On (just!) avoiding blanking

As in life so too in fishing, sometimes "a man's gotta do what a man's gotta do", and for this man that meant doing whatever it takes to catch a fish. 2026 had seen my first two sessions result in the capture of no fish and so as my son joined me on the bank for the first time this calendar year, the objective was simple: to catch a fish, and (provided the method employed was legal) not be too purist or prissy about what tactics were used. To that end we elected to fish a commercial venue that we normally float fish-fish in the winter months for perch, but opted on this occasion to eschew our usual quill floats, cork bodied bobbers and centre pin reels and to fish in a more modern style for the lake's modestly sized carp. The choice of method was less based on the desire to catch (we would probably have caught just as many, or more carp had we fished a float in the edge) but rather to give us an opportunity to dust off our carp fishing tackle and brush up on our carping skills with an eye on our planned 48 hour session in May, where the target will be carp and catfish much larger in size. As neither of us are serious or regular carp anglers, the hope was that today's session would reacquaint us not only with our quarry but also give us a "dress rehearsal" of the style of angling we'll be employing for far higher stakes next month. While there is nothing especially complicated or technical about fishing with bolt rigs, boilies and PVA bags, after the lack of success that had marked the year to date, any boost in confidence to take into the future was felt to  be more than welcome.

Although our terminal tackle was standard carp fare, our rods were lighter than those that will be employed in a couple of week's time, as 2.75lb TC carp rods would have been overgunned for the size of carp that this lake contains. I elected to use the all purpose specimen rod that I use for most of my tench fishing, while James was giving a debut to his new through action quiver tip rod (also purchased with tench in mind.)

The lake we were fishing is not the type of commercial fishery where the angler can expect constant action and to amass an enormous weight of carp all caught in constant procession, but on a normal day a morning's fishing is likely to reward the fisherperson with three or four carp. True to form, it seemed, the first hour saw me land a pretty mirror with a gloriously orange hued lustre, a fish which was swiftly followed by James extracting a large F1. However, with the exception of a couple of surprise bream that took a liking to James' hair-rigged pellet, that was where the action ended. Fishing, like life in general and wives in particular, has a way of keeping a man humble.

While there is no shame in blanking on the Fens while targeting pike, or when pursuing tench in the earliest days of April, my expectations today, were of more fish than the miserly numder we actually landed. It's just as well that my metrics for "success" aren't solely based on fish banked but have, over the years, broadened to encompass a much more holistic perspective on angling. This morning the weather was kind, the atmosphere peaceful, the birdsong tuneful, and the conversation and company excellent, and such things are priceless. As one of my brothers commented in our family fishing WhatsApp group "you're due a change of luck." Here's hoping he's right, and that said change comes in the shape of some large carp and catfish next month! 

Return to the pond of dreams

"Who looks upon a river in a meditative hour and is not reminded of the flux of all things?" asked the 19th Century American essayist, philosopher, and poet Ralph Waldo Emerson. I only fish rivers rarely these days, but lakes and ponds produce the same effect in me. After an absence of six months and with Spring in the early stages of springing, it was time to return to the Syndicate Lake. The first visit of the year was not without a sense of trepidation- the winter had seen cormorants in regular attendance at the pond, and I was fearful of what damage these unwelcome saltwater invaders might have inflicted on the pond's stock of tench and crucians, and the water temperature was still at the lower end at which tench tend to feed, but hope springs eternal in the heart of an angler and while your line's in the water there's always a chance. Irrespective of whether the fish were of a mind to feed or not, the provision of  quiet time in which to "meditate on the flux of all things" was welcome, a fortnight after the sudden and unexpected passing of my father. 

There was a pronounced chill in the early air, and the sun remained resolutley hidden by clouds in an insipid grey sky. The lake seemed to exude an air of inert nonchalence, with no signs of the life below its surface- there was none of the bubbling and fizzing that gives away the presence of feeding tench and crucians in the summer months, nor even any small fish dimpling the lake's surface. A pair of swans swam regally through my swim, bankside birds chattered and sang in the trees, but my bite alarm remained silent and my bobbin motionless. I sat, surveying the scene and ruminating on life, memories and faith. Normally, I would have considered changing swims or tactics, but on this occasion I was happy to just sit- being there was enough and there will be plenty of opportunities as the year progresses to chase fish with more deliberate intent and greater intensity. 

Sometimes blanking leaves me frustrated or with a nagging sense of unfinished business, but not so today. Fishing this morning on Easter Saturday in the sleepy liminal space that marks the time between Good Friday and Easter Sunday, between crucifixion and resurrection, as the birds sang and the wind blew through the (still mostly leafless) trees I felt held by the grace whose Source and Light my Dad now sees, no longer, as Saint Paul put it, "as through a glass dimly, but face to face."