tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-72898539462396516342024-03-19T08:13:38.776+00:00Norfolk 'N Goodone of them pike fishing blogsUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger446125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7289853946239651634.post-88209596892646992042020-09-19T22:46:00.001+01:002020-09-19T22:49:39.653+01:00Catching some for Dad<p><br />The handle's a bit wonky but the dusty old Mitchell Match is still silky smooth. The finger-dab bail arm flicks open as I do an air cast in my late father's workshop. It shuts with a neat click as I turn the handle.</p><p>"It's 40 years old but it'll still catch fish," I tell myself as I sort through the old boy's kit with my son. "I'll take it out and nail a few on it for him."</p><p>I gave a lot away after my old man died of coronavirus on his 85th birthday. His best fishing mate had his best pole. That only seemed fair, bearing in mind he had to go swimming to retrieve the top half after Pops lost a tug-of-war with a carp.</p><p>Other bits went to the club he used to belong to while he was a winter league stalwart on the upper Thames, to dish out to any needy juniors. Dad would probably have liked that.</p><p>I ended up with some ancient Mitchells and the pair of Daiwa match reels I gifted him nearly 25 years back when I took a break from fishing before I moved to the Fens and the pike bug bit me. There were battered float and tip rods, along with boxes of wagglers and stick floats.</p><p>I hadn't been fishing for the best part of three years before he died. As I put one of his old rods together in my study, I knew he'd have wanted me to carry on the passion he nurtured in me through the tears.</p><p>So I decided to give it another go, using his gear for his kind of fishing - or as close as I could get to it, while I remembered him and struggled to find some closure.</p><p>Fishing was a thread that ran through both our lives. Perhaps I needed to find it again, as I struggled to come to terms with his loss. Maybe I'll go fishing again for Ron then, I decided.</p><p> </p><p><br /></p><p>As Dad's dementia started kicking in, it booted his short term memory into the long grass. But for a while, he vividly remembered fragments of his life, like dog-eared snapshots from days gone by.</p><p>A few months before he died, he went missing in action when Mum sent him out to the chest freezer in his workshop to get a bag of oven chips.</p><p>"Where's the chips," she shrieked. "He's been gone half an hour, you'd better go and look for him. He's probably wandered off."</p><p>I found him in the garage. Instead of the chips, he had one of my old fibreglass pike rods in his hands.</p><p>"Ah, there you are," he said, as if he'd been waiting for me all along. "You must remember this rod.</p><p>"You caught a big old pike on it, didn't you. In the wierpool at Buscott, under the big old tree at the end. It was raining and you'd left your camera in the car. I got soaking wet going back to get it for you. You bought me a pint on the way home."</p><p>I found the chips my Dad had taken less than 10 minutes to forget. I couldn't even fathom how he could recall a day's fishing more than 30 years ago when he couldn't remember what he'd gone into the garage for in the first place.</p><p>The last time I saw him in early March, he didn't know who I was. He thought he was a fighter pilot in the Battle of Britain. The Luftwaffe were on their way to bomb us and he was ready to sprint to his fighter from the care home when the call came to scramble.</p><p>"Your Spitfire must be the only one with a booster cushion then," I told him as we had a laugh with his carers over lunch. "Because you were six years old in 1940 mate."</p><p>He was off to the big winter league in the sky few days later. My Mum died four days after. I couldn't be with either of them at the end because of lockdown. I doubt I'll ever get over that as long as I live. </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p>The Sun's well up over the marshes. It's boiling hot and the carp are swirling up and down the margins. This was Dad's kind of fishing - or the nearest thing you can get to it where I live on the Norfolk coast.</p><p>It's not the sort of thing I ever thought I'd ever end up doing as I spent the winter chasing pike around the Fens. </p><p>I didn't quite manage to elasticate the carp crunchin' margin mashin' heavy haulin' lump landin' power pole, or whatever it's called. </p><p>It's still in the study, along with numerous off-cuts of latex and the bits that go on the end that I couldn't quite manage to get to go on the end before I ran out of the elastic.</p><p>So it's Mitchell Match and John Wilson Avon all the way, float fishing the margins with new 8lbs line and one of those hair rig spear things you push through your bait, complete with additional flavouring from the occasional puncture wound when you miss when you're poking the needle thing in and you do a Snow White on your finger.</p><p>I get the bait in, feed some pellets like they tell you in all the videos and the float shoots off. I briefly see the fish when I pull into it as it surges off.</p><p>It looks about 2lbs as it flies off in a great V-wave, before the 8lbs line does its job. It looks a little bigger as it plods around in ever-decreasing circles before I get the one net from my father's workshop that hadn't been shredded by mice under it. I look up to the sky and say: "There you go matey, this one's for you." </p><p>Greylag geese squawk overhead. A large lump of goose poo catches me right down my T-shirt. Life's crapped on me big time lately, but I wipe it off and have another chuck.</p><p>The float goes five minutes later and another carp belts around under the rod top for a bit before I slide the net under all three or four pounds of it. I'm not completely sure I'm enjoying this, but I'm catching.</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p>"Wotcha catchin' on," says a bloke who appears down the bank after I slip it back. "What gear you on, corr what reel you got there, is that a Mitchell Match..?"</p><p>Bit of meat on one of those needle, watch your fingers health and safety jobs. Yes it's a Mitchell Match, belonged to my late father.</p><p>The bloke wanders off before I can explain the reel's history and its career catching hard-earned points from far bank chub on 3AA wagglers in Thames winter leagues. Five minutes later, he's back. </p><p>"I was just wondering, well I've just rung my mate and he was really interested," he says. "You don't fancy selling that reel do you - they're getting as rare as hen's teeth, he'll give you twenty quid for it. Twenty quid. You wouldn't get that for one on e-Bay."</p><p>I look down at Dad's battered old Mitchell Match, which has somehow helped pull two carp out of one of the marsh lakes.</p><p>I shake my head and explain its sentimental value, which probably means I'll never part company with it. Chub down the far bank on double caster. Winter leagues and all that.</p><p>"My mate's into his cameras as well," the guy shrugs, looking at my bashed up old Nikons, one of which took a picture that made every national newspaper and went round the world not so long ago. </p><p>"He buys and sells them too. Knows a bit about cameras he does, like what they're worth, he says are they Canon..? How much would you be after for them..? He says he can do you a top price on any cameras like, obviously all cash mate. He'll probably go a good few hundred mate."</p><p>I hold onto both the reel and the cameras. Including the one that took the picture that went everywhere. As the bloke wanders off, I hear him ask the angler in a nearby swim if he wants to sell his pole. His mate would give him £100 for it. Cash on the nail.</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p>Grand Dad, Grand Dad. I've got one, I've got one. I've got a fish. It's a fish, look Grand Dad. I've caught a fish. But I've had a bit of an accident too.</p><p>I can't remember if I wee'd myself with excitement when I caught my first fish the best part of half a century ago.</p><p>That's OK, the wife says. We'll take your pants off and hang them off Grand Dad's chair to dry 'em out boy.</p><p>We got an invite to a little pond tucked away in the middle of nowhere by way of thanks for some pictures I did for the local papers. And the bites came thick and fast from start to finish.</p><p>Little perch and roach were punctuated by the odd pastie and a bream that might have been worth weighing if you're into knowing what your bream weigh.</p><p>Got another one Grand Dad. That's 18 now. I've caught 18 fish. Down goes the float and a bigger perch wangs his elastic.</p><p>Granny, when are we going home, he asks. Not for a bit, the wife says, as she nails a skimmer. I haven't felt this chilled in ages, she says, as she expertly snags her float on a tree.</p><p>Laughter ripples across the lake, as a little girl on the other bank catches a pastie-sized carp. Daddy, daddy, look - I've got one, I've got one. She's still dancing up and down with excitement five minutes after her old man takes the hook out and drops it back into the lake. </p><p>It hits me as I reel in a 4oz roach on my Dad's old Mitchell Match. This is what fishing's all about. </p><p><br /></p><p> </p>NAGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02680487870723999908noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7289853946239651634.post-2220333033561142015-11-16T14:58:00.000+00:002015-11-16T14:58:28.288+00:00Pike don't like Mondays - or do they..? <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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This one hit the lure and threw it in a tailwalk, before it chased it half way across the drain and nailed it under my feet. Not the biggest pike I've ever caught, but it has to be one of the maddest. It came on a day when I not only caught several, but learned loads.<br />
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I kicked off on the Big Drain, after reading a snippet in the local paper which said lure anglers had been enjoying multiple catches. I guessed where, as bitter experience has taught me there's only one part of this drain where the fish seem to congregate in numbers.<br />
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Head down there, three or four chucks and bingo. I'm struggling with westerly tearing down the cut. It's hard to keep the line tight, let alone feel what the lure's doing in 20 knots of wind. Two or three fish hit and come off, maybe because I've filed the barb down on the jig head and there's so much bow in the line when one hits that the fish throw the lure as I bend into them.<br />
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Go somewhere else, a little voice in the back of my head says. I have a feeling they'd be really up for it today, if I could only fish the lure right.<br />
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The Chipper Bailiff appears as I'm walking back to the wheels. Hella, Chris. Hella, me ole podna. Chips says no-one much has been on the next stretch I fancy, where a drain flows through deep, tree-lined banks. So I head off there.<br />
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It not only looks nice, I can see where the weed is as the sun comes out. Jink a yellow shad over the top and I can see it waddling its way across. I caught a few on there too. Exciting stuff, as I saw most of them come flying after the lure before they whacked it.<br />
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The biggest one might have gone 4lbs on a good day, but every swim I tried seemed to have one or two lean and nicely-marked pike. All came on the same yellow Kopyto, that got ripped and shredded as I hopped from swim to swim.<br />
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I didn't keep count, other than the best one looked around 8lbs and I took a break to watch a marsh harrier hunting over the far bank. I was bored by 11am - I could have caught more, but I'd had enough by then.<br />
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My arms were still killing me from yesterday, when the woman who keeps horses behind the King's Lynn AA lake at Snetty brought me a Transit tipper-full of muck for my veg plots.<br />
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I dropped in the garden on my way home and the garlic and onions are up in the mild weather that's kissed the coast.<br />
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And just how mild is it right now? I can't remember an Autumn like it, I said to my neighbour Canary John, as we spread muck on our gardens yesty.<br />
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It's just nice to get out fishing and catch a few, on a day when they were well up for it.<br />
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Nothing any size, but I enjoyed it all the same. I'm starting to love it, like I used to. Roll on next weekend.<br />
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NAGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02680487870723999908noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7289853946239651634.post-14539196047781348032015-09-27T16:34:00.003+01:002015-09-27T16:34:58.166+01:00Indian Summer<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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So here I am once more. In the playground of the broken hearts. One more experience, one more entry, in a diary self-penned. Ten yards up the bank and I turned off Marillion before I threw myself in the drain.<br />
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What am I doing back here, I ask myself, looking at the gin-clear drain. It seemed like a good idea when I set off, loading up the car as a skein of pinks howled overhead.<br />
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On goes a yellow rubber fish thing. I have rubber fish things in almost every colour of the rainbow, but I like the yellow ones. You can see them on the retrieve for one thing, speeding up to lift them over the marginal weed growth.<br />
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After more than 10 months off, it's nice to be fishing again - throwing a yellow rubber thing two-thirds across the Big Drain.<br />
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I even see some pike. Jacks stalk the lure as it comes into view, fins all flared. Little males chasing a gaudy invader off their territory, with no intention off eating it.<br />
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I mess around for an hour or so. Just once, a bigger fish lunges and misses leaving a cloud of silt behind it.<br />
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When the temperature hits 18C, I hit the road for home. Perhaps, just perhaps, I might get back into this. <br />
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<br />NAGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02680487870723999908noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7289853946239651634.post-19800041357858671222014-11-09T17:55:00.002+00:002014-11-09T17:55:36.867+00:00Low water<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Had a bash on the new banking they've put along one of the drains first thing. Glorious morning, despite the forecast, but the level's lower than I've ever seen it and the water's so clear I can see the lure a third of the way across.<br />
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I wonder how long the new banking's going to last - clay retained by fabric, in turn retained by stakes hammered in like the ones we use to build fences with on the allotments.<br />
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An hour of this and all I had were a couple of follows to show for it. That includes one which almost beached itself as it decided to lunge for the shad at the last moment but ran out of water before it turned away in a great V-wave.<br />
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Tried the big river, a smaller river and a couple of other places before I gave it best.<br />
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At least winter's on the way. Kind of.NAGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02680487870723999908noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7289853946239651634.post-29057122212340112572014-10-01T16:57:00.002+01:002014-10-01T16:57:31.539+01:00Things can only get better<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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October dawns with distinctly un October-like weather, but hey ho - seemed rude not to. Twenty-two degrees by lunchtime, eaten alive by midges, one missed run. Things can only get better. Hopefully.NAGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02680487870723999908noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7289853946239651634.post-33893299095838915382014-08-12T18:00:00.000+01:002014-08-12T18:00:02.269+01:00Let's twist again, like we did last summer<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I was never 100pc happy with the crimped traces I made last winter. I didn't have one fail on me - possibly not surprising, bearing in mind my pitiful tally of bigger fish. I just couldn't find quite the right-sized crimps, it looked a mess passing the wire through three times, you need a sleeve, then you worry whether the wire's OK under the sleeve, etc.<br />
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Twisting had its drawbacks too. I know there are people in the Fens with 11 fingers, but most of us only have two pairs of hands.That means it's a faff trying to keep the turns neat as you twist and maintain the right tension in the wire to twist without unravelling or kinking it.<br />
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Easy answer..? Make a jig. I don't know why I didn't think of that years ago. It could be as simple as an anchorage point in a block of wood, which you clamp to a workbench or table top, or you could go for a full-on base, with different lengths marked on it.<br />
<br />
The anchorage has to be secure. It also needs to turn under tension to get the twists right. Easy way of doing that..? Ball bearing swivel and an old coastlock. Screw it in as shown.<br />
<br />
To start off, tie an overhand loop in the wire, cut to length and twist on the bottom hook. Do this by forming a lark's head hitch and heating the end of the wire to anneal (soften) it first.<br />
<br />
Take the wire out of the coastlock, cut the loop off and tie the top hook in. Then stick the top hook in the coastlock, while you twist on the swivel at the other end.<br />
<br />
Simple or what..?NAGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02680487870723999908noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7289853946239651634.post-84872584085598031362014-08-05T14:45:00.000+01:002014-08-05T14:45:20.511+01:00Some walk<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
<br />
I'd forgotten just how long it takes to cover the couple of miles from the harbour along the floodbank, onto the boardwalk to the bird reserve, then along the tops of the dunes to the harbour mouth. Must have been getting on for an hour - talk about a walk.<br />
<br />
Good job I only brought a rod and a few lures today - along with plenty of water. Incredibly, when I get to the spot there's another guy there with rod, sitting admiring the view across the fast-filling bay.<br />
<br />
I give it half an hour, rapidly discovering it's a lot shallower than it use to be. It's only a small tide today, but there used to be more than a couple of feet of water out in the middle. I guess lack of feeding birds means if there's any action happening, it's out to sea.<br />
<br />
Maybe one to try on a bigger tide.NAGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02680487870723999908noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7289853946239651634.post-47554742619764336692014-08-04T18:00:00.000+01:002014-08-04T19:15:00.700+01:00Neaps<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoBsbOwvIIVSt2iGHUAa4Hw5foJx9oSX6bunT6E1kECzuuhoXkC11grOKqUphuj3aIZDaDmZX03JFJPe91sco7dvG35LygIwHhCx40pigTDIlfSMErsVJo2F409eAQFhj_vkBEZPV2drw/s1600/new_lures_1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoBsbOwvIIVSt2iGHUAa4Hw5foJx9oSX6bunT6E1kECzuuhoXkC11grOKqUphuj3aIZDaDmZX03JFJPe91sco7dvG35LygIwHhCx40pigTDIlfSMErsVJo2F409eAQFhj_vkBEZPV2drw/s1600/new_lures_1.JPG" height="408" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
Today saw just a 6m tide on Mussel Bay, barely enough to cover the rocks on the foreshore at high water. There's worse to come, with heights dropping to 5.6m on Wednesday, before the sea starts to build again towards the end of the the week.<br />
<br />
Some reckon the big tides, the sevens and eights are the ones to fish, with fives and sixes not worth bothering with. Others follow the you won't catch them sitting at home school of thought, and fish regardless. I've got a week off, so I'm not really bothered.<br />
<br />
I may head for another beach I've been meaning to check out tomorrow to see what's what. It was nice today casting a new lure to see what it does - the lemony sandeel spoony thing. I've binned the packet and I can't remember what it was called. It looks nice and flashy in the water, like the wedge above it, but no cigar.<br />
<br />
<br />NAGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02680487870723999908noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7289853946239651634.post-64970686178539723952014-08-03T19:00:00.000+01:002014-08-03T19:00:02.684+01:00Snap up some of these<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
I'd never quite found the right thing for attaching lures to my leaders until I stumbled on these Tronix snaps.<br />
<br />
They're just that bit stronger than some of the other clips I've used and much better than a cross-lock type connector.<br />
<br />
Changing lures is a breeze, just snick it on or off. The eye's also just the right size for the 15lbs fluorocarbon I tie up bass traces with. The ones I use are Size 2, they're 99p for 10.<br />
<br />
You could use them for freshwater lure fishing - just stick a split ring through the eye of the jighead/lure and off you go.<br />
<br />NAGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02680487870723999908noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7289853946239651634.post-52295925332071823372014-08-03T14:08:00.003+01:002014-08-03T14:08:23.987+01:00Shortage of Silverheads<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_5LIfVJrx0otruzsWLLuxGPnWTT34Ar7_-vtTTSrnseXAyz9Pz8E-XK2CJGZkyLTrtoxLdBN0N6gYq5pmQBDatcR2T0EpblZdOpa3uWRETv6iMAcCzrFDVh5A3kzSZuZL0wkF578BBbk/s1600/windy_beach_1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_5LIfVJrx0otruzsWLLuxGPnWTT34Ar7_-vtTTSrnseXAyz9Pz8E-XK2CJGZkyLTrtoxLdBN0N6gYq5pmQBDatcR2T0EpblZdOpa3uWRETv6iMAcCzrFDVh5A3kzSZuZL0wkF578BBbk/s1600/windy_beach_1.JPG" height="378" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
I feel a twinge of guilt when Matt rocks up with Leanne. It's blowing a gale and worse still, the sea's full of weed. Three blokes were setting up as I got to the spot. They all sacked it after a few casts.<br />
<br />
The wind's blowing north-westerly, blowing the braid into a great bow as the lure flies. I can more or less get the distance with the biggest Dexy in my box, but I can't control it on the retrieve. Go fast enough to feel it bite and it comes to the top, skimming the waves. Go slower and it dings the rocks, covering the hook with wrack.<br />
<br />
Matt gets out his rod, Leanne gets out her Kindle. We know we're not going to catch, as we strip the lures of weed and cast into the teeth of it. I change to a Silverhead and lose it on a rock first cast. I'm down to three of the favoured 45g size which seem the best on the coast.<br />
<br />
After adjourning for a latte at a cafe terrace, I head for the tackle shops. One has just one selection pack of Silvers - three I don't want, one of the size I do for £6.99. Mick doesn't have any in the last of his closing down sale stock.<br />
<br />
Everyone's been buying them, both shops say. People swear by them. I'm going every day next week and I have just four of the go-to lures left. This doesn't bode well, bearing in mind you lose or damage at least one most trips.<br />
<br />
NAGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02680487870723999908noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7289853946239651634.post-23353111791786638642014-08-02T12:00:00.000+01:002014-08-02T13:51:26.935+01:00Back with a bang<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-RAVoQvGIc_-Mrj7u8dxhqJw5Y3xui9Y6mrWNkSJsQYE8LReY6JhbqiPI_IqDDC31fwCijzSGYLKKZLjRbosUJcM8qa7HIPombAsb6rrBpn_Jfm78lIfUjYFcxh-Pyke3Si_6GkH5TzM/s1600/CB_aug_bass_2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-RAVoQvGIc_-Mrj7u8dxhqJw5Y3xui9Y6mrWNkSJsQYE8LReY6JhbqiPI_IqDDC31fwCijzSGYLKKZLjRbosUJcM8qa7HIPombAsb6rrBpn_Jfm78lIfUjYFcxh-Pyke3Si_6GkH5TzM/s1600/CB_aug_bass_2.JPG" height="278" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
There's a swirl over the rocks and a grey fin scythes through the sea. They're here.<br />
<br />
I saw one five minutes after I got down to the beach, scrambling over the rocks until I hit the hotspot. There's a gap in the boulders big enough to drive a van through and today I'm right - it's where the bass are.<br />
<br />
I see a few more swirls and a tail break surface. I'm not sure what they're after, as there are no birds diving which usually pinpoints a shoal of sandeel or some other fodder fish. The sea's flat calm as well, the same grey colour as the gathering storm overhead.<br />
<br />
I can easily poke a lure out where the action is, whatever they're up to out there and jink it back through the gully.<br />
<br />
The first one hammers into the spoon so hard I nearly jump out of my skin before it dives for the rocks. Nice fish, couple of pounds maybe. Pound for pound, these things scrap as hard as anything. Then again, I haven't caught one for so long I can't remember what the last one fought like.<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikte_XGTaIGaWpoB3PdlOp06wDG3_rCyuZ1ZQlN-6GfQvWeH4VdwgztJkHy4b85AE7kTgOWuqWN4cBORd5F6354P-3seLElof4SmUjFsYb2yIxulkVUSF2iNe7K6WLnrM4jU8OwZkf19k/s1600/CB_aug_bass_1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikte_XGTaIGaWpoB3PdlOp06wDG3_rCyuZ1ZQlN-6GfQvWeH4VdwgztJkHy4b85AE7kTgOWuqWN4cBORd5F6354P-3seLElof4SmUjFsYb2yIxulkVUSF2iNe7K6WLnrM4jU8OwZkf19k/s1600/CB_aug_bass_1.JPG" height="332" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
Snick the hook out, three or four casts later I nail a smaller one. Two in a morning's not to be sneezed at, but 10 minutes later I make it three. Three bass - what a result.<br />
<br />
Another angler appears as I'm beaching the fat keeper. Out comes the camera and the hook, back goes the bass.<br />
<br />
