Locked gates, lost time and tiny fish ...

We knew the drill; time was of the essence. The alarm clock woke me at 6:00am, only 24 hours older than I had been the day before, but "on paper" a whole year older. I took the dog for her custmary walk, and was back by 6:40, woke my son and chivvied him along as he wrapped himself in several layers while rushing breakfast. The car was quickly loaded, and by 7:00 am we were arriving at the estate lake. We had about four hours to play with, until a birthday celebration pub lunch marked the begining of my 46th year.

On arriving the gates of the estate lake were locked, but we weren't unduly concerned. An old boy unlocks the fishery at about 7:00, and a few minutes weren't going to hurt. Half an hour later we were concerned. Said old boy was still conspicuous by his absence, and the clock was ticking. Feeling slightly guilty as the sleepy voice of the owner's wife answered my phonecall my fears were temporarily assuaged when she informed that she would send the elderly gentleman down to let us in. Half an hour later concern had turned to apoplexy, and I made the decision to move on to another local lake.

 

We arrived at the second lake (a favourite of mine, but which- for some unaccountable reason- my son isn't fond of) and set up in swims next to each other, he on a waggler while I elected to fish the pole. After an hour I'd caught 9 fish, 3 perch and 6 roach, all small but the swim seemed to be building. My son's heart, however, just wasn't in it and he didn't have a single fish to show for his, admittedly half-hearted efforts. Knowing how much he likes the estate lake, I asked if he fancied moving back to it, on the assumption that by now it must be open! His face lit up immediately, and the die was cast.

 

 

 Knowing that we only had an hour left in which to fish, we opted to share a swim, both pole fishing in the margins, and here our fortunes were entirely reversed. In our final hour my son had half a dozen fish, again all of very modest size, including our first crucian of the year, while I had nothing.  As we packed up and prepared for the family festivities, as if to add insult to piscatorial injury, the skies opened and treated us to a brief, but spirited, hail storm. Of the four hours available to us we had only actually fished for about two.

Following today's frustrations, and owing to the fact that my last two sessions have resulted in the capture of a string of fish of only meagre proportions I've decided that my next session will be after carp. Sitting behind a pair of rods on buzzers isn't my favourite style of fishing, but I'm feeling a growing  need to bend into something a bit more substantial ..... provided, of course, the lake is open!

 

 

Art imitating angling ...

I was sad to discover recently that John Searl, a fine angling artist (and, indeed, I'm led to believe a fine angler) had died. His art has illustrated a number of fishing books in my library, and I enjoyed watching him gently coach Geoffrey Palmer into landing a chub in one of the episodes of the admirable TV series "The Compleat Angler."
Angling has a distinguished history of producing fine artists, a tradition which sems to have proliferated in the 20th and 21st Centuries. Bernard Venables, Paul Cook, Karen Sarkar, and Chris Turnbull spring to mind, but- much though I enjoy their art, my personal top four are as follows:

Number Four- Stephen Harper
Stephen Harper's stylised and striking fish portraits, particularly of pike and predators have adorned the dust jackets of a number of best-selling angling books. A master of his craft.




Number Three- Robin Armstrong
Not only an accomplished painter of fish, but also of birds and general wildlife themes. If you get an opportunity to purchase a copy of his book "Dartmoor River" don't pass it up- a truly delightful book.

Number Two- David Miller
Now a feature on our annual rod licenses, David Miller's depictions of underwater life have a large following. His eye for detail brings to mind  a Korda underwater video without the distraction of the commentary.

 

 

 Number One- Adriano Manocchio

Although I'm neither a fly fisherman or an American, Monacchio's depictions of the North American fly fishing experience are my favourite examples of angling art. The highest compliment that I can pay to his work is that, like his countryman Norman Maclean's novella "A River Runs Through It", his art manages to evoke all that's aesthetic in our pastime, and makes me want to reach for my rods and make for the riverbank.

 

 



A grueller in Gwent

As someone old enough to remember Michael Fish's predictive debacle with the "Great October Storm" I should have known to better than to take notice when the weatherman confidently declared that Saturday would see a mini-heatwave in South Wales. The mini-heatwave turned out to consist of torrential rain and rapidly dropping water temperature, to once again prove that weather forecasting is an imprecise art and an inexact science.

I was in Wales along with my son to fish with my youngest brother and his son as guests on their club lake. Heavily stocked with F1's and with the possibility of bonus "proper carp" (F1's are great fun, but always feel slightly "phoney") and good back up stocks of roach, bream and perch, on a good day it's not unusual for club matches to be won with 80 pound or more of fish, but as the temperature dropped the fishing was always likely to be a struggle.

I elected to just fish with a pole in the margins (3 pound line, 2 pound bottom, size 20 hook), while my son and nephew did likewise, but both also elected (just as well, as it turned out) to put out a "sleeper rod" on bite alarms using method feeders and fake corn.

My nephew was first to catch, with a couple of tiny commons (all of 2 ounces) on the pole, before my son had the first F1, which fell to his "method" rod.

The "method" seemed to be the method on the day, and soon my nephew was joining the action, with a couple of F1's in quick succession. My brother, who had opted not to fish, but to nobly act as chief "ghillie" for the two boys, was kept busy mixing groundbait and providing advice as they played their fish ( a task which both of them performed with high levels of competence), and generally acting as bankside director of operations as well as taking responsibility for the "chip shop run".

As is often the case when pole fishing and loose-feeding maggots, my swim took longer to get going, but a "little and often" trickle of bait resulted in a couple of F1's in quick succession, before loosing a couple more. The fish fought well on the pole tackle, pulling the elastic round and giving a good account of themselves as they struggled for freedom in the deluvian conditions.

After four hours we decided to pack up. Although the weather had been inclement, and the fishing slower than anticipated, we'd had a great time, brothers, nephews and cousins enjoying each others company and the challenge afforded by the conditions. We ended up with 10 F1's and about the same number of "bits" between us, with the best F1 (which I was too embarrassed to photograph, as I'd foul- hooked it, although this fact did make the fight on pole tackle last much longer than usual, thereby increasing the fun factor) probably somewhere around the 3 pound mark. Our final tally of 20 fish between the 3 of us, for an estimated combined weight of something in the region of 20 pound might not represent the most prolific haul ever taken from a "commercial-style" fishery, but in the context of the conditions, and the youthfulness of all but one of the anglers, led to a wet and weary but satisfied group of anglers leaving the lake.

Oh, and by the way, I may not have distinguished myself piscatorially, but I was the winner of the post-fishing Monopoly game when we got back to my brother's house!