. The famous Cromwell weir was still at the planning stage, so the river must have been tidal further upstream and somewhat different to what it is today, yet many of the stretches mentioned will be familiar to Trent regulars and are still productive today. I've caught from some of them myself. While tackle and baits have changed in some respects it's interesting to read how little some other things have altered. The fish are still the same, so they still hold in the same sorts of places they did 100 years ago and behave in similar fashion.
Another thing that hasn't changed is anglers moaning that the fishing isn't as good as it was years ago. In Martin's case I can't help thinking that taking most of the catch home, or selling it to pay for the next day's bait, can't have helped. So it's no wonder that a double figure pike was a rare capture, and a twenty pounder an absolute monster, but fourteen pound barbel were still to be had from the Mighty Trent. A good read. I must seek out a (cheap) copy of his barbel book.
You may have noticed a new quote from John Gierach in the sidebar. Not a writer I was familiar with, what with him being an American cane fly rod wafter, but I have seen a number of quotes from his writing on a few sites - notably Pure Piscator. I thought I ought to acquaint myself with his work as he clearly had things to say that were worth saying.
I ordered Death, Taxes, and Leaky Waders, a compendium of essays culled from six of his books. My third angling book purchase in as many weeks that contains no photographs of fish or diagrams of rigs! Gierach's a writer more on the 'why' of angling than the 'how' (although there's some of that slipped in almost incidentally), on anglers and their motivations. It turns out he studied philosophy, and had ambitions to become a 'serious' writer, which no doubt accounts for this. A parallel with Yates, perhaps, who went to art school - which attracts people who don't like the concept of work in the nine-to-five sense of the word, people who look at the world through enquiring eyes.
I have long felt that fishing is akin to the creation of art, be that in paint or prose. Writing, painting, and fishing are all about immersion in the task at hand, about solving problems, finding new ways to do things, avoiding repetition, keeping out of ruts. They are all three intellectual pursuits. The results (the book, the painting, the fish in the net) are not what they are about. They are about the process. While that process can be frustrating, to the point of heartbreak or despair, it is what provides the satisfaction. Gierach knows this. Joseph Conrad knew it too; "They can only see the mere show, and never can tell what it really means". That's stuck with me for nigh on thirty years - which is why the full quote appears at the foot of this page.
Books of essays can be dipped into. Having a mistrust of all things fly-fishing I turned straight to the essay Pike - hoping I might ease myself into the book through a species I have some understanding of and almost immediately found a quotable line; "Skill in fishing is a nebulous thing based largely on seasoned intuition, perhaps informed by a little knowledge, but catching a few fish now and then doesn't mean you have it". The book is by my bedside. I can see it being defaced by my corner foldings and underlinings...
It must be me getting old, as I usually prefer books that are instructional rather than intended to invoke the spirit of angling, but the Yates book is a very good read. An evocative tale of his journey through carp fishing to catching the record. But for me it is spoiled by the section relating to the Golden Scale Club.
Nostalgia is fine, but trying to live in a romanticised Enid Blyton world in the modern age makes me spit. If Yates wants to fish with old tackle to catch carp, great. But please leave the silly names and ginger ale out of it. If I get the urge to read the book again I shall be taking a sharp knife to physically excise the offending pages!
The Martin book, on the other hand, is a genuine piece of history, having been written in 1906. For me the sections about the Trent and barbel are the most interesting. The famous Cromwell weir was still at the planning stage, so the river must have been tidal further upstream and somewhat different to what it is today, yet many of the stretches mentioned will be familiar to Trent regulars and are still productive today. I've caught from some of them myself. While tackle and baits have changed in some respects it's interesting to read how little some other things have altered. The fish are still the same, so they still hold in the same sorts of places they did 100 years ago and behave in similar fashion.
Another thing that hasn't changed is anglers moaning that the fishing isn't as good as it was years ago. In Martin's case I can't help thinking that taking most of the catch home, or selling it to pay for the next day's bait, can't have helped. So it's no wonder that a double figure pike was a rare capture, and a twenty pounder an absolute monster, but fourteen pound barbel were still to be had from the Mighty Trent. A good read. I must seek out a (cheap) copy of his barbel book.
