Where there's muck there's brass

Yet again indecision plagued me. In the end I snaffled two sausage rolls for an early lunch and put the tip rod, and a barbel rod in case, in the car along with some hastily gathered bait and tackle - and a third sausage roll. The plan was to stop until half past six then head back and hit the chippy for tea.

Even when I arrived to find just three cars parked up I wasn't sure if I'd made the right decision. The river was painfully low and clear. There was still a trace or two of snow to be seen in the shady gullies of the fells. I feared a chilly river. Nothing ventured, I set off to the bend hoping that the farmer wouldn't return with his muck spreader before I got there - there being a fresh line of muck along the river's edge.

A pair of goosander flew up and away as I approached, buzzards mewing in the distance. As I got close to the bend I saw it was occupied by a pike angler, who I know so I could muscle in on him to a degree by fishing my second choice swim. Three months away from the river and it had altered yet again. Not enough to change the fishing but enough to make getting my bearings tricky.

A boilie went upstream and the maggot feeder, still with a size 16 to fine line, and a single red maggot slightly downstream and about two thirds of the way across. Then the thermometer went in. The day was warm, 10c, despite the clouds and a wind with a chill to it. The thermometer showed a river that was fluctuating between 5.7 and 6.1. I put this down to the sensor being in inches of water and that being heated the air and sun when it broke through the clouds. Even so a barbel had been caught upstream. There was hope.

As I sat waiting for a rod top to do something I heard a rustle in the far bank woods. Scanning through the trees I caught a glimpse of movement. Roe deer. A group of them, maybe half a dozen it was hard to say, moving nimbly up and along the steep sandy bank. Tawny owls hooted with hours of daylight remaining.

I was stood behind my chair, just out of reach of my rods, talking to the pike angler when the quiver tip pulled down purposefully. As I reached the rod and made as to pick it up the tip sprang back. We both knew the hook would be gone. It was. Either a barbel or a chub had broken the fine line. I debated whether to step up to a 14 on a 3-06 bottom and fish double red maggots. I did.

When M started to pack up I moved into his swim and put the boilie straight across with the maggot feeder upstream. His parting words were, "All you need now is a chub on the maggot rod and a barbel on the boilie." "Knowing my luck it'll be the other way round," I replied.

The wind was dropping, and the sun came out making the late evening very pleasant indeed. I'd put the thermometer in the new swim and here it was reading 5.7. Quite why I don't know, the sensor was deeper and more shaded. Probably a truer reading. Even so I was confident that the barbel rod would spring into life.

The sausage roll was demolished and washed down with a cup of tea at five. An hour later the quiver tip pulled down slowly and eased back. I leant forward thinking the chance had been missed and it pulled down again. Initially I wasn't sure I'd connected, but soon felt the kick of a fish. Chub. Then it made a run that forced me to backwind. Big chub? A couple more runs, one a long one and I began to realise it was a barbel. Probably not a big one, but a barbel. Three times it found a mid river snag. Three times I managed to get it free. After what was almost certainly the longest I have played a barbel for (excluding ones that have snagged me and forced me to put the rod down until they swam out) I slid the fish over the landing net.

As it was my first barbel for some time, the first of the year, and my biggest on maggot, I weighed it and took it's picture. Not even five pounds it was still most welcome, and had that bright brassy look with the pinkish fins setting off the sheen that barbel get when the water stays clear for a prolonged period. I recast both rods and waited for a chub to pick up my boilie!

Not big, but most welcome

The rig was my heli-feeder rig, and the upper stop had been pushed well up the line - almost certainly when the feeder had snagged. Still, the rig had had a good workout and passed the test.

The isotopes began to glow, but it was still mild as darkness descended. Memories of August evenings flooded back. I can see my thoughts of avoiding the river next summer and fishing for other things might be in vain. I listened to the Archers then began a slow pack up. Winding in the feeder I saw the maggots had been 'chubbed'. Squashed to limp husks. I thought the tip had moved but hadn't been sure. Never mind. Hunger was beginning to gnaw. The boilie had remained untouched.