"Don't you eat them?" asks the other guy. As I watch it recover its balance and shoot back out to sea, I wonder if I'm missing a trick here. NAGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02680487870723999908noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7289853946239651634.post-27633986663152108052014-05-21T18:37:00.001+01:002014-05-21T18:37:18.244+01:00Summer time blues<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjj6Zge-R4QQ_3Mye_VP6HbL6lC2UITpGDQyAkkCzE0-MvKy2RSEkxT-pjZ0QoCnQi-8irV6IdO0IQHuhgUvDydmhWhh63LYDZNdU5ySdYbHI7NC3AJ-r8xo62Z00f6Kvl_GPywi0imKds/s1600/calm_sea.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjj6Zge-R4QQ_3Mye_VP6HbL6lC2UITpGDQyAkkCzE0-MvKy2RSEkxT-pjZ0QoCnQi-8irV6IdO0IQHuhgUvDydmhWhh63LYDZNdU5ySdYbHI7NC3AJ-r8xo62Z00f6Kvl_GPywi0imKds/s1600/calm_sea.JPG" height="418" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
I didn't hold out much hope today, with a middling high tide near noon. I was right on that score. There were half a dozen of us on the beach as the flat calm sea lapped lazily around the rocks and decided it couldn't be arsed to come in as far as the cliffs. Not one of us had so much as a sniff.<br />
<br />
I tried dinging the lure off the top of the rocks for a bit, having worked out they're so covered in wrack they're almost impossible to snag up on. Lovely day, beats being at work even if all you end up with is soggy trainers, sore arms and sunburn.NAGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02680487870723999908noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7289853946239651634.post-20734803490051041562014-05-07T17:28:00.002+01:002014-05-07T17:28:19.669+01:00Bass 3, NFG 0<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
The summer's still young and there are some better-looking tides on the way.NAGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02680487870723999908noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7289853946239651634.post-92150714150910714382014-05-03T12:29:00.000+01:002014-05-03T12:31:41.182+01:00The cruel sea<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEkPZwVrdIBLgH9bQWfBxqv1zc5sP7XvPP0X0qAfxLu5Ax3-Z5ahOJjpD36FIhPd4RQ4FCWmM6AJvyx8HI_fRvoQQgkKr_k4HUKb5xLPZnmyMl3V8_QVSwB8QjYvoKo2a_7fAcy7g2zas/s1600/lost_bass.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEkPZwVrdIBLgH9bQWfBxqv1zc5sP7XvPP0X0qAfxLu5Ax3-Z5ahOJjpD36FIhPd4RQ4FCWmM6AJvyx8HI_fRvoQQgkKr_k4HUKb5xLPZnmyMl3V8_QVSwB8QjYvoKo2a_7fAcy7g2zas/s1600/lost_bass.JPG" height="428" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.NAGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02680487870723999908noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7289853946239651634.post-75598240753839435602014-04-21T12:50:00.002+01:002014-04-21T12:54:53.524+01:00They orter be about by now<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxxd9WGuEx_IGUavX09eBz8O2zCxhDRtXEWPC51PA3cE4wawhxbGQy8zW4NS8oGjdXEPGDjKeL41jGKK9jW5PG8JeqTrsv62BMkvoUWLlWrvYCXMGTiBs_XLpYbn9NpPwjJL-N53PqCAg/s1600/beach_today.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxxd9WGuEx_IGUavX09eBz8O2zCxhDRtXEWPC51PA3cE4wawhxbGQy8zW4NS8oGjdXEPGDjKeL41jGKK9jW5PG8JeqTrsv62BMkvoUWLlWrvYCXMGTiBs_XLpYbn9NpPwjJL-N53PqCAg/s1600/beach_today.JPG" height="424" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
"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."<br />
<br />
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.NAGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02680487870723999908noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7289853946239651634.post-59862978176622190352014-03-24T19:33:00.001+00:002014-03-24T19:33:51.499+00:00An interesting walk, for shore<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjldEq9YmEtCjRC0CJFxzEJh-2u1tzJ2nqjKGu-OMt5FmH93LixBgPuyQl0RvtUwP1ez2moCXN-cJSKhH4dSjVr3_PbEOMsFtxzFgDOpt-NU4yxPnM1kXg-UM21Cj0Nw3VCrFHgZmxHhlg/s1600/CB_beach_march_24_2014.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjldEq9YmEtCjRC0CJFxzEJh-2u1tzJ2nqjKGu-OMt5FmH93LixBgPuyQl0RvtUwP1ez2moCXN-cJSKhH4dSjVr3_PbEOMsFtxzFgDOpt-NU4yxPnM1kXg-UM21Cj0Nw3VCrFHgZmxHhlg/s1600/CB_beach_march_24_2014.JPG" height="456" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
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<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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..?<br />
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<br />NAGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02680487870723999908noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7289853946239651634.post-1934317377351530522014-03-16T19:20:00.001+00:002014-03-16T19:20:28.149+00:00Season's end and pastures new<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
NAGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02680487870723999908noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7289853946239651634.post-4276759386980010002014-03-02T19:30:00.002+00:002014-03-02T19:30:58.176+00:00What a grey day<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.NAGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02680487870723999908noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7289853946239651634.post-56542917536454618942014-02-26T18:39:00.000+00:002014-02-26T18:39:00.257+00:00Peachy perch sings winter's swan song<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.NAGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02680487870723999908noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7289853946239651634.post-17359075999804704792014-02-20T19:40:00.001+00:002014-02-20T19:40:18.717+00:00Strong stream advice <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.NAGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02680487870723999908noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7289853946239651634.post-39658513922215278142014-01-19T15:13:00.001+00:002014-01-19T15:13:14.532+00:00Back out soonGetting my appetite for fishing back now I seem to be on the mend. In response to a few comments from people I've lost touch with over the years, I've now added a contact form.<br />