You may have noticed a new quote from John Gierach in the sidebar. Not a writer I was familiar with, what with him being an American cane fly rod wafter, but I have seen a number of quotes from his writing on a few sites - notably Pure Piscator. I thought I ought to acquaint myself with his work as he clearly had things to say that were worth saying.
I ordered Death, Taxes, and Leaky Waders, a compendium of essays culled from six of his books. My third angling book purchase in as many weeks that contains no photographs of fish or diagrams of rigs! Gierach's a writer more on the 'why' of angling than the 'how' (although there's some of that slipped in almost incidentally), on anglers and their motivations. It turns out he studied philosophy, and had ambitions to become a 'serious' writer, which no doubt accounts for this. A parallel with Yates, perhaps, who went to art school - which attracts people who don't like the concept of work in the nine-to-five sense of the word, people who look at the world through enquiring eyes.
I have long felt that fishing is akin to the creation of art, be that in paint or prose. Writing, painting, and fishing are all about immersion in the task at hand, about solving problems, finding new ways to do things, avoiding repetition, keeping out of ruts. They are all three intellectual pursuits. The results (the book, the painting, the fish in the net) are not what they are about. They are about the process. While that process can be frustrating, to the point of heartbreak or despair, it is what provides the satisfaction. Gierach knows this. Joseph Conrad knew it too; "They can only see the mere show, and never can tell what it really means". That's stuck with me for nigh on thirty years - which is why the full quote appears at the foot of this page.
Books of essays can be dipped into. Having a mistrust of all things fly-fishing I turned straight to the essay Pike - hoping I might ease myself into the book through a species I have some understanding of and almost immediately found a quotable line; "Skill in fishing is a nebulous thing based largely on seasoned intuition, perhaps informed by a little knowledge, but catching a few fish now and then doesn't mean you have it". The book is by my bedside. I can see it being defaced by my corner foldings and underlinings...
Sunday, July 26, 2009
All's well that ends well
I hadn't planned to fish, but late on I got the urge. The flask and pellet bucket were hastily filled, the brolly removed from the quiver to cut down on weight, and off I went. I headed downstream of where I had fished last time out. Although the river had dropped a foot or so, was still falling and quite clear, I was strangely confident.
I was low on S-Pellets so had thrown in some near two year old Dynamite Oyster and Mussel shelf-life boilies for a change, and one went on the downstream rod with a single 8mm crab Pellet-O on the upstream rod. There was hardly any breeze disturbing the leaves or the few clouds in the blue sky. A great evening to be by the river. All that was needed now was a fish or two.
Only half an hour in the upstream rod was away. Almost literally! The rod rest hadn't been pushed in too well and toppled forward as the rod headed towards the river. The fish was lively but not too big. As it reached the net the hooklink parted. Cut off near the hook. Damn. Just one of those things and nothing to get too upset about. I was sorting the rig out when the boilie rod signalled a tap-tappy take. This felt like a much better fish. Just as I was planning the photo session everything went slack as a large swirl appeared on the surface of the river. The upper, mono, section of my hooklink had gone at the knot. And I'd checked all my knots before casting out. Double damn.
The rod was thrown up the bank, not in anger but to get it out of the way, and I went back to sorting out the first rod. Not having any small bait rigs tied up I looped on a boilie rig and cast this rod downstream before tying up some new rigs and retackling the rod that was out of action.
I'd not long recast both baits a little further across before that burst of activity, but now I was wondering if the lost fish would have killed the swim. The pva bag stock was topped up. The sky clouded over. Should I move swims? When the upstream rod went again I thought I might stick around. Only a little one, but third time lucky. Twenty five minutes later I was perking up when another gentle take to the small pellet resulted in fish that pulled a fair bit which, once in the net, looked like a scale and potential camera job.