I switched the Petzl off once I was up the sandy bank on on level ground. Out in the open it's not too difficult to see where you are going and follow a well trodden path in the dark. I switched it back on after I slipped on a lump of 'muck' I'd failed to spot and almost lost my balance. Half way back to the car park I thought a strap on my rucksack was squeaking so I stopped. The noise continued and sounded louder. It was the grunting chatter of badgers arguing back in the woods on the bend. What a great place the river is.

I hadn't expected to be the last off the river, but I was. Just the way I like it. The car's thermometer was reading 7 as I headed back to civilisation. The call of the chip shop fell on deaf ears and I stuck two slices of bread in the toaster when I got home.

Two days of the river season left, and a dry weekend forecast. The banks might be busy. Can I face joining the crowds?

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I should have known better

Another free afternoon and not a clue what to do with it. Something made me dig out the pike rods and set off for the drain, to an area that can produce at this time in the season. I think the reason I was attracted to this length was the fact that it's so peaceful. being out on the mere with everything happening in the distance is relaxing.

Nonetheless as soon as I had the baits out, a sardine a smelt and a lamprey head, and I was drinking my first cup of flask tea I was wishing I was doing something else. There are times when you have to do things to remind yourself why you stopped doing them. This was one of those times. To really get the benefit from fishing you have to enjoy the not catching as much as the catching. It seems I no longer enjoy not catching pike.

Despite the feeling that I was doomed to blank being there was good. Again I could feel the sun's strength increasing, so I laid out the unhooking mat and basked upon it like a large green lizard. A lizard wearing boots and a woolly hat. There was distant tractor noise, the fields having dried out after a long period of waterlogging the farmers were working hard, through the faint engine noise bird sounds broke through - the chinking of a great tit, the drumming of a woodpecker, and a miscellany of song in the wood behind me. Every so often a huge flock of wood pigeons would take to the air, swirl around overhead and descend again on the field they were feeding in. Hundreds of them. No wonder the bank was littered with empty shotgun cases, and pigeon feathers.

By four thirty the heat had gone from the sun. I was sat up in my chair wasting my life away, pondering why I didn't pack up and go home when I saw a falcon coming over the mere. I took it for a kestrel at first, but it was too big and bulky. Through the binoculars I could see the distinctive cheek patches of a peregrine. The bird swung round and circled over the fields then made its way west towards woodland. No doubt in search of pigeon for its supper.

By five thirty there was a chill in the light wind. A clear sky and little wind could mean another cold night ahead. It was getting towards home time. I had had more than enough by six. The final cup of tea was drunk when I heard something scuttering across the drain, sounding like a moorhen. Not a moorhen but a water rail that soon disappeared between the reed stems on the far bank. Seeing those two birds were certainly examples of the 'more' that there is to fishing than catching fish. But without fish it's bird watching.

The sun sets over West Lancashire's version of Fenland

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I wasn't expecting that

My courier arrived far sooner than expected, and with the evenings starting to draw out I leapt at the chance to take the maggots I'd bought on Saturday for an afternoon out. River or stillwater? I was drawn to a try at some lake roach, so that was where I'd headed. I pulled up by the swim I had in mind. No cars there so it would be free. Straight out of the car and across the lane to peer over the wall and scope out the water. Er, not quite. Scope out the ice, more like! I knew there'd been a frost but hadn't expected it to have been enough to freeze the lake. Still, it is The Land that Time Forgot.

Icy in the shade

On the other bank there was free water , and two anglers occupying the swims I would have plumped for. Only one thing for it, drive round and have a look if the third choice swim was free of anglers and ice. It was. Because the rods were ready rigged up all I had to do was put the sticks in, clip on the feeders, bait up and cast out. I was soon in business and able to sort myself out. The first job was to remove the fleece from under my bunny suit. What a joy it was to fish unencumbered by waterproofs and fleece. If there'd been no ice I'd have been set up in the shade and probably shivering. Here I was getting the full heat of the sun, and with no wind to speak of it was positively balmy.

