Improve Your Coarse Fishing (UK)
Bob Roberts’ diary
My monthly fishingdiary...fishing diary...
WHAT a mixed bag this month threw up. With social media dominated by anglers complaining about catching nothing, I couldn’t help wondering if they were simply looking for excuses not to go fishing. Winter fishing can be tough, but proper clothing makes things bearable and choosing the right venue on the right day can produce spectacular results.
Week one...
The River Torne is one of many dykes and drains that were re-engineered by Cornelius Vermuyden around 1628 as part of a project to drain King Charles’ Hatfield Moors hunting grounds. In 1940 the Torne was re-routed to discharge into the River Trent via a pumping station at Keadby. Of course, all this was well before my time, and my earliest experience of fishing the Torne was in the big freezeup back in 1963, one of the harshest winters in living memory. I had journeyed with my mate Keith Gale, whose parents owned the local tackle shop in Bentley. I was just 12 years old and Keith was probably 13, yet we travelled on our own, by train, to Crowle and walked the rest of the way. Snow lay in the fields and was piled knee deep on the roadsides where it had been ploughed. Not surprisingly the river was frozen solid, thick enough to bear the weight of a man, but we were tough in those days. We had to be. There were no thermals or moon boots. Oh, and there was no return train until the afternoon, so we went scouting to try and find a bit of open water. The only bit we could find was immediately underneath a road bridge on the A161. We gave it our best shot, but needless to say we caught nothing. Though I have fished the Torne occasionally since, I think the first outing left me with my most lasting impression. It’s not a regular haunt of mine, though I did once catch 35lb of roach in a short afternoon session on hemp and tares. Thanks to a tip-off from my old mate Trevor Empson, I learned that fish were being caught in numbers near Belton. With nowhere else producing much I had to investigate. Blow me, the first angler I bumped into as I parked up was none other than five-times world champion Alan Scotthorne. He had intended to have a bloodworm practice session on Hayfield, but it was iced over and the gates were locked, so we dropped in side by side above a bunch of other anglers. Now I was expecting to get spanked by the master, particularly with him using bloodworm, but it turns out that as brilliant a bait as bloodworm is, it is not the be-all and end-all some make it out to be. Sometimes punched bread can beat it hands down, and while Alan struggled to get past hordes of tiny roach, I was catching quality roach and skimmers galore. The flow varied considerably, sometimes stopping altogether, but whenever there was a bit of movement I was getting one a bung. What a session, and most welcome in the circumstances. One that might well remain in my memory as long as the first one.
Week two...
With the snowmelt finally gone, my beloved Trent was getting back to something approaching normal levels. I was itching to have a go. The water temperature was still decidedly chilly, certainly too cold for barbel to show any interest, but that just meant it would be a chub day. Fog shrouded the river on my arrival. It was eerily still and the river looked
dead. But looks are deceiving. I set off for a favourite swim, cast out a cage feeder loaded with liquidised bread, a squeeze of flake on a size 10 hook and within minutes the tip began its stuttering, dithering dance with an occasional enthusiastic jag. Fishing bread is all about remaining calm, in control, patient and measured. You must under no circumstances go striking at every violent twitch – it’s about waiting for a deliberate pull. Easier said than done. It’s not really something that can be explained but you’ll know when it happens. The best advice is to sit on your hands so you don’t strike too soon. Better to not strike at all than strike at the wrong time and spook every fish in the swim. Even so, I missed the first couple of positive indications so I took my own advice and sat on my hands. The next cast saw me ignoring the sharp tugs and I waited until the tip went over and kept on going. Fish on! And would you believe it was still only just hooked in the lip? I think chub mouth the bait and give it a good shaking. They play with it, sometimes for ages, before deciding to eat it. You simply have to have faith that your hook is still baited and wait it out. The reaction in my second swim was almost identical. The chub were showing an interest but not feeding hard. I switched to a much smaller feeder to avoid filling them up too quickly. And bingo! Fish number two was soon in the landing net. The sun was now breaking through and burning off the lingering mist. It was a beautiful day to be out, wandering my river with the minimum of tackle. I had the place to myself and all was wonderful in the world as I continued to attract plenty of tentative plucks and pulls that kept me enthralled, catching a fish here and there in the bright sunshine.
Week three...