The fish was left in the net while I wetted the sling and zeroed the scales. With the fish on the bank I was confused. I was certain I'd caught it on the pellet rod, but there was a boilie hanging from it's bottom lip. It was the fish I'd lost earlier! Both hooks were removed, lifting my spirits as I felt I was righting a wrong. The Avon's needle stopped short of vertical, but I wasn't disappointed. Ten minutes later another fish was landed on the same rod. Things were picking up.
Hooked twice, landed once!
Cloud cover was breaking up and reforming. Constellations appearing and disappearing. Dew was forming on my tackle box and bucket lids, the grass and my woolly hat. The light from my headlamp was growing dim and flickery. In the even dimmer light from my spare I fitted new batteries. Now I could see much better to slide pellet stops into small hair loops.
This was one of those nights when I was glad of the red filter on the Petzl too. Midges were drawn to the white light and getting up my nose. Not metaphorically up it. Up it! Insects had been a nuisance when playing fish too. One daddy long legs in particular. Fluttering and crawling over my specs. With all this bat food on the wing it was no surprise that Nora and her sisters were out in force. As well as getting the adrenaline flowing by flying into the lines between real bites they were also hitting the line when fish were being played. A disconcerting sensation.
A greedy scampette of about a pound was the next fish to pick up the 15mm boilie. This was followed by a second eight pounder to the same bait. I was beginning to think packing the boilies had been a good move. Five minutes later a fish fell off. Were things going to go to the dogs again? When another nine pounder was landed to the pellet rod at quarter to twelve I put such foolish thoughts to the back of my mind. While the action was continuing I'd stop later than planned. The next fish I landed had already seen the inside of my net this month. It was the kinky one. I'm sure most of these barbel get caught over and over again, only the easily recognisable ones being noted.
I read Casting at the Sun
by Chris Yates last week. His wacky ways must have infected me because I found myself thinking that it was some kind of piscatorial karma that was the cause of my upturn in 'luck' since removing that lost hook. Really it was that the barbel were havin' it!
Half an hour without a bite and I was planning my departure. The small flask was emptying fast. My stomach beginning to demand a top up. Another fish came along to the crab Pellet-O. The first chunky looking fish of the season. Most of the fish are still looking a little lean and tatty but not this one. I guessed it would be the third nine of the night, but I was wrong. I popped her in the sack and set up the tripod.
Two test shots to get the framing then do it for real. One shot was fired off and I moved forward to better fill the frame accidentally taking a second shot. Ready for the proper pics and the bulb release failed. I checked it and it was deflated. I removed the bulb from the tube and it filled with air again. Another try and nothing. A squeeze of the bulb revealed a draught coming from it. It had split. The fish was slipped back.
Oops!
Come what may I'd give it another thirty minutes, but I'd tidy the inessentials away. With the rucksack packed the downstream rod woke up. This fish was more typical in appearance. Quite skinny, but longer than the previous one and only three ounces lighter. I couldn't face messing with the self timer so photographed her by the rod. Was there more to come?
Karma?
As it turned out, by the time the flask was finally drained, there wasn't. I packed up, again, and tramped my merry way back to the car through damp grass and cowpats. Then home for a slice of toast and a mug of hot chocolate before bed to dream of a large golden fish in a small pond. I blame Chris Yates.
I was low on S-Pellets so had thrown in some near two year old Dynamite Oyster and Mussel shelf-life boilies for a change, and one went on the downstream rod with a single 8mm crab Pellet-O on the upstream rod. There was hardly any breeze disturbing the leaves or the few clouds in the blue sky. A great evening to be by the river. All that was needed now was a fish or two.
Only half an hour in the upstream rod was away. Almost literally! The rod rest hadn't been pushed in too well and toppled forward as the rod headed towards the river. The fish was lively but not too big. As it reached the net the hooklink parted. Cut off near the hook. Damn. Just one of those things and nothing to get too upset about. I was sorting the rig out when the boilie rod signalled a tap-tappy take. This felt like a much better fish. Just as I was planning the photo session everything went slack as a large swirl appeared on the surface of the river. The upper, mono, section of my hooklink had gone at the knot. And I'd checked all my knots before casting out. Double damn.
