Sunday, 5 March 2017

The sun (finally) shines on the righteous ...

"Suffering", so the Apostle Paul tells us in the Good Book leads to perseverance, which he argues, in turn builds character, and while Paul is talking about a life spent as a follower of Jesus, that much might also be said to be true of the angler. Perseverance, character and a dash of stubborn resilience were certainly attributes that were necessary to carry me through my first two sessions of 2017, a brace of ignominious blanks in temperatures that hovered just above freezing. Yesterday, however, all that changed as the Christian Anglers group held their first fish-in of the year at Furnace Mill fishery- everyone caught, the weather was relatively warm and mostly dry, and "pleasure fishing" really was what it "said on the tin."
Nine anglers had made the journey to Worcestershire, with David (H) travelling the furthest, having driven to the venue on the morning of fishing from somewhere in the "Deep South", David (C) opted to avoid the need for an early start and stayed overnight in a local hotel, while the rest of us trundled across a succession of Midland motorways to arrive at our chosen destination, an extremely well run fishery located in the beautiful Wyre Valley.

I set up with a 14 foot waggler rod teamed with a newly acquired 50 year old Allcocks "Record Breaker" centre pin (a reel that predates the 1966 takeover of Allcocks by Norris Shakespeare) and a small 2BB insert waggler float. Main line was 4 pound bs, with a size 16 hook on a 3 pound bottom. Bait was the humble maggot, with hemp and maggots introduced "little and often" as loose feed.  My first fish was a small roach (certainly not the record breaker that the reel promised!), which was followed the next cast by an F1 of around half a pound.

It would give a mistaken impression to say that catching fish is only incidental to Christian Anglers get togethers, but there is certainly far more to the occasion than the mere act of bringing fish to the net. As ever, the conversation and company were of the highest order, and while the fishing was never frantic, somewhere along the row of anglers there was always someone catching, with a pleasingly catholic variety to the range of species caught. Small common carp (along with a few which looked suspiciously like they might be the dreaded F1's or some form of goldfish) were the most frequent visitors to the bank, backed up by bream, perch and roach, with Ben adding a gudgeon, Pete a chub and David (H) a small stillwater barbel. (pictured below) Roger enjoyed the "fight of the day", battling a carp of about 4 pounds for several minutes on centre pin and light line before it saw his side of the argument and succumbed to the folds of the net.

The fish seemed to be travelling up and down the line of anglers, with a flurry of activity in a particular area giving way as the fish explored the variety and choice of loosefeed on offer along the bank. In addition to the ubiquitous commons, a pair of attractively scaled mirrors were landed, one, seen here, to David (C) and one to Pete.

I persisted on the float for the entire five hours and caught around 20 fish, while other anglers opted to switch between pole or float and The Method, which proved to be an efficient, if less purist, means of catching. As well as the expected carp, the lake's skimmers also proved enthusiastically partial to a banded pellet embedded in a ball of groundbait, with the fish held here by Louie being a typical example.

The two youngest members of the party, Jacob and Ben, both applied themselves well, concentrated hard and caught regularly, demonstrating ably that even 21st Century kids are able to enjoy healthy pleasures that predate computer games, phones and other electronic devices and which take them beyond the limiting horizons of the inside of their bedrooms.


Although the majority of the fish were "fun sized" but unremarkable, one fish of outstanding quality made a bankside appearance, when Pete's pole fished maggot proved irresistible to a perch that, if weighed, would probably have threatened the magical 2 pound mark. Plump and beautiful, with its proud dorsal fin and stripy livery and with a cavernous mouth that had doubtless engulfed numerous small roach and bream over the years, this was a fish to savour.

The weather had proved benign and sunny with just one brief shower, which momentarily treated us all to the sight of a rainbow that covered a corner of the treeline with colour and appeared to meet the lake, touch its surface and disappear into the depths. Like the perch, a thing of beauty, a joy forever and a reminder of a day well spent.


Friday, 10 February 2017

An essay on getting the Cane....

I fear that the title of this essay may lead to all kind of deviants ending up on my site, and I apologise for their disappointment when they discover that "The Fishing Vicar" isn't a euphemism, but really is just about a Vicar who fishes, and that this article is about angling equipment and not "grown up toys" for those of a kinky disposition. I left school in 1984, which was my misfortune, as corporal punishment in school didn't end until 1986. However, despite receiving not infrequent slipperings (why did they say "this'll hurt me more than you?" .... liars!) I never had to suffer the cane, although I did watch several others experience that fate. Now, 33 years later I'm opting FOR the cane, albeit in an altogether different form.

