Here come the girls!

This has to be one of my favourite fishing photos from last year; my friend Pete and his wife Brooklyn, the only female member of our Church fishing club, playing a fish on the pole. Their faces are a picture, and it's one of those photos that's crying out to end up as a "caption contest". When we recently placed an order for a whole batch of hoodies from UK Christian Anglers (www.christiananglers.co.uk ), most were in the standard greens and drab olive colours beloved of anglers, but Brooklyn had other ideas and now sports the only fuchsia pink Christian Anglers hoody in Britain!

 

All of which, via a circuitous route, takes us to South Carolina. In 2013 I caught my first ever fish in the USA, a skate from the sea in Charleston and quickly followed it up with a flounder. Fishing from a dock in the blazing "deep South" heat, it was a day to remember, and a memory that I still treasure.

 

 

 

My guide for the day was Susan Dalton, who I'd met through a church contact, a lady angler of considerable expertise who, along with her sister, Be Be (she's probably got a proper name, but everyone calls her "Be Be") run an organisation called "Angling Women." With sponsorship tie ups and support from fishing giants Berkley, Pflueger and Pure Fishing, they work predominantly with women and children and have developed an extensive range of programs designed to introduce newcomers to angling.

 

 

Although they offer a one to one guiding service, much of their work is group based, perhaps an acknowledgement of the fact that women are often more socially adept than us males! They run basic introductory courses for groups of women, one-off "taster" events and even birthday parties which are, predictably, popular with children but also with adults. They are also very committed to working with children (boys as well as girls), and in addition to the beginners courses and parties  regularly find themselves invited into schools. Their approach is holistic, concentrating not only on fishing techniques and skills, but also on the whole aquatic environment and even uses art and craft in addition to time on the dock or shore or in the boat.

 

 

Based in the Mount Pleasant area of Charleston, Be Be and Susan and their staff should be numbered among fishing's pantheon of "unsung heroes" for their commitment to drawing newcomers into the delights of angling. Fishing isn't just for the boys, and don't take my word for it, or even that of the Angling Women guides or Pete's wife Brooklyn ..... just Google  "Britain's record salmon" and you'll discover that it was caught in 1922 by a certain Georgina Ballentine, a feat that for almost a Century has not been bettered by any of us chaps.

Angling Women are on Facebook and at www.anglingwomen.com

 

 

 

 



"It's a boy thing" ...

Suddenly fishing has become like London buses- none for ages, then two turn up at once. After a six week angling hiatus I've visited the bank twice in the last six days. Admittedly, this evening I didn't fish myself, but chose to accompany my son and plonk myself in his swim to chat and enjoy some quality father and son time.

 

Within quarter of an hour of his return from school, the car was packed and we were en route to the lake.  We selected a nice swim with clear water in front, and some enticing looking marginal overhanging trees and roots on the left, and soon a pole was being wielded with maggots, a bristle float, 2 pound bottom and size 18 hook, while a carp rod with a hair and bolt rigged high attract fruity boilie was flicked out close to the near bank cover. It wasn't long before the pole line started producing, with perch and the very occasional rudd providing the action.

 

 

Foreigners who wonder why the English are able to talk at such great length and with such vigour about the weather would better understand our predisposition for meteorological conversation if they had experienced this last seven days. Last Saturday while fishing, after a week of frosts and low temperatures, we even had a flurry of snow, but after several days of much warmer weather, this evening was as balmy as Summer. The perch continued to provide a welcome distraction, but it wasn't until a change on the margin rod to a Method and Krill mini-boilie approach that the carp turned up; a brace of "pea in the pod" commons.

 

 

After the second carp we decided to pack up. The overnight bivvy brigade were beginning to turn up, and home beckoned. The final tally was 21 perch and rudd (and one solitary gudgeon) on the pole, and the 2 carp. Glorious weather, the best company, dipping floats and screaming bite alarms. It doesn't get much better ....

Chub dominate first Club trip of the year

The float trembled, dipped, then buried. My strike met with splashy, token resistance. It had been a long time. Too long. In fact, it had been an almost unprecedented 6 weeks since I'd last fished, but now, in the company of other members from the Thurnby Church Anglers club, I was drawing my first fish of the day, a small roach over the net. It felt good to be back.

