Improve Your Coarse Fishing (UK)
Bob Roberts
My monthly fishing diary...
OUR truly glorious summer has divided river anglers into two camps – the obsessives and the conservationists. I’ve struggled to understand anglers who insist, in the face of overwhelming scientific evidence to the contrary, that barbel fishing in excessive high water temperatures is all fine and dandy. There are so many other species to be caught that will tolerate the conditions much better and it’s not that those same barbel cannot be caught during autumn and indeed winter, providing you leave them alone in the meantime, that is. Mark my words, there will be fewer barbel around because of those ruthless fishmongers who have selfishly insisted it’s safe to carry on when every logical argument says leave the barbel alone. There’ll be no point blaming otters when there’s an inevitable decline in barbel numbers if it’s our own fault.
Week one...
Boarding my time machine, I dialled in the mid-1970s. Destination: River Trent. Mission: Re-live the halcyon days of catching roach on hemp and tares. Could I really turn back time to that wonderful era when catching a net of quality roach was nothing unusual? If recent seasons have been anything to go by I’m sure the potential is there. So in keeping with the 70s theme I dug out my old bait apron, the oldest stick float rod I own, some floats I still treasure from that era and a pole. Let’s face it, the past has been improved upon. The first time I fished a pole on the Trent was in the 1980s using a glassfibre 7-metre Lerc monstrosity that weighed a ton. It had external elastic attached to an aluminium crook. Give me today’s poles every time. The area I fished had a bit of recent roach form but where I expected to find five or six feet of water there was a good ten and not much flow. That threw a curve ball into my plans as I’d only brought a couple of light pole rigs. Hemp and tares is a do or die method. If you carry alternative baits you will invariably end up using them, so I bit the bullet. There would be no Plan B. But I needn’t have worried. Bites came from the off. Trouble was I couldn’t hit them to save my life. So many missed bites in that first hour, it was unreal, but that’s seed fishing for you. The deep water was doing me no favours, nor was a downstream breeze. Heavier rigs would have made such a difference but I was catching just enough fish to keep me focused and frustrated in equal measure. And if I’m being honest, that’s the joy of the demon seed. You always believe you could have done better. On a day when the sun shone, when my
float dipped under more often than not, I came away knowing I only scratched the surface. I didn’t catch any of the bigger roach I would have expected in the 70s but I’m not convinced I fished well enough to have caught them anyway. What’s clearly evident is I need to return and have another go, and soon, before this glorious summer turns into autumn and we face the challenge of fluctuating levels and ground frosts. Not to mention the lure of other species. Who would have thought that after two months of relentless sunshine it’s now a race against time?
Week two...
As teatime approached a chilly breeze forced me back to the car. For the first time in ages I needed to grab a hoodie. It had been a tricky day fishing one of the Trent’s finest bream swims. I had set out with a plan that was to be my undoing. My brain said set up two quivertip rods, one with a pellet presentation, the other for corn. Identical feeders, line, etc. The intention was not to fish two rods, just the one, but perhaps swap in an instant. Of course, a match angler has an hour to prepare before the all-in. Me, I was in a hurry so it was a case of get one rod ready, start fishing and then sort out the second. It went something like this. Arrive at peg around 11am, mix groundbait, set up feeder rod, clip up at 40 yards to guarantee accuracy, have 10 quick casts to lay down a bed of feed and then cast every five minutes until bites begin. The second rod could wait a little while. Fifteen minutes in, cast 13, and I need a pee. Stand up, do the necessary and watch the rod almost get dragged off the rest. Grab the rod, now tight to the line clip and curse like mad as the hook straightens out. What on earth was that? Certainly not a bream, that’s for sure. Curse, groan, mumble. No one can hear so curse some more, loudly. Hold imaginary conversation with oneself, left side of brain calling right side a clumsy idiot. Right side blames the left for not thinking through the consequences. No more bites in the next three casts so kneel down with my back to the river to set up a second rod. Something moving violently in the corner of my field of vision turns out to be my rod hooping over, which springs back smartly. I retrieve. The 5lb hooklink has broken somewhere near where the hook used to be. Curse, groan, mumble, etc. Only now neither rod is ready to cast. Eventually I get one rod sorted and recast. And guess what? Another straightened hook while dealing with the second rod! I don’t know whether you are carp, monster barbel or great big eels, but you certainly ain’t bream. Give me a break! I was 4-0 down before I eventually reached the point when my gear was all sorted and ready. By now I’d paced out both rods in the field behind me, tied on marker braid at an identical 40 yards and would no longer bother using the line clips. Bring it on. You’ve had your fun toying