“To my wife’s horror, I keep a tub of worms in the car boot for emergencies.”
“Even by Midlands cut standards, it was brutally cold and churned up.”
HAS there ever been a more punishing winter to be an angler? I can’t remember another where conditions were so brutally wet, or fishing plans had to be scrapped or changed so often.
In the fishing world of my daydreams, I’d always find the water perfect and fish the methods that give me the most pleasure. In reality, you’d have to be barking mad to trot a float or cast a fly in a torrent of muddy water. You can either adapt or blank.
One usually reliable place for some pleasure fishing is the canals. So often they are my Plan B for a few bites with light tackle- and the sheer number of species present adds the charm of unpredictability.
Having found my chosen venue well over the banks last week, I’d taken a detour to try and find some perch and zander on the Oxford Canal. Even by Midlands cut standards, it was brutally cold and churned up.
All the usual favourite lures had been tried without a nibble. I’d dreamt of a net-filling zander, but not even caught a tiny perch. By early afternoon, the rain thickened and I was starting to feel demoralised.
Taking shelter in the car, it was touch and go whether
I’d continue. Then a thought dawned on me. To my wife’s horror, I keep a tub of worms in the car boot for emergencies. Today I needed them.
Fished on a dropshot rig, it’s a cinch to try them on your usual lure tackle. A piece of lobworm wafted around boats, lock gates and features has saved me many a blank. Perch are the usual target, but you never know what you’ll get, whether it’s a bream or a rogue jack pike. By this stage I didn’t really care, as long as it put a bend in the rod!
For another hour it was still crap. Even the odd pinch of “chop” couldn’t get them going, as I hopped between boats and jigged the bait through dozens of likely corners, hooking one solitary “wasp” that dropped off the hook.
On cast number one hundred and something, however, the rig held up briefly and there was a suspicious pluck. Seconds later, the whole rod sprang over. Whatever I’d hooked was not in a good mood!
When it’s taken hours to connect with a proper fish, the fight becomes even more tense. I fumbled for the net, half wondering if it was a zander or pike, before the bold, black stripes of a solid perch broke the surface. The actual weight probably wouldn’t have exceeded 1lb 8oz, but on such a dismal day it was priceless, faith-restoring fishing.
It felt such a miraculous blessing, I actually kissed the thing before it went back.
Looking at the real reason I’d saved the blank, the now chewed-up lobworm probably deserved it more.