Improve Your Coarse Fishing (UK)
Bob Roberts
My monthly fishingdiary...
Week one...
A spell in hospital with a rather nasty superbug threatened to play havoc with my fishing, but you can’t keep a good man down. Lots of tests and four days of intravenous drugs put me on the road to recovery, by which time I was gagging to wet a line again. Fortunately I had already planned to spend a few days with friends at the Caer Beris Hotel in mid-Wales, where the River Irfon runs through the grounds and close by is the Wye. Just what the doctor ordered. Good job I was travelling light because I felt as weak as a kitten, but the Wye’s Town Waters were like a siren calling and I couldn’t resist. There’s a swim not far above the town bridge in Groe Park that has always been kind to me in the past. It holds good chub and had never previously let me down so, with a river at near-normal level and running clear, I was confident of catching on waggler and caster. Or so I presumed to think. It wasn’t long before my red-tipped float shot under but, instead of the solid resistance of a hefty chub, my strike connected with an amazing acrobat. A wild brown trout. Pretty, but not what I was hoping for. The next trot produced another, then a grayling. And so it went. The longer I fished the quicker the bites came until I was getting a fish a chuck, but not the species I was hoping for. Mr Chub was refusing to play ball so I tried a small maggot feeder but that just increased my problems. I would cast, follow the feeder
down until it touched bottom and within seconds the tip would be rattling as the fish queued up to be caught. Bliss, some might say, but annoying at the same time. In the end I gave up, without catching a chub. The first time ever, here. The following day I rose to the hardest frost of the year. A proper winter wonderland, perfect for dabbling on the Irfon where I hoped I might catch a decent grayling or two, but it was never going to be a remotely serious session. Three fellow reprobates joined me – Peter Smith, Keith Elliott and John Hunter – each taking a turn on my rod while the other three took turns at taking the Mickey. We had great fun and banter but once again it was trout city. Still, mustn’t grumble. It was just so good to be fishing again and putting a welcome bend in the rod.
Week two...
Feeling stronger by the day I decided to test my stamina with a session on the Trent. Those frustrating Wye chub had left me with an itch that needed scratching. Where better then than the Trent? My winter chubbing involves carting minimum gear and staying mobile. One rod, a net, a few odds and ends, a loaf of bread, a knob of cheesepaste and I’m sorted. Best of all you’ll hardly see another angler and the fish are usually obliging. Even on a day when the frost never left the ground and the sky was a clear powder blue, with not a breath of wind, I felt one hundred per cent confident, and with every justification. I connected with a positive pull on my first cast, another to a drop-back on the second and missed a bite on the third. That’s what I needed to restore a bit of
confidence. And then things went downhill. Yes, the chub continued to feed, but I performed like an absolute novice, missing bites, pulling out of fish, getting snagged, you name it. I caught four good chub on a day when I should have had 14. Honestly, I was hopeless. A return was called for, this time with Brian Skoyles. Obviously we headed to the same area and I was keen for him to catch using a style of fishing he’d not tried in years. In fact I chose to fish with maggots so he had a clear run on bread and that taught me a valuable lesson. Forget maggots when the river’s low and clear in winter. I suffered three hours without a bite, unlike Brian who was captivated by his dancing tip. Of course, I couldn’t allow him to make a mug out of me forever so I switched to bread, too. Missing a string of bites got to me and I began striking wildly at every indication which, of course, is a recipe for disaster and, sure enough, I cracked off on a fish. Boy, oh boy, Bob wasn’t happy with himself! Swim ruined, I began working the swims below, 10 minutes in each hoping I could find a few suicidal fish. It didn’t take long. And then something amazing happened. I was fully 70 yards below the swim where I’d cracked off when I hooked and landed a moderate chub. As I went to unhook it I noticed there were two identical hooks and hooklinks in its mouth. It was exactly the same fish I’d lost barely half an hour earlier! What are the chances of that happening? We fished on up to darkness and I was rewarded with the biggest fish of the day, a beauty I’d guess was approaching 5lb. I love winter chubbing!
Week three...
s tic Now Now I’ d got my eye in I decided to stick with chub and challenge myself on a section of the Trent I’d never fished before. The stretch, run by Nottingham Federation below Clifton Bridge, is known to hold some huge chub but reputed to be rather difficult. It’s a cracking, neat, well-ordered place with parking close to most pegs. Steps run down to substantial wooden platforms - perfect if you use a seatbox. I imagine this is a very popular venue with match anglers in the warmer months, but, being a wet and miserable winter’s day, I had it all to myself. First job was to walk the length and pick out those swims that I felt had chub potential. Almost every one fitted the bill on first glance but, after studying the flow carefully, half a dozen stood out. First swim, first cast and the tip wrapped round. Annoyingly I struck into fresh air. Damn! That could have been a six or even a seven pounder – seriously. That’s the potential here. I did my best to console myself it was probably a runt but failed. No more bites followed so I headed for swim two. This tested my patience because it wasn’t until my third cast that the tip jagged. When it pulled round I was ready and soon had my first Clifton chub in the net and it was a cracker. Alas that was it for me. No more bites followed as the light rain deteriorated into a downpour and the platforms turned into skating rinks. I decided on discretion rather than valour on this first visit and headed home early, but I fancy a return visit, that’s for sure.
Week four...
When match anglers start weighing-in 3lb perch caught on single maggot only a fool ignores it. These clearly aren’t romanticised captures. When anglers on adjacent pegs each catch a three-pounder during the same match and you know exactly where they drew, it doesn’t take a genius to decide where might be a good place to start looking. So I rang the new owner of Swanlands, which lies on the outskirts of Thorne, and arranged to give it a go. Swanlands has been off the radar for years. The original owner was way past retirement and didn’t need the hassle so I was shocked by what greeted me. Considering we’re in the depths of winter the place was immaculate, nicely matured with properly spaced pegs - a rarity these days. Obviously I headed for the same area that had produced, set up a waggler and offered Swanland’s perch a few prawns, a bait they had clearly never seen before. In true Bob style I missed a bite on my very first cast – possibly a liner – but when the float sank on the next cast my gentle strike met with a satisfying thump. Surely it couldn’t be this easy? Of course it couldn’t. I was into a nice mirror carp which was followed by a brace of commons on the next two casts. Oh dear. And then it went dead. Mark Price, owner of Stainforth Angling Centre and captor of one of the big perch called down to see me. “Did you catch three and then it went completely dead?” he asked. “That’s what happened to me. Couldn’t make sense of it.” But Mark confirmed the capture of other big perch so at least I wasn’t chasing rainbows. “They don’t seem to want to know lobbies,’ he added. “They invariably get caught on maggot when folk are scratching for bites and always from open water, never next to features.” Curiouser and curiouser. A complication I’m not prepared to address, yet. Perch everywhere like prawns, and it’s too soon to give up on them after one attempt. I went on to catch around 10 carp, which provided excellent sport on a grim and miserable day, but no signs of the monster perch. Oh well, guess I’ll just have to try again another day.