John Bailey's Casting Off West
- Thread starter John Bailey
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Steve King
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Believe it or not, but growing up in the borders of Surrey and London in the 50s and 60s, native red squirrels still had a presence in the woods behind our garden!
Several members of a Facebook group I’m a member of have similar recollections.
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Casting Off West. 5.00pm 8/04/2021
A sad day. Once again to the mountains to recce for wild carp, our link with the monks of old. On the long but wonderful morning drive through hill and dale I reflect that perhaps the wildie is a myth, a figment of our desire to cast back to a golden age of tranquility and romance, a time when we could reasonably expect Excalibur to be lifted out just beyond our float one mist-laden dawn.
But on arrival at the lake, looking at the rugged terrain, I think “why not”? Surely this inhospitable fell has not changed in a millennium, so why should its fish stocks be anything but original and as ancient, almost, as the rocks around?
And then I see a dull golden gleam close to the far shore and I hurry round, heart in mouth. Up close, I stumble on what I fear, an almost perfect wild carp, sculptured in death. I am at once immediately affected by this. At almost any other carp lake such a sight would be regrettable, but not the catastrophe it is here. The grandeur of the morning is lost to me, and the drive home a sombre one indeed.
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Casting Off West. 10/04/2021
I applied to be put on the waiting list for a charming stillwater hereabouts, but learned yesterday I hadn’t made the cut for this year. I was not surprised, as more people than ever are fishing in these Covid times, but I still felt a stab of disappointment. For many years I have run a couple of syndicate waters in Norfolk, and only recently had to turn a would-be member down. I now know exactly and acutely how he feels, and it is not nice. I like to think that I have always tried to soften the blow of refusal, but from now I will take especial care to offer hope for the future. I guess that is a drawback to a long-distance move like this: you are inevitably the new kid on the block.
Last year in Norfolk, all the talk was of canoes and the damage they were doing. Last night I spent half an hour discussing the exact problem here on the Wye. Because the Wye is so much bigger than the upper Bure, say, it is easy to underestimate the canoe problem, but in the summer and during low water, it is acute. Children and novice paddlers are a particular threat as they simply do not know how to glide over historic, ecologically invaluable gravels.
What to do? We all know the legal rights of the matter, and by and large on upper rivers canoeists don’t have a leg to stand on. Given the attitude of the police, the EA, and authority in general, this is hardly a bother to them. Perhaps the only way is through education? We live in 'The Attenborough Age' when care of nature really is under the microscope. How do we make the decent canoeist realise the appalling harm he or she is doing to an environment they purport to love? Surely there is a consensus that it is good to enjoy our countryside, but not at the cost of destroying it?
I can only repeat this analogy. Blakeney Point in Norfolk is famous for its tern nesting colony. No one would play football there in springtime, and the National Trust would prosecute anyone who did. How come those same people would think it fine to canoe over miles of barbel spawning redds and destroy millions of eggs? There is no difference I can see, apart from the fact that fish have comparatively few champions.
So, Countryfile, The Field, all Wildlife Trusts, everyone with a voice, shouldn’t we be making this message heard?
I applied to be put on the waiting list for a charming stillwater hereabouts, but learned yesterday I hadn’t made the cut for this year. I was not surprised, as more people than ever are fishing in these Covid times, but I still felt a stab of disappointment. For many years I have run a couple of syndicate waters in Norfolk, and only recently had to turn a would-be member down. I now know exactly and acutely how he feels, and it is not nice. I like to think that I have always tried to soften the blow of refusal, but from now I will take especial care to offer hope for the future. I guess that is a drawback to a long-distance move like this: you are inevitably the new kid on the block.
Last year in Norfolk, all the talk was of canoes and the damage they were doing. Last night I spent half an hour discussing the exact problem here on the Wye. Because the Wye is so much bigger than the upper Bure, say, it is easy to underestimate the canoe problem, but in the summer and during low water, it is acute. Children and novice paddlers are a particular threat as they simply do not know how to glide over historic, ecologically invaluable gravels.
What to do? We all know the legal rights of the matter, and by and large on upper rivers canoeists don’t have a leg to stand on. Given the attitude of the police, the EA, and authority in general, this is hardly a bother to them. Perhaps the only way is through education? We live in 'The Attenborough Age' when care of nature really is under the microscope. How do we make the decent canoeist realise the appalling harm he or she is doing to an environment they purport to love? Surely there is a consensus that it is good to enjoy our countryside, but not at the cost of destroying it?
I can only repeat this analogy. Blakeney Point in Norfolk is famous for its tern nesting colony. No one would play football there in springtime, and the National Trust would prosecute anyone who did. How come those same people would think it fine to canoe over miles of barbel spawning redds and destroy millions of eggs? There is no difference I can see, apart from the fact that fish have comparatively few champions.
So, Countryfile, The Field, all Wildlife Trusts, everyone with a voice, shouldn’t we be making this message heard?
Actually John, we do NOT know the Law . . . . what we have currently are two (opposing) legal opinions that would have to be tested in the Courts, (and successfully appealed), before we will really and truly know the law . . . . .
It is not a problem for the paddlers because they are simply ignoring the "mutual agreements" that were the first choice of the Angling Trust, and they are relying on the fact that it is an expensive operation to get a legal and binding ruling on this . . . .Education only works on those who have a thirst to be educated, and on this topic the paddlers are just not interested.
Now, who is going to take on the P.R.N. challenge?
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Casting Off West. 12.00pm 11/04/2021
I don’t know if you remember the furore recently about the shameful damage done to a beat of the Lugg a few months ago, but it even made the nation’s newspapers and Six O’Clock News. Well, yesterday, Enoka and I decided to go and see for ourselves. We walked, walked, and walked some more, and most of the way simply wallowed in the beauty of an unspoiled valley. Then we came across carnage.
What possesses someone to spend so much time and money on ecological destruction? What on earth can any motive be that demands this level of satisfaction? At the time, I remember the surprising outrage from the authorities, but now I’m reserving my judgement. Yesterday it would appear, from a few smouldering logs, that work might still be taking place.
Does anyone know what has happened here? Is the fury that was expressed then been converted into any meaningful action? Who exactly is taking charge of correcting this damage done?
Steve King
Well-known member
My first wife's parents lived in Moreton Upon Lugg and I fished this beautiful little river many times. It was a great mixed fishery with chub, bream, roach and barbel being my most frequent captures. I tried several times to bag a brownie, but sadly failed!
It's terrible to learn of the damage to the Lugg, but it has all gone very quiet now! Perhaps there is some truth in the farmer's claims that he was authorised by the EA to carry out this destruction?
It's terrible to learn of the damage to the Lugg, but it has all gone very quiet now! Perhaps there is some truth in the farmer's claims that he was authorised by the EA to carry out this destruction?
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Casting Off West. 8.00am 15/04/2021
My heydays on the Wye were around 1986 to 1996, although I continued to lead trips there 'till around 2016... as I do again from this coming summer, albeit at a lower intensity. (Probably me and two others on a completely relaxed day out, perhaps learning trotting, free-lining, touch legering and even nymphing...) Those days were of almost constant exploration, both in terms of swims, and methods and baits. Part of my desire in coming West is to try and recreate those heady days when learning was an everyday experience. They say the past comes back to haunt you... even when it is an unreliable witness. I have had a couple of instances when folk remember those days from their own standpoint, and yesterday I was even accused of fishing a private stretch from a boat. Bizarre. I have fairly complete diaries from those years, but I don’t need those to be able to say with complete confidence I have never fished the Wye from a boat in my entire life! Still as an ex-teacher of the subject, I know history is a slippery science, and exists in the memories of those who remember it... or not. For the record, I can’t remember poaching anywhere since I was six or perhaps seven... I’m simply too much of a coward.
In 48 hours I will be driving 500 miles plus to the Highlands. This is not a pleasant prospect at my age, but then it is what I do, and I am lucky to be asked to do it, and still be able to do it. So, no, I won’t be complaining and I’ll be sticking by my assertion that I’ll never retire, the gods of health permitting. Partly, I can’t afford to, but equally, what would I do other than what I do now? I have often said that in my thirties I first met Hugh Falkus, and he has been my guiding light from day one of our relationship. I don’t mean the abrasive, difficult side of Hugh, but it is the charismatic, magical part of him I try to remember. Of course, I fall way short but every kid, whatever age, has to have his hero.
What about yours?????