<br />
Andy, where've you been..?<br />
<br />
Matt, definitely - e-mail me.<br />
<br />
KinkyKev77, don't worry - the doctor will be here soon.NAGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02680487870723999908noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7289853946239651634.post-70437278591248509282014-01-02T19:23:00.000+00:002014-01-02T21:33:43.837+00:00Fishing through the pain barrier<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
There's another reason I haven't been out much lately. Pain as in sciatica, as in it hurts to drive, walk, bend down, cough or even fart. I didn't feel too bad last night as I checked over the bait rods and got the gear together.<br />
<br />
This morning was so-so, as in might get better by the time I get there, might wish I'd stayed at home. But on the one decent day of the week, wind dropping round to south-westerly and no rain, I had to risk it. Let's face it, you would have.<br />
<br />
I'm stiff as a board by the time I get to the pits and it seems to take an age to get the rods arranged in a reasonably accessible swim, with unhooking gear, net and everything on the mat. I reckon if I hook one I can net it without having to bend down too much, drop to my knees, get it on the mat and sort it without too much grief.<br />
<br />
I get the odd twinge but it doesn't feel too bad standing there after the strongest non-prescription painkillers I could get my hands on kick in. The sun's up. The birds are singing. I sit down awkwardly on my cool box and let the day wash over me.<br />
<br />
One of the blobs I've managed to get 30 yards out near an island keels over. I struggle onto my toes, grab the rod and ow, ow, ow, ow; why did I have to swivel around when I bent into it. It hurts even more by the time I've pumped the lanky-looking jack over the net.<br />
<br />
No pain, no gain. At least I've caught one. I've beaten back the pain and decide another painkiller and a dose of deep and meaningful progressive rock track on Spotify's next on the agenda. Out come the hooks, back it goes. As I'm re-baiting the rod, a blob I've tucked under a marginal bush goes.<br />
<br />
Back out comes the same lanky jack. I get a picture this time before I drop it back into the lake. I don't feel too bad now I've caught something. Even if it was the same one times two. I cast the rods back out, plug my 'phones in and scroll through 'Spotty until I find what I'm looking for. Comfortably Numb. That'll do.<br />
<br />
OK, OK, I need some information. Just nod if you can hear me, sings Roger Waters. One of the floats nods and slides off. I think it's the same jack at first, but it's a different, tatty three-pounder. Time for a move - maybe to the swim where a decent fish came unstuck not long after I hooked it a few weeks back.<br />
<br />
Out go the rods, big baits this time. The afternoon drifts past without another pull but I get quite into just sitting there, glad I've forced myself to come out and proved I can more or less beat the pain that comes back almost every time I shift position or get up to do something.<br />
<br />
As the sun sets, I can hear curlews punctuating the raucous skeins of greylag geese that loft up from neighbouring pits. I remember I lost a big fish at last knockings here. One of the baits is in more or less the same place, where a shallow bar drops into 12ft of water.<br />
<br />
From where I'm sitting, I can get a lovely HDR picture across the water on my phone. While I'm doing this, the blob waddling in the breeze over the end of the bar where I briefly hooked into a big fish falls flat and slides away.<br />
<br />
It hurts all the way down one side as I lurch to my feet and grab the rod. I let the line tighten and sweep it back, connecting with fresh air. It hurts even more when I sit back down again.<br />
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<br />NAGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02680487870723999908noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7289853946239651634.post-37355306118700579882014-01-01T20:53:00.001+00:002014-01-01T20:53:19.057+00:00Water under the bridge<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
Plenty of water's gone under the bridge since I last went fishing - literally. The low, clear drains and rivers have turned torrent after all the recent rain. I didn't fancy my chances watching the Ouse gushing into the Relief Channel when I went out for a recce a couple of afternoons back.<br />
<br />
With the Little Eyes - as the wooden gates which normally allow water out into the tidal river are called - shored up with boards, the whole of the river's flow is going to be diverted down the channel for the forseeable. A bit of water coming in can be a good thing, but once it starts going up and down like a yo-yo between tides I always seem to struggle.<br />
<br />
