If you are one of the few who read my blog, I apologise for the lack of posts recently. I have still been going out regularly but just lost momentum during the various lock-downs we have all been enduring.
In an effort to get back on track I thought I would put pen to paper to round up a pretty depressing end to the river season. It covers January through to the end of March after coarse fishing terminated on running water. It was always going to be a challenge to write, due in no small part to the sport being banned or under restriction for the entirety, and as a consequence, although my enthusiasm still burned bright, I was unable to travel in good conscience to any of my usual haunts.
I suppose we should be grateful we were still able to fish at all, as our beloved government didn’t given other sports such benefit of the doubt. In truth I didn’t see much difference between golf and fishing, in so much as both are outdoors, and can be undertaken in isolation or with a socially distanced companion, but only angling got the green light, much to my youngest son’s annoyance! I thanked my lucky stars that my passion is to cast a line, rather than hit a little ball with a stick!!
Immediately after the announcement the fishing club forums were alive with vitriolic debate, with a few individuals screaming for immediate closure of all waters ‘for the good of the nation’. I couldn’t comprehend for the life of me this compulsion to voluntarily sacrifice this tiny pleasure we were still permitted under the Covid regime, even worse to impose their self-righteousness on others. If the government with all their scientific advisors and statisticians said it should be allowed then why on earth would they try to stop it; the benefits to health and wellbeing outweigh a thousand-fold the miniscule chances of catching or communicating Corona in the middle of nowhere, while enjoying the most solitary of sports.
So, I counted my blessings and prepared myself to get my fishing fix under the restrictions, the most challenging being the obligation to ‘stay local’, without clear definition of what that actually meant!
The first weekend I tentatively made an abortive trip to my local river Dane, that proved to be full to the gunnels with snow melt. I crawled a mile of sodden, cow trodden bank, like an infantryman staggering across the mire of the Somme, before the journey was completed without me even assembling my ever faithful Drennan avon quiver; I literally didn’t see a single swim I considered worthy of the effort, nor did I meet a single human to disturb what was in effect a muddy walk, which should at least keep me in Boris’s good books!
On the short journey home I dropped off at a club pond, so as not to have wasted the fuel. I sat for 2 hours with inappropriate equipment and just bread and cheesepaste for bait, and predictably caught nothing, but I was recompensed by bumping into two stalwarts of the club who were happy to chew the cud. I picked up some very interesting tips and information about the many club waters we share, lots of food for thought for when the lockdown is finally lifted and distant venues become accessible once again. As I have said many times before, if I can’t fish, then talking about it comes a close second!
Quest for a Billy
After that difficult day a change was called for, so the following weekend I arranged to meet up with an old mate for a brief session of light lure fishing for perch on our local canal. He is a veteran of the water, so I was in good hands, but despite his guidance we both failed to register a single fish. The number of people on the bank was incredible, dog walkers, hikers, boaters, families and cyclists, plus several other anglers, and I made up my mind to steer clear of the more accessible sections next time. Not that I am blaming them, God knows we all need some outlet for lockdown fever, and a nice walk is a tonic, but it doesn’t make for relaxing fishing when I was flicking a meat hook past the ends of their noses! Thankfully everybody seemed in good spirits and not a single cross word was heard, in fact most people seemed almost too happy! Maybe they knew something I didn’t!!
The following weekend I was back, same canal but on a different wide. I flogged the water to a foam and didn’t draw the slightest interest from my predatory prey for the first hour, but then, on the next routine rewind, no different to the hundreds that preceded it, I was transfixed as a huge, menacing, dark shadow followed my lure into the bank, before turning and slowly dissolving back into the depths….my heart was racing and adrenaline coursed, but despite immediately flicking the lure in the direction the creature had headed, no further attention was paid. I was shaking for the next few casts, and not just from the cold!
The weather deteriorated quickly and snow, wind and sleet made things very unpleasant, my hands were freezing and this fishing style requires a lot of finger exposure! I decided enough was enough, but as usual I needed ‘one last cast’, so I moved on a little further and flicked my jig under a tree, and saw the line spring tight, a flick of the tip and I hooked my first lure fish of the lockdown, a perch of about 4oz; as I swung it toward me it jumped off the hook and was gone…never has the loss of such a piddling little fish been so vexing, but that’s angling for you!
The problem with these exploratory lure fishing canal sessions is that I don’t know if I am doing right or wrong. I freely admit to being a relative novice when it comes to this new craze from across the pond that seems to have taken this little island by storm. Just a few weeks ago I didn’t know my drop-shot from my jigs, my crank bait from my NED rig, so it has all come with a steep learning curve. If others were catching I would know I was at fault but the majority seem to be struggling on this particular canal, other than a couple of bait fishers who snagged a pike each.