My angling has been veering towards the "traditional" for a while, now. I've got a collection of vintage reels  that I regularly use, as well as a more modern centrepin, have a whicker fishing basket, only ever use old fashioned handcrafted floats, and have acquired several nice vintage glassfibre rods. That said, until now I've only been a dilettante, half heartedly hanging around the fringes of the Bernard Venables and Chris Yates inspired traditionalist scene, but- thanks to the postman and the kindness of a friendship made on Facebook- I'm now a fully fledged member of the split cane fraternity. The Facebook friend (whose name will remain concealed to hide any embarrassment) was not only  kind enough to allow me to buy a cane rod from him on a "play now, pay later" basis (the rod has already arrived, and will be paid for at the time of my forthcoming birthday), but- in his evangelical zeal for all things "cane"- generously gifted me  a second rod at just the cost of delivery. A marvellous gesture from a proper gentleman. And so, to the rods themselves:

The first (pictured above) is an 8 foot rod, beautifully refurbished with lovely whippings and patina, and capable of landing reasonably sized carp and pike. It will be my rod of choice for both canal pike fishing and margin carp fishing, both of which occupy a fair bit of my time.
The second, which will probably see greater active service due to my preference for the float, is a superb float rod by Aspindales, the Thamesdale, just over 12 foot long, and sure to be my new "go to" rod for perch, crucians and tench (which just happen to be my three favourite fish species), except on commercial venues where there's a high chance of contacting a rogue carp, in which case I'll turn to my fine vintage Rodrill glass float rod, to avoid any possibility of a treasured possession becoming firewood for a Kelly Kettle!

Changes in my working pattern and responsibilities (I've been seconded for 6 months to work half time as a Diocesan head office "desk jockey" in addition to running one of the larger churches in the Diocese) mean that my actual fishing opportunities will be far fewer this year, perhaps, painfully, as little as one a month (counselling may be required!), but the prospect of a new set of adventures walking along angling's "old paths" with craftsman-made antique tackle will, doubtless, prove to be its own compensation. Looks like from now on the future of my angling lies in the use of things past in the present, and I can't wait. I'll keep you all posted.


Friday, 3 February 2017

The significance of pronouns in perch fishing

Regular readers of this blog will be aware that I rarely conform to the stereotype of the stoical, taciturn, lone angler. For me, fishing is a sociable activity and I'm blessed with a goodly number of excellent friends who are similarly afflicted with a passion for angling, which, on days like today, is an undoubted benefit. Once again perch were the target species, once again the fishing was hard, and as on my last trip, I blanked. I was joined in the "dry net department" by Pete and Paul, but David had two fish, including one extremely handsome stripy, which meant that the question "how did you guys get on today?" could be answered with "we caught a lovely perch", enabling my lack of proficiency on the day to be obscured by the cunning use of a personal pronoun.
There was an unmistakable chill in the air, but the weather was milder than it has been of late, and the plan was to fish for about three hours in a spot that has produced plenty of perch for Pete and I in the past, catch a few fish and then retire for a pub meal and convivial chat. In the event, the pub meal was more of a success than the fishing.

David and I chose to tuck ourselves in next to a couple of moored boats (having first befriended and gained the permission of their owners), while Paul and Pete concentrated on the area around a bridge, all classic text book perch habitat. However, it was our misfortune that only one perch had read the text book.

Paul float fished red maggots, I fed the same and suspended a lively worm under a perch bob float, David float fished red maggots and Pete alternated between worms presented beneath float and ledger, but for Pete, Paul and me all to no avail. In time, Pete and I broke the monotony of staring at motionless floats with a bit of spinning and dropshotting, methods to which the intransigent perch proved equally diffident.

After about an hour David landed a singularly unremarkable roach, which although nothing in and of itself to get excited about, did at least show that there were still fish in the canal, and that at least one of them was in compliant mood.
An hour later and his float once again shot away, and this time his match rod took on a heartening battle curve, and shortly afterwards a lovely plump perch that must have weighed about a pound and a half was engulfed by the folds of his landing net. Said perch was duly admired, photographed and returned, and the fishing regained its uneventful and soporific character.

 At 1 o'clock we drew stumps (or more accurately, banksticks) and retired to the waterside pub for a meal, pint and piscatorial post-mortem. You may be forgiven for supposing that following my second successive blank I would have been downcast or disconsolate, but if you did so, you'd be wrong. How can a morning spent fishing ever be the cause of dismay, especially when spent in good company and followed up with a hearty meal? And anyway, the whole trip was a success: "there's no I in team" and we caught. Such is the power of pronouns.


Wednesday, 18 January 2017

"Blanking in a winter wonderland"

"I have seen the sun break through to illuminate a small field for a while and gone my way and forgotten it" wrote the poet RS Thomas, in a poem full of Welsh hiraeth , pregnant with longing for what once was, but had now been left behind. For Thomas it was the failure to grasp the opportunity to engage with God in a numinous moment that fuelled his disappointment, but today there were precious few occasions when the sun shone through the gloom to point us to the skies, and so  I was spared any retrospective moments of Thomas-style existential angst. I was also, unfortunately, spared the pleasure of catching, holding and marvelling at the beauty of any of the perch I was in pursuit of, but the absence of fish belied my thorough enjoyment of the day.

Accompanied by my son, James, and friends David and Roger and Roger's son Ben, we had driven the hour and a half's journey from our Leicestershire homes to a stretch of the Oxford Canal where we met up with our pal Keith, a regular on the cut, and a man who boasts an enviable list of perch to over 3 pounds that have been plucked from its watery depths. On my only previous visit I had landed a brace of perch each weighing a pound and a half, so despite the previous day's snow I was confident that between the six of us we'd land a  few fish, but unfortunately such confidence was misplaced. Never mind fish landed, some of us couldn't even muster a single bite, and all of us suffered the ignominy of our first blank of the New Year.

I was indulging in one of my retro days, so parked myself on my old-school whicker basket and employed my newly acquired, but vintage, Rodrill float rod coupled with a Mitchell 204 CAP reel also of venerable antiquity. The float was a traditional handmade Norfolk reed waggler, the bait a worm. My son had chosen to eschew the traditionalist's poetry for contemporary precision, and elected to use a short carbon pole and a delicate bristle float, Roger's methods accorded with mine as he matched a centre pin reel with a handmade quill float, while the other three all plumped for variations on a waggler theme.  And so we sat ..... and sat .... and sat.

In many ways winter fishing is where we anglers "pay our dues" and, with freezing fingers and  baits untouched by fish, earn the right to the impressive catches that will form our summer memories, when fish are easier to catch and the weather more benign. Despite the lack of fish we all enjoyed the day in a way a non angler would fail to understand. Conversation and camaraderie, the shimmering reflections of the colourful barges in the water, cooking frankfurters by the canal's edge and just "being there" make the day its own reward, and once home the true angler's mind immediately turns to the wistful longing for the next trip. The fish may have won this time, but a fisherman's year is a marathon not a sprint, and ere long it will be Spring, and as the blossom blooms and the bulbs emerge, the pendulum of ascendency will swing in the angler's direction. Until such times we persevere, drawing solace from the motto of the Flyfisher's Club which (I'll spare you the Latin) roughly translates: "there is more to fishing than catching fish", to which all right minded practitioners of the Waltonian art are invited to respond with a hearty "amen".


Wednesday, 14 December 2016

"You little Tinca ..."

"Regrets, I've had a few" sung Frank Sinatra, and who hasn't? Perhaps my biggest fishing regret is that I've spent very little time fishing for (or catching!) tench over the last few years, and, on cold December evenings like tonight my mind's "wishful thinking" transports me to lazy summer days, lilly pads, and pin prick bubbles fizzing around my quill float. It's been way too long.

My teenage years saw me avidly catching tincas from my local club lake in my hometown of Reading. Lovely olive green or brown fish with little pink eyes that fought doggedly and took my sweetcorn, worms or the then "new fangled" Ritchworth boilies with seeming abandon.
This last year although I have caught tench, it's mostly been my angling companions who've slipped their nets under the flanks of summer's most archetypal of fish. These handsome specimens being held by Pete and Greg being typical of the fish I've had to behold, and sometimes capture on film, but that have rarely been captured on my hook over this last twelve months.
As with all fish I'd rather catch a big specimen than a small pup, but rather like pike, tench seem to be at their very prettiest when small. Fish of less than a pound, like the one Greg is holding in the picture below, don't pull your string too hard, but have a charm and beauty that their more impressive larger brothers and sisters can never quite recapture. The smaller they are the softer and silkier they seem to the touch- perfection in miniature, and what's lacked in stature is compensated for in style.
Perhaps, as we enter a new year, one of my resolutions should be to spend a more of my time in the warmer months intentionally pursuing tench (the tench I did catch this year were never my target fish, and were all accidental captures). No fish is more redolent of all that summer angling signifies, and it's almost a crime that these paddle tailed beauties have slipped under my radar, if not over the rim of my landing net, with any regularity of late. Misty dawns,  lilly pads, centre pin reels and quill floats may have become a tench angler's cliché, but it's a cliché I intend to insert myself into more frequently in 2017.
In former times the tench was held to be some form of underwater physician, the thought being that its thick coating of slime contained healing properties and that fish of other species would rub their flanks against those of the tench to avail themselves of the efficacy of its healing balm. This led to the tench becoming known colloquially as the "Doctor Fish", and although it's now believed that there is no scientific evidence for this piece of angling lore the nickname has stuck, and is still sometimes used. True or not, I hope to see "the doctor" several times next year to remedy a growing longing for "all things tench".


Thursday, 8 December 2016

Another Year in Retrospect

In Simon and Garfunkle's song the "bookends" were two old timers, sitting on a bench and looking back on the old days, for me 2016 was bookended by the only two pike I caught in the calendar year. The first a, sadly, un-photographed and un-weighed river monster of around 16 pounds, the other this small, photgraphed but not worth weighing, scrap of a jack that graced my net on my final trip of the year.

In between these two pike most of the coarse fish species that grace our island's freshwater ponds, lakes, rivers and streams came my way, longstanding water's edge friendships were renewed or continued and new ones forged, and more fond memories were slipped into the "keepnet of my consciousness."

The first fish of any quality to come my way  were perch, and the brace that I caught on the Oxford Canal in the company of Pete, Roger, Greg and Keith were the finest looking fish of my season. Peas in a pod, both tipping the scales at exactly one and a half pounds, and caught on a frosty and finger numbingly cold day, these were fish to savour and prize. Not the biggest perch I've ever landed, but good fish in anyone's book, and each as handsome as any fish that swims.
 Early Spring saw my church's fishing club, embark on our first trip of the year, a "multi-fish challenge" match, where the prize ( a handmade, feather inlaid float from Ian Lewis) was not for the heaviest weight nor the largest fish, but for the angler who caught the most different species ... in the event I tied in first place with four different species, but was adjudged to have finished second on a "tie break", as Graham, who also landed four different species, caught more fish in total and was rightly crowned winner of the prize. Among my catch was the chub I'm netting in the photo below, the only one of its kind that I landed in 2016.

 As Spring meandered towards the balmy days of Summer I managed to sneak a few short evening sessions with my son, most of which resulted in him catching more or bigger fish than me, often as a result of bonus fish that took a liking to his Method-fished "sleeper rod" that had a habit of pleasingly disrupting his pole or  float fishing escapades. These after school "Dad and son" trips were the season's most special sessions, and on one we were even joined by my daughter who, nine years after her "retirement" from angling, discovered that catching small perch and rudd can still be fun even when you're old enough to drive a car, vote and have a boyfriend!

Summer saw me having plenty of fun, fishing with the "usual gang", but although my floats dipped regularly and I caught consistently, the fish, though welcome, were mostly unremarkable. I caught a few rodbending carp, which is pretty standard for the time of year, but irrespective of my target species, I seemed cursed to permanently catch skimmers (30 on one frustrating day when crucians were the intended target!), and the only individually noteworthy fish of the warmer months was this golden orfe, which, although I didn't bother to weigh it, was by some margin the largest ever of its species I have ever seen as well as caught. By the end of the summer I suspected that even if I fished in the ocean I'd probably end up catching some hapless skimmer that had got hopelessly lost finding its way onto my ragworm on a size 2/0 hook- if I never catch another bream in my life few tears will be shed! However, the lack of individually memorable fish failed to detract from a summer when the pleasures had as much to do with the beauty of the bankside environment and the quality of the company as with any fish that happened to get caught.

The highlight of not only the Summer, but the whole year, was our first ever Christian Anglers weekend retreat. Camping, a pub meal, barbeques, cooked breakfast, Bible study, two trips to charming day ticket waters, plenty of fish, anglers joining us from four different counties and a monster bonfire .... what's not to like?

Early Autumn saw the odd trip to the canal in pursuit of perch, but the highlight of the "season of mists and mellow fruitfulness" was, without doubt, the Christian Anglers fish-in at Marsh Farm in Surrey. Arranged for us by Angler's Mail journalists Bill and Virginia Rushmer, the day will live long in my memory despite the fact that the venue's famous crucians were in shy mood. We had the use of the Godlaming AS clubhouse, and after Bill had introduced us to the tactics likely to succeed and shared the story of how he, a scientist, became convinced by the complexity of the natural world that there must be a God, we went to our swims to engage in a battle of wits from which, on balance, the crucians emerged victorious. However Bill had a brace of nice crucians, I also netted a good fish,my biggest ever crucian at a pound and a half, and while Jez caught the only other crucian, several nice tench and a smattering of roach and rudd kept the Christian Anglers, who had travelled from Yorkshire, Oxfordshire, Bristol, Sussex and Leicester, busy, although there were two dry nets.

 One of the realities of being a Vicar is that December is a month when very little fishing is likely to be done (I took my first Carol Service on December 2nd!), and this year it seems highly unlikely that I will wet a line all month, which means that November's trip to the Fens, organised for Christian Anglers by top Fenland angler John MacAngus was to be my last of the year.

I fished slightly fewer times this year than I did in its calendar predecessor, with the regularity of my trips tailing off in the Autumn and Winter, largely due to the fact that not only were my own work and domestic arrangements squeezing out time for fishing more than they had twelve months previously, but also because my regular fishing companions Pete and Greg were facing similar pressures that reduced their ability to "down tools" and "hotfoot it" to the lake, river or canal.  However, despite, having fished less often than I would have wished, the year will be stored in my memory as a good one. My son and I fished together more than in the previous year, which was a treat in and of itself, seeing my friend Paul returning to angling after a 20 year break (and netting  a pike for him 50 years after he last landed one!)  was a real pleasure, fishing three times with my brother Andy and twice with his son was a real bonus, and any time on the bank with Pete, Greg and Roger is always time well spent. Add to that the St Luke's Church club trips and the Christian Anglers fish-ins and Retreat and you have a year that succeeded admirably in putting the "pleasure" into pleasure angling.
Out with the old, in with the new ..... here's to more of the same in 2017.


Friday, 11 November 2016

The only way is Esox on the Fens

 It was more than just the anticipation of the fish, but as much the mystique of the place that was responsible for my excitement in the build up to the Christian Anglers November fish-in. The Fens, like the Norfolk Broads are woven into the folklore of pike angling, with monster myths and legends to match. There is a bleak and brooding majesty about these inhospitable waterways, dug in the flatlands by Cornelius Vermuyden's teams of Dutch and Scottish prisoners of war back in the 17th Century.
Our bunch of fishermen, drawn from Leicestershire, Hertfordshire, Sussex and Northamptonshire, arrived at the designated meeting point in dribs and drabs, to be met and greeted by local Christian Anglers organiser John MacAngus and Ray, who owns the rights to this particular stretch of drain. John originally hails from Leicestershire, but Ray is a lifelong "Fen tiger", and a proper gentleman to boot.
Deadbaiting was the order of the day, and soon a variety of sliding float rigs, running legers and paternosters were being cast into the drain. I elected to fish one rod with a legered eel section, and the other fished slightly overdepth using a Polaris self locking pike float. My float, with half mackerel bait had only been in the water for a couple of minutes when it started erratically dancing around, before pulling away determinedly. A quick strike was met with resistance, and after a couple of runs and a bit of splashing a small pike saw my side of the argument and was drawn over the net, wielded for me by John.
Half an hour from arrival and a pike on the bank, things were looking promising. However, it proved to be a false dawn, as despite the array of 26 rods that the 13 anglers were employing, and the veritable menu of mackerel, sardines, smelts, eel sections, lamprey, pollan and coarse deads (and the occasional cheeky spinner or lure), only one further pike was landed, another young cub of a pike, beautifully marked and a lovely bright green colour, which fell to Paul's rod; once again, the successful bait was half mackerel, fished under a float.
The weather was changeable- at times inclement (we were even treated to a brief hailstorm), at times sunny, and at all times with the hint of chill that is an inevitability as the wind whips across the flat landscape. Shortly after midday we wound the rods in and broke for lunch. Tim, a lay reader from one of the local churches joined us for a chat, spoke briefly about his faith and said "grace" for us, before we tucked into welcome bacon rolls cooked by John on a couple of gas camping stoves.
With the exception of the punctured tyre misadventure that befell the Hertfordshire lads ( the RAC man's face was a picture as he drove reluctantly on the mud and grass to the hapless van) and a missed run that was Pete's misfortune, the afternoon passed without event, save for the conversations, endless cups of coffee and frequent micky taking that always forms a part of Christian Anglers fish-ins.  
We packed up in a rain squall just before dark, and gathered for the end of day presentation. Ray's son, Andrew Field, is one of the country's top floatmakers, and an exquisite pike float that he had made was on offer for the day's best pike. In the event, "best" was not determined by size (my pike was slightly bigger than Paul's, a fact confirmed by photographic evidence, but still denied by Paul!) but by looks, and Paul's was, indisputably, the prettier of the two fish. Despite the difficult fishing, a great time was had by all, and massive thanks must be recorded to John and to Ray for organising such a special day.
Like someone once said: "it's called fishing, not catching", and this was fishing at its challenging, yet enjoyable best. Good company and a day spent in a wild, wet, windy yet beautiful corner of God's creation ...... what more could anyone ask for?