Improve Your Coarse Fishing (UK)
Bob Roberts
My monthly fishingdiary...
ONE day I’m power walking to get fit, the next I’m flat on my back in hospital thanks to a very nasty superbug in my bloodstream. The initial prognosis was serious, potentially 4-6 weeks in quarantine, but you can’t keep a good man down and I was out in two. Of course, you don’t want a blow-byaccount of my medical tribulations so I’ve roped in a few mates to help out on the diary this month...
Week one...
Brian Skoyles and I try to fit in a trip together each month and, had I not been in hospital, I’d have joined him for Hull & District’s junior pike coaching session at the club’s Brough Complex. By all accounts the weather was atrocious with a freezing cold easterly wind and heavy rain. But doubts over whether any juniors would actually turn up were soon dispelled. Yorkshire kids are tough and a steady stream of youngsters arrived coaches. Brian’s plan had been to wander about with a couple of lure rods but the deteriorating weather saw him wimp out and find a sheltered swim on Hawk Pond where he sat behind his umbrella and cast out deadbaits. On previous visits he’s had good success fishing close to the reed-fringed margins but with so much bankside activity he was concerned about the amount of disturbance so he opted to put both baits well out into open water. Two basic leger set-ups, one carrying a large smelt, the other a joey mackerel, were launched and, with the help of the wind, sailed out to the middle of the lake. From his reasonably sheltered position Brian watched youngsters going back and forth with their lure rods and helpers, getting wetter and wetter and could only admire their unbridled enthusiasm. After a couple of hours, out of the blue, the smelt rod buzzer signalled a steady take. Cue one of the youngsters picking up the rod and playing a nice double going just over 12lb. In the next swim to Brian was a young lad called Oliver who was with his dad, Rob. Earlier they had been a trio but conditions had proved too much for the youngest brother Euan who had been picked up. Rob and Oliver braved the weather and joined Brian to learn more about pike rigs. These guys really deserved to catch a fish. Perhaps the fishy gods were shining on them after all, as once again Brian’s Delkim shrieked into life. Quickly picking up the rod, Brian adjusted the drag and handed
the rod to Oliver who wound down, struck and played his pike like an experienced angler. It soon became clear this was a good fish and Brian sank the landing net in readiness. Oliver made no mistakes and effortlessly steered the pike over the rim. Suddenly it didn’t matter that we were all very cold and very wet! The day was a roaring success. At over 15lb, what a way for Oliver to open his pike fishing account! All too soon it was time to pack away and head for home. Footnote: Special mentions to Derek Pye, Hull & District Fisheries Officer, and Clive Melhuish, PAC Regional Organiser, who work tirelessly in organising these junior days.
Week two...
Mike Townsend is a one-off. I call him the roach hunter. It’s not unkind to suggest his love of redfins borders on obsession. Who else would drive from Yorkshire to the Hampshire Avon just to go looking for new swims to fish. This dedication pays off and he’s so far had seven over 3lb in a remarkable roach career. But his passion runs deeper than size. Where his fish are caught matters just as much to him. Recently he’s been tramping the banks of streams and tiny rivers much closer to home. An elusive, rare, 2lb roach from an overlooked northern stream is indeed something to behold. This isn’t Hampshire, Dorset or Oxfordshire, this is the grim North, a big-roach wasteland. Last close season Mike walked miles, exploring, observing, patiently seeking a sign. We’re talking rivers so shallow and clear you can see every pebble. Mike did eventually discover some specimen roach but perhaps as few as half a dozen fish in a mile or more of river, sometimes less. Not only did he have to find them, he would need to get close enough without spooking them and he could not afford to make even a splashy strike. Much better to wait until late season, when flow rates increase, there’s the merest hint of colour and practically no small fish interference enabling him to trickle in casters. Late winter, a swim on a bend, maybe only a few inches deeper than the surrounding water, but that’s enough. There’s little wind to interfere with presentation, hence his tiny, clear, carp dibber float loaded with four strung-out No.10s tipped off with a fine wire 18. Caster is Mike’s bait for big roach and he won’t need many. You cannot attack a swim that possibly only holds a few roach. You sit back, calm the nerves and start drip-feeding a few shells. He’s feeling confident. An hour’s patience will pay off providing he doesn’t make a mistake, or some dog walker stands on his skyline. It’s funny you know, catching a roach like this is easy, providing you’ve spent nine months in preparation for what could be just one cast. Mike feeds, the tiny dibber follows and, right on cue just where it’s supposed to, the float jags off to one side and the gentle strike leaves him yearning for a dose of Imodium. It’s a big roach, nothing else delivers the gut-churning, head shaking which leaves you praying the hook doesn’t come unstuck, but Mike gently steers his prize upstream towards the net. And then it’s all over. He might as well pack up and go home now. Ambition achieved in some style. A rare northern stream ‘two’. The stuff dreams are made of.
played Young Oliver a pro and it the pike like the netnet waswas soon in
Week three...
