Who pulled the chain..?

I thought it was going to be game on today, particularly as I knew no-one had been on the bit of drain I'd pitched up on for several days. It was filling up slowly when I turned up at lunchtime and got the rods in. No hurry as the last hour is widely acknowleged to be the best time on here.

I sit on the rods all afternoon and sure enough, the bungs only move when enough wind-blown weed catches around the braid to pull one under. Things briefly look more promising as the sun's about to drop below the flood bank, as the wind drops and the drain stands still.

I recast the rods, baits dropped up and down the margins and two across to the far side. I start thinking I might get one for a minute or two. Then the water shivers and the surface boils and eddies, as the drain goes from dead stop to running off hard in the space of a couple of minutes, like someone, somewhere pulled the chain.

I debate whether to stay until dark with baits reeled in under the rod tops, which is the only place my rigs will hold in the flow even with rods up high and the biggest leads I've got, but I give it up and hit the road instead.

I know I'm not the only one who's starting to wonder what on earth's going on, as a procession of weather from autumn into winter fails to kick the fishing into gear. It's been so bad I daren't have a week or two off it now, because I don't want to miss out if it all comes back on with a bang for a few days.

With three months of the season left in the Fens, I'd like to think it might do. I just hope it happens soon.

Slubbin' time in the Fens

I fancied a bash on this little drain, making a mental note to come back for another look in a few months when the reeds have died back a bit. Cor, blast, hold you on there buh - they're cutting the reeds out already.

Tides govern drains and rivers in the Fens

I have a theory the tides are going to play more of a part in pike fishing than they have for a few seasons right from the word go this autumn. The simple reason for this is that water from brim-full main drains and rivers is currently being pumped off or discharged between low tides.

The impact that this has, even miles inland, is that it brings some flow to the water. A few days ago, the bottom end of the Middle Level Drain was covered with azolla. Seeing a picture of it on Twitter, I took a detour to get a picture of it yesterday only to find it had almost disappeared - pumped off via the new pumping station at St Germans into the tidal Ouse.

The pumping station's not the only change on the Middle Level system. The sluice under the aqueduct at Mullicourt has now been removed, meaning when the pumps are running, the whole system's going to flow as far inland as the Sixteen Foot, Forty Foot, Popham's Eau and the Old Nene.

Tides govern the pumping regime, because it's cheaper to pump water at low tide than against the tide. One of this season's projects is to make a note of what the tides are doing before I go, to see how they impact on flows.

I know there are people who swear by moon phases. One thing the moon phase determines is the size of the tides, as they cycle between springs and neaps.

All that water, from the Ouse and its feeder rivers, to the main drains and the man-made sprawl of waterways that feed them, is connected. Fascinating place the Fens.

Fens get off lightly - despite fish kill in the Delph

We've got off lightly this summer. Just imagine what the drought they were predicting a few short months ago would have done to some of our drains and rivers, caught in a perfect storm of farmers abstracting the maximum water to try and save their crops, as the system cried out for rain.

While water levels have recovered, there's water on the Ouse Washes where the recent heatwave's fueled an algal bloom and made sodden vegetation turn to rot.

Now that foul water's started to find its way into the Delph, where another crisis looms. EA workers saw dead and dying fish in the Delph around Welches Dam on Wednesday. They've heaved in peroxide and deployed aerators to try and boost oxygen levels. It looks like they've got there in the nick of time, but the devil's in the detail as they say.

For they reckon it's going to take another three weeks for the remaining water on the Ouse Washes to clear, meaning a lot more de-oxygenated water could find its way into the Delph. Both the Delph and neighbouring Old Bedford are prone to fish kills at this time of year.

So far, the Delph appears to be an isolated case - meaning the rest of the system may well survive what's likely to be a short-lived heatwave unscathed. Let's hope so, podnas.  

+++Click here for schematics and maps of the Bedford system.

Maps of the Old Bedford River and Delph

Here's a useful couple of schematics of the Old Bedford and the Delph, which shows how the system operates to allow excess water to collect on the Ouse Washes before it can be discharged out to sea via Welmore Sluice and the tidal Ouse.

This is one of the more vulnerable areas of the Fens, as far as the impacts of climate change and rising sea levels are concerned.

It's also likely to become one of the areas where pike fishing becomes more vulnerable in years to come, as conservation groups buy up areas of land to turn them into new wetland reserves, to replace threatened coastal habitats for wading birds.

