Farewell to summer

There's a line in John Clare's poem All nature has a feeling that offers the thought that "woods, fields and brooks in silence speak happiness beyond the reach of books." Clare, who was known as "The Peasant Poet", was dogged throughout his life with what would nowadays be described as mental health problems which saw him more than once make an attempt on his own life and, on several occasions, led to him being institutionalised, so it's a comforting thought that amid the tumult of all that assaulted and afflicted his consciousness there were moments when the natural world brought him a peace that transcended both the beauty of the written word and the anguish of his mind. Like Clare, I love words, but like him I'm aware that they are never an adequate vehicle to capture what they endeavour to express. The thing observed is always bigger than the thing described.

What for Clare was "woods, field and brooks" is for me "woods, fields and ponds" and today I made my final pilgrimage of this year to the pond surrounded by woods and fields that is the location for my Spring and Summer tench fishing. This, at the tail of Summer and on the cusp of Autumn, was to be my last foray in pursuit of tench until that point next year when, as the world spins on its axis, Spring will inevitably once again succeed Winter and my tench rods will once again be set free from their  resting place in the garage. My fishing is nothing if not seasonal. 

Although this is the ninth time I've visited the pond since joining the syndicate in May it was the first time I've fished it in an evening and so I was curious to discover how it would respond and when and if the fish would feed. After certainly the hottest and possibly one of the dryest summers on record, a ridge of low pressure had blown in, and gentle spots of rain added to the novelty of my first evening excursion as I made my first speculative cast.

Fortunately, the shower was short-lived and soon gave way to bright skies and late afternoon sun. Almost an hour had passed when the bite alarm emitted a constant high pitched tone. The resulting strike met brief resistance but failed to tear off in the manner typical of the of the lake's tench (whose initial run would not disgrace an angry carp), leading me to conclude that a tench had been momentarily attached before becoming cunningly unattached. However, seconds later it became clear that the fish was still connected to the line as it made a couple of half-hearted runs in protest at the ignomony of being hooked. As I drew the fish towards me a flash of gold beneath the water's surface told me that I was playing a large crucian, and a few seconds later I was gazing at the buttery flanks of what I instantly knew was my new personal best crucian.

The scales indicated a weight of 2lb 3oz, easily eclipsing my previous best, a 1lb 9oz Marsh Farm warrior. The pond's crucians are rare visitors to the bank, my fish being only the sixth to see an angler's net this year, but those that do get caught all tend to be of a good size. The weather continued to defy the forecast, but the fish seemed to be apathetic in mood. There were few exuberant or fearful splashes from small fish and, save for a brief ten minute spell, no bubbling or fizzing to denote that the tench were active. The same could not be said for the lake's duck population who were in sociable mood, a large flotilla making frequent visits to the area I was fishing, although they caused me no trouble.

I packed up three hours after my first cast, with no further fish added to the tally. The syndicate lake, which has a reputation for being challenging has been generous to me in my first summer fishing it, and the crucian was a welcome last gift from it. The tench have fallen regularly to my baits and this evening's "crock of gold" was the proverbial icing on the cake.  Before leaving I allowed myself an extra glance at the lake, resplendant in its late summer glory. The peasant poet was right- some things are so lovely they defy description.

Fishing on repeat

Great pianists become great pianists, in part, by repetition. You don't get to play the Royal Albert Hall (or even the local village hall) without hours spent practising scales and arpeggios, or so I'm led to believe by friends who are musicians. In a similar vein, average anglers (of which I count myself one) don't acheive respectable results without paying attention to what works and  repeating the process until it stops working. I offer this Spring and Summer's tench fishing as a case in point. When I was fortunate enough to be granted permission to join the syndicate I was warned by existing members, all finer anglers than I'm ever likely to be, to expect plenty of blanks and only a few tench. "It's not an easy water" was the consensus view, and so I set my expectations accordingly. "If I manage two or three tench I'll have done well" I told myself and a couple of early blanks seemed to vindicate both the prevailing view and my initial goals. However, more by luck than judgement, I hit upon an area of the lake and a method that worked, and before this morning's trip I'd managed fourteen fish from eight sessions, with six tench over 5lbs in including three in excess of 6lbs, with a biggest that was just 4 ounces shy of 7lb. All have been caught from just two swims and all have fallen to the same tactics. A time will come when curiosity and the desire to experiment will force me to try new areas and approaches but, for now, I'm tenching on repeat and reaping the rewards. 

And so it was that this morning I found myself setting up in a familiar pitch, employing the same method, and casting to the same spots that had served me well over the last three months. Like the man said: "if it ain't broke, don't fix it."

