LOBWORM HOOKBAITS
Tench love worms with the lobworm the best of all. Fish the soft flattened end of the worm, aiming for a bit around 2ins long. This will also give you a hookbait that will survive the attentions of small fish. This means that when the float goes under, it’s going to be from something half decent!
“A mere walk with the possibility of a fish would be enough”
AARRGGGGGHHHHH! I was going to try and find a clever opening line for this week’s column, but a cry of complete frustration pretty much sums it up.
Like the classic T-shirt slogan, I am yet another soul who was “born to fish, forced to work”. Because with 101 different things all elbowing their way on to the to-do list the last few days, the chances of getting some peace and quiet, let alone catching anything, seemed dubious at best.
Whether it’s the domestic chaos of looking after a baby or the maze of tasks that pay the bills, it can seem like the next fishing trip is a long, long way away. And when you do spy a little window, Storm Dennis, or some other weather atrocity, decides to show up.
For the whole of last week, in fact, I had tried to engineer an opening. Sunday’s match looked perfect, but the horrendous forecast meant that got cancelled and the in-laws quickly filled the gap.
Meanwhile, the death by paperwork that is moving house had stolen further precious hours, until I reached the point where I thought to myself: “If I don’t get to go fishing this week, I am going to explode!”
Even the Friday afternoon slot, which I somehow got past the wife, began to dwindle. By the time I’d dealt with the inbox and grabbed a rod, there were barely three hours of light left. Worse still, on arriving at the Exeter Canal I met three anglers packing up who hadn’t even seen a fish since dawn.
At this stage, symptoms of angling withdrawal were so intense I didn’t really care. A mere walk with the possibility of a fish would be enough. Our departing anglers watched as I started casting a large fly and promptly found a bramble bush.
Ten minutes later, though, as I was idly twitching my fly along the margin, a sinister shape ghosted behind. Sitting there right by the bank was a beautifully long, lean pike of around 8lb-10lb.
For what seemed an eternity I just admired her. She was like something out of a dream, just hanging there and scrutinising my pike fly. For three casts I fancied I’d get her, but each time she’d clock the fly and glide forward without making the decisive move. And so I moved on, simultaneously relieved to have seen a fish but slightly dejected at the thought of a fishless journey home.
Just as the light started to go and the drizzle picked up, though, my prayers were answered. The jack that shot out from the reeds on the next bend looked barely half the size of that earlier fish, but everything from the explosive take to the bright gold and green colours was magical.
For a few precious seconds, I was transported far away from property surveyors, dirty nappies and traffic. Thank God for fishing.