For now, it remains one of the more challenging parts of the system, partly because of the impacts of siltation and periodic problems with brackish, turbid water being allowed into the lower reach of the Bedford to replenish levels for irrigation during dry summers, and occasional fish kills caused when the water "turns" after heavy rain, causing oxygen levels to crash.

Pike are mobile and seemingly in decline on both drains. A few big fish were caught last winter, from areas off the beaten track. But like many of the drains in this part of the Fens, those who were successful had to put a  lot of hours in and some long walks to find them.

They're still fascinating waters to fish, partly because both the Bedford and Delph were dug when the drainers first began to shape the Fens into the landscape we know 300 years later.

The map below gives a view of the Middle and South levels, bordered by Well Creek, the Ely Ouse and the Old West. It's perhaps no wonder where to start is the dilemma many pike anglers face as autumn nears.

REVEALED: WWII drama that led to deep hole in drain

 
Why's there a deep hole in the drain. Now there's a story, yew got me going now. My ole Dad told me all about that years ago see, cuz he was one of the old boys what dug that bit of the channel. There was this Lancaster bomber in the war there was what caused it. Now that got all hushed up at the time, that did, so best you don't you go round tellin' everyone mind.

I promise I'll keep mum. It started out, innocently enough, when I wondered why there was a deep hole in a drain, together with semi-circular bulges in the floodbanks on either side. 

I'll let my source resume the story:

"Anyways they bin' off to Germany, these ole chaps on their Lancaster like, bombing Fritz somewhere or other back in 1944 or thereabouts they wuz like they did in them days.

"But when they wuz comin' back in to land at Downham Market they found they still had one bomb left on board, they did. Five-hunnerd pounder. Big ole bomb what h'ent dropped right, or summat.

"Now they wuz runnin' out of fuel, they wuz. So they wuz circlin' round an' round, with this 500lbs bomb still on board, they must'a bin goin' cor blast that's a rum ole dew, what we gunna dew now, that'll go off if we try an' land.

"So one of them ole boys on the plane, he say to the all other fellas on the h'innercom or whatever they had like, cor blast gimme that axe an' I'll sort this out. He say bomb doors open skipper, or summat like that, over the h'innercom thing, like what they had.

"An then, an then he gew back in the bomb bay an' he give it a right ole ding with this axe like what they used ter 'ave on planes in them days and that ole bomb dropped just as they was on their final approach ter what use ter be the runway.

"Ph'wee-ee-ee-ee-ee-ee-ker-frickin' boom, that went. They musta' heard it in King's Lynn. Nearly blew Denver Mill up, that did. Anyways, that's why there's a deep hole in that bit of drain see. Cuz when they come along after the war they just dug an' took the ole channel right through it, they did.

"My Ole Man tole me that. But that's still classified. So don' go puttin' that on the h'innernet..."

Of course not, I say. Your secret's safe with me.

Unexpected item in bagging area

Must be five or six years since I've fished this bit of drain, I enthuse as we clamber up the flood bank. We need to be a bit further down, that used to be the bagging area.

"How far," asks TLC as our breath steams in the cold dawn air. Another mile or so, I shrug. Half an hour later, we're in what used to be the spot. It doesn't look like anyone's been here all season.

This fills me with confidence, for obvious reasons. We agree we'll give it a half hour, then begin the long leap frog back to the car.

I remember one of Digger's pearls of wisdom for some reason. The one where he reckons he's leap frogged a mile of drain or river for every twenty he's caught over the years. Once we've got the rods out, I have a nose around the bank for signs anyone else has beaten us to what used to be a rated area.

Something has. Down in the grass, there are otter spraints. I look around and find a few more, in varying states of decay. Neglected by the likes of us, it seems Tarka has stepped into the void - very nicely, too, judging by the amount of droppings.

I did see an otter, several miles away, on the same drain earlier in the season. We give it half an hour, get itchy feet, and start swim hopping back towards civilisation. 

We find more otter droppings, here and there. But no fish. After half a mile or so, we began seeing signs of other anglers. Otters aren't renowned for their love of Marlboro Lights, with health warnings written in Polish.

We press on, as the sun starts dropping away to the West. TLC wonders when the mile will be up and we'll catch one of Digger's twenties. Looking back down the drain, we must have covered a mile by 3pm, as we cast the baits into the umpteenth swim of the day.

