Perch: the unabating obsession

I huddled deeper into my winter clothing, collar raised against the chill air and returned my hopeful gaze to my float. Some words from Shelley floated into my consciousness: "O wind, if winter comes can spring be far behind?" and I mused on how easy it is to be philosophical about the weather when sat by a fire struggling only with the strophes, antistrophes and epodes of lyric form. Sat by a lake with no warming fire, philosophical postulation gives way to existential discomfort.

Pete, my fishing companion and I, had returned for the morning to the pond from which just a few week's earlier I had plucked a perch of 2 lb 10 oz. Confidence was high, not only as a result of our firsthand knowledge of the deep bellied, broad backed giants that lurk in this lake, but also due to our recent favourable run of form with perch. Pete was fresh from the capture a fortnight previously of the fine perch pictured above, pulled from the depths of our local canal, and despite the biting temperature we harboured a hunch that this would be no ill wind devoid of cheer.

The perfunctory tasks of tackling up and depth plumbing completed, we commenced in earnest, float fishing with worms while regularly feeding small handfuls of red maggots, and we settled down for a long winter's wait. Bites, when they came were occasional and lightening fast, with lengthy intervals between them. With a similar lack of frequency, a weak wintery sun occasionally made a half-hearted attempt to brighten the insipid pale grey of the sky, but any such attempts were short-lived, futile and ill fated.

Eventually Pete connected with a roach of about 4 ounces, swiftly followed by a micro perch, before the bites again dried up. A spirit of inert lethargy seemed to have the fish in its thrall, reinforcing what every angler knows to be true: it is a far simpler task to catch fish in July than it is in January. After three hours of concentrated effort, I had only one small roach to my name when my float shot under, and to my surprise the strike was met by something solid; the fish barely fought, and offered only token resistance on its passage to the waiting net. At about a pound and a half , although not "monstrous" in size, this was a fish worth capturing and admiring, and worthy of the effort that had been expended for its capture.

An hour later, and it was time for me to depart. It had been a pleasure to give the vintage glass Avon and Allcocks centrepin their first adventure of the New Year and to share the morning with Pete. The weather had determined that the fishing would be a battle not only of wits, but also of attrition between angler and perch, but the last gasp fish ensured that I left not only with fingers numb with cold, but also with the satisfaction of a "job well done."  An hour later, while thawing out at home my phone pinged- Pete, who had remained at the lake following my departure, had caught a perch that looked to be every ounce of 2 pounds, probably with a bit to spare.

For both of us it had been a gruelling contest between man and fish, and Pete's perch was a deserved reward for fine angling and dogged persistence. Sometimes, in fishing as in life, the margin between success and failure is a fine one; this is the first time in four years that my January opener has not seen me blank .... perhaps 2019 will be my year.