Improve Your Coarse Fishing (UK)
Bob Roberts’ diary
My monthly fishing diary...
Week one...
The northern rivers were painfully low and clear, as clear as I’ve ever seen them. Friends were pointing out on social media that they’d been out and, although they could see every pebble on the riverbed, they couldn’t see a single fish. It was as if the river was empty but fish have an uncanny knack of tucking themselves away beneath the slightest bit of vegetation. They are there, but they are not going to throw themselves on your hook. We all have our banker spots. The odd swim here and there where you feel confident, no matter how tough things are, will earn you a pull if you can present a bait without disturbance. I headed for a favourite and was shocked. The river was on its heels, barely 18 inches deep and clear as tap water, but an extremely careful cast dropped a small cage feeder on the front edges of an overhanging bush. Was that a polite enquiry? Not sure. So I waited. In vain. Okay, I’d risk a second cast. Would it be as accurate? Should I just hope the bread was still on my hook and wait longer? No, recast, just the once. But don’t you dare snag the branches. My cast was perfect, though I say it myself. Couldn’t ask for better, and bingo. Round went the tip and a spirited fight soon saw me netting a fish that I watched struggle every inch of the way, aiming for any and every bit of trailing weed or debris. That’s a chub. They don’t profess to observe the Queensbury rules. One below the belt is absolutely fine by them. A quick picture, one last cast and it was time to move. I’d be sat there a long, long time before I’d get another chance. Another swim, this time on the confluence of what are really two tiny streams. It is a go-to peg when you need a picture. The fish are seldom much more than a couple of pounds apiece but they’re obliging. Usually, that is. Today they said no thank you. These are the days that make you a fisherman. Another trip on the bleakest of winter days. The temperature gauge in my car said it was just one degree outside. The wind was strengthening from the North. Kind folk would leave their dogs indoors on a day like this. I was exploring a stretch that a mate had suggested but he had warned it was a mile walk. In that mile I
could see the riverbed all the way and not one fish did I spy. Several folk were out though, punishing their dogs. Poor things, mind you they never complain. I found the area and it looked to have potential but my heart had already accepted I was fishing for one bite. There are some rare big roach here, maybe only a dozen in the whole mile, but you never know your luck. Logic said, hope for a chub, take whatever comes. I worked several swims, baiting lightly with bread and rotating. One stood out and, sure enough, something tried to pull my rod in. It wasn’t one of those gentle, tentative bites, it dragged the rod round into an alarming hoop. Line screamed off the reel’s drag and then the hooklink parted just above the hook. I was absolutely gutted, trust me. What was it? Well, I’d love to think it was the mother of all chub but a nagging doubt inside me indicates I’d just hooked into a completely unexpected barbel, a big one too. That did me. My spirit was broken. The long walk back to the car was straight into the wind and it’s fair to say I was thoroughly chilled when I got there, complete with a red runny nose. The car told me the temperature had dropped another degree to freezing point. But I wouldn’t miss the thrill days like this give me.
Week two...
I’d like to say that I set the media world alight with my amazing catches in week two but, alas, I didn’t. I gave the Aire & Calder a go using rubber lures. Word is that it’s full of perch but you either catch loads or next to nothing. I caught nothing. It spanked my backside, well and truly. Ne’er a pull. Not a sign. The rain fell, the wind blew and there wasn’t another angler in sight, but those cruel dog owners still insisted on forcing their pets outside. If only a few more of them would use bags! I returned to Swanlands Fishery, near Thorne, to have another crack at its perch. They are in there. The owner is absolutely telling the truth. I’ve seen pictures shown to me by match anglers. Again I had the lake to myself and again I caught carp. Nice carp. Plenty of carp. But the perch evaded me again. It was getting so I daren’t go into Stainforth Angling Centre because of the pelters I was getting – “You’re rubbish, Bob. We can catch them. Would you like us to show you how?”
Week three...
I needed a cunning plan to break Swanlands before it broke me. If you are the only angler on the lake you will catch quickly and then the fish back off, usually they clear off elsewhere into quiet areas. I needed other anglers on there so I invited a bunch of mates down, good friends and excellent anglers to a man. In the end we were only half a dozen strong but it was enough to spread out and hopefully intercept disturbed fish. It became a perch challenge day. I purchased a perch trophy, to be held by the captor of the day’s largest perch until we have another trip together. Of course, the weather was grim, cold and damp with an intermittent cutting wind, but we cared less. The challenge was laid down. Matt Brown soon had a perch of about 1lb 4oz. Not what we were hoping for but a start. Paul ‘Fisky’ Fisk had a bigger one. Things were picking up. Except I just caught loads of carp. Matt had a bigger one, 2lb or so then Mike Townsend pulled a thrashing carp to the surface that had red fins, black stripes and an erect dorsal fin. Oh my gosh! Even from my side of the lake I could see it was a lump. And seconds later everyone was heading to his peg for a look. Fishing from Peg 41 he’d only caught a 4lb 1oz perch! Bet you wished you’d fished 45! And I eventually wrapped up my campaign with a ‘three’ just for good measure. It had been a special day and it was way after dark before we eventually dispersed from the car park. Winter fishing with good mates doesn’t get any better and everyone’s now fired up to get out there and catch some more fish.
Week four...
And then the weather turned again as the pattern of cyclone followed by anticyclone continued. Cold winds followed by an even colder wind. Good thermals cope with that but no way am I breaking ice to fish on stillwaters, so it was back to the Trent for a mooch round with bread. The frost, the queasy-looking water, empty car parks and a haw frost suggested there would be little competition for swims. Indeed there was none on either bank. I saw only the bailiff all day long. Banker swims laughed at me, making it less easy to devote time in less fancied ones. Bites were at a premium, so size no longer represented an issue. Was I chasing monsters? No. I was chasing bites first and foremost, then hoping to connect with bites, and finally happy to land anything. It’s a process. A winning formula when the odds are stacked against you. Sometimes days like these throw up a lump, but not today. My returns were meagre, but by scaling down tackle and bait size I did catch and ultimately that’s all that matters in my world. A 2lb chub isn’t just a 2lb chub in these circumstances, it represents far more. It’s success against long odds and a reason to still drive home with a smile on my face. Maybe we should call it smiling, not catching, on difficult days like this.