"I'm in," he shouts, as a float finally shows some signs of life. I reel my rods in and walk down with the net. "Don't reckon I'll be needing that," he says, swinging in the smallest pike I've seen all season, which might just go a pound on a good day.

"Come on," says TLC. "We want yer mum - or yer granny..." As dusk creeps in around us, one of his floats plops under the surface again.

He briefly hooks what's obviously a much larger fish, which comes off inexplicably after a couple of head shakes.

Our mile's well and truly up. That might even have been one of Digger's twenties, if you believe his maths. We sit it out the final 20 minutes or so until the sun sets, before we trudge the last few hundred yards back to the car.

Did we find the only two pike in that entire stretch of drain - or did they just switch on briefly as the light levels dropped. There must be a reason the otters like it so much around there either way. Definitely worth another look.

Another piece of the puzzle falls into place

Sometimes when you go out, you learn something. Another bit of the puzzle that's pike fishing falls into place, if you like.

It took a while to make my mind up where I was going today. I fancied a drain I haven't fished in years, but the first stretch I looked at was mirror-calm and devoid of life apart from a horde of gulls. If they'd been diving for fry, I'd have given it a go, but they were sitting aimlessly on the top preening themselves in the mist.

The next bridge had half a dozen cars, so I drove on without stopping. Then I remembered another stretch nearby, where I'd had a few fish several winters back.


The first time I tried it this particular spot, it was the middle of February and the rest of the drain was frozen. I gave it a go and found the pike grouped up in a clear area. I caught seven or eight jacks fishing literally under my feet down a steep bank that was a bit of a scramble.

I went back a few weeks later, towards the end of the season and had three good doubles. I didn't twig why this bit of the drain was any better than any other bit and by the next time I went back a couple of seasons after, the bank had fallen away meaning I couldn't get down it to fish so I wrote it off and never bothered again.

When I pulled up today, there were a couple of grebes diving by the steep bank. One came up with a roach as I watched off the bridge. Sizing it up, I reckoned I could cast across to the same area of drain with a bit of jiggery pokery, so it was out with the rods.

The grebes had skulked off 20 yards downstream by the time I had the first trace clipped on, but something swirled on the far side and sent the roach skittering across the top. The mackerel tail landed a few yards short, but I threw a lamprey over on a second rod to keep it company and after half an hour or so, it was away.

The float was coming towards me at a rate of knots as I wound down into a jack of three or four pounds. Still a fish first chuck, I told myself. It was a glorious day, so I wasn't too bothered about moving. There was more than one fish in the swim the last couple of times I'd fished it - so odds on there might be today.

Wraiths of mist were drifting off the fields, turning the distant landscape into a watercolour painting. I dicked about taking pictures for a bit, fired up Chernobyl to make a brew and as I was savouring the last few drops the lamprey went for a burton.

Yes, a better fish. A need a net for fish, until I pump it close enough to see it's just hooked at the front of its snout, on the bottom hook of the trace. I drop the net, shove the other rod out of the way and kneel down to chin it. It thrashes on the top - a scraper double with a huge gob and 10 inches of lamprey hanging outside.

It shakes its head, gills flared, as I go to grab it - throwing the lamp and the hook in the process. I can live with losing a twelve-pounder. So I decide to sit it out for another hour or two. There had to be another one there, surely.

Church bells were ringing in the foggy distance. A merlin swooped low over the reeds. Lost in my reverie, I nearly jumped out of my skin when a voice piped up behind me: "Are yew doin' any gu-u-ud..?"

An old boy with binos around his neck had appeared from nowhere. Just like an old boy with binos around his neck appearing from nowhere.

"Had one, lost one," I shrugged. "Lovely day all the same ole' podna."

"This used to be a good area roight hair," he said. "I used to pike fish a lot 'round hair. Still do, but th'ass not as good as it was. Yew wanna be over thair, that's where they used to git to."

So I told him I'd had the odd fish over the other side, before the bank collapsed into a sheer drop Bear Grylls would baulk from four or five seasons back.

"There's a slacker over there you know," he said. "Tha'ss why you used to git the pike there. They used to go through it into the ditch to spawn. But summit's happened to it. They blocked it up. That's not been so good the last two or three year now."

As the old boy with binoculars around his neck walked away,  like an old boy with binoculars around his neck walking away, another piece of the puzzle fell into place.