The rod was thrown up the bank, not in anger but to get it out of the way, and I went back to sorting out the first rod. Not having any small bait rigs tied up I looped on a boilie rig and cast this rod downstream before tying up some new rigs and retackling the rod that was out of action.
I'd not long recast both baits a little further across before that burst of activity, but now I was wondering if the lost fish would have killed the swim. The pva bag stock was topped up. The sky clouded over. Should I move swims? When the upstream rod went again I thought I might stick around. Only a little one, but third time lucky. Twenty five minutes later I was perking up when another gentle take to the small pellet resulted in fish that pulled a fair bit which, once in the net, looked like a scale and potential camera job.
The fish was left in the net while I wetted the sling and zeroed the scales. With the fish on the bank I was confused. I was certain I'd caught it on the pellet rod, but there was a boilie hanging from it's bottom lip. It was the fish I'd lost earlier! Both hooks were removed, lifting my spirits as I felt I was righting a wrong. The Avon's needle stopped short of vertical, but I wasn't disappointed. Ten minutes later another fish was landed on the same rod. Things were picking up.
Hooked twice, landed once!Cloud cover was breaking up and reforming. Constellations appearing and disappearing. Dew was forming on my tackle box and bucket lids, the grass and my woolly hat. The light from my headlamp was growing dim and flickery. In the even dimmer light from my spare I fitted new batteries. Now I could see much better to slide pellet stops into small hair loops.
This was one of those nights when I was glad of the red filter on the Petzl too. Midges were drawn to the white light and getting up my nose. Not metaphorically up it. Up it! Insects had been a nuisance when playing fish too. One daddy long legs in particular. Fluttering and crawling over my specs. With all this bat food on the wing it was no surprise that Nora and her sisters were out in force. As well as getting the adrenaline flowing by flying into the lines between real bites they were also hitting the line when fish were being played. A disconcerting sensation.
A greedy scampette of about a pound was the next fish to pick up the 15mm boilie. This was followed by a second eight pounder to the same bait. I was beginning to think packing the boilies had been a good move. Five minutes later a fish fell off. Were things going to go to the dogs again? When another nine pounder was landed to the pellet rod at quarter to twelve I put such foolish thoughts to the back of my mind. While the action was continuing I'd stop later than planned. The next fish I landed had already seen the inside of my net this month. It was the kinky one. I'm sure most of these barbel get caught over and over again, only the easily recognisable ones being noted.
I read Casting at the Sun
by Chris Yates last week. His wacky ways must have infected me because I found myself thinking that it was some kind of piscatorial karma that was the cause of my upturn in 'luck' since removing that lost hook. Really it was that the barbel were havin' it!Half an hour without a bite and I was planning my departure. The small flask was emptying fast. My stomach beginning to demand a top up. Another fish came along to the crab Pellet-O. The first chunky looking fish of the season. Most of the fish are still looking a little lean and tatty but not this one. I guessed it would be the third nine of the night, but I was wrong. I popped her in the sack and set up the tripod.
Two test shots to get the framing then do it for real. One shot was fired off and I moved forward to better fill the frame accidentally taking a second shot. Ready for the proper pics and the bulb release failed. I checked it and it was deflated. I removed the bulb from the tube and it filled with air again. Another try and nothing. A squeeze of the bulb revealed a draught coming from it. It had split. The fish was slipped back.
Oops!Come what may I'd give it another thirty minutes, but I'd tidy the inessentials away. With the rucksack packed the downstream rod woke up. This fish was more typical in appearance. Quite skinny, but longer than the previous one and only three ounces lighter. I couldn't face messing with the self timer so photographed her by the rod. Was there more to come?
Karma?As it turned out, by the time the flask was finally drained, there wasn't. I packed up, again, and tramped my merry way back to the car through damp grass and cowpats. Then home for a slice of toast and a mug of hot chocolate before bed to dream of a large golden fish in a small pond. I blame Chris Yates.
