"Who not what" and an overnighter

According to Fun Boy Three aided by Bananarama (or was it the other way round?) "It ain't what you do, it's the way that you do it" but I beg to differ. For me neither what you do or even how you do it is as important as who you do whatever "it" is with. My most recent fishing adventure being a case in point. 

My son James and I had been looking forward to camping on the bank and fishing together for an extended session for months, and so there was a predictable irony about the fact that following two or three weeks of continual sunshine and not a drop of rain that our arrival at the lake was marked by dark skies and heavy rainfall. Undeterred we set up the bivvy that was to be our home for the next thirty odd hours and neatly stored our essential supplies in the small wooden shelter at the back of our swim and set about trying to catch some fish who, we figured, were already wet so would be less bothered by the conditions than us. 

Our initial plan was to target the carp but there appeared to be few or no hard spots on the lake bed and convential carp baits fished on the bottom just came back covered in choddy muck. Pop ups and snowman rigs were tried but to no avail and small Robin Red pellets on the Method only resulted in the capture of small brown goldfish which seemed to go from about 3/4 of a pound up to a couple of pounds. The carp, it soon became apparent, resided beneath the undercut banks where they could take cover under brambles or in the reedbeds. There were few access points that would allow risk free casting to their hideouts and the bankside vegetation meant that there wasn't the option to do the old overcast onto the bank, walk round and drop the bait into the edge trick, and as neither of us had casting sticks (I'm not really into the whole  "wraps" thing) we decided to give floatfishing with sweetcorn a try. This involved getting very wet (the rain had not, at this stage, abated) and catching a further string of small brown goldfish and fantails.

After a break for lunch of hot dogs (with brown sauce as I'd forgotten to bring mustard!) and with the weather now having changed from bone-chilling heavy rain to balmy sunshine we decided to feed a few spots and creep round the lake with our float rods. This inevitably resulted in us landing more non-gold goldfish and ornamentals before I found myself attached to something much more substantial. The rod took on its fighting curve and the centre pin's clutch sang, with the ensuing fight having a few hairy moments, the carp having been hooked close to an extensive reedbed, but eventually my side of the arguement prevailed and James netted a nice mirror carp for me.

There was just time before the gas stoves came out for our evening meal for James to add a fine tench to the tally. His tench showed a preference for luncheon meat, while my carp was taken on sweetcorn.

Food was followed by the lighting of a fire in the fire pit provided by the pool's owners, and our carp rods were recalled to (unfortunately inactive) service. As we waited for the buzzers that failed to sound, we enjoyed a couple of beers and a cigar each before winding the rods in and retiring for the night. It seemed pointless leaving the rods fishing and condemning ourselves to the alert and nervy half-sleep that accompanies the first night of session fishing, when being disturbed by a carp seemed a remote prospect. Added to this, the rain had returned with a vengeance. throughout the night beating a drummer's paradiddle on the bivvy roof, although by the time I emerged from within the bivvy's cocoon at 6am the rain had stopped, thankfully not to return. 

The slightly chill morning air was soon replaced by the warmth of a bright sun and in the couple of hours that preceded breakfast I proceded to catch four tench by visiting likely looking swims, loosefeeding hemp and sweeetcorn and then dropping a float with a hook baited with the ubiquitous yellow peril on top of the feed.

No more tench ensued after breakfast, and the rest of the time before our mid afternoon pack up was taken up with catching a procession of plain goldfish, augmented by the occasional roach. James had another brief dallience with the Method (resulting in - you've guessed- more goldfish and ornamentals) and the session gently moved towards its conclusion. By four in the afternoon we had broken camp, packed the car and were ready to return to our respective homes.

This year, spent mostly on the syndicate lake, has been my most succesful spring and summer for a number of years and the results of this overnighter, if judged purely on the size of the fish caught, would pale into insignificance by comparison. But that isn't the point. I long ago realised that I go fishing for reasons that include, but aren't limited to, the capture of memorable fish. In fact, I think I fish more for memories than I do for fish, and these last thirty hours spent in the company of my now adult son was one that will linger in my memory. Like I said at the beginning, Fun Boy Three/Bananarama got it wrong. It ain't what you do, or even how you do it, it's who you do it with, and to have the excuse that fishing provides for me and James to have "father and son time" is its own reward.