I was set up and fishing by 6:30am and an hour into the session I found myself attached to a tench which seemed none too pleased to be attached to me. The fish fought well, so I was surprised as I drew it over the net to see that it was a smaller than average fish for the lake. It wasn't the most handsome of fish either, showing signs of having been attacked by an otter at some stage in its life, in addition to being blind in one eye. 

My two brothers and I have a fraternal WhatsApp group on which we communicate about our fishing trips, and my brief report which read: "Male, small, blind in one eye, not a good looker" evoked the response from one of my brothers "Have you caught a fish or is that your Tinder profile?" He thinks he's so funny.

Twenty minutes later and I was once again playing a tench, which turned out to be even smaller than the first fish, and at 3lb 2oz is the smallest tench I've landed from the lake to date. 

I fished on until just after 10am, but with no further action to my rods. Apart from one very brief episode, there was no fizzing or bubbling and if the tench were feeding they were being pretty coy about it, with no visible signs to give them away. 

The fish, although unremarkable in size, had been welcome, the weather kind, the scenery faultless, and I had thoroughly enjoyed my few hours spent behind a fishing rod. The powder blue sky had been mostly cloudless but I couldn't help wondering if there's an otter-shaped storm brewing for the pond. A concerning number of the tench I've caught from the lake recently show signs of having had lucky escapes, with nipped tails becoming increasingly commonplace. It would be a shame if these graceful looking but cold eyed assasins spoil what for me has become something of an angling arcadia. The population explosion of otters in the UK along with the preponderance of cormorants means that I (even on my rare sucessful days!) am the least of any fish's problems. An enjoyable morning, but I hope this silver lining doesn't have a cloud. The plan is to be back at the pond, accompanied by my son, in a fortnight's time, probably in the same swim, almost certainly using the same tactics, once again tenching on repeat, and hoping that the otters have found somewhere else to play and someone else's fish to pester.

Return to the pond of dreams

 

The late Harry Middleton, who may well be the best angling writer you've never heard of (Google him), declared that "fishing is not an escape from life, but a deeper immersion in it." He had a point. Since my overnight session with my son James at the very start of July a combination of family and work commitments had made any further forays into the world of fishing impossible, but on the month's final day I was at last in a position to wake early and, if not to escape from life, to immerse myself in its angling incarnation. I had missed not just the pursuit of fish but everything about the syndicate lake - the farmer's field and wood in which it's set, the sound of birdsong, the distinctive and not unpleasant summer smell of the lake, and the dichotomy that is the simultaneous sense of mental calm coexisting with a state of barely suppressed anticipation that I feel when chasing the specimen tench that inhabit its depths. 

With only one other angler, Dave, on the pond when I arrived I was able to fish my favourite swim and set up with a sense of quiet confidence. The sky alternated between displaying a canopy of benign white fluffy clouds set against a background of pastel blue and exhibiting a more overcast and threatening aspect, and the temperature, although mild, never reached anything that could be described as warm. 

I made my first cast, but never felt fully confident in the spot on which I had landed my bait and so after about 20 minutes of fretting I wound it in and recast. With predictable irony, no sooner had I repositioned my bait than tench starting bubbling on the spot from which I'd just removed it. In the event I elected not to chase the fish and risk spooking them by casting on top of them and left my repositioned bait in the channel from which I have enjoyed success on previous sessions, a decision that was vindicated about an hour later by my first fish of the day, a tench of 4 and a quarter pounds. 

As I was unhooking the fish, Dave walked into my swim wearing a broad smile and carrying a net which contained a crucian of just over 2 pounds. His smile was more than justified, it being only the fourth crucian to come out of the lake this year, all four of which have been 2 pound plus fish. I recast and within ten minutes my bite alarm was once again alerting me to the presence of a hooked fish, which fought strongly and was clearly a bigger specimen than its predecessor. On the bank the tench registered a pleasing 6 lb 12 ounces on the digital scales, a handsome old warrior that, in common with  several of the lake's occupants, showed evidence of a historical encounter with, and lucky escape from,  an otter. 

A couple of minutes later Dave was also into a tench, a fish of somewhere around the 4 pound mark and then, as swiftly as it had turned on, the lake turned off, and for the rest of the morning was in an apathetic and recalcitrent mood. The tench bubbles and fizzing subsided, the skies became more uniformly grey and hostile and no further fish deigned to trouble our baits. 

At half past ten, four hours after my first cast, I wound in and packed my tackle into the car to head for home and re-immersion into a different sort of reality. Within two minutes of leaving the lake I allowed myself a smile as the skies opened and rain began to fall. Smug doesn't even come close.