Bob Roberts My monthly fishing diary...

‘ THE best laid plans of mice and men go often askew’, wrote Robert Burns in his poem, To A Mouse. It sums up my month perfectly, but it hasn’t stopped me from making more of them ...

Week one...

Sooner or later there had to be a break in the monsoon. It had rained on and off for two whole months during which time I’d not once set foot on the banks of the River Trent. Patience is a virtue or, as I prefer to call my approach, managed impatience.

Checking the EA river levels website had become something of a chore, mostly a waste of time, but finally there was a glimmer of hope. The river levels had begun to fall in the upper reaches and were predicted to fall further.

Checking and re- checking became interesting again and if the rain held off for a further four or five days then a window of opportunity would surely open up.

The EA website is a wonderful resource but it does not tell you two of the vital ingredients – water temperature and the amount of colour the river is carrying. I live in hope that one day it might...

The level fell more slowly than I anticipated, probably due to the surrounding fields being thoroughly waterlogged and still draining into the river catchment, but I gambled on the Trent being high yet fishable. Although far from perfect I knew a sheltered area just off a bend that might still produce.

Arriving at the farm gate I pulled over and took stock. Judging by the muddy track across the fields, it had been under water for several weeks. I realised I would need more than a bit of luck to reach the riverbank. Engaging four- wheel drive, I went easy on the accelerator and kept my fingers crossed. The old girl almost made it with ease but ahead lay a worrying pinch point, an open gate in a steep dip. Deep mud awaited and there was no other safe way around.

After a little hesitation I decided to go for it and apart from a few slithers and a twitchy wag of the back end I emerged unscathed at the other side. Now it was game on. I parked up on a patch of higher ground, unloaded and set off on the halfmile walk to the spot I had in mind.

My boots were caked in mud when I got there and must have weighed an extra half kilo each. The banks were pretty greasy with a slick of soft mud covering everything forcing me to set up a little further back from the edge than I normally would. Otherwise it was simply a case of taking great care not to do a pratfall.

I had brought one bait – bread. My target species were chub, bream, and if I got lucky, roach. First job was to select three swims not too far apart and introduce three feeders filled with liquidised bread into each. I would rotate these during the morning, priming each at intervals with more feed to keep the swims ‘ cooking’.

By the time I was set up and ready, swim one had had a good 20 minutes

rest since I fed it. Bites frequently materialise instantly with bread but not today. However, a gentle ‘ buzzing’ on the quivertip suggested there could be fish in the swim, or maybe just a bit of floating debris. Hard to tell. Then the tip- tapping started. Tiny indications that were nothing to strike at, possibly small roach or dace.

It was getting a bit frustrating then suddenly I had a proper savage pull, completely out of the blue. I struck into fresh air. Surely that was a bite rather than a polythene bag. Next cast it happened again and everything went solid on the strike. Then the tip nodded. Thump! Pause, thump! I knew instantly this was a bream, and a decent one at that.

Take your time, Robert. As I drew the fish ever closer it rolled on its side and enabled me to draw it over the lip of the net at which point it decided to go bananas! The hook pinged out, a feeder whistled by my ear, but I had the presence of mind to push and swoop with the net and the fish fell the right way for a change. So often a bream escapes the ‘ wrong’ way.

Another followed a short while later and I began to anticipate a bonanza but it didn’t materialise. No more positive indications. Had I spooked them? Was this the tail end of a shoal? Were they above me? Below, or further out? It was no time to gamble and spread feed all over with explorative casts. Time to rest the swim and see if they might settle on the baited area. Managing my impatience was the name of the game.

Swim two looked good for a fish and it wasn’t long before the tip yanked over sharpishly. I reacted in time and a decent fish kicked back, but this was clearly no bream from the feel of it. Probably a chub, guaranteed to have a last minute dash for the trailing vegetation.

Slowly inching myself forwards, careful to avoid slipping, I reached a safe spot where I could just reach beyond the margin debris with my net at full stretch. Tentatively I steered the fish towards the waiting net. Because the water was still carrying colour I hadn’t seen the fish but the moment it surfaced my heart leapt. It was a stonking great roach! A

‘ clonker’ as dear old Wilson used to say. Easily my biggest from the Trent, probably around 2lb 8oz.

From there the day went downhill. I lost a second big roach through slipping while stooping down to grab the landing net, after which the river died. Other than a few 4oz- 6oz roach, indications tailed off completely, but it was a glorious winter day. I basked in sunshine beneath the most beautiful blue sky knowing my patience had been rewarded with a very special achievement.

Week two...

With the Trent now in perfect fettle I was gagging to return for another crack at those big roach. I’d been piecing together catch reports, filed away in the back of my mind, where barbel anglers had reported landing big roach by accident. Caythorpe, Fiskerton, East Stoke, Newark and Dunham all featured. And these were probably only the tip of an iceberg. How many big roach had gone unreported. Nuisance fish.

The more I thought about it the more it made sense. These giants are potentially widespread. Perhaps not in massive numbers and possibly the remaining survivors of a special year class. It’s unlikely there are hot swims where you can catch 10 or a dozen big roach, it’s probably a case of seeking out an old warrior here and there. Certainly worth the effort. Such a shame hardly anyone fishes with tackle aimed at catching them these days. Everyone is obsessed with barbel.

And then a spanner was thrown in the works. I had raised alarms with my doctor about a developing growth on my left nostril. He diagnosed it as cancerous and I was duly booked into the operating theatre for its removal. I didn’t appreciate how vulnerable we anglers are to skin cancers. Turns out one in five of my closest angling friends have endured similar surgical treatments for skin cancer.

If that doesn’t shock you, it should. We anglers run twice the risk. The sun’s rays beat down on us from above and reflect back from the water. Doesn’t take a rocket scientist to work that one out. I will be wearing sun blocker in future and maybe you need to think about it, too.

Anyway, with a swollen face, two weeping wounds and protective cream lathered everywhere I was resigned to giving those roach a rest for a week. Meanwhile Sod’s Law never lets you down. By the time I was fit to fish again the Trent had shot back up and was carrying too much water to seriously think about roach fishing.

Week three...

Being confined to barracks left me with the perfect excuse to start work on a book project that needed my attention. When Mike Townsend died recently the world of angling lost one of its most successful roach anglers. Mike was a successful all- round specialist and often talked about the book he would one day write. Well, thanks to the sterling efforts of his lifelong friend Martin Abonyi along with Little Egret Press, I’ve stepped in to help make this happen posthumously. I can think of no better way to pay tribute to a muchmissed friend.

Week four...

When the hospital called to say they had a bed free and they’d like me it in straight away, I wondered if it was some kind of prank. I’d only seen my consultant that very morning and everything was deemed to be fine. What on earth was going on? I was feeling better than I had in months.

My regular stats were absolutely fine but something had flagged up in my liver profile that didn’t make any sense at all. I was virtually in off- the- scale territory so constant monitoring, tests and scans were required, tying me up me up for the whole week.