My heydays on the Wye were around 1986 to 1996, although I continued to lead trips there 'till around 2016... as I do again from this coming summer, albeit at a lower intensity. (Probably me and two others on a completely relaxed day out, perhaps learning trotting, free-lining, touch legering and even nymphing...) Those days were of almost constant exploration, both in terms of swims, and methods and baits. Part of my desire in coming West is to try and recreate those heady days when learning was an everyday experience. They say the past comes back to haunt you... even when it is an unreliable witness. I have had a couple of instances when folk remember those days from their own standpoint, and yesterday I was even accused of fishing a private stretch from a boat. Bizarre. I have fairly complete diaries from those years, but I don’t need those to be able to say with complete confidence I have never fished the Wye from a boat in my entire life! Still as an ex-teacher of the subject, I know history is a slippery science, and exists in the memories of those who remember it... or not. For the record, I can’t remember poaching anywhere since I was six or perhaps seven... I’m simply too much of a coward.
In 48 hours I will be driving 500 miles plus to the Highlands. This is not a pleasant prospect at my age, but then it is what I do, and I am lucky to be asked to do it, and still be able to do it. So, no, I won’t be complaining and I’ll be sticking by my assertion that I’ll never retire, the gods of health permitting. Partly, I can’t afford to, but equally, what would I do other than what I do now? I have often said that in my thirties I first met Hugh Falkus, and he has been my guiding light from day one of our relationship. I don’t mean the abrasive, difficult side of Hugh, but it is the charismatic, magical part of him I try to remember. Of course, I fall way short but every kid, whatever age, has to have his hero.
What about yours?????
an old kid here, but certainly would regard Hugh Falkus as near to a hero as I have (only my late Dad actually has that status for me...) and have just finished re-reading Hugh's books, The Stolen Years and Some Of It Was Fun. I hope future generations will read these books, but sadly fear not.
I guess I only came to read Falkus after a great inspiration to me (another close to hero) , Don Salmon, took time to show me how to fish for salmon round 35 years ago. I was steered to the local tackle shop in Abergavenny where Ron Gover sold me the tackle, not expensive but right, Don showed/explained how to fishthe stretch I'd rented with a cottage for a week, and caught my first salmon on the last evening. I became instantly totally hooked and spent as much time as I had then either fishing the Usk (courtesy of Don's generosity ) or reading about salmon, which is where I came across Hugh Falkus. Sadly neither Don Salmon nor Hugh Falkus are with us, but dear Ron Gover still looks after a delightful beat at the sprightly age of 91. Now, there is a man who would advise on conservation..........maybe that's for another thread!
Jim Corbett...?
Steve Arnold
Well-known member
My thanks to John Bailey for his wonderful recollections on this forum, much appreciated.
I am not sure whose writings in Creel and Angling magazines stuck in my mind, but it was about 50 years ago! I have much to owe whoever did some memorable (for me!) pieces about the river Lot, France.
Like John, I had to make a brave move (at 65) to "get-a-life" four years ago. After many tedious years of ill health and a bad marriage, I finally had a break - Divorce! ........... and my chronic health problem (lupus) went into remission!
Fortunately I met the right woman (now my wife!) Sally. She had worked in France many years ago, still had friends here, that was our starting point.
Then my memories about those old magazines and the mentions of the wonderful river Lot kicked in.
To cut a long story short.... we sold up and moved the 1000 miles from Scotland to a rental gite near Cahors. Car, roofbox and small trailer held all that was left of our possessions after a year of selling "stuff" - amazing what rubbish you gather over the decades! A few months later we moved into a long term rental property, with 4 roads out of the village leading to the river Lot.
Anyone who has read my posts on this forum will know we are enjoying a great life!
So, to all of those writers that can string words together well enough to be memorable........
THANKYOU!
I am not sure whose writings in Creel and Angling magazines stuck in my mind, but it was about 50 years ago! I have much to owe whoever did some memorable (for me!) pieces about the river Lot, France.
Like John, I had to make a brave move (at 65) to "get-a-life" four years ago. After many tedious years of ill health and a bad marriage, I finally had a break - Divorce! ........... and my chronic health problem (lupus) went into remission!
Fortunately I met the right woman (now my wife!) Sally. She had worked in France many years ago, still had friends here, that was our starting point.
Then my memories about those old magazines and the mentions of the wonderful river Lot kicked in.
To cut a long story short.... we sold up and moved the 1000 miles from Scotland to a rental gite near Cahors. Car, roofbox and small trailer held all that was left of our possessions after a year of selling "stuff" - amazing what rubbish you gather over the decades! A few months later we moved into a long term rental property, with 4 roads out of the village leading to the river Lot.
Anyone who has read my posts on this forum will know we are enjoying a great life!
