Spring has sprung

Out and about last week photographing birds I spied some rudd cruising in a small pond. They were only tiny but fired me up to venture forth after tench again - especially as the nights were warming up.

Look closely and there are rudd in the pic

Finding the time to get away for two nights, to make the fuel costs more bearable, wasn't easy and I decided to chance a Sunday evening to Tuesday morning stint. On arriving at the lake the area I fancied was occupied but there was plenty more to go at with the rest of the lake vacant.

It was more than springlike as I pushed the laden barrow round to the west bank where I plumped to fish a cosy little suntrap which had produced tench for me in the past. Unusually my first job was to but the bivvy up, as much to get my gear under it and make space for me to move while plumbing and baiting up. Ordinarily setting up the bivvy is the last thing I do (unless it's raining), but seeing as I have yet to have a bite after dark my efforts were geared to activity the following morning.

The night was mild. No bunny suit required in the sleeping bag. To my great surprise, and greater pleasure, I wasn't troubled by rats during the night. A real bonus. However, I still had a fitful night having 'done my back in' once I had baited up and cast the rods out for the night. What caused this malady I don't know, but every time I moved I got a twinge.

As day slowly broke to the glorious cacophony of the dawn chorus I made a cup of tea before struggling out into the day to rebait the feeders and spod out some more hemp, groats and dead maggots. As the sun rose higher the sky cleared and well before noon it was t-shirt weather again. A light south-westerly wasn't enough to hide fish movements, but there were none to be seen.

Looking the part

The recent 'heatwave' had brought on a carpet of blanket weed, or filamentous algae, bright green stuff covering the lake bed whatever it is. A change of tactics was called for. The distant in-line maggot feeder was to be swapped to a heli-chod rig. I had to improvise by trapping an in-line feeder on a length of mono between two swivels as I had no standard feeders with me. [Note to self:  put some weighted black caps in the bag.]. The close in maggot feeder rig, at catapult range, had the bait swapped from three sinking plastic casters to three floating plastic maggots - in the hope they would hover above the green gunk, a tactic that has succeeded in similar conditions in the past.

My back was not improving and I contemplated packing in early while I could still walk without pain. Last year's bream session ended that way with me struggling to get out of the car and straighten up when I stopped for a break at the motorway services.

Evening calmed off but still now fish showed themselves -either on the surface or the end of one of my lines. There had been a couple of indications during the afternoon when a coot discovered my bed of bait and the bright orange tutti frutti pop up on the method feeder rig.

I idly amused myself as the almost-full moon rose by watching the clouds of midges forming into vertical columns. Odd how people wax lyrical about the whirling formations of starlings yet never mention midges doing similar things in the air.

Marvellous midges

The second night was calm and bright - and pleasantly ratless. With no cloud cover the temperature fell, but still not enough to warrant the bunny suit. A hot water bottle might have helped as my back got worse as I feared it would. In the morning I really did struggle to get myself upright. Once I had I dutifully rebaited and recast I slumped back in my pit and fell asleep again. Fishing like that, casting out and waiting, doesn't seem to work for me with tench. But I simply couldn't face the effort of continual feeder filling and recasting. I was hardly fishing at all, just waiting until the day had dried out the condensation inside the bivvy.

At ten I started to tidy the gear away. Doing so must have loosened something up as my back began to feel freer and the painful twinges abated. By the time I had barrowed everything back to the car I almost had a spring in my step. Almost... Such is life when you aren't as young as you think you are I suppose.

I doubt I'll find the time for another two-nighter for a week or more. So Plan B will have to swing into action. A plan that doesn't involve tench!

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Still a chill

Sunshine, birdsong, catkins. Yet when the clouds hid the sun the touch too much of north and east in the wind made it plain that summer was still a way away. It was still a lovely day to be by the water, hoping for a tench to  show up, but great to be out and being refreshed by some angling therapy. This was my first session of the spring, the one where I go as much to see what I've forgotten as to catch some tench. In truth I don't find the tench fishing really kicks off until the hawthorn is in bloom, and even driving south it isn't yet in full leaf.

 A sign of spring

I also had three new rods, three new reels and  a new pod to try out. One item of new tackle is the kiss of death for a successful session, so all that lot meant I was destined to blank. Doomed, in fact, as I had forgotten what is possibly my most important piece of kit - my lucky spoon. Never am I as disheartened as when I leave my lucky spoon behind when taking the stove to brew up on. It's nothing special. It's just been with me for years and years. Not quite as long as my lucky forceps (which I no longer use but always have in my rucksack) which I've had since the 1970s and have left on the bank, and found the following day,  twice.

Multiple new-tackle-jinx

Although the rods and reels weren't tested by fish they did the casting and retrieving things well. The 4000D Baitrunners are lovely and smooth. I thought I might not get on with the baitrunner lever operating the opposite way to all my other baitrunners, but it was not a problem. The anti-reverse lever is rather small, and that will take more acclimatisation for me to be able to knock it off to backwind.

The 1.75lb Torrixes coped with the 50g maggot feeder and the method feeder, even with the crosswind blowing. I have a niggling suspicion they might be just a tad too stiff in the butt for my taste for playing tench. But the only way to prove a rod is with a decent fish on the end of the line, so that test is yet to come.

I'm not generally a fan of Fox tackle, although they do have some well designed products which are sometimes let down by the construction, falling apart easily. I hope the pod proves to be one of their robust items. The design suits me really well. It's easy to set up and get level, and (although not designed this way) I can fit it with Korum banksticks to enable me to raise the rod butts high enough to get the tips close to the water when fishing from a raised platform. My fear is that the cams which lock the uprights flap around when there is no stick on the slot for transportation. Not a problem for tackle tarts who have special pod bags, but for lazy gits like me who stuff their pod in the rod sling it might lead to accidental damage.

