Patience is a virtue you admire in the driver in front of you, but less so in the one behind you. It's also, according to received wisdom, a necessary virtue for the angler, but my experience of fishing has been one of barely suppressed impatience- I may sit and wait for a bite for hours at a time, but I'm always on edge, mostly alert, and sometimes almost not daring to breathe as I will my float into disappearance. Regular readers of this blog or those who know me, will be aware that perch are by far my favourite fish and my Autumn and Winter angling is dominated by my pursuit of them and this morning my patience in waiting for Autumn ran out, and so despite the fact that July hasn't quite run its course I decided to fast forward the seasons and begin my customary perch campaign.
Most of my perch angling is undertaken on the much maligned Commercials which, despite their partial sanitisation of the fishing experience, tend to be excellent venues for pursuing specimen perch using traditional methods. I'm more than happy to pay the price of a few strange looks from members of the carping fraternity and to answer their questions about my vintage tackle (which normally provoke friendly responses along the lines of "I've never seen a wooden rod before, nice one, mate.") for the sake of adding to my growing tally of 2 pound plus perch.
I arrived at the lake around 8:00am and within twenty minutes my small 1BB Harcork replica perch float was positioned inches away from some reed stems less than a rod length out. Bait was a prawn on a barbless size 12 and a few red maggots and broken up pieces of prawn were soon being scattered around the float at regular intervals. The sky was pleasingly overcast and I was soon bringing a steady stream of small perch ranging from a couple of ounces to about six ounces to the bank. About half an hour into the session my perch bob did as its name suggests and moved first left and then right, bobbing all the while before submerging. My strike met with solid resistance and a brief game of tug of war resulted in a fine looking perch being drawn over the rim of the landing net. I only submit perch to the indignity of being weighed and reduced to a number if I'm pretty sure they'll top the 2 pound mark, and this fish looked to be somewhere between a pound and a half and possibly a pound and three quarters, so a quick photo of the fish on the mat and one of it being held aloft in my hands were all that preceded its speedy return to its rightful home.
As the morning wore on the sun broke through the clouds creating less than ideal conditions for the capture of perch. As any angling text book will tell you, perch have a marked preference for feeding in low light levels, but as fish aren't known for their bibliophile tendencies I reasoned that there was every chance that the fish wouldn't be aware of how they're supposed to behave and that there may still be a chance of another sizable specimen. However, it turned out that they were true to literary expectations and although I continued to catch with metronomic regularity it was only small perch (who feed constantly in order to grow big enough to take themselves off the menu of their older and larger brothers and cousins) who continued to be tempted by my bait.
Despite the conditions no longer being conducive for the capture of venerably sized sergeants, I did land a barbel (pause for the predictable and utterly justified chorus of "boos and catcalls"- I also am no fan of the stocking of these majestic river creatures into ponds and lakes) which provided a stern test for my ancient cane Martin James rod which was recently refurbished for me by my friend Roy, as well as several handsome ide and the very occasional roach.
By late morning, with the sun now high in the sky, I decided to pack up and return to the world of work and responsibilities. I had had my fun, recharged my batteries, and against the odds managed to land one perch of reasonable size to kickstart 2023's perch campaign. To my striped adversaries the message is simple: today was the first dress rehearsal, in September the contest will start in earnest. Until then, fish striped and swaggering, with spiky dorsal fins held erect will swim through my dreams - who knows, this Winter may be the one when I finally realise my dream to catch a 3 pounder. Hope springs eternal in the heart of the angler and while I have no desire to wish my life away, the "season of mists and mellow fruitfulness" can't come quickly enough for this piscator.