However, there is definitely something about this light lure fishing I like, a tiny little rod and reel, a bag of soft lures, a short landing net and a few jig heads and you are set. Such a small amount of equipment means you can walk miles and miles along the canal chucking at bits of structure and enjoying the fresh air. Far from being disheartened I am raring to get back out there and try to put things right, and that can only be a good thing. I have encountered problems already, wind knots in my (shockingly expensive!) braid, lures up trees and frozen digits, but it makes a change from my usual obsessive pursuit of Barbel!
With my enthusiasm still high I treated myself to a couple of hours on a club lake that is reputed to hold perch and pike. I stuck with my light jigging gear and once again failed miserably. Fortunately for me there were a couple of other pike anglers on, so at least I had a point of reference. Both were blanking, so as I continued to fish without an iota of success I knew I was in good company at least.
The limitations of my technique are obvious, but all I can say is that down the edge where I could see them, the jigs jumped and wobbled wildly, and in my eye they convincingly mimicked a dying fish, but unfortunately its the fishes opinion that counts, not mine!! One of the pike lads told me it was a very moody water and can switch off quite easily, so I consoled myself with that. I gave it a couple of hours and went home still none the wiser!
February Blues
The second month of lockdown, and it was really starting to get to me. I have been fortunate enough to be able to continue working throughout, but all work and no play, far from making me a dull boy, was actually making me an angry old bugger!
The worse part of it was the seasonal improvement in the weather, from arctic to bearable, then to warm rain. I knew in my gut the Barbel would go crazy, and I was desperate to jump in the car and bomb the quick 40 miles to the Ribble and fill my boots, but my conscience (and fear of a £200 fine!) got the better of me. Instead I just brooded as my Ribble mates gleefully messaged me to report the river turning on…I could have cried, but I was happy for them, through gritted teeth of course!
Back to the river
In desperation at my lack of success with the lures I decided to go back to what I know, and venture to my local river for the remainder of the season. It was probably on the cusp of the indefinable ‘acceptable’ travel distance, but a lot less than many I heard about (and witnessed!). As it happened I thoroughly enjoyed myself, and managed to catch a few of my target species, the ever reliable Chub, on each occasion.
It was simple fishing in almost total isolation, without the usual clutter of my Barbel gear, just a quiver containing a single rod, a shoulder bag holding a few bits, a liquidised loaf, a few slices of Mothers pride and a lump of cheesepaste.
I made 3 visits during February/March and the sport got better and better, culminating in a 10 Chub catch in a few hours. Not only did I hook a fish in each pre-baited swim, but 4 of them broke the 4lb barrier with the rest not so far behind, and they didn’t half put up a scrap! For a devout river angler like myself, starved of the usual end of season Barbel opportunities, this was manner from heaven, and blew the ever increasing cloud of gloom right out of me! I walked into the office each Monday morning with a spring in my step and a smile on my face!
To the end of March
I missed a week after the river season finished, but finally the sun shone and the temptation was too much, so I grabbed my torrixes and headed to a local lake for a few hours and had a go for a Carp. Surpisingly there was just a solitary angler on the normally very popular water, and he explained to me that the Carp lads weren’t bothering unless they can do the night, which was banned under the restrictions. Talk about cutting your nose of….I’m no Kevin Maddox but even I managed a couplel of decent fish on my barbel rods. This is a runs water so not to fish because you can’t go through the night is a huge missed opportunity in my opinion. Anyhow, I certainly enjoyed having it too myself!
That just about sums up the strangest, most frustrating few angling months I have ever had, starting out terribly, with roughly 10 hours lure fishing and not a single fish banked, then improving exponentially until I had almost forgotten that I had missed one of my favourite parts of the Barbel season, and my traditional ‘last fling’ week on the Severn!!
The government travel restrictions forced radical changes to venues and target species, but on the plus side I have at least been encouraged to try something outside my usual Barbel fishing, even if the results have been indifferent. Every angling year January and February are always difficult months, so in truth I probably haven’t missed a great deal where captures are concerned.
March showed us a bit of light at the end of the tunnel, I got my first jab along with millions of others, and hats off to all involved with that monumental effort. Unfortunately, Boris and his roadmap had no plans to release us before the the end of March, in fact it looks more like it could be Tench time before we are given our freedom to travel.
I will be tinkering with my torrix’s next week, swapping them to their alter-ego of Tench rods, and planning my April campaign on the same lake as last year, that according to my local informant performs well early spring. It’s crazy to think it was this time in 2020 we were released from the first full lock-down, and I struggled on there, blaming the shear angling pressure as the banks were insanely busy with carp anglers. Just my luck that in all probability exactly the same scenario will be repeating itself this year as well, as a thousand Carpers will be currently airing their bivvies in readiness for night fishing to resume!
On that sombre note I wish you all good health and tight lines,
Dave
Barbel Crazy 