Fenlandia - a piker's symphony.

"The horizon stooping smiles,

Oer treeless fens of many miles,

Spring comes and goes and comes again,

and all is nakedness and fen." 

John Clare (1793-1864)

Spring hides itself just around the corner, an inevitability of the changing seasons and the turning on its axis of the globe, but it remains as yet unsprung, although  for the small group of anglers huddled on the Sixteen Foot drain there were the very first signs of winter preparing to retreat and give way to the promise of new beginnings, as we watched our rods, pointed machine gun nest style towards the middle of the drain.  The stark beauty of the flat, agricultural landscape of the big-sky Fens is there to be enjoyed and admired, but while often a gift not for those of faint heart or delicate constitution, today the weather was in uncharacteristically benign mood.

Four of us had made the journey from Leicester to join up with local "Fen Tigers" Ray (who leases the stretch of drain we were fishing), John and Peter, and soon pike boxes were being opened and floats, stop knots and snap tackles assembled as anticipation levels rose. We knew the fishing would be unlikely to be easy, but if just some of us got to tangle with esox all of us would reckon it a good day's sport- it pays not to be greedy on the Fens, and these days I only choose to keep company with anglers big-hearted enough to enjoy another angler's triumphs as well as they enjoy their own.

Our host, Ray, was the first to catch, his fish falling to a float fished sardine deadbait. His pike was followed by a sustained period of watching and waiting, before John's perch livebait was the next to attract the attention of a marauding water wolf. A brief tussle between fish and angling protagonist resulted in the net being swept under John's prize, and soon a lovely mottled green pike was being unhooked and returned to the water, with the only harm done to the fish being the dent to its pride. The pike sulked in typical fashion in the margins before, with a flick of its tail it was gone.

Sport could hardly be described as fast and furious, but occasional pike related activity interrupted the bankside conversation and reverie, Loz losing a pike which flared its gills and shook its head belligerently before throwing the hooks, and me failing to connect with an "unmissable"run as the smelt in the margins at my feet was grabbed by a pike which ran off with its prize in determined fashion, my wind down and strike routine somehow leaving me retrieving nothing other than an eviscerated bait.

We wound the rods in and gathered for lunch, with bacon rolls cooked and provided by John, cream cakes by Ray, homemade cheese scones by Peter, and hot cross buns by Pete. Our Fenland trips are always as much about the enjoyment of each other's company and of the local landscape as they are occasions to catch fish, and lunch was enjoyed at an appropriately leisurely pace.

Pete decided to go for a postprandial wander with a short lure rod and baitcasting reel, and his enterprise resulted in him landing a brace of pike in short order, the largest of which is pictured above.
This proved to be the last of the day's fish catching activity, and stumps were drawn at around half past three in the afternoon, with four pike having been caught, admired and returned.

As ever, our thanks goes to Ray, who not only fulfills the role of host on our annual Fenland pilgrimage, but has become a friend and is always generous with his time and advice- a proper gentleman, and a man whose pike emblazoned van we all look on with a degree of envy.

To complete a near perfect day, just as we squeezed the last bit of tackle into the boot of Pete's car the skies, which had been darkening in hue and growing in threat as the afternoon wore on, opened and began discharging their watery content. We drove home with smiles on our faces.