Bob Roberts’ diary

My monthly fishing diary...

THERE’S a theme to this month’s column as I visit a few old haunts near and far before the long, cold winter sets in. It’s a walk back through time in which I realise I’m less driven than in the days when I frequently slept out under the stars in winter but much wiser in that I can usually choose what, when and how I catch, always mindful that size isn’t everything, but that I’m also fallible. Sometimes I don’t listen to advice and get it all wrong.

Week One:

Twenty-six years have flown by since I first made the acquaintance of Zyg Gregorek. It was in late March 1992, and the beginning of a very special friendship. Despite being 300 miles from home I’ve returned to Anglers Paradise well over 50 times! I was introduced to Zyg by the late Len Gurd who was making a film about the fishery. He arranged for me to travel down with Kevin Maddocks and do a bit of fishing for the camera. Kevin pulled out late on but I’m so glad I still went. Back in those days there were just nine lakes. Today you’ll find in excess of 30 but one thing that never changes is the lovely welcome and the lousy weather. According to Zyg: “It never rains in Devon!” A likely story indeed. I’m sure Devon is twinned with Ireland. During that fateful first trip I was battered by strong winds, heavy rain and peppered with hailstones for good measure. Didn’t bother the fish, though; it never does. I’ve even caught big carp in the snow so a little ‘heavy mist’ came as no surprise. My plan was to ignore the specimen carp and fish for fun, mainly with a pellet waggler. I did take a catfish rod along as I fancied catching a big slimy tadpole. Don’t ask me why! Each day I stuck out the heavy cat rod, 20lb line, size 4 hook, double boilie on a hair presented over a handful of freebies and half a bag of pellets. They were simple tactics, but there’s no need to complicate matters, is there? Even during short daylight sessions. Three sessions in, I was fishing the day-ticket Specimen Cat Lake on Zyg’s Nirvana Complex when the cat rod tip ripped round and the drag started to sing... There was no mistaking what I’d hooked long before it surfaced 25 yards away. They start at 30lb on this lake and run upwards

of 70. My heart was in my mouth. This was indeed a beast, and then the hook pulled! Let’s just say I mouthed a few choice words and phrases. And that turned out to be my only chance of a pussy. Oh well, I guess I’ll have to return and put a bit of effort in next time. What was a passing fancy could easily turn into an obsession. Meanwhile I filled my boots catching quality carp by the dozen using simple pellet waggler tactics over on Zyg’s other day-ticket complex, Eldorado, then back on the holiday site proper I spent most of my time dobbing for koi carp which was great fun as I tried my damnedest to be selective. Honestly, a red one is worth 10 silver ones because they are such tricky customers, even when you are almost spoon feeding them. As ever, it was a thoroughly enjoyable, if too short a trip. Of course, I’ll have to return now there’s unfinished business with those pesky cats.

“My heart was in my mouth. This was indeed a beast”

Week Two:

Sniffing the air, I knew that summer was over. Surrounded as I am by fields it’s the tangible smell of harvest that gives it away - the dusty, slightly grainy air. Leaves are starting to turn brown and shrivel. There’s a nip in the morning air and only a city dweller could fail to notice the magnificent crop of bright red hawthorn berries. If the old farming lore is anything to go by, we’re in for a tough winter. But who cares? Fishing is about the challenge not the catching. The Trent was still painfully low and clear. Away from weirs its fish are difficult to tempt. It’s like they are too lazy even to roll on the surface. A case of softly, softly then. My plan was simple. Fish short on the downstream rod, a few pellets over a bed of hempseed. The second rod would be cast upstream in mid-river, baited with a boilie plus a few broken boilies in the feeder. This rod would go out and stay out until a fish found it. Recasting would be pointless. Destructive in fact. The downstream spot was baited accurately with a dropper and left to settle for a full hour. I had great expectations of it, but my first cast found a snag. So did my second. No way was I going to cast a third feeder there. I weighed up my options. They were

limited having committed to baiting up a spot, so I went slightly further out and just upstream of the baited area. At last I now had a clear spot to target but what damage might I have already done? Then the upstream rod hooped over. At least I could now be pragmatic. Take the positives. Plan A had worked. Then this fish snagged in the rocks right at my feet. Disaster loomed but patience is a virtue and the fish swam out again without any encouragement from me. It’s a problem at low levels. The rocks that go out a fair way now reach closer to the surface and you have to guide fish through and over them. Nice fish. Quick snap and back she went. Anyone else at home? Of course there was. And fish number two followed an hour later to the same rod. Considering no-one else on the stretch had caught I had to be pleased. No more barbel followed but what happened on the downstream rod produced not just my highlight of the day but my highlight of the season so far. I’d barely returned the second barbel when the downstream rod tip started dancing. I knew immediately on lifting that it wasn’t a huge fish. First impression was probably a skimmer but what surfaced was a pound-plus roach. A clonker! My favourite species and the biggest I’ve had off the river in many a long year. It was followed by another of similar size and just on dark I had one half a pound bigger. This was truly a specimen and like a fool I slipped it back unphotographed. Scrambling up and down steep rocky backs in the dark and setting up the flash gear felt like too much hassle at the time but shortly after releasing it I was kicking myself. What on earth was I playing at? Then the bream moved in and apart from an odd chub it was game, set and match to the snotties. Not that you’ll ever hear me complain too loudly. So long as I’m getting bites I’m a happy bunny. We’ll be thankful for bites of any sort in the months ahead.

Week Three:

There’s a small river, not too far away, that’s perfect for a spot of ‘splash and dash’ fishing. In other words, catching fish when time is limited. I’ve not fished it for a few years but I had a couple of hours to spare. The weather was breezy and overcast, ideal for a river that even in normal conditions is crystal clear and quite shallow. Following this summer’s drought it was as low as I’ve ever seen and no matter how hard I looked there wasn’t a fish to be seen despite being able to clearly see the bottom everywhere.

Although the realist in me knew a struggle was likely on the cards, those fish had to be hiding somewhere so I baited lightly with a little hemp and a few pellets in front of a couple of bushes. These were left to settle for half an hour before I crept into position and swung out a 1oz lead above a long fluorocarbon hooklink. A banded pellet on a size 12 hook completed my set-up. There were clumps of submerged dark green, fibrous weed constantly drifting downstream and any line suspended across the current was wiped out within seconds. The solution is relatively simple. I turned my rod upside down and pressed the tip down on the bottom. This way my line was pinned hard on the deck safely beneath any debris and by placing a finger on the line I could still feel for indications. Nothing appeared to be at home in the first swim so I switched to the other primed swim where my first job was to set up a remote-controlled camera in order to shoot action shots should I be so lucky as to hook anything. Casting out, my lead brushed the trailing branches, hitting bottom with a reassuring thud indicating clear gravel. Perfect. Nothing materialised in the first 10 minutes so I repostitioned the bait slightly and started to ping pairs of pellets into the swim. If there are any chub around they home in on the plops of the pellets and once chub start crunching hard pellets with their pharyngeal teeth the noise draws in any barbel close by. In the worst case scenario I might at least catch a nice chub.

Suddenly the line tightened against my finger with a determination that left me in no doubt that a fish had picked up the hookbait. With my rod tip pressed hard against on the bottom I couldn’t possibly have created a better bolt rig – hence the reason for holding the rod upside down so the line can’t be damaged. No quarter was given and a cracking barbel was landed with little ceremony, photographed and returned. I returned home satisfied that I’d achieved what I set out to do in challenging circumstances.

Week Four:

I’d been considering a trip to the tidal River Don long before Jim Evans shared a cracking picture of a net of bream he’d caught from the same area I fancied. The tide has a massive effect on what you catch and Jim’s piscine crystal ball is practically infallible. In simplistic terms Jim has taught me that low levels and low tides add up to tough fishing and it’s a case of waiting for the better tides that add movement and colour to an otherwise stale river. Unfortunately my Poundland crystal ball isn’t quite as accurate as Jim’s, nor does it have a weather app, but in the cloudy globe I could see a window opening that would definitely be worth a shot. Then the heavens opened and after months of persistent drought the monsoon season arrived. Half a month’s rain fell in the space of a few hours and by nightfall the tidal Don had risen three metres making it completely unfishable. And so began a tense wait for it to fall as my deadline loomed. The river fell almost as quickly as it rose. Surely it had to be spot on but Jim’s opinion said otherwise. “I’d leave it a week or so Bob. It’ll be much better the following week.” Did I listen? Did I heck! So there I am on one of those crisp autumn high pressure mornings, clear blue skies and a threat of a frost combining with a tide that peaked around 10am. Perfect. Time to pick up fresh bait, get set up and introduce a dozen or so large feeders loaded with chopped worm, caster, micro pellets and groundbait. Those bream wouldn’t stand a chance. As always seems to happen, the river was flat calm at the top of the tide but as soon as it began to run a stiff breeze materialised out of nowhere. Worryingly not a single fish topped anywhere within sight. The river looked decidedly dead. Out went a juicy dendrobaena tipped off with a caster. A perfect cast. Bang on the money. Second cast and the tip trembled. Possible liner? This was it. I was going to fill my boots. Well, until I lifted into a perch, that is. Not to worry. The bream would follow, be in no doubt of that. An hour later with the tide now running out I was certain the bream would switch on soon. I felt only slightly less certain after two hours... Then a proper bite. That’s better, I thought, but it was another perch. No complaints, mind. This one was a cracker. Things couldn’t get much worse on the bream front. Well, the commotion caused by a great big ruddy cormorant suddenly popping up right over my baited spot, which then saw me and panicked, exploding from the water, didn’t exactly help. It wasn’t to be my day and as I trudged back to the car the two other anglers on the stretch were also packing up having endured a grueller, too. Next time I’ll listen to Jim.

“The downstream rod produced my highlight of my season so far”