 

 

However, don't be fooled by my delight at being back on the bank, or the enormous enjoyment I, and all the club members, derived from the day. The fishing was hard. Very hard. On a water which on our two previous trips we've almost "emptied", bites and fish were at a premium. With frosts a regular occurrence over the last week, and low water temperatures, feeding appeared not to be featuring too highly on the fish's agenda. The statistics say it all: 12 anglers, 31 fish, 2 blankers and "4 seasons within one day" pretty much tell the story.

 

This particular trip was "themed", and had been billed the "multi-species challenge", with a prize ( a feather inlaid Ian Lewis handmade waggler float) to be awarded to the angler who caught the most different species of fish on the day. I started briskly, adding a perch to my roach, before catching a bream,my third species of the day. And, that was to be it, for me, until I added a chub in the final few minutes.

 

 

Meanwhile, other anglers were beginning to pick up the odd fish, and in the adjacent swim, my son had swung a perch and a gudgeon in on his whip, and was changing to the Method and hair rigged pellets in what turned out to be a bold, but ill-fated effort to persuade the lake's carp to feed.

 

 

Over the course of the day, between us all, we managed 7 different species (roach, perch, gudgeon, crucian, tench, bream and chub), but it soon became apparent that chub were- true to form- less loathe to feed in the cold than the other species, and chub outnumbered the other fish caught by some considerable margin. Pete managed 5 chub, and his son Jacob, the club's youngest member, weighed in with 3 nice chub, as well as the day's only crucian, all caught on the Method.

 

 

 

The weather throughout the day was erratic- warm sunshine saw layers of clothing being removed, before rain saw layers being added and umbrellas pitched, and for a brief ten minute period we were even treated to a flurry of snow. Hardcore angling!

 

A couple of unseasonal tench put in an appearance, one to Graham (the eventual multi-species winner), and one (seen here being returned) to Ben, another of our younger members.

 

 

In the last few minutes, my float, which had enjoyed a sedentary and undisturbed last few hours disappeared, and I was playing my final fish (and first chub) of the day to the net, to give me a total of 4 species, and a tie for first place. Greg also managed a last gasp chub after a long period of inactivity.

 

 

 

When time came to "draw stumps", there was a tie at the top of the leader board- both Graham and I had 4 different species each, but as Graham (with a "mighty" 5 fish) had caught one more than me, he was rightly presented with the prize, and crowned "multi species champion."

There could be no doubt that the fishing had been difficult- normally I'd be expecting a bite every few minutes- and had the chub not proved so obliging we would have really struggled. But despite the snow, the changeable weather and the uncharacteristic moodiness of the fish, it had been a wonderful day in the countryside, adorned by the company of robins, a songthrush, reed warblers, a moorhen, chaffinches, a black cap, blue tits and chiff chaffs who all provided an enjoyable visual and musical accompaniment to the day.

I can't wait till next month's trip ....... we might even catch something!

 

 



"Nothing new under the sun"- 17th Century tackle tarts

As an angler with a preference for fishing in drab colours, khaki's, olives, greens and camouflage, it's interesting to discover that the art of concealment as a part of the angler's approach isn't an innovation of the 1970's "specimen hunters" with their Army surplus combats, or the specialist angler of the 90's with their penchant for all things Realtree. This little poem from a book entitled "The Secrets of Angling", written by a John Dennys, dates from 1613, and shows that an understanding of the desirability of being inconspicuous goes right back to Waltonian times;

 

"And let your garments be russet or gray,

Of colour dark, and hardest to descry;

That with the rain or weather will away,

And least offend the fearful fish's eye:

For neither scarlet nor rich cloth of ray,

Nor colours dipped in Assyrian dye,

Nor tender silks of purple, paul or gold,

Will serve as well, or keep off wet or cold."

 

 

 



Roadtrip perch ease pike pain

In fishing terms, 2016 could hardly have got off to a worse start for me. My pursuit of pike had resulted in two floodwater blanks followed by the "capture" of my largest ever river pike, which would have been the cause of celebration had the net not broken as Wayne, my fishing partner for the day, carried my beaten prize up the bank; in a horrible instant, the pike dropped from the net to the steeply sloping wet grass, and with a flip of its body threw the hooks and slid back into the river. Caught and landed, but never touched, held, weighed or photographed- she looked to be about 16 or 17 pounds, and still haunts my dreams, slipping in slow motion, freeze frame style, back to her watery home. Things could only get better ......... and, today, they did.