The rain's forecast to stop tomorrow. And the wind's going around a few degrees to a south-westerly. That spells gravel pit to me.NAGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02680487870723999908noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7289853946239651634.post-51917903035988006962013-12-17T17:36:00.003+00:002013-12-17T17:36:28.423+00:00Talk about lucky<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
What a glorious afternoon, I tell myself umpteen times as I head through the Fens to the place where even I can catch fish at the moment. I can't wait to get the rods out of the car, do the cowpat slalom and hit the drain.<br />
<br />
Except it's not quite like it was a week or two back when people were filling their boots. The water's standing, almost flat calm and clear as a glass of Gordon's. As in the gin, not Gordon's, um, you know what.<br />
<br />
A few casts, watching the lure shimmy back towards me through the margins, and the Chipper Bailiff appears. Hella Cress, they h'int bin catchin' much here lately, he chuckles. Time for a re-think, obviously.<br />
<br />
I know. I'll try another drain. The sun's sinking below the far bank by the time I get there and it's also calm and clear. The water's dropped a foot or 18ins below it's normal winter level as well, which doesn't fill me with confidence.<br />
<br />
I try a couple of swims until I see a big swirl scatter the rudd and it's game on. Well, sort of. After a couple of missed hits on a Hammer shad, I switch to one with a bigger hook and whack into a jack which comes off as I go to chin it.<br />
<br />
A few chucks later, I hook a slightly bigger one that stays on long enough for a picture. It's almost dark when a pike that looks like a low double takes a shine to the shad. Nice scrap, as I give it some stick and it bangs around on the end.<br />
<br />
I kneel down to grab it and snick the hook out of its scissors. The camera's up the bank, so I let it slide back into the water.<br />
<br />
As I go to cast again, there's something wrong. As in no lure. As in its lying on the ground near the pliers. I look at the trace and the clip's somehow opened up and distorted. I've got so immersed in the fishing over the last half hour, I haven't stopped to check the trace, clip, lure, hook etc every few casts as I normally do.<br />
<br />
Talk about lucky.NAGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02680487870723999908noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7289853946239651634.post-57565032002667646602013-12-15T22:45:00.001+00:002013-12-15T22:46:13.757+00:00After the storm<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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You can see how close the storm came to breaching the sea banks if you make the long walk from the King's Lynn AA lakes to the bird hides at Snettisham. Bathed in the low sun's morning light, you wouldn't believe how close we came to catastrophic flooding on this part of the Norfolk coast.<br />
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Just a week earlier, we were out covering the storm surge and its aftermath. People lost their homes further round the coast, as the biggest North Sea surge for 60 years lashed our coast.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJwi-rZuMIOZAJp6pf9EubC1O8QHWpFA1Us_ToPTKTHoFXwIqFm2ZstCZg-sVsPJF-9Znx_k2ryCG9WNtf12OV-Z3NCXJVN2SiXfE7FSRvvYrVkvsg6-x49n7V9x72UgxtmcHY5il6pZ0/s1600/SM_CB_sea_life_floods_4.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="272" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJwi-rZuMIOZAJp6pf9EubC1O8QHWpFA1Us_ToPTKTHoFXwIqFm2ZstCZg-sVsPJF-9Znx_k2ryCG9WNtf12OV-Z3NCXJVN2SiXfE7FSRvvYrVkvsg6-x49n7V9x72UgxtmcHY5il6pZ0/s320/SM_CB_sea_life_floods_4.JPG" width="320" /></a>After covering my patch for the papers, I ended up at the Sea Life Sanctuary where staff were racing against time to save sharks and turtles as the centre flooded, cutting off power to their tanks.<br />
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They got nearly everything out in one piece, during an incredible rescue operation. which involved catching the creatures and running through the flood water to the waiting vans.<br />
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Once or twice, I wondered how the rivers and drains would be affected as I binned the day off I would have spent on them and got stuck in with colleagues covering the aftermath.<br />
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The bridge at St Germans was seriously damaged, closed to traffic. I headed down there for a look and found the incoming tide higher than I'd ever seen it. Water had come gushing through the expansion gaps the night before, villagers told me.<br />
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I watched the river as the tide turned and the water lapped high up the banks. I checked my quotes, uploaded my pictures and filed my stories.<br />
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The water topped Denver Sluice at the height of the surge, as the tide lapped around the Custom House on the quayside at King's Lynn. Friends who were there thought the barriers would go as the sea came coursing up the New Cut.<br />
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At times like this, you realise just how vulnerable parts of the Fens are - truly a landscape living on borrowed time. Thirty years. Maybe 50. Perhaps even a century. Sooner or later, the waters will come rushing back into the great sink the Dutch drainers reclaimed.NAGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02680487870723999908noreply@blogger.com1