High pressure, flat calm, tough conditions

The air temperature was around 8.5, the water was somewhat cooler at 3.6. Always a chance of a roach or two though. I'd have three and a half hours or more to attract some to my feeders. I rang the changes on the hooks, one had a single red maggot, one a single white, and the third one red and one white maggot. All three feeders were filled with maggots, hemp and micro trout pellets as usual.

The sun was so bright I needed my baseball cap (without the woolly hat over the top!) and my sunglasses. The quality of the light made me start thinking of summer evenings, oily ripples spreading from dark dorsals of rolling bream breaking a flat calm surface, bobbins indicating line bites before the fish get their head down and they rise and hold in earnest. You know, the sort of stuff you read about but doesn't happen in real life!

Reflecting on the fishing

I didn't recast too frequently. With the cool water I thought it better to let the hemp and pellets do the attracting without over feeding. As I was winding the left hand rod in for another fill of the feeder the middle alarm sounded and the bobbin was dropping slowly. At first I thought I'd caught the line with the other feeder, but when I stopped winding the bobbin twitched upwards a little. When I picked up the middle rod I felt the lively vibrations of something fishy on teh end of the line. 'The Rig' had done its job and the size 18 had found a purchase. The fish was obviously far from large, but it was a fish. It turned out to be a skimmer. It also turned out to be the only fish from the only bite.

A fish in the hand is worth two in the lake

Not the most productive session. However it was good to be out on a lovely day, and with the fleece not being required until twenty to six, and it still being twilight at half past six when I crunched my way back to the car through the dry beech leaves, it really did feel like spring is just around the corner. There'll be another frost tonight (the air temperature was already down to 4.5 when I left) and for the next few, but the season is turning. I might have more time to fish this week than I first thought, but I can't make my mind up where to fish, or what for.

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The change is made

It took a bit of fannying around, but Lumbland is now relocated here - at http://blog.lumbland.co.uk/. So I guess the blog will continue despite my misgivings. When that will be I'm not sure as I have rods to build and deliveries to wait in for. And with only a week of the river season left I'm not a happy bunny. Neither is Fred - and he really is a bunny.

The original www.lumbland.co.uk address still works as I have managed to fix it to automatically redirect straight here - so there's no need to update your bookmarks/favourites unless you want to. But if you have a feed subscription or have lumbland.co.uk in your blog list that will need changing.

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Dace rig update

I thought a photo might help explain the simple helicopter rig I was using for the dace and roach. Hooklink to the left, mainline (6lb) to the right, and feeder link (5lb) to the bottom. The feeder link is shorter than the hooklink, but all lengths open to modification.

Easy peasy heli-feeder rig

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Back in the groove

My recent return to the photographic world has reminded me that going out looking for photographs is a lot like going fishing. You set out with good intentions but the elements and other factors mean there is no guarantee of success. Saturday morning saw me up and out bright and early hoping to make good use of the promised sunshine to get some pixels organised. The sun came along, but not for long. I did have a cunning plan though...

A tree yesterday

I'd gone for a walk along the river, it would have risen on Friday and it might have warmed too so it was worth investigating. Accompanying my camera gear on the walk was my thermometer. The first stop at the edge of a nicely coloured and dropping river was to throw the thermometer in the water. It didn't take long for me to decide not to return with the rods for a while. 2.9C was far from encouraging, and the distant fells still had a faint covering of snow that would be entering the river some time soon.

When the sun went into hiding, to be replaced by light rain, I was on my way home and thence to the tackle shop where the talk was of torrential rain and gale force winds for today. The consensus was that I was mad to be buying maggots to use for roach. My intention was to wait and see what the morning brought and either head to the river if it looked set fair or to a stillwater if it bode ill.

As things turned out the foul weather was in the south (hurrah!!!) so I could get a couple of small glueing jobs done, make some sarnies and pack my gear in the car to arrive after the turn of the tide. Two cars were parked up with only one angler in sight. He'd caught a couple of chub and told me he didn't fish maggots on this stretch because the dace did his head in.

