Packing

Four and a half weeks in the van somewhere in Europe, leaving Wednesday 

The packing takes ages, I think there's enough stuff to last a year, let alone a month.

Ferry to the Hook of Holland, first stop a little place on the river Ijssel ( hopefully....nothing booked as usual ), then I've only the vaguest idea where.

Somewhere to avoid the August crowds where we can cycle, walk and fish. Not in that order obviously. 

Five lure rods, five feeder rods, two fly rods, three barbel/light carp rods, a float rod, 20 kg brown crumb, 20 kg seed, 5 kg, hemp and two trays of sweetcorn for starters.

Things never work out exactly as you expect, so let's see what happens. I'd like another big asp, a barbel or two and a monster ide. Oh, and another one of those huge roach.

Greedy, aren't I ?

In The Groove Again

The tides were crap last week. Next to no fish seen on my walks and I didn't even bother to fish.

Yesterday, I nipped out for a very quick afternoon session for maybe an hour and a bit. It was calm and sunny and looked....well, not very fishy.

First cast on the surface lure was hit by a bass and before I knew it I'd had three fish, decent size too. What do I know ?

I kept looking at a group of mullet that were showing close in around a very specific area. Fins and tails out, they looked as if they were feeding.

I rummaged around in my pockets and cobbled together eighteen inches of horrible,crinkly line with two flies and an orange indicator, which I clipped on to my bass trace. It looked horrendous, but speed was of the essence. 

Making my way to where the fish were showing, the mud got deeper and deeper,until it was an inch or two from the top of my wellies.

A decent cast to where the fish were and I left the flies static. More and more fish appeared and after fifteen minutes or so the indicator slid away and I was in.

In to a fish and in to even deeper mud that went up to my thighs and filled my wellies with stinking, sloppy goodness. The fish fought long and hard but was eventually netted.

I was well chuffed ( yes, that old expression again ) and truly covered in mud. Worth it though. First one I've had on the fly for a while.

Three bass and a nice mullet on a sunny afternoon in double quick time, doesn't get better than that.

This morning I was on the river at 04.00. Beautifully calm, warm and the surface was alive with mullet. Mullet that would not take my baited ( Isome plastic worm )  spinner, unlike the bass, which hammered it cast after cast.

I had about fifteen before I moved a mile down river. The first pool produced a sizeable fish on the popper and then I moved to a spot shaded from the early morning sun.

The popper was cast out and worked back over some bridge pilings when I noticed several fish that looked like bass mooching about , totally ignoring the lure.

A change to a shallow diver resulted in an immediate take and yet another decent sized bass was on and fighting like fury. Unfortunately, it was bleeding badly, so was taken home for the pot, along with samphire, blackberries and cherry plumbs. The fat of the land.

There are suddenly plenty of fish in the river again and "I know where they live", so this week I'm going to make hay big styleeeee.

Perfect Day

Late morning I set off on the bike, along unmade tracks and tiny lanes, covering a paltry twenty five miles in three hours, such was the frequency of the stops.

Not because I was knackered, but because the scenery demanded it. Old Blighty at her best.

It was a truly stunning ride. On one section, I travelled over five miles without seeing a car,  the lanes ever more narrow with sand and shingle interspersed with tarmac.

Glorious countryside deserted, in July in southern England. All is not yet lost.

So far I'd crossed the river Brett, heavily choked with vegetation, but full of life nevertheless, the river Box, Belstead brook and Stutton Brook.

Now I came to the Stour at Boxted.

The bridge was closed. I mean properly closed, with high Loafer proof barriers. Now, if I was in a car I'd have no alternative but to turn around, but a big diversion along a small but busy road on a bike ? No thanks.

I carried the bike down the bank and across the mercifully shallow river, fast flowing across the gravels, the bank somewhat steep on the other side, especially for an old git.

The rest of the ride was mostly off road along the river and within half hour of my river crossing, I was sitting the shade in the garden, sipping an ice cold drink.

S wanted to join me bass fishing locally in the evening, but kept getting stuck in the mud, so the trip was aborted almost before it had begun.

No matter, it was a couple of minutes from home. I sat in the garden, the wind dropped and the evening warmth ensured a T shirt was enough. And shorts obviously. 

I couldn't resist it. At 21.00 I jumped in the van and by 21.07 the first bass of the evening was being unhooked on the mud.

A few casts later the Rapala Skitter Plop ( product placement for you, mandatory these days #influencertosspots ) was smashed by a furious fish, the silhouette of the surface attack only enhanced by the flat calm water.

A much better fish this, but in no time it was having its photo taken.

In pristine condition, I slipped it back and continued fishing.

Five fish in less than an hour, all off the top and I was back by 22.00.

Perfect.

A Phenomenon

Another very hot day. Nipped down the road to see if I could catch a bass or two on some new lures.

Lovely evening,  spoiled somewhat by a huge invasion of hoverflies that filled the sky and covered my body.

Third cast on the "Hunthouse" top water lure ( superior Chinese copy ) and an extremely hard fighting bass eventually succumbed to the pressure of the old Lamiglass nine footer.

A change to a slow sinker immediately resulted in another of the same size.

It was then I noticed the whole river was full of rising fish. I was initially flummoxed, but with a bit of observation came to the conclusion they were taking hoverflies off the top. They being small bass. Thousands of them

The hoverflies were replaced with millions of ladybirds and the rises became even more vociferous and widespread.

An incredible spectacle that I've never seen before and may never see again.

Us anglers are lucky aren't we ?

Summer Days

Well, the bass and mullet on my metaphorical doorstep have disappeared.  Where there were hundreds of flashing, rolling, jumping fish, now there is nothing. Another mystery.

I've been poking about, watching, cycling and baiting. Ive been pre baiting two interesting areas, one in a section where I've never, ever had a decent fish. I've seen nothing either, but the bait had disappeared on a couple of occasions.  Whether it's wildfowl, small chub or something decent who knows. I'll find out.

I've also been farting around doodling. Sitting in the garden in the shade, coffee on, listening to the back catalogue of the mighty Fall, is a damn fine way to spend a morning. 

I reckon in the last few months almost all my fishing has been done on, or more accurately, accessed, by bike. Obviously that means it's all pretty close to home, but it ensