The priority of the important

The late Doug Larson, a Wisconsin based journalist who specialised in writing about outdoorsy matters,  once wrote that "If people concentrated on the really important things in life, there'd be a shortage of fishing poles." The man had a point. 2023 had been a year when, for me, fishing had been relegated to an only occasional activity due to a combination of factors around work and family life, but one of my resolutions for the New Year was that there would be no repeat of such a state of affairs in 2024. Far too often in our lives we allow the urgent to squeeze out the important, and while fishing takes its place behind both faith and family in my hierarchy of priorities, it occupies a pretty close third position. So it was that today, accompanied by my adult son (who doubles up as my favourite fishing partner) I visited a lake with which both of us are well acquainted and where we have fished together since he was just a boy. We had our first night fishing adventures here (see pictures below) and this was one of the lakes and ponds on which he cut his angling teeth and remains his favourite lake, more for reasons of nostalgia and shared memories, I suspect, than for the fish it offers which are often plentiful but rarely of particular noteworthiness in terms of size.

The day didn't get off to the best of starts, as the once innocent looking youngster in the photos above now works as a firefighter, and five minutes before his shift was due to end his crew received a call out to an incident which resulted in us arriving at the lake an hour and a half later than initially planned. We set up in a swim cacooned by the trees that line the lake's banks and prepared ourselves for what we hoped would be a day's fishing busy enough to indicate a modicum of success but relaxed enough to allow for good conversation - what one might aptly describe as an exercise in purposeful idling. As is our wont, I was employing a set-up that would not have disgraced the venerable Mr Crabtree, cane rod and ancient centrepin, while James opted for a carbon rod to pair with his own centre pin. Our floats were lowered into position in the margins in the hope that they would soon be being pulled beneath the lake's surface with pleasing regularity.  

Our previous visits to this lake have more often than not resulted in large numbers of roach and rudd acquiescing to our baits, but today the fish were in reluctant mood and although we did catch roach, rudd, perch and gudgeon, we caught far fewer than anticipated and each fish was hard earned. The highlight of the day came when James struck into a fish that was clearly more substantial than its compatriots and a lively tussle resulted in him guiding a none too pleased but very handsome perch of a pound and a half into the waiting embrace of the net.

The sky  remained clear, a visiting heron treated us to an impressive flying display, and our conversation was only occasionally interrupted by the capture of fish. By mid afternoon we were ready to call time on what had been a highly enjoyable exercise in proving the truism that "there's more to fishing than catching fish." 

At some future point when my end draws near I will, doubtless, have some regrets but time spent fishing with my son will not be numbered among them. Here's hoping for many more years of fish, coffee, conversation, and adventures in idling together.

Piking with friends on the Fens

My successes on the Fens have been limited- prior to today's trip my previous five visits (one to the Old River Nene, the other four to the Sixteen Foot Drain) had produced just three pike (only one of which scraped into double figures) and one zander, although the figures are slightly skewed by the fact that all four fish had come from only two of those trips, so my blanks to catches ratio stood at a less than impressive 3:2 in favour of a dry landing net. However, despite my not really coming to grips with these long, straight and often seemingly featureless expanses of water I am haunted by their wild and remote beauty and find myself drawn back to them on an annual basis. 

It is hard to describe the Fens without falling prey to the use of well-worn cliche: the agricultural land in which the drains are set is flat, the skies are big, the weather is usually grim and they do seem to exude an air of wild and foreboding menace, and it's this combination that makes them so enticing to an angler like me who spends most of his time sat beside lakes and ponds that are dotted with lilly pads, surrounded by trees and which have a serene and sometimes somewhat sanitised feel to them. A trip to a windswept Fen is a journey into the wild, with the fish often as unforgiving as the environment in which they exist.

Today saw my annual pilgrimage to the Fens with friends from the Christian Anglers group for our once yearly pike fish-in (which also doubles as my annual flirtation with the world of pike angling) and, true to form, we were welcomed warmly by the local anglers we've got to know over the last few years but less so by the typically inclement weather. It wasn't only the elements that chose to be miserly, the pike were also less than forthcoming with only one being caught despite the best efforts of nine anglers. Greg was the fortunate angler, with luck looking less kindly on John whose lost pike proved to be the only other action. Greg's fish gave a good account of itself before succombing to the engulfing folds of the net, where it was discovered to have been very lightly hooked in the scissors.

However, all the anglers present are philosophical and long in the tooth enough to be sanguine about the absence of fish caught and despite the unkind weather and uncoperative pike a good time was enjoyed by all. It wasn't all hardship and privation, Matt is normally a carp angler and is consequently an accomplished bankside chef and soon the space under his brolly was looking more like a hipster deli, with samosas and toasted cheese sandwiches being heated and handed out and real coffee being brought to the boil. 

The weather became tamer as morning turned to afternoon and by mid afternoon, with threatening clouds beginning once again to gather, we drew stumps and headed for home. It had been a hard day on the Fens but the excellence of the company more than compensated for the lack of pike and we'll be back again next year. Oh, and one other bonus: the inactivity on the fishing front left plenty of time for contemplation and the shape of this Sunday's sermon began to grow in my mind while I waited for the run that never came.

Aiming at aimlessness

I have only two angling aims for 2024. One is to fish more frequently. The other, paradoxically, is to be an increasingly aimless angler.

With the exception of last winter when I barely had the opportunity to fish, my last few autumns and winters have been dominated by the aspiration to catch a three pound perch. I have come close (very close- my best was 2lb 15oz, so couldn't have been any closer!) and caught numerous decent sized perch but have, as yet, failed to reach the target weight. In truth, the goal was beginning to take the form of the proverbial "monkey on the shoulder" and so I have chosen to dispense with it and all other goals that are derived from reducing a fish's worth to a number. This change of heart doesn't signify a total disregard for weights (I'll still have my scales ready to hand in my bag) but the shift of focus will, I trust, enable me to fish with a new found freedom. In recent years in the colder months I've felt duty bound to fish for perch (which will always remain my favourite species) to the detriment of my pike fishing and if I fancied a trip in pursuit of roach or a winter "mixed bag" the thought was quickly suppressed as the 3 pound Holy Grail loomed ever large in my mind.

This year my resolve is simply to enjoy my fishing and to prioritise enjoyment over acheivement. To give myself permission to enjoy the environment in which I fish as much as the fish I extract from it. To find pleasure in the equipment I use (which is predominantly vintage or antique and worthy to be admired) and to recover the ability to view the world of lakes and rivers with the sense of awe and wonder that we sadly tend to lose when we leave childhood behind. It was the author and angler BB who exhorted fishing folk to "look ye also while life lasts", an encouragement that I intend to allow to guide my approach for these next twelve months.

Small fish will not be despised, their larger brethren accepted gratefully as a gift, and blanks (although hopefully not too many of these) received with equanimity. I have a tendency toward hyper-concentration when in pursuit of fish and have never really mastered the art of relaxing while fishing, but my hope is that this season will see me learning something of the gentle art of idling in imitation of Walton's maxim about fishing being "the contemplative man's recreation."

And so as we enter Spring and the season of rebirth, I have no fixed plans beyond next month's trip to the Fens. Beyond that I intend to allow myself to be carried along on the breeze of my whims- if I wake up with crucians on my mind I'll fish for them, if I feel in the mood for tench then tench it will be, if in the moment I fancy a mixed net of small fish, then small fish it is. It may be that at some point in the future I return with serious purpose to the quest for a three pound perch but for this year my only plan is to fish unencumbered by projects, plans or targets.

When I embarked on my passion for angling as a carefree 13 year old in the school summer holiday of 1981 my only goal was the sheer enjoyment and pleasure to be derived from the practice of fishing- 43 years on I'm hoping to recapture what I felt and experienced in the days of my angling naivety. It may be that the truism that states that "it's impossible to put an old head on young shoulders" is fair, but if I can rekindle some of the innocent enthusiasm of youth as I teeter on the precipice of my dotage then I'll be a more than happy man.

Paradise regained ...... and lost again. (with apologies to John Milton)

If it were not for the fact that angling's central skill is that of deception there would be something almost pre-lapsarian about fishing. We venture into places that often exude an almost Edenic beauty and insert ourselves into our own private paradise in pursuit of fish. Time slows and we exist in a strange tension between relaxation and intense concentration and for a while the world ceases to be a place of toil and trouble and we rediscover the innocence of humanity's infancy. 

I had barely fished during the Autumn and Winter of last year, a combination of work responsibilites and consequent tiredness resulting in me failing to summon the energy to make more than just one solitary trip to the bank betwen the beginning of September and the ending of the year. However, as 2024 dawned, bringing with it the annual triumph of optimism over experience, I refound my enthusiasm and determined to set out once again  with a spring in my step and perch on my mind. 

In the event my return to angling was not only uneventful but also had to wait until February of the new year, as a planned January trip had to be aborted due to the lake's completely frozen state. I set up in a swim that seemed to offer promise, with reeds on both of its sides, and didn't have long to wait for my first bite. It appeared that the lay off from angling hadn't dulled my speed of response (you can't lose what you never had!) and I promptly missed my first couple of bites as is my usual custom. However, on the third occasion of the float's  submergion I made no such mistake but my delight proved to be short lived as the culprit turned out to be an angry and unwelcome American Signal Crayfish.

I was shortly joined by Dave, one of my frequent fishing partners, but after an hour of patiently feeding our respective swims with a trickle of red maggots both of our floatfished prawn hookbaits remained untouched. I briefly flirted with a smaller hook and double maggot, but this only produced a couple of bites and a small roach that momentarily glinted and glistened in the morning sun before being returned to the lake.

The lake continued to portray a disinterested and sullen air, with no visible signs of fish movement and only very occasional movement on our floats. The "Perch Pond", which for me and a select group of friends has been our own private paradise in recent years, had swapped its usual benificence for a miserly  surliness. ( a typical example of its previous generosity is shown below) 

As the nearby village clock struck midday, it was time to depart and rejoin the real world of toil and chores. Our tally of fish was a desultry three roach and one solitary perch for me and two roach and a perch for Dave, all of them small and each of them the result of changing from prawns to maggots as bait. If their total weight was aggregated we may just have scraped a pound, and to add injury to insult the bailiff politely enquired as to whether I required "a senior citizen's ticket, sir?" I suspect our next session may see us regaining our angling self-belief by visiting a different iteration of paradise!

Perch mean prizes

James Legge was a 19th Century sinophile, who in addition to being an afficianado of all things Chinese was known to enjoy inventing a proverb or two of his own in imitation of the wise men of the country he'd come to admire so much. One of his offerings was "the wise find pleasure in water; the virtuous find pleasure in hills." As a member of the clergy it is an expectation of some that I will embody both of these traits, however if the saying has any truth in it I have to concede that it would result in my wisdom far outstripping my virtue! I love nothing more than being beside water. 

Today the water I was beside had a slight chop to it and my perch bob elegantly rode the small waves that the wind produced on the water's surface. It was a perfect day for fishing in general terms but less so for pursuing perch, which was somewhat unfortunate as I was fishing in the annual John Rellie Memorial Match organised by the Christian Angler's group, an opportunity to raise money for charity, remember our friend and former member John, and to compete for the trophy which is now in its fifth year, with my name having twice previously been inscribed on it.

While I enjoy fishing in the summer it is as the weather turns autumnal that my fishing gains in intensity. Summer fishing has its own compensations (chiefly related to the weather) and I busy myself using traditional methods to catch F1's (which I hate), common carp (a species for which I have only a little fondness), tench and rudd (both of which I love) and, on real red letter days, plump buttery golden flanked crucians. Autumn, winter and early Spring (in fact any month that has an "r" in it) are, for me, spent almost exclusively in pursuit of my favourite fish- the perch. 

We are all,to some degree, the result of our stories and the ways in which we've owned those stories and retold them to ourselves over the years. My fishing story began in the summer of 1981 and then, as now, perch were writ large on its pages. As young boys we would fish intentionally for perch on the pleasant rhodedendron and tree-lined lake that was set incongruously in the middle of the housing estate on which we lived. We'd stand with six foot Woolworth's spinning rods clasped tightly, a float set at two or three foot depth and a worm impaled on the hook and wait poised for the small fry to scatter accross the lake's surface, jumping and skittering in an attempt to evade the hunting packs of perch. The trick was to cast into the middle of the scattering fry and- more often than not- the result would be a perch of around 4 ounces being swung to the bank, full of bristle and spikey indignation. The perch I target now are far bigger than anything I might have dreamed of in that summer which, in addition to seeing me fish most days of the school holiday, also saw the commencement of the ill fated marriage of the then Prince Charles and Lady Diana Spencer, but my love for the species remains undimmed by the passing of time. 

So, to today's match. The weather, that staple of British conversation, was surprisingly mild for late October and at times, as has been alluded to earlier, frustratingly sunny (perch are no lovers of sunshine and prefer low light levels), but in a match in which sociability and renewing friendships is as much a factor as the actual fishing itself, the weather was, I suspect, welcomed by most. 

I caught a couple of small perch early on in the proceedings before my float disappeared for the third time and my strike met with more obdurate resistence. A couple of minutes later a fine perch of 1 pound and 13 ounces was resting in the landing net, a fish which, at the time of its capture, put me joint first in the competition. 

I always enjoy catching perch but on this occasion the pleasure was added to by the fact that I was using a newly acquired rod for the first time. Although new to my collection the rod, a Milbrolite, is probably somewhere around fifty years old but is in mint as-new condition and had, I suspect, never been used before today. The rod passed the test admirably and I have no doubt that it and I will share many adventures together before age, infirmity or mortality bring my angling exploits to a close.

In truth, it was a day of few bites (my reward for six hours of staring at a float was three perch and one rogue bream) and no single angler managed more than a handful of fish but it's a tribute to either the quality of the lake we fished or that of the anglers who were fishing it (or perhaps both) that despite the less than easy nature of the fishing eleven perch of over a pound were landed, six of which were of 1 pound 10 oz or more and one of which exceeded the 2 pound mark. John, the eventual winner of this year's trophy with a fish of 2 pound 1oz is fittingly a former chairman of The Perchfishers and backed up his winning fish with a brace of pound plus perch. My 1 pound 13 ounce sargent was only enough to secure me joint third place. 

The day concluded with the presentation of the trophy to John amid much back slapping, expressions of congratulation and shaking of hands. It remains for others to decide whether or not I qualify as wise in line with the quote in my opening sentance but I had certainly "found pleasure in water", or perhaps more precisely in seeking (with only partial success) to plunder its aquiferous depths in pursuit of perch. I can think of few better ways to pass time than fishing in good company while raising money for a local charity. As a lover of competitive sports and for many years an amateur footballer I have never concurred with the modern primary school sports day notion that "it's only the taking part that matters" or the claim that "you're all winners" but in this instance both assertions felt as if they had the ring of truth to them- just spending the day fishing alongside friends was its own reward and the fact that someone else's name would be engraved on the shield hadn't diminished my pleasure at all. John was a worthy winner, I'd had a great time and I've got another six months to hone my perch fishing skills in the hope of regaining the trophy next year!

All the fun of the float

According to ancient Chinese wisdom "the best time to plant a tree is twenty years ago; the second best time is now." I'm not in a position to confirm the veracity of the proposition as we (for "we" read "my wife") have planted plenty of shrubs and bushes in our garden but have inherited all its trees. However, it sounds a reasonable assertion. What I am sure of is this: the ideal fishing lake is tree-fringed. I say this less from a technical point of view (although sub surface root systems and an overhead canopy do provide useful cover for the fish to hide in and features for the fishermen to target) and more from an aesthetical one.  Perhaps the proverb also resonates in that to plant a tree is an exercise in hope and patience, both virtues required of the angler.

The lake my son and I opted to fish today is one such tree-lined delight, the water's edge framed by overhanging Arcadian green leaved boughs which provide shade for the angler, throw shadows on the water, and enhance the fisherman's pleasure. As is our normal practice when fishing together we elected to share a swim, a practice we've largely maintained for twenty years. As a three year old just starting out the close proximity was essential for the unravelling of tangles that any angling parent will be familiar with, but now with me in my middle years and he a Firefighter in his early twenties who towers over me in stature, the reason for continuing our preference for swim sharing is purely social- there are few better ways for a father and adult son to connect than sat beside a lake talking of this and that. 

The sun rose in the sky and beat down heavily and the roach and rudd succumbed to our float fished sweetcorn with giddy abandon. Mostly hand-sized fish, the golden sides of the rudd and silver sheen of the roach glittered and shone in the sunlight and even the solitary bream which decided to gatecrash the party gleamed when held for the camera.

Both of our baits were fished about a rod length out where the bottom of the lake begins to shelve, mine tight to tree cover, my son's in more open water. Our tactics were identical, sweetcorn fished on the bottom, centre pin reels and light, fluffy cloud groundbait and loose fed sweetcorn employed to retain the fish's presence and interest.

Despite the regularity with which we were getting bites the morning had a relaxed and balmy feel and although we only fished for three hours the time passed at a pleasant pace, unhurried without being languid. The highlight of the session was my son's capture of a lovely plump crucian which in appearance fulfilled every cliché that attaches itself to the species in its plump and rounded buttery flanked beauty.

We had decided in the car en route to the lake that we would use a keepnet, an article of equipment I probably haven't employed for over a decade. It was a decision grounded in nostalgia- when my son was a young we invariably used one, as admiring the catch in its totality before releasing the fish formed part of the childhood pleasure of angling for him, and so this morning it once again emerged from the net-bag in which it has laid dormant for years on end as a reminder of where it all began.

The clock struck midday and despite the fact that as Englishmen we share with mad dogs the privilege of it being acceptable for us to be out in the midday sun we packed up to head for home in my case to change and head for the church office while my son was able to grab a few hour's sleep before his evening shift at the station. 

There can be few better ways to spend a summer's morning than beside a lake fishing in good company. We admired our catch as we would have done nearly two decades ago in the days when I still qualified as a young man and my son was just a child, before releasing them under the watchful gaze of trees that will still draw water from the ground and avail themselves of light from the sun long after both of us have departed the pleasures of this world for the glory of another. 

Fast forwarding Autumn

 

Patience is a virtue you admire in the driver in front of you, but less so in the one behind you. It's also, according to received wisdom, a necessary virtue for the angler, but my experience of fishing has been one of barely suppressed impatience- I may sit and wait for a bite for hours at a time, but I'm always on edge, mostly alert, and sometimes almost not daring to breathe as I will my float into disappearance. Regular readers of this blog or those who know me, will be aware that perch are by far my favourite fish and my Autumn and Winter angling is dominated by my pursuit of them and this morning my patience in waiting for Autumn ran out, and so despite the fact that July hasn't quite run its course I decided to fast forward the seasons and begin my customary perch campaign.

Most of my perch angling is undertaken on the much maligned Commercials which, despite their partial sanitisation of the fishing experience, tend to be excellent venues for pursuing specimen perch using traditional methods. I'm more than happy to pay the price of a few strange looks from members of the carping fraternity and to answer their questions about my vintage tackle (which normally provoke friendly responses along the lines of "I've never seen a wooden rod before, nice one, mate.") for the sake of adding to my growing tally of 2 pound plus perch.

I arrived at the lake around 8:00am and within twenty minutes my small 1BB Harcork replica perch float was positioned inches away from some reed stems less than a rod length out. Bait was a prawn on a barbless size 12 and a few red maggots and broken up pieces of prawn were soon being scattered around the float at regular intervals. The sky was pleasingly overcast and I was soon bringing a steady stream of small perch ranging from a couple of ounces to about six ounces to the bank. About half an hour into the session my perch bob did as its name suggests and moved first left and then right, bobbing all the while before submerging. My strike met with solid resistance and a brief game of tug of war resulted in a fine looking perch being drawn over the rim of the landing net. I only submit perch to the indignity of being weighed and reduced to a number if I'm pretty sure they'll top the 2 pound mark, and this fish looked to be somewhere between a pound and a half and possibly a pound and three quarters, so a quick photo of the fish on the mat and one of it being held aloft in my hands were all that preceded its speedy return to its rightful home.

As the morning wore on the sun broke through the clouds creating less than ideal conditions for the capture of perch. As any angling text book will tell you, perch have a marked preference for feeding in low light levels, but as fish aren't known for their bibliophile tendencies I reasoned that there was every chance that the fish wouldn't be aware of how they're supposed to behave and that there may still be a chance of another sizable specimen. However, it turned out that they were true to literary expectations and although I continued to catch with metronomic regularity   it was only small perch (who feed constantly in order to grow big enough to take themselves off the menu of their older and larger brothers and cousins) who continued to be tempted by my bait.

Despite the conditions no longer being conducive for the capture of venerably sized sergeants, I did land a barbel (pause for the predictable and utterly justified chorus of "boos and catcalls"- I also am no fan of the stocking of these majestic river creatures into ponds and lakes) which provided a stern test for my ancient cane Martin James rod which was recently refurbished for me by my friend Roy, as well as several handsome ide and the very occasional roach.

By late morning, with the sun now high in the sky, I decided to pack up and return to the world of work and responsibilities. I had had my fun, recharged my batteries, and against the odds managed to land one perch of reasonable size to kickstart 2023's perch campaign. To my striped adversaries the message is simple: today was the first dress rehearsal, in September the contest will start in earnest. Until then, fish striped and swaggering, with spiky dorsal fins held erect will swim through my dreams - who knows, this Winter may be the one when I finally realise my dream to catch a 3 pounder. Hope springs eternal in the heart of the angler and while I have no desire to wish my life away, the "season of mists and mellow fruitfulness" can't come quickly enough for this piscator.