And then the weather closed in again. Snow, ice, floods, you name it. Not that I cared. I had a holiday booked in warmer climes, a Caribbean cruise. My wife and I love cruising, but it’s not exactly compatible with fishing, as you tend to wake up in a different country each day and there’s a limit to how much tackle you can fit in your luggage. Only the rich (or gullible) can afford blue water charters, especially when your time in port is strictly limited, but that doesn’t mean you can’t still get your string pulled. I had packed my trusty Daiwa Wilderness travel rod, a 10ft six-piece job that comes in a sturdy tube, a 3000-sized reel loaded with 20lb braid, forceps, and a sandwich box containing a selection of lures, traces and a few loose hooks. My goal was to fish rather than catch fish. How did I get on? Terribly, to be honest. What did I learn? Loads. First thing you have to appreciate is that everything is a compromise. Wives and girlfriends will accept white sands at a push but they have no desire to lay out on rocks. Far too uncomfortable. And your sessions will be pretty short, in my experience. Unfortunately, fish are the exact opposite of women. They feed near rocks and coral. I struggled with plugs and spinners. I’m sure at the right time of day in the right spots they will work superbly well, but not on this trip. I fancied that soft plastics would work really well, especially small ones mounted on jig heads. And they certainly attracted loads of attention. Unfortunately, as I found when fishing for tiger fish on Lake Nasser a few years ago, small fish will bite off the tail of your lure, often on the first cast. So, what next? Fresh shellfish. Break live ones open with a stone and you have instant bait the fish go mad for. And you will catch loads if you have the right terminal tackle with you, and there’s the rub. What I wouldn’t have given for a packet of size 14 hooks and a tub of swan shot which, of course, I didn’t have with me. But the devil drives when needs must. I managed to break the hook off a jig head to create an Arlesey bomb substitute and ‘remodelled’ a size 6 hook into something resembling a size 12 with a ridiculously long shank. Not perfect, but good enough to do a job. At last I was in business and getting a bite every cast. The fish I caught were small and exquisitely coloured, though – somewhat frustratingly – expert bait robbers. But I was having a lot more fun than the poor souls reporting endless blanks back home. Next time I will take a few floats and a selection of lighter terminal tackle.
Week four..
The weather forecast was decidedly grim. Winds approaching 35mph and an air temperature of four degrees but feeling more like one degree. I drove to the Trent through squalls of sleet. ’Twas a bit different to last week. Welcome home Bob! Could things get any worse? Well yes, the river had come up eight inches in the previous 24 hours and was still rising. Sometimes it’s easier to stay at home on days like this, but you won’t catch anything watching mindless daytime TV. I refused to be defeatist, even when deep down I didn’t really fancy my chances. I kicked off in a swim that offered a little shelter from the wind where the current was pushing towards the far bank, leaving steady water inside for a good 20 yards out. Would I catch? My answer came on the second cast and it was only then that I realised I’d not set up a landing net. Fortunately, I thought I’d only hooked a skimmer so I brought the fish in close and put the rod back on the rest while I got myself sorted. Something of a risk when you are using barbless hooks, but hey-ho, it hung on. I was still convinced it was a skimmer until I slipped it back after a quick photo. Only when reviewing the images on my camera did I do a double take. When a river has been up and coloured for so long silver fish end up colourless and washed out, like they do in commercials. Hang on, could that actually have been the biggest roach I’ve caught from the Trent in the past 30 years? Dear me, Bob, pull yourself together! A couple of chub followed and then the swim dried up. Time to move. When fishing bread you tend to get bites quickly and then the swim dies, so keeping on the move is a wise choice. Sure enough, I was in again straight away and this is when my luck ran out. I was fishing with a 5lb hooklink, which is pretty substantial, but I was testing the Powermesh 11ft 6in quivertip rod which has more backbone than my usual Yank ‘n’ Bank 12-footer. Earlier I had spotted a knot in the hooklink, but wearing my bream blinkers had fooled me into thinking it would still land any bream that swims. It certainly stood up to a couple of standard chub but now I found myself attached to what felt like an enormous chub and it was heading directly for the trailing branches of an overhanging tree. There was nothing for it but to put the brakes on and you can guess the rest. A stupid, stupid mistake! If you spot a knot, do something about it, even if in your heart of hearts you don’t really expect to catch much. Ironically, I caught a bream in the next swim. No more followed so I was soon on my way. The next swim was quite tight and decidedly chubby, and I didn’t have to wait long before the tip pulled round. This was a substantially larger fish, surely too big to be a chub? Maybe this was a barbel, and if so it would likely be huge, as it hung deep. As the fight wore on it threw up some tremendous tail patterns without ever showing itself. Clearly a seriously heavy fish, but when I finally got a glimpse I had to do a double take. For all the world it looked like a carp! Minutes passed and it became obvious that it was a carp. A huge one at that. And now I could see it was a linear. I’m not sure how the Gamakatsu Pellet hook held as the battle on the surface intensified. It was now clear that I might land this lump if only I could juggle it into a hopelessly inadequate landing net. In the end I had to take a huge gamble, drop the rod and try to shake her into the net, as she was way too long for it. Eventually she folded but I still had to lift her. And that’s when the brass thread of the net snapped! Talk about epic, but she was mine and I was pretty chuffed, that’s for sure. With the best part of the day approaching and two more mouthwatering swims awaiting my attention I had no choice but to pack up. Talk about mixed emotions! Oh well, till next time...