After arranging my gear in the claggy clay I cast out a single white maggot on a 16 and my usual feeder rig, the feeder being filled with old maggots, their attendant casters, and micro trout pellets. Then I ate my first salami bun and recast. As I was pouring the first flask-tea of the day the quiver tip commenced a-dancing. A nicely conditioned roach of about six or eight ounces. I was fishing a close in line to start with. If I start catching from there and then bites dry up casting further out usually brings renewed action. I prefer to do it that way than start in mid river and come closer. I'm not sure why.

Eye. Aye.

The rig I was using had been trouble free when used with a heavier hooklink for chubbing. While it was tangle-free initially with a light hooklength it had soon started to twist around the lead link and tangle on previous sessions. From there on it spiralled (pun intended) downhill. Tying on a fresh hooklink would sort it temporarily but it was a pain. Why I hadn't switched to a helicopter variantI can only put down to pig-headedness or laziness. This time I made the switch.

It was so simple. A small swivel trapped between two Drennan Grippa Stops on the main line. Another swivel tied to the end of the mainline and the feeder attached to that via a link of slightly weaker mono. The hooklink is looped to the rotating swivel, after having a cut down large Korum rig sleeve (the small ones are too small) slid on to it. The rig sleeve is pushed over the rotating swivel and makes a bit of a boom. It works. Talk about kicking myself.

It was almost an hour later before another fish came along. A dace that didn't looks as big as the ones I'd neglected to weigh last month, so I weighed it. 5.5oz. Or thereabouts. A second dace was weighed at an ounce more. That one didn't look as big as the unweighed ones either. Then I hooked something that tore off downstream, hung in the flow and came adrift as I applied too much pressure trying to pull it upstream. I reckoned it was a chub until I hooked another fish that did something similar. This time I took it easy and allowed the fish to make its own way upstream. It turned out to be a pound-plus roach, and hadn't felt as heavy as the lost fish. A smaller roach was followed by another heavy feeling fish that I took my time with. This one was a chub, of about a pound and a half. I hadn't a clue what I'd lost.

Fred keeps an eye on the rod tip while I eat my sarnies

By now I was fishing further out, about a third of the way across. Bites came with increasing regularity as the afternoon wore on. Mostly dace, two of which looked more like the ones from last month and weighed eight ounces and a fraction less. The bigger fish upped my PB - the first of the year. It still didn't quite seem as big as one I had returned unweighed. Maybe there wasn't much in it, but enough.

The top of a Ruckbag makes a good unhooking mat for small species

Despite a bitterly cold wind I wasn't feeling uncomfortable. I only noticed my toes starting to numb when I thought about them! Getting plenty of bites is a great way to get back into the swing of fishing. In among the dace and dropped fish was another roach of some six ounces. Had I remembered my keepnet I'd have amassed quite a netful. The sky had been grey but cloudy until the sun began to set. For the first time in ages there was a colourful sunset during which fish began to top all along the river.

A disgorger behind the ear is a sure sign of plenty of action

My flask was all but drained, the food long gone. Bites were still coming so my departure time kept getting put back. At five to six, with still enough light to allow the Petzl to stay in the Ruckbag, I hooked something heavy again. I took my time wondering if it was a roach or a chub. the grey dorsal that sliced through the water's surface gave the game away. Only about a pound, but on light tackle with a small hook there's no way to bully these fish in a strong flow. I'd tidied most of the gear away so the recast would be the last.

Hardly had the feeder settled when the tip bounced the upstream self-hooked fish bounce. A shoal of chub must have moved in as a fish that felt just like the previous one got itself in the flow downstream a rod length out. There was still enough colour in the river to make it difficult to see fish until they were almost at the surface. When this one boiled I was sure there was a flash of red, but the light was fading fast. I eased off a little, just in case. When I did catch a definite sight of the roach I was starting to consider prayer.

Not the biggest roach in the world, not even big by some people's standards, it was the best of the day and a great way to end my first session in what seems like ages. I'd finished with 22 fish after a slow start - two chub, five roach and the rest dace. My head was well and truly done in!

Homage to Vincent

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