 

 

6:50am saw me standing outside work, waiting for my lift to the Oxford Canal. Greg, Roger, Pete and I were making the journey to Banbury to meet up with Keith, who we'd got to know through the Christian Anglers UK website and forum, and who- it hadn't escaped our attention- catches more than his fair share of quality perch. We fancied a piece of his action, and, like the true gentleman that he is, Keith was happy to try to "provide the introductions" between us and his local stripeys.

 

 

The day was cold, but mostly clear, with the exception of one early afternoon, fifteen minute attempt at a flurry of snow, and although fingers grew incrementally colder as the session wore on, we had little reason to complain. The canal looked inviting, and Keith was confident. He informed us not to expect large numbers of fish, but assured us that most of the fish we caught, particularly the perch that we were targeting, would be of good quality and above average size, and so it turned out to be.

 

 

We had been warned that it would take a while to get the fish going, and that the drill was to pick a line and feed steadily on a little and often basis, and so it was a surprise when, just a few minutes into the session, Greg hooked a fish. Even more surprising was the fact that it was a small rudd.

 

 

I chose to fish with red maggot on a size 18 hook and a 2 lb bottom, with a 4lb mainline, and teamed a 10 foot float rod up with a recently acquired 47 year old, vintage Mitchel 304 CAP reel. Along with loose fed maggots I introduced small balls of brown crumb, laced with chopped worms and a good squirt of Predator Plus. After about an hour my float dipped, and I was playing my first perch of the day.

 

 

The fish pulled determinedly before succumbing to the net wielded for me by Pete. A fine looking perch which, on the scales, went 1 pound 8 ounces, and looked handsome on the mat along with the vintage reel and Norfolk reed waggler.

 

 

It wasn't long before Pete, too, was playing an indignant perch to the net, a slightly smaller fish, but boldly striped and no less beautiful.

 

 

As the day wore on, as predicted by Keith, bites were not easy to come by, but when the float did slide away, the culprit was usually a decent stamp of fish. Pete added another perch (this time on legered worm), before I completed the brace with a second perch, more vividly coloured than the first, but tipping the scales at exactly the same weight of a pound and a half.

 

 



Pete and I were on two perch apiece, Keith had caught a perch of about a pound and a roach, Greg's total was still the solitary rudd, but as we approached packing up time, Roger was still yet to catch. Thankfully, he rallied with a late flurry and landed his own brace of perch.

 

 It would be wrong to imply that it had been an easy few hour's fishing. In four hours between the five of us we landed only nine fish, but the perch had all been attractive fish, hump backed, hard fighting, deep bellied sergeants with cavernous mouths. It had been a pleasure to make Keith's acquaintance on the bank, having got to know him through the "virtual" internet world of Christian Anglers UK, and the peaceful surroundings and camaraderie conspired to conjure up an entirely enjoyable day. A pair of pound and a half perch had "made my day", and if fish (as well as eternal salvation) are a gift of God's grace, Divine providence had certainly smiled kindly on me.

2016 is finally up and running.

"And the award for best fishing film goes to ....."

Ok, so the picture above is a bit of a "spoiler", although there weren't a plethora of possible nominations!

I can only think of "A River Runs Through It" and "Salmon Fishing in the Yemen", and there, it would appear, Hollywood's flirtation with angling pretty much begins and ends. Sure, there are occasional fishing scenes that appear as incidental episodes in other films, but they're not the axis around which the film pivots.

 

Of the two films mentioned, "A River Runs Through It", in my opinion, is by far the better film. I enjoyed both, but the fishing scenes, breathtakingly beautiful Montana backdrop and intense pathos of Paul Maclean's (played by Brad Pitt) self destructive descent to tragedy make "A River Runs Through it" the fishing film against which any future angling related films will be measured.

 

 

I recently discovered that hardly any of the anglers in our church's fishing club had seen the Robert Redford directed classic, and so last night about half of the club members invaded my living room to further their cinematographic angling education. Needless to say, the film was universally enjoyed.

 

As a work of art it combines the ability to fill the viewer with a sense of awe, wonder and beauty, but also to reflect on dysfunction within family relationships, matters of faith (the father of the family is a Presbyterian minister who believes that "trout, as well as eternal salvation, come by grace"), love, loyalty and addiction. There are moments of poignancy and sharply drawn observation, and in the occasional passages narrated straight from the book upon which the film is based, the opportunity to enjoy Norman Maclean's masterful prose.

