“Well," said Pooh, "what I like best," and then he had to stop and think. Because although eating Honey was a very good thing to do, there was a moment just before you began to eat it which was better than when you were, but he didn't know what it was called.”
Sometimes the planning of a thing is better than the doing of it, and the anticipation more intense than its realisation. Conversely, there are times when you simply can't wait, and the urge grows and grows and you just have to jump on in. I had planned to start my perch fishing in September or October, but by mid August I could bide my time no longer, and the search for big sergeants that will dominate my autumn and winter fish bothering activity was brought forward. I'm not arguing with Winnie the Pooh; he makes a valid point, but when all is said and done he's a bear and I'm a man, and sometime's a man's gotta do what a man's gotta do.
I couldn't spare a whole day, and only had an afternoon to play with, but at midday I snapped the lid of my laptop shut, told the Church of England that it could manage for a few hours without me, and loaded a split cane rod, ancient centre pin, and a modicum of tackle into the car and headed off to meet Pete at our favourite perch lake. If you had to choose any time of the day to pursue perch you probably wouldn't choose lunchtime through to mid afternoon, but instead would opt for first light or early evening, but beggars can't be choosers, and whenever your bait (in this case a prawn on a barbless size 12) is in the water you've got a chance.
I got off to a brisk start, catching half a dozen small perch of about 4 ounces, before the first decent fish of the afternoon put in an appearance, a vision of scarlet finned stripy loveliness of probably just over a pound in weight. The fishing slowed and the sun shone far brighter than is normally conducive for catching perch, but in the absence of further perch I was kept busily distracted by a chunky rogue F1 and a rather splendid ide, both of whom showed a preference for prawns.
Pete, who is normally an accomplished catcher of perch, had been struggling for bites, but eventually he found himself attached to an indignant perch which gave him a decent tussle, trying to find sanctuary in the reed stems before finally seeing Pete's side of the argument and succumbing to the folds of his landing net. The fish when viewed on the bank looked to be a similar size to the one I'd caught earlier.
With the lake languid and languorous of mood we continued to drip in the loose feed, partly as the result of years of accumulated habit and partly because "you never know" but, in all honesty, without a great sense of optimism when somewhat unexpectedly my perch bob float began to behave in the manner its name suggested it should and following a few trembles and bobs it was pulled decisively under the lake's surface. My strike met solid resistance and after a spirited fight that probably lasted two or three minutes the biggest perch of the day was safely ensconced in the net. This time we subjected the fish to the indignity of the weigh sling, as I always weigh any perch that I suspect of being a 2 pounder, although in the event the fish was slightly under, coming in at a very respectable 1 pound and 14 ounces.
We fished on for a further hour in which Pete caught a succession of small perch and a couple of rudd, before we called time and packed up at a leisurely pace. It hadn't been the easiest of sessions, but with three nice perch banked between the two of us we were up and running and the die had been cast- it will be perch all the way for me from now until Christmas, and far too much of my time when not on the bank will be idled away dreaming of perch and hatching plans for their downfall. I am, I confess, hopelessly addicted to large stripy fish with red fins and spiky dorsals but, as I frequently feel the need to tell my wife, there are worse things for a man to be addicted to.
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