Thursday, July 23, 2009
Win some, lose some
It was breezy, from the west, overcast but dry. Boredom had set in so the river beckoned. There was a hint of colour beneath the ruffled surface, a surface maybe eighteen inches up yet dropping. The afternoon had brought out a few more hopeful souls, who had been catching a few. The favoured pegs being occupied I wasn't phased and dropped in between them at seven thirty.
Small taps occurred almost immediately I cast out, but no firm offers. A fish or two were landed either side of me, small barbel. My first fish, a chub of about two pounds fell for an S-Pellet fished downstream shortly before nine. I changed the two 12mm crab Pellet-Os on the upstream rod for a single 8mm version, and straight away I hooked a little scamp of a barbel that shot hither and thither before falling off as it reached the shallows.
The wind died, or maybe swung round to a direction that sheltered me from it, and in the quiet birds of all sorts could be heard singing before roosting. Then the valley fell silent save for the occasional distant vehicle or 'plane as darkness descended.
It was an hour later that the upstream rod produced a small chub, less than a pound. Book at Bedtime had finished on the radio when I decided to have a change of attack. I wound in the upstream rod, rebaited and recast - further across than before. Thinking I might as well put a fresh bait on the other rod I had my back turned to the river when I heard the whiring of a baitrunner.
One of the anglers downstream had passed me by saying he couldn't buy a bite, and I'd said I was in the same boat. As he headed back to his peg I was playing a fish. It felt like a decent one too. As mentioned in previous posts the fish aren't making long runs at the moment. It still pulled hard though. In the light of the Petzl it looked close to tripod size. The scales stopped a few ounces short of the arbitrary mark. A nice fish nonetheless, but still in slightly flabby post-spawn condition.
The recast pellet was taken within minutes by a four pound chub, then by a six pound barbel. I'd found the spot all right. The next cast had also only settled for ten minutes before it was picked up. I was busy filing PVA mesh bags and by the time I had grabbed the rod the rig was snagged. I tried the usual tricks; altering the angle of pull, opening the bale arm, putting the rod in the rest with the baitrunner slackened. After ten or more minutes nothing had happened. Feeding slack line it seemed the fish had gone. Pulling for a break that was what the line did.
I retackled in hope, fairly sure that the loss of a fish would have put an end to sport from that spot. Certainly for as long as I was planning to fish for. Sure enough the upstream rod remained motionless. The final fish of the night was another small chub that took the downstream bait five minutes before midnight. That was my intended departure time, but having had some recent action I stopped a further thirty minutes. Just in case. It was not to be.
As I approached the gate the beam from my headtorch picked out numerous pairs of glowing eyes. The cows were peacefully chewing their cud and, although they turned their heads, ignored me as I wound my way between them. However, a couple that were standing seemed to give me sideways looks. If cows can think I'm sure they were considering me stupid.
Small taps occurred almost immediately I cast out, but no firm offers. A fish or two were landed either side of me, small barbel. My first fish, a chub of about two pounds fell for an S-Pellet fished downstream shortly before nine. I changed the two 12mm crab Pellet-Os on the upstream rod for a single 8mm version, and straight away I hooked a little scamp of a barbel that shot hither and thither before falling off as it reached the shallows.
The wind died, or maybe swung round to a direction that sheltered me from it, and in the quiet birds of all sorts could be heard singing before roosting. Then the valley fell silent save for the occasional distant vehicle or 'plane as darkness descended.
It was an hour later that the upstream rod produced a small chub, less than a pound. Book at Bedtime had finished on the radio when I decided to have a change of attack. I wound in the upstream rod, rebaited and recast - further across than before. Thinking I might as well put a fresh bait on the other rod I had my back turned to the river when I heard the whiring of a baitrunner.
One of the anglers downstream had passed me by saying he couldn't buy a bite, and I'd said I was in the same boat. As he headed back to his peg I was playing a fish. It felt like a decent one too. As mentioned in previous posts the fish aren't making long runs at the moment. It still pulled hard though. In the light of the Petzl it looked close to tripod size. The scales stopped a few ounces short of the arbitrary mark. A nice fish nonetheless, but still in slightly flabby post-spawn condition.