 

This film is, quite simply, a "must see" for anyone, who, like Norman, the storyteller in the film, is aware that they are "haunted by water."

 

 

 

Inactivity and a walk on the wild side

It was Henry Thoreau, author, philosopher and sometime angler, who wrote that "some men fish all their lives without realising it's not the fish they are after." The Fly Fisher's Club express the same truth but, being predominantly ex public school types, chooses to do so in Latin, their club motto being "Piscator non Solum Piscatur" which roughly translates "it is not all of fishing to fish."

Now, I can blank as graciously as the next man, and fully appreciate that there's more to angling than the mere capture of fish, but such sentiments wear thin when you can't actually go fishing to test them out. It's now 6 weeks into the New Year, and I've only fished once (an ignoble blank while pike fishing a flooded river) due to a nasty virus which has seem me cancel two fishing trips, and shows little sign of abating.

 

All of which has meant that my "fishing" has been of the fireside variety, an internet, printed material and daydreaming activitiy, that, although not without its pleasures, is no rival to the "real thing". In the same period of time, my regular fishing partner Pete has visited our favourite perch hole twice, once catching a large net of boldly striped fish on floatfished worm, and on the other landing this beautiful 2 pounder while dropshotting.

 

 

Fortunately, when he texted me to tell me about his success, I was in the middle of a 15 hour virally induced sleep marathon, and so was spared the "I should have been there" self-pity that I would otherwise have wallowed in.

 

I've been reading a good book (or two) in my absence from the bank, one of which despite mentioning fishing in only one of its chapters, will strike a chord with any angler. "The Wild Places" by Robert Macfarlane is an exploration of what's left of Britain's dwindling wilderness. A beautiful elegiac bit of prose that takes the reader to windswept coasts, desolate moorlands and mountain crags, and briefly takes in a sea trout fishing session. The writing style matches the landscapes he describes, rugged and challenging yet strangely beautiful.

 

 

As an angler, who fishes, in part, to become one with the landscape, even when the book has its setting away from water, because, like Norman Maclean, "I am haunted by water", I found myself making connections between it and my fishing, all of which got me thinking about my few experiences of genuine wilderness fishing, all of which have been on the American continent. I am a seasoned African traveller, but have only ever fished in the sea while in Africa, twice off Zanzibar, once off Bagamoyo and once off Tanga, all in the Indian Ocean. My wilderness experiences of Africa have all involved land-based flora and fauna, although I have gazed longingly into the crocodile and hippo infested Great Ruaha River and wished I could fish it on several occasions!

 

 

My first experience of wilderness fishing was in Canada, while staying in a lakeside cabin, deep in bear country beside Clear Lake, once the stamping ground of the legendary faux native Indian and early conservationist Grey Owl. It was here that I caught my first ever fish on the continent, a tiny walleye that succumbed to a small rubber grub and jig head, straight retrieved in short hops to the shore. We walked, canoed and fished, and  saw three bears in five days, and I felt, for a few days at least, like a real outdoorsman.

 

 

My second experiences of wilderness fishing were in 2013, on the same continent, but this time in the USA, in Missouri and Arkansas. I fished with two American friends from a shiny red bass boat, that swept across the water at 60 mph, and from which we explored bays and shorelines, casting crankbaits, spinnerbaits, poppers and soft plastics. I caught a brace of spotted (or Kentucky) bass, and some gloriously coloured little bluegills, which attacked lures half their size with aggressive abandon.

 

 

The highlight of this particular trip was when my companion, Dave, caught a monstrous, prehistoric looking, gar, a tooth laden, angry looking fish that jumped clear of the water on several occasions and gave a great account of itself in its efforts to evade capture.

 

 

My final session of that trip saw me wading into the shallows of Bullshoals Lake, and catching scores of small pan fish, as the Americans term them, on floatfished worms, referred to by the locals as "nightcrawlers". There's something about being out in wilderness places that awakens a sense of the transcendent and numinous, and while I'd contend that the man who said that he's "closer to God in the outdoors than he is when in church" is a man who just hasn't found the right church yet, it is my experience that time spent in the magnificence of creation invariably enlarges my vision of its Creator. Fishing as a sacrament, perhaps?