Perching in the autumn of our discontent

My fishing is an inverse mirror image of that enjoyed by many anglers. With carp fishing being so universally popular, for most fishermen and women it is the warmer months when carp are at their most catchable that their angling is at its most intense and when hopes of a "monster" are at their highest. I, however, hold carp in relatively low regard due to their ubiquity and the way they have come to dominate the whole angling scene in this Country. I concede that their fighting qualities are admirable, and that really big carp in waters with low stock density take some catching, but despite having caught hundreds of them over the years, I find it hard to foster much affection for them.

Of our summer species I am fond of tench, crucians and rudd, but the fish more than any other that gets me excited and captivates my imagination is the perch with its bold stripes, proud spiky dorsal and general bravura swagger and pugnacity. Consequently, my summer fishing is a casual affair, much more about the simple joy of "being there", an opportunity to enjoy scenery and sunshine and catch prodigiously. Autumn and winter, by contrast, are about the pursuit of specimen perch, often an attritional business in hostile weather that numbs the angler to the bone.

This year my summer fishing was further affected by government restrictions designed to slow the spread of the coronavirus pandemic, and so my opportunities to fish were more limited, having to be fitted in to periods of leniency between two phases of lockdown, and as I embarked on my first Autumnal perch session there was the very real fear that we might soon be enduring stricter controls on our activity again - any plans for anything approaching a perch "campaign" could only be tentative, and so as I arrived at the lake (one which has in the past produced perch for me up to a very pleasing 2lb 15 ounces) I was aware of a greater self-induced pressure to catch than I would normally feel on the first perch adventure of any Autumn.

I was joined at the pond by regular fishing companions Pete, Roger and David, and after days of solid and torrential rain, the day had dawned bright and sunny- wonderful  conditions for enjoying sitting by a lake but less than ideal for perch, with their well known preference for low light levels. The trees were still mostly clothed in green, but some were beginning to display their russet and orange autumnal livery, pleasantly framing the pool. I began regularly trickling a stream of red maggots, chopped worms and prawns off the edge of some reeds, but after an hour and a half only one small perch had succumbed to my float fished worm offering prompting the decision to switch to prawn for "just half an hour to see what happens." In the event it only took ten minutes for the classic perch bob float to do exactly as its name suggests it should, and when the bobbing gave way to disappearance the firm strike was meant with equally firm resistance, and after a brief tussle a substantial perch was being drawn over the net. Having been admired, photographed and weighed, the venerable old warrior was returned to the murky depths, with the scales registering a commendable 2 pounds and 12 ounces.

Meanwhile, Dave, Pete and Roger were catching with reasonable regularity on worm or maggot, but only seeing small roach and perch joining them on the bank. Pete landed a small carp which tore around his swim angrily before seeing Pete's side of the argument, and followed it up with a really good quality roach.

I persisted with the prawn, resisting the temptation to play the "percentage game" with maggots, and another classic perch bite saw a second really nice striped adversary putting a bend in the vintage glass fibre avon rod and drawing the sound of "music" from the sixty year old centre pin as it attempted to resist the inevitable folds of the net. On the bank it was clear that this was a smaller perch than its predecessor, but a splendid, handsome fish nonetheless.

The odd fish smaller continued to surrender to my three companions, and we were treated to an overhead aerial display from a red kite before Pete provided the final piece of significant action for the morning landing the second heaviest perch of the day, a glorious striped specimen that weighed in at fractionally over the magic 2 pound mark. 

With heavy rain forecast and a hat trick of nice perch between us, we agreed to pull stumps shortly after midday, having thoroughly enjoyed our morning of piscatorial activity. As the season of mists and mellow fruitfulness continues and gives way to winter, one thing is sure: it won't be long before the four of us are back at the pond, and until then thoughts of perch and plans for their capture will rarely be far from our minds.

There are doubtless many worse ways to spend a morning, but equally incontrovertibly few better.