The recast pellet was taken within minutes by a four pound chub, then by a six pound barbel. I'd found the spot all right. The next cast had also only settled for ten minutes before it was picked up. I was busy filing PVA mesh bags and by the time I had grabbed the rod the rig was snagged. I tried the usual tricks; altering the angle of pull, opening the bale arm, putting the rod in the rest with the baitrunner slackened. After ten or more minutes nothing had happened. Feeding slack line it seemed the fish had gone. Pulling for a break that was what the line did.
I retackled in hope, fairly sure that the loss of a fish would have put an end to sport from that spot. Certainly for as long as I was planning to fish for. Sure enough the upstream rod remained motionless. The final fish of the night was another small chub that took the downstream bait five minutes before midnight. That was my intended departure time, but having had some recent action I stopped a further thirty minutes. Just in case. It was not to be.
As I approached the gate the beam from my headtorch picked out numerous pairs of glowing eyes. The cows were peacefully chewing their cud and, although they turned their heads, ignored me as I wound my way between them. However, a couple that were standing seemed to give me sideways looks. If cows can think I'm sure they were considering me stupid.
Sunday, July 19, 2009
Bagging up
The test match was over for the day, rod repairs spinning while they dried, my only prospect was some paperwork - so I filled a flask and left the paperwork behind. For a reasonably nice Saturday evening in July the roads were quiet. As I neared the river a barn owl flew across my path. Being out so early it probably has young to feed.
For the first time this season a familiar van was in the car park. I checked the bucket of feeder mix that had been in the back of the car since Tuesday night and was pleased to see it hadn't gone mouldy. So the feeder would be my first line of attack with bags of pellets the back up if the feeder mix ran out.
To my surprise the owner of the van was packing up having caught one barbel from the heavily coloured, but falling, river. I didn't need much encouragement to drop in the swim being vacated as it was the one I fancied fishing anyway. The river had been a lot higher, about four or five feet higher by the looks of things, and the bank below the 'tideline' was quite slippy. Even worse where it had already been trampled. I set my chair up on reasonably safe ground.
It wasn't long before the marauding ducks arrived. They are growing fast and as greedy as ever. Unluckily for them I had no spare bait, but threw them a few crumbs of feeder mix anyway. They were soon rooting around, scrabbling over my landing net pole and bumping into my rods and reels providing an entertaining warm-up act before the top of the bill rattled my rod tips.
The headline act made it's entrance after an hour. The upstream rod tip, the bait cast to a long crease, started to bounce slowly. I picked the rod up to feel the line and the bouncing continued. So I wound down and bent into whatever it was. Certainly not a chub. The S-Pellet had scored again - and the 'dodgy' S5 hook. As has been the case most of the time this season the barbel took its time to wake up, being little more than a heavy weight until it neared the net. At this stage I was on slippy ground and not too keen on shifting my feet in case I slid, or fell, into the river. This meant I had to net the now irate fish using the full length of my nine foot landing net pole. So it took a bit longer than normal. Clearly a fish in need of the scales - and a photo next to the scales might be called for. Those scales called for the sack and tripod.
You can't beat a bit of prebaiting...
While taking three quick snaps I saw the downstream rod had pulled over and was pointing well downstream of where the feeder had been cast. After walking downstream a few yards to release the fish from firm ground I picked up the second rod and leant into another dogged weight. This turned out to be a real surprise, and a new river best. Possibly a personal best as I can't recall having caught one with such length and depth before.
Baggin'
With both rods sorted and recast after that burst of activity I needed a brew. Forty minutes later, at nine o'clock, the upstream rod was away again. Another nodding bite rather than a four foot twitch. This fish was into the flow straight away and got carried downstream, so it fought a bit harder than the first barbel had in the initial stages, but once in the slower water it came in easily. As I was going to carry it to the release spot in the weighlsing I clocked it's weight at over eight pounds.
The evening was cloudy but dry. Cloudy enough to keep the stars in bed and make darkness arrive earlier. There was a wind blowing from the west that died after dark so the night was mild enough. At quarter to eleven, after a series of rattles and pulls to both rods, the downstream rod tip imitated the actions of the two bites I'd had on the upstream rod. A barbel that I put at around six pounds was quickly netted - after it had tried to drag me into the river as my feet lost grip in the now very slippy mud at the water's edge. Again I was to carry it to the water for return in the sling, so I weighed it out of curiosity. Seven pounds. When you stop weighing smaller fish you get out of practice with the guestimates I suppose.
Quarter of an hour later I had a repeat bite on the downstream rod. This felt like a smallish barbel on the way in, so I was confused at how slim it was at the net. Hmm. Eel. As I started to tidy my gear prior to a midnight finish a light drizzle made its presence felt. Good timing.
For the first time this season a familiar van was in the car park. I checked the bucket of feeder mix that had been in the back of the car since Tuesday night and was pleased to see it hadn't gone mouldy. So the feeder would be my first line of attack with bags of pellets the back up if the feeder mix ran out.
To my surprise the owner of the van was packing up having caught one barbel from the heavily coloured, but falling, river. I didn't need much encouragement to drop in the swim being vacated as it was the one I fancied fishing anyway. The river had been a lot higher, about four or five feet higher by the looks of things, and the bank below the 'tideline' was quite slippy. Even worse where it had already been trampled. I set my chair up on reasonably safe ground.
It wasn't long before the marauding ducks arrived. They are growing fast and as greedy as ever. Unluckily for them I had no spare bait, but threw them a few crumbs of feeder mix anyway. They were soon rooting around, scrabbling over my landing net pole and bumping into my rods and reels providing an entertaining warm-up act before the top of the bill rattled my rod tips.
The headline act made it's entrance after an hour. The upstream rod tip, the bait cast to a long crease, started to bounce slowly. I picked the rod up to feel the line and the bouncing continued. So I wound down and bent into whatever it was. Certainly not a chub. The S-Pellet had scored again - and the 'dodgy' S5 hook. As has been the case most of the time this season the barbel took its time to wake up, being little more than a heavy weight until it neared the net. At this stage I was on slippy ground and not too keen on shifting my feet in case I slid, or fell, into the river. This meant I had to net the now irate fish using the full length of my nine foot landing net pole. So it took a bit longer than normal. Clearly a fish in need of the scales - and a photo next to the scales might be called for. Those scales called for the sack and tripod.
You can't beat a bit of prebaiting...While taking three quick snaps I saw the downstream rod had pulled over and was pointing well downstream of where the feeder had been cast. After walking downstream a few yards to release the fish from firm ground I picked up the second rod and leant into another dogged weight. This turned out to be a real surprise, and a new river best. Possibly a personal best as I can't recall having caught one with such length and depth before.
Baggin'With both rods sorted and recast after that burst of activity I needed a brew. Forty minutes later, at nine o'clock, the upstream rod was away again. Another nodding bite rather than a four foot twitch. This fish was into the flow straight away and got carried downstream, so it fought a bit harder than the first barbel had in the initial stages, but once in the slower water it came in easily. As I was going to carry it to the release spot in the weighlsing I clocked it's weight at over eight pounds.
The evening was cloudy but dry. Cloudy enough to keep the stars in bed and make darkness arrive earlier. There was a wind blowing from the west that died after dark so the night was mild enough. At quarter to eleven, after a series of rattles and pulls to both rods, the downstream rod tip imitated the actions of the two bites I'd had on the upstream rod. A barbel that I put at around six pounds was quickly netted - after it had tried to drag me into the river as my feet lost grip in the now very slippy mud at the water's edge. Again I was to carry it to the water for return in the sling, so I weighed it out of curiosity. Seven pounds. When you stop weighing smaller fish you get out of practice with the guestimates I suppose.
Quarter of an hour later I had a repeat bite on the downstream rod. This felt like a smallish barbel on the way in, so I was confused at how slim it was at the net. Hmm. Eel. As I started to tidy my gear prior to a midnight finish a light drizzle made its presence felt. Good timing.
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