Diary of a River Angler by Jed Jones (Images by FishingMagic)

(Part 1)

Part 2: The First Cast

River

As much as I was tempted to follow the river and take a peek at each likely swim I resisted and cut straight across the two meadows. Although I was enjoying the walk I would enjoy the fishing even better and by cutting across the two meadows it would give me an extra 15 minutes or so fishing time.

copse
A glorified copse
What’s 15 minutes in a lifetime you could ask. And I would respond with: a millisecond if you’re digging graves, but a millennium when you’re fishing.

I arrive at the wood where my first swim nestles and I can’t help but smile when I think about the dozens of other anglers who walk past it, oblivious to its charms. You see, it’s only a small wood, not much more than a glorified copse, but everyone refers to it as a wood and I’ve latched onto the same habit. What happens though, is that every angler I know follows the river to the wood and then takes the cow track through it and then follows the river again when they come out the other side. The reason is simple, the undergrowth is so thick with nettles, balsam, thistles and other shrubbery, no one even tries to access the river. Except me.

I discovered two seasons ago, in winter, when the vegetation was much less dense, that there is one area where you can squirm your way through if you take your time and shrug off the inevitable nettle stings and thistle injections. This evening I remove my modest box of lobworms and my even more modest box of slugs from my rucksack and hide the rucksack behind a huge nettle bed, along with my quiver holdall. Then, armed only with my quivertip rod, landing net and bait, I gingerly thrust my way through the mini English jungle, the anticipation of a result helping me to ignore the stings and thorns that seek vengeance upon me for having the temerity to invade their territory.

When I reach the water’s edge (almost anyway, for I want to remain hidden) stung, pierced, bitten and bloodied, not to mention the stinging sweat that runs into my eyes,

undergrowth
Thrust my way through the mini English jungle
I forget all that and drool at the sight of the little swim that lies before me. The mid-river current has lost its rush and slewed across to this gorgeous little glide that slips round and beneath the bush just below and slightly downstream of me. It’s a little more than 4ft deep and slow enough to be fished with a single SSG shot and a lobworm or slug.

As I crouch in that inhospitable undergrowth, trying to make myself comfortable yet remain concealed and quiet, the electric blue of a kingfisher flashes into the bush. For a mere second or so he sits there, just long enough for me to notice the all black bill and identify him as a male. In that brief moment before he flies off we look each other in the eye and he leaves me in no doubt that he’s miffed that I’d nicked his swim and surprised that anyone had found it.

My rod is already tackled up with 6lb line straight through to a 6’s hook. I reach into my pocket and take out one of the SSG shot that resides with the other rubble. I re-open the slot and pinch it onto the line about a foot from the hook. Carefully, so as not to make too much movement, I take the lid off the lobworm box and select the biggest one that tries to hide in the damp sphagnum moss. He’s a long, fat, slimy beast that last night clung to his hole like grim death when I pounced on him on my back lawn. It was a battle that lasted all of 15 seconds as he fought to escape, while I held on with just enough pressure to stop him but not enough to multiply him by two. I can’t help but feel a minuscule of pity for him as I slide the hook into him an inch below the head and thread some of him up the shank. Still, me and, I hope, a nice fat chub, appreciate the sacrifice he’s made. In recognition of his services to angling I christen him Lenny.

drooling
Drooling at the sight of the little swim
Now I’m confronted with the greatest danger of spooking any fish that as yet may be blissfully unaware of my presence as they go about their daily business: introducing my heroic lob into the swim without it seeming like anything but an act of God. I can’t swing the rod above or to either side of me to make a cast due to the undergrowth. I don’t want to stand up and swing the bait out as that too has its dangers. Even poking the rod out, almost over the swim, carries some risk. But I have to bite the bullet somehow and decide that the best option from a bad bunch is to catapult the bait out. So I grip the SSG shot between finger and thumb, stretch the rod out and bend the quivertip and a little of the rod until I judge there is just enough tension to propel bait and shot to just beyond the bush. It’s never as easy as it sounds.

Nevertheless, I release the shot and with two small splashes the worm and shot land just where I want them, and sink smoothly to the bottom. With a few flicks of the quivertip I persuade Lenny to lie right at the edge of the bush. OK, it’s show time.

Already my knees are protesting at being bent into a crouch and I know I can’t last long before I shall have to shift position. On the other hand I also know that if any hungry chub are within a few feet of Lenny the lob it won’t be long at all before a big fat mouth sucks him in and puts him out of his misery.

Just as these thoughts are taking shape in my mind I see the line, where it hangs almost loosely from the quivertip, beginning to tighten, and even before the quivertip bends my forearm muscles tense as I renew my grip around the rod butt and reel seat. I swing the rod to my right and feel elated as a surge of angry resistance fights back.

Kingfisher
Miffed that I’d nicked his swim
The rod bends as the quivertip tries to dive under the bush and then relief as the fish comes out at the downstream end. From there it’s easy peasy as the rod and reel, with a little help from me, persuade Lenny’s killer that my landing net is the best place to be.

Not wanting to put Mr Chub through the indignity of being taken for a trip through the undergrowth to be weighed, I guessed he would pull the scales to the best part of 5lb, maybe 4lbs 12ozs.

So I slipped him straight back, avoided as many stings and jabs as I could in the undergrowth and gathered up my gear. Like most chub swims along my river it was a one fish swim, and time to move on.

Next: Part 3 – Slugging it out with more chub

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