Bass 3, NFG 0

There's a westerly blowing up the bay and the sea's a seething cauldron around the rocky headland. Half an hour's enough to convince me this is a waste of time. The gale blows the braid into a huge bow by the time the lure lands and I can't really feel what it's doing in the surf. Every third or fourth cast, the wedge dings a rock and comes back festooned in wrack.

Regulars reckon the harder tides throw up the occasional big bass, but if there were any out in the tea-coloured waves, they weren't playing ball. If you fish the same beach regularly, you soon learn the sea has so many moods it's different nearly every time you go.

It's colour changes too. Today the water looked dirty, suspended silt the waves scoured off the banks lending a grey-brown tinge to the waves.

The summer's still young and there are some better-looking tides on the way.

The cruel sea

Jagged lumps of chalk and carr stone emerge as the tide retreats. The sea didn't fill me with confidence as I tabbed down the cliff path,  an umber-coloured band of water stretching out into the lazy swell.

But a few casts into the ebb and I start getting cocky, pushing the rod hard for maximum distance with the biggest wedge in my box, launching it out into clear water. This feels good for some reason, freshly-oiled reel spinning effortlessly on the retrieve.

The rod kicks violently as a fish smashes into the lure and I'm a happy bunny. I start gaining line on what feels like a sizeable fish. Then it swirls on the top, I see its big grey tail and it's gone. The hook I honed last night's still sharp,  it hit the spoon so hard I can't understand why the metal didn't stay put in its gob.

I give it a tickle with the sharpening stone just in case and carry on casting like I mean it, but the magic's gone. I replay the 30 seconds or so I had that fish on over and over again as I head back up the cliffs for home.

They orter be about by now

Foam fizzes in the sand as the waves break around the rocks. Gulls scream overhead as I launch the lure and watch it fly out to sea. It feels a little strange to start with but I soon get into a rythym, pausing every few casts to retreat a pace or two ahead of the incoming tide.

Summer's just around the corner. So hopefully are the bass, although this morning's high tide passed by without a hit for me and one of last summer's regulars, who beat me to the spot I fancied. The sea was slightly coloured, but I could see the lure flashing as I jinked it back over the tops of the boulders.

"Been a few out already," said the old boy up the beach as he folded down his rod and joined me for a smoke. "It was this week last year they started catching so they orter be about by now."

Wherever they are, I don't think they're where we are, I told him. But I've got a good feeling about this summer, me old podna.

An interesting walk, for shore

Brent geese caw in  flocks off-shore, as I hit the sand with furry chops. It's barely five minutes' walk from my house, but the beach is like another world as the tide ebbs and reveals its surreal rock-scape.

Winter storms have taken a big bite out of the cliffs, strewing shed-sized boulders at their feet. What strikes me is how much sand has gone, meaning bits which were barely three or four feet deep at high tide last summer must now be twice that.

The old wreck's still there, but the tides have moved her keel and popped the rivets from  her plates in places. I wonder how many winters she'll survive. I also wonder what fishing my usual pike fishing haunts would be like if they emptied the water out twice a day - more or less, depending on the moon phase, earth's rotation etc - and you could have a good old wander about on the bottom without getting your feet wet.

Then I spot something even more interesting than smashed razor shells and lugworm casts. As in a bit where the winter storms have gounged an even deeper bit, a perfect avenue between the rocks to work a lure through in a month or two's time. Bass alley..?

Season's end and pastures new

One thing after another ate into my time, as the last week of the season arrived. I managed just one more trip, a few hours on some pits with Matt where we were sure we'd get a few.

After several hours trying - and failing - to catch a pike, I changed down to the lighter lures I'd brought to see if I can catch a perch. Two pits later, the rod slams round and probably the only pike on the whole complex which isn't off somewhere else getting ready to spawn necks a three-inch Hammer shad.

This probably sums up my season. Couldn't get out as often as I wanted, caught jacks when I did catch anything, while a big fish popped up under everyone's noses from a water hardly anyone rates as worth fishing these days.

Sum total of things learned is probably small pike love the smaller shads which seem to be in vogue in the Fens these days, judging by what other people I've seen out and about are using. Next season seems a long way off right now, but I'll probably try a few new waters to see if I can get my head around catching perch.

There's a summer to be savoured before I get the pike rods out again. My plan for that is explore a few new bits of the coastline, which has been re-shaped by the winter storm tides, which have scoured several interesting new features for when the bass return.

Last summer's total of one shouldn't that hard to beat. Then again, it will be me on the other end of the rod so who knows.

As I watched the last of the tide ebb down the tidal river today, another thought sprang to mind. I'm sure I saw a fish swirl in the channel, flattening the ripple. Maybe it was a mullet. I found a few of those last summer, but never quite managed to catch one.

Mullet in the Fens - now there's a totally off-the-wall target, a mad idea I'd get a real buzz from if I ever managed to stick my hook into one. To be continued. Soon.

What a grey day

I flirt with two drains, neither of which look in any danger of throwing a fish up, before I try a new bit on the river. New, as in you can now get to a bit of it you couldn't before the EA removed a couple of trees and a tangle of reeds and undergrowth on a slight kink, meaning you can now fish along the drop-off, where the depth drops away to 20ft or more.

I'm not overly optimistic, on a grey old day with a downstream gale gathering pace beneath the clouds. After a few changes of lure, I can use the flow to push a Hammer shad into the bit where I think the fish might be, but it soon dawns on me they're not.

Peachy perch sings winter's swan song

After catching a couple of jacks and losing what felt like a bit bigger one, I paused to take a lung-full of spring. Winter's well and truly on the retreat, as buzzards wheel over the woods behind the pit and a woodpecker rattles out a drum solo on a birch tree.

Maybe this'll be the last time I go pike fishing for a few months, I tell myself now the sun's well and truly up in a cloud-less sky that rings with bird song. The gorse bushes are alight with the first yellow sparks of flower as I crash through the undergrowth back to the car.

I pitch up on another pit and lose a pike first cast in a shady corner, that comes off as I bend into it. It didn't feel that big, I  console myself. A few chucks later, I feel a succession of stacatto raps on the rod before it kicks round into a fish.

And what a fish it turns out to be. As in not a pike, but a peach of a perch that bristles and flares its gills as I slip the net under it. How big..? Don't ask me, I didn't weigh it. I grab a quick picture on the mat, alongside the four-inch Kopyto it engulfed, before I drop it back.

Strong stream advice

There's a new red flag flapping in the breeze as I pull over to check out the big drain, to see if it's fishable. Strong Stream Advice Issued, it says. There's a maelstrom boiling under the bridge, with all three of the big steel sluice gates open. The drain's brim-full and boiling.

I head inland for another drain, which is pulling off but looks worth an hour with the lure rods. Shads, grubs, curly-tailed wotcher-call'ems all come back festooned with debris every other chuck, whether I try hopping them along the deck or  pulling them through mid-water.

I know, they've got it a lot worse elsewhere, with the Somerset Levels, Midlands and Thames Valley flooded out. Another week or so - provided we don't get any more rain - and things might start looking a bit more hopeful. Then again, with three weeks of the season left, it could turn out to be a write-off.