One of my favourite anglers from the Trent’s golden era was Keith ‘Hobbo’ Hobson. He would walk through brick walls for you, except he’d probably turn up late! Always smiling, always whistling: “This is me chub whistle, Bob! Dun’t seem to be working today, though...” Lee Swords has a similar demeanour, but lacks the Tom Selleck moustache. Lee’s possibly made from granite. Only recently a tree fell on his head leaving him with a fractured skull yet he’s already fishing again. The same cannot be said for the tree, its clash with Lee proving fatal for it. Put to the Swords, you might say. When we’ve fished together in the past he’s been known to carry the kitchen sink. Not to mention the washing machine and the fridge as well. All that changes in winter when he turns his attention to chub and his armoury consists of one rod and one reel. Everything else fits into a square plastic tub or is folded into his fishing chair. “The dividing line between blanking and catching in winter can be as slim as moving just 20 yards. It’s much harder to draw fish to you at this time of year so you must be prepared to go to them. Never sit in a swim for more than an hour if nothing’s happening. The more swims you fish, the more fish you’re likely to catch,” reckons Lee. Normally you’ll find Lee on the Trent but today he’s on the Bredwardine stretch of the River Wye enjoying the Chub Study Group’s annual weekend away and the larder is stocked with steak and mincemeat. Slivers of steak for the hook, raw mince through a feeder. Sometimes a maggot-sized strip of steak on a size 14 will be the offering, at other times it will be a big lump of flesh hung on a size 6 or 4. “Hooklengths are very much down to the individual but I choose to fish with 18in or so of 4lb fluorocarbon. I like it, I have confidence in it and confidence catches fish. Yes, 4lb might seem a bit light, especially when targeting 5lb chub and bigger. Well that twizzly thing that is either at the front of the reel or at the back of the reel, is called a drag and it equates to about 50 percent of the engineering cost of the reel. Use it! “Today I’m using a sliver of raw steak the size of a little fingernail on the hook. I’m using the smallest feeder I can get away with because a chub’s metabolism slows down in low water temperatures and the purpose is to attract them to the table rather than fatten them. “I’m working my way down the length wasting no time in swims that haven’t produced well for me in the past. Still worth one cast though, as you never know. An hour gone and already I’m scrambling down the bank to my fourth swim of the day. I’ve caught here before and sometimes you can feel in your bones there’s a chub down there, waiting for you.” A sharp tap on the tip speaks volumes and then BANG! The bite is violent, the strike instant and the fight well balanced. On the scales the pointer sweeps round past 5lb but the rain is so heavy he’s reluctant to do more than take a quick snap on the mat. Target fish in the bag, a whole day of this still lies ahead. Deep joy. “Beats me why I meet so few others fishing like this. Obsessive one-species anglers run the risk of missing out on so much.”
Week four...
Can’t tell you how relieved I was to be discharged from hospital much sooner than initially diagnosed and the first thing on my mind was how soon could I realistically get on the Trent which was already rising and heavily coloured. Although conditions pointed towards a barbel bonanza, not too many were getting caught in daylight so an evening session made sense, arriving late afternoon and fishing on into darkness. I drove down in torrential rain, set up in one of my favourite near-car park floodwater swims and reached into my bag to slip a headtorch round my neck. It wasn’t there. Nor was the spare. Where were they? I simply can’t fish effectively at night without a torch. It’s absolutely necessary for fiddly jobs like baiting the hook, unhooking fish, tying knots and especially packing away all your gear afterwards. What an idiot! And so concluded perhaps my shortest-ever Trent session. Oh well, I’d make sure I was better prepared for my trip to Westerley Lake with Brian Skoyles. Brian was intent on targeting perch with prawns while I was hell-bent on nothing more complicated than catching lots of roach on the pole. Having been inactive for three weeks I simply wanted to see a float disappearing beneath the ripples and Westerley is the kind of spring-fed water where this happens constantly. Super roach fishing. A text from Brian declared: “Don’t bother with flask, I’ve put brew kit in the car.” Blimey. How good does life get? I could sit on my box, bag up with roach while my barista would supply me with mugs of steaming hot coffee. So confident was I that I would have a brilliant day, scraping ice off my car windscreen didn’t raise any concerns, nor the white frosty hedgerows and slithery roads. No, I was a man on a mission and I was confident of turning a pint of casters into pure silver. Of course, reality soon kicked in and it wasn’t long before I regretted my choice of swim. Why, oh why, did I not choose to fish with the wind off my back where it would have been a top coat warmer? And where were the fish? Yes, I was catching, but mainly small fish, which is unusual on caster. The bites I was getting were bonkers, coming in bursts, some on the drop, some I had to wait for, there was no consistency at all and it wasn’t until later that I twigged half my casters were floating or only just sinking. This was an amateurish mistake to say the least and one that was simply rectified by putting them in a bait box, gently lowering it under the water and allowing the floaters to rise and dispose of. Of course, I then was able to catch a little more consistently and had a thoroughly enjoyable session but, to be fair, Brian was the star of the show. He had a 2-5 perch in the morning followed by a show-stopper in the afternoon. I thought he had netted a carp when he cried out: “Now that’s what you call a perch!” What a lump it was and immaculate, too, at 3lb 8oz. What a way to round off a tricky month.