So, to all of those writers that can string words together well enough to be memorable........
THANKYOU!
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JG, bream and the Gang
Simon Rattcliffe with a lovely fish
Dave with the 14
JG with a mint tench
Ratters and JB celebrate on a tough session
Casting Off West. 26/04/21
Well, as it happens, I have retrieved and found myself back East, at Kingfisher, my old stamping ground. I have no doubts about the move, but is grand to be back, surrounded by old friends. There is the fishing crew, but also Robbie Northman, a constant presence, and members of the excellent club here, Peter Chellis, Jon Trett, Rob Jeremy, and so many more making me feel welcome. The only conceivable downer is the Easterly wind that only ceases when it decides to swing from the North. Oh, and add a dozen consecutive mornings of frost to that scenario too!
As some of you know, my heart sinks like nothing else when I know there are Easterlies about, but we decided to bite the bullet and fish like demons! We baited hard in the hope that if bream came over us, there would be enough to pull them down and make them feed.
We watched for those areas the wind bit with least force. The lee of the island, around the bridge, in the shelter of trees, anywhere the surface was comparatively unruffled. We looked for signs of a fly hatch, in large part guided by the activity of the birds. Wherever we saw concentrations of swallows, gulls and terns over the water, we watched for fish. And whenever we saw the splash of a tench or the quiet roll of a bream, we’d get a feeder out there.
We paid great attention to gear. Sharp hooks. Sound line and knots. Well balanced baits and hooks. End rigs that would hook even a hesitant take. Sitting on the rods, looking for a quick nod on the rod tip or a lift where line meets water.
We didn’t loll around in our usual style, stoking the Kelly kettle and eating cake all day and, to an extent, it paid off. Okay, we didn’t empty the place but 30 plus fish, every one a good one, over the two days for five anglers was better than it could have been, especially if you add in plenty of failed takes and quite a few fish dropped on the way in.
The best bream went an ounce over 14 pounds and there were tench to 8 and a bit. Best baits were plastic maggot combinations by far. Was it a bit cold for boilies still, we wondered? Given the frosts, nothing much happened either 'till 10.00am or later so particles seemed the way to go.
As I write I have three more days, and further developments will be noted. We might not have got it perfect, but better than I feared!
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Professor Carp with a stunner
Enoka with a lovely fish
Tim with a double figure bream and a chunky male...
Casting Off West. 6.00pm 29/04/2021
Well, I am back in Herefordshire after a fraught journey from Norfolk during which I broke the national speed limit once, over the exact half mile a speed van was sitting in a layby... the remainder of the journey was one of deepest gloom. And reflection on six days back at Kingfisher after tench and bream, along with doing some researching for a certain angling duo of legendary status!
A hundred plus fish caught by my chums was a decent return, considering the never-ceasing Easterlies and Northerlies, and the fact there were frosts most days. I’ve whinged about these conditions so often I know I am boring myself to death, never mind you lot so all I’ll do is to outline the lessons learned, some not for the first time.
Bait hard in the hope of pulling in bream and even silvers. This can give sport and stimulate tench to have a go too.
Don’t expect tench to feed before nine or so after a hard frost on a deep, wind-lashed gravel pit. It takes time for them to wake up and get their togs on.
Choose swims carefully. Avoid water hit hard by the wind and look for any sheltered areas. When birds like gulls and terns begin to swoop, there is a fly hatch happening and your chances rise.
In cold times like these, particle baits and smaller hooks seem to work better than boilies/pellets and large hooks.
Tench do not feed with belt-bursting gusto when it is cold. Look for small bites and indications. The sharpest hooks and the most perfect rigs will nail more fish for you. When tench are really going for it, you can leave more to chance and get away with it. Not so after a frost, and do not be surprised if fish drop off in the battle either. This means that your bolt set-ups are not quite cutting it. Try a heavier feeder or lead. Fiddle with hook lengths. A heavy bobbin can help – if you need one at all.
It's always interesting that when I have four mates fishing for a couple of days on a big swim, and they are sitting in a row, one of them will always be clear top dog. Generally, all things being equal, the angler fishing at the end of the line will win out, but especially so if he is on the side that the wind is blowing towards. I haven’t expressed myself well, but if the wind is blowing left to right, then the angler on the extreme right is likely to be the busiest. Not exactly sure of the reasons but it has been a fact in my experience.
I like to bait hard for ten minutes every hour, and then leave the swim to settle... but you do get bites as the Spomb goes in.
Don’t give up. Tench can switch on out of nowhere. A bad day can turn good just when your heart is sinking. If you can fish two or three sessions, consequently your chances rise as more fish respond to the bait.
And now, for a week I am back to my Welsh wild carp with relish. Farewell to the East. Roll on the Wild West!
If you are heading up to the xx Llyn I advise take plenty of warm clothes, it is flippin cold out there in the hills at the moment and that place is exposed. A lake 1300ft up is not like nice warm Norfolk, I was trouting yesterday at near 1000ft and endured freezing wind and sleet showers for 2 hours before running for home!
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Casting Off West. Saturday 9.15am 8/05/2021
It has been a very extraordinary and busy week for me, so I apologise for being AWOL. I have been trying to tangle with some wild carp, if there is such a creature genetically, and just finding waters where they still linger on is not easy. Then you have to catch them, again a puzzle, but made into a torment by the dire weather of the week past. Wednesday was a great example of what I mean: I awoke at 5.30 am to gaze on a thick frost coating the paddock outside. As I drove West into the hills and then the mountains, the clear sky clouded, the temperature fell to 2 degrees and snow began to fall. By the time I had reached 1400 feet altitude the moorland had a skimming of white, whilst the peaks to the North of me loomed like mini-Himalayas. The wind was coming from those snow-capped heights and was brutal, carrying more big, floaty flakes. Brilliant, I said to myself. May. Too cold this for a winter pike session. What on God’s glorious earth am I doing here?
In the event, not much. Not a fish, not a bite did I see 'till mid-afternoon, when I accepted defeat and ran from the hills, wind-induced tears still streaming down my frost-bitten face. If you think I have embellished an ordinary sort of day into a mock-heroic one, think again. It was worse than my keyboard can describe.
But Thursday, ah, glorious Thursday was a day different altogether and the sun shone, the wind moderated, and the carp in another sky-high lake began to show their stunning selves. A wild carp was caught, and a lady from London who is more at home in the West End than the Wild West, pronounced it the most perfect fish she had ever seen. 'That’s truly beautiful', she said, and the sight of it was like uncovering treasure. There was even a nearby cuckoo serenading us with its springtime song. Again, you might think I’m overcooking it all but I am not. You really should have been there.
Today, though, normal service has been resumed, and it’s pelting with rain so my next wildie adventure, arranged for this afternoon, might have to be put on hold. One fish a week, though, is quite enough when it is a jewel like this one.
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How much kit do we really need?
Casting Off West. 13/05/2021
Once again, my title is just a tad misleading as I’m about to embark on a tench/bream mission some way back East. Not the full Monty, back to Norfolk, but some way in between and I mention it for several points of interest. First, my ultra-secret venue is an estate lake of impressive size and depth. Of course, I was brought up on Norfolk estate lakes but that was way back in the Sixties (Fifties even) when the otter scourge of today was never dreamed of, and the lower numbers of those creatures merged harmlessly into the countryside scene. It’s a while since I have fished such a water and I have to ask myself if my pit techniques this century will be a blinding success. Or not.
Important this as I have a lot riding on this mission. I have a number of dear friends accompanying me and I want to do my best by them. Accordingly, I won’t be leaving a stone unturned, and even yesterday went into the Leominster pet shop to order three 15kg sacks of Vitalin. It then took me an hour or more to assemble the mountain of kit I reckon on needing. The use of the word “mountain” is significant. I remember how my hero Reinhold Messner used to climb the 8000 metre peaks in lightning style, travelling solo with barely any encumbrance, and in such stark contrast to the usual siege methods employed by traditional expeditions. Such is it with fishing. A week or two ago I was fishing for carp with fly gear and a few imitation dog biscuits. Everything required for success would have fitted into a brief case. For this particular quest, the gear I have ready would fill a removal lorry. Overkill? You tell me!
1 Spomb Rod, set up, ready to fire.
4 Avon Rods... Marksmans of course, 11’ and 11’6”
2 Float rods... Marksman 14 footers.
4 x 2500 Baitrunners
2x Piscario Centre pins.
Buzzers, rests, nets and mats
Hook lengths, blockends, method feeders and Stonz
2x Float Tubes, shot and rubbers.
Spare spools of 6, 8 and 10 pound line... Spare braid and lead core.
Hook boxes, plastic baits of all sorts, baiting needles, scissors, forceps, scales, slings and cameras.
45 kg (dry weight) Vitalin
10kg corn
15kg 6mm pellets
10kg hemp
5kg boilies (Robin Red)
6x pints red maggots
5kg feeder mix
Licence renewed (reluctantly, given the state of the EA). Diesel fill up. Batteries stocked. Weather forecasts studied. Prayers offered.
Will we plant our flag on the summit of a tench mountain or will the invincibility of nature humble us again? We can but travel with hope in our hearts.
Kit overkill!
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Casting Off West. 18/05/2021
So, yes, my life these last four days has centred around a very large lake in the centre of the country. Its beauty is entrancing, and what makes it different is that this is an old estate lake lake rather than a relatively new gravel pit. Like many of us, my fishing efforts this century have been on the latter simply because of otter damage on the former. The question on my mind therefore was whether my pit approaches would travel, and whether tench in particular would respond to methods I have employed for fifteen years at least?
Grand as the lake is, it is barely fished, so I did not have much to go on, though I was helped by a regular there, the truly excellent Steve. Without him I would have been lost. He told me tench were present, but it was in what numbers that tormented me. On my gravel pits, I have been used to baiting lavishly because I have known there have been tench in droves. Here? I knew I could overfill a small number of tench by over-feeding, but would I induce what fish were present if I did not feed heavily enough to interest them? In the end, I decided to go for it big time and take that risk.
Steve had caught his fish at range, around 60 yards. Fine, on my arrival we both spombed large amounts of feed out at that range, but I made the cardinal mistake of not investigating the area with a feeder first. I also fed a seven foot deep corridor running around fifteen yards out as a float zone. That was Saturday. I was back early Sunday to trial fish. You know what I am going to say. The first feeders went out sixty yards to the baited area... and found thick(ish) weed, certainly enough to make life difficult. The inner area, however, was largely weed-free so I breathed a small sigh of relief, tempered by the knowledge Steve had never caught fish so close in. With those thoughts in mind, we continued to spomb at range and to feed close in by hand. Serious fishing would begin on Monday. but I left Sunday night with sleep-disturbing misgivings. Hardly a fish had showed or bubbled. A day and a half of baiting had induced absolutely no signs of reaction from the tench. Moreover, I was seeing vast clouds of daphnia all around the lake’s margins. Would this surprisingly early natural feast prove to be a further knife in my hopes?
Monday dawned. My team arrived. Two feeder rods and two float rods were ready to go. There were still no sightings of moving tench, but a surprising fact gave me hope. The weed that I had dreaded at range had by some miracle all but disappeared. Had feeding fish activity actually cleared the area up for me? At 10.15am, two good-sized tench did porpoise out there and I felt the jigsaw was taking shape.
And so it proved. The first few tench came on the feeder, but soon the float-caught fish were catching up in number and size. We don’t thrash our swims, and eight or nine tench were all we wanted to prove the success of an interesting little campaign. The biggest fish was certainly an “eight” (perhaps a “nine”) and the smallest a little over “five”. Best of all, their astounding beauty mirrored the Arcadian elegance of the water. This truly was a successful step back into a time that reminded me of my childhood, fishing the equally exquisite estate lakes of North Norfolk. I could have been twelve all over again, blissfully happy on magical lakes like Holkham, Bayfield, Blickling or Wolterton. You’ll believe me when I say I drove away in something of a daze!
So, yes, my life these last four days has centred around a very large lake in the centre of the country. Its beauty is entrancing, and what makes it different is that this is an old estate lake lake rather than a relatively new gravel pit. Like many of us, my fishing efforts this century have been on the latter simply because of otter damage on the former. The question on my mind therefore was whether my pit approaches would travel, and whether tench in particular would respond to methods I have employed for fifteen years at least?
Grand as the lake is, it is barely fished, so I did not have much to go on, though I was helped by a regular there, the truly excellent Steve. Without him I would have been lost. He told me tench were present, but it was in what numbers that tormented me. On my gravel pits, I have been used to baiting lavishly because I have known there have been tench in droves. Here? I knew I could overfill a small number of tench by over-feeding, but would I induce what fish were present if I did not feed heavily enough to interest them? In the end, I decided to go for it big time and take that risk.