The fishing was slow. Nothing happened. A carp, maybe two, head and shouldered well out. That was it as far as fish activity went. The rest of my time was spent watching bees and trying to identify distant, and elusive, birds - probably warblers. Warblers always confuse me.

By the time the sun started to set I was wishing I'd packed the bunny suit. That chill makes me think I'll leave the tench alone for at least another week. I have got my fishing head back on though.

Broadland dredging

I have never fished the Norfolk Broads, and probably never will, however it has a long history in pike fishing and has in the past been an inspiration to me. For decades it has been blighted by fish kills brought on by outbreaks of prymnesium, which releases toxins fatal to fish when it dies, and massive fish kills have resulted. Seemingly pike are more susceptible than other species and pike stocks have collapsed after each outbreak.

There is a threat of another, man-induced, outbreak in the near future. I urge you all to read the excellent appraisal of the situation in Michael Hasting's latest blog post. This appears to be a prime example of fish and anglers taking low priorities to other wildlife and recreational interests, with neither the country's main conservation body (Natural England) nor the Broads Authority listening to any of the anglers warnings. If fish die it doesn't matter because nobody sees them. It'll be a different story when the rotting corpses are floating around.

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Close season

I don't hold much store in the close season as such. It's far too arbitrary in its timing for my way of looking at things. Nonetheless I usually take a break once the rivers shut. The nights are still a bit cool for me to want to sleep out, and the tench haven't woken up fully - and certainly not reached their peak weights. Besides, tench fishing is about warm mornings with a mist rolling over a mirror calm lake. Well, something like that. My usual break is a couple of weeks, but this time round I think I'll be waiting until Easter is out of the way before dusting down the bivvy and doss bag. Especially as winter is predicted to make a return this week...

Spring sunshine

There are definite signs of spring now, buds in the hedgerow, birds getting amorous, stuff like that. And the clocks have gone forward ridding me of my winter lethargy brought on by dark evenings. For once I'm putting my time to good use and have done some tidying of my vast estate. I'd let part of the garden go to nettles and have looked at it many a time thinking it needed clearing. What I needed was a reason to do it. Creating somewhere to photograph birds provided it. How long this new-found interest will last is anybody's guess. But it's fun at the moment, and quite like fishing in many ways. You need to understand the birds habits, read their body language and time your 'strike' to get a good shot. It's also as dependent upon the weather as fishing can be. In the case of photography it's all about light.

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Wimping out with a whimper

Another season draws to a close and I find it hard to believe I never wet a line in the Trent once. I was tempted to make the journey for the final day, but ended up locally trying for one final barbel to round off my best season on the river.

With four cars in the car park there could have been eight anglers on the stretch so I thought it wise to take a walk before dragging my gear along the bank. Within a short distance I could see three fishing, so there's be plenty of room for me to squeeze in somewhere. I retraced my steps and loaded myself up. I'd soon passed three more anglers and the swim I was hopping to fish was free.

It was another fine sunny afternoon, although the north-westerly was cool again - but not as cool as it had been of late, the sun is warming up. If anything the river was a midge's lower than on Friday, it was over a degree warmer at 6.7c. For some reason this rise didn't boost my confidence. Had I been on the Trent with that reading I'd have been well happy with anything over 6, but on the Ribble I prefer a reading over 7 - even though I had caught on Friday with it lower. A strange thing confidence. The fact that the temperature was holding steady did nothing to brighten my mood.

Reasoning that the maggots had produced a couple of bites on friday I cast out a boilie on the upstream rod and rigged the other up to fish a large feeder with four maggots on a size ten to more suitable line for barbel than I had on the tip rod. It's never worked in the past, but you never know!

It'll work one day

Every now and then the wind would appear to drop. I think it was just swinging to a direction where it was deflected by the high bank on the opposite side of the river as I could still hear it roaring through the trees. When it did drop things warmed up in the sun. The rods remained motionless.

On winding in the maggots for a recast one had been nipped. Not a full blooded chub-crush, just the very tip. I shortened the clear mono hooklength from three feet to eighteen inches. On the next recast two maggots had been nipped. I was tempted to break out the quiver tip rod and try for whatever was doing the nipping, but I was there to catch barbel. So I didn't.

Towards dark the wind really did ease off. Only intermittent though. From dusk onwards the breeze would spring up and die off. Cloud cover moved in so it was remaining mild. After darkness proper arrived I swapped the maggot rig, the maggots again having been nipped, for a S-pellet. The rods remained motionless.

A few small fish had topped on dark, and a few more fish splashed in darkness - probably sea trout by the sound of them. It had been a quiet afternoon. Not much in the way of wildlife activity, save for a buzzard being mobbed by three crows. The bankside vegetation didn't seem as far advanced as in years past on the final day of the river season. The nettles and other annuals were just poking their heads through the soil whereas last year they were an inch or two high during the season's final week.

Seeking the sun

By eight I was getting the feeling that it was all over. I moved the pellet rod upstream then admitted defeat with two and a half hours of the season remaining. The first time for a few years the final day has been a blank for me. Not unexpected given the conditions. Barbel had been caught, but not many.

I think it was a case of dropping a bait on a barbel's nose or waiting for one to slowly sidle up to your bait. I'd been leaving my baits in place for at least an hour and keeping the feed (small bags of small pellets) to a minimum. Had I been fishing a smaller river where fish holding spots were tighter then moving and fishing each spot for a half hour would have been an option. On a river where fish holding spots can be large but far apart then I prefer to throw all my egs in one basket and try to work one all session. This time it didn't pay off.

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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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