Steve had caught his fish at range, around 60 yards. Fine, on my arrival we both spombed large amounts of feed out at that range, but I made the cardinal mistake of not investigating the area with a feeder first. I also fed a seven foot deep corridor running around fifteen yards out as a float zone. That was Saturday. I was back early Sunday to trial fish. You know what I am going to say. The first feeders went out sixty yards to the baited area... and found thick(ish) weed, certainly enough to make life difficult. The inner area, however, was largely weed-free so I breathed a small sigh of relief, tempered by the knowledge Steve had never caught fish so close in. With those thoughts in mind, we continued to spomb at range and to feed close in by hand. Serious fishing would begin on Monday. but I left Sunday night with sleep-disturbing misgivings. Hardly a fish had showed or bubbled. A day and a half of baiting had induced absolutely no signs of reaction from the tench. Moreover, I was seeing vast clouds of daphnia all around the lake’s margins. Would this surprisingly early natural feast prove to be a further knife in my hopes?
Monday dawned. My team arrived. Two feeder rods and two float rods were ready to go. There were still no sightings of moving tench, but a surprising fact gave me hope. The weed that I had dreaded at range had by some miracle all but disappeared. Had feeding fish activity actually cleared the area up for me? At 10.15am, two good-sized tench did porpoise out there and I felt the jigsaw was taking shape.
And so it proved. The first few tench came on the feeder, but soon the float-caught fish were catching up in number and size. We don’t thrash our swims, and eight or nine tench were all we wanted to prove the success of an interesting little campaign. The biggest fish was certainly an “eight” (perhaps a “nine”) and the smallest a little over “five”. Best of all, their astounding beauty mirrored the Arcadian elegance of the water. This truly was a successful step back into a time that reminded me of my childhood, fishing the equally exquisite estate lakes of North Norfolk. I could have been twelve all over again, blissfully happy on magical lakes like Holkham, Bayfield, Blickling or Wolterton. You’ll believe me when I say I drove away in something of a daze!
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The Lake of the Black Pike
Casting Off West. 22/05/2021
A hugely exciting morning coming up for me as I go to visit new stretches of the Arrow, the Wye, and the Usk in a mad whirl of exploration. I’ll report back, but first I have a tale to tell from my recent experiences in middle England. First admission, I cannot produce photographs. Nor can I reveal my location, so you will have to trust me that these events happened. Or not.
Imagine a large (20 acre-plus) estate lake. Hardly fished. Tench and bream and perhaps some perch. A huge head of jacks. Crystal clear water. I am reeling in a feeder that is festooned with weed. This is my second or third trial cast, and I am dismayed at the level of weed growth out there. I’m reeling quickly enough for the feeder to create a bow wave but this grows bigger and bigger. And much bigger. I glimpse a long, broad jet black shape behind it closing fast. It’s an otter, got to be. The feeder is a rod length out now, and still the shape is there, circling, swirling, considering an attack.
A pike. A huge pike. I have seen four forties in my time and literally scores of thirties, and this fish is right up there, top of the tree. For half a minute, the black brute patrols with menace, and then it melds back into the deep water beyond and disappears into the bowels of the lake.
Three days later and I have managed to bait big numbers of tench into float fishing range. They have cleared the bed of silt as they have vacuumed for food, and we have done well with magnificent, large fish. The activity has been immense and has attracted the attention of my pike. It is 9.00am on a dark, windy day. Again, the great shape of darkness looms out from the rod tip, hangs there for a few seconds before vanishing so quickly I doubt what I have seen. D is playing a tench ten minutes later. I am ready with the net when the shape, the thing appears again, stalking the tench, debating an attempt on it. The pike shears away in a wall of disturbed water and the tench is landed... 8 pounds 3 ounces. The swim goes dead.
Three times more the scenario is repeated until the gale becomes impossible to fish through and we pull off the lake. We are not fools, D, J and me. We have had dead baits out there and have given ludicrously big lures a go, all to no avail. No. This monster is a jack pike eater, a browser on occasional six pound tench. It has grown massive and thrived on neglect and plentiful food sources. I’ve seen some stuff in my angling life, but this is up there for bone-chilling excitement. But there’s a lesson. Those who have fished the lake have never seen any pike much above doubles. This is not the first lake I have known where monsters have existed beneath the radar, feeding on four pound fish and nothing else, water fowl excepted. Of course, it takes patience and faith to fish a massive dead bait on a venue. You might have to wait a week, a season, forever. But when that float does go and the line snakes out, this could be the fish of any angler’s lifetime!
xenon
Well-known member
Even the idea of deadbaiting with a four pound jack (let alone livebaiting with the same...Jeez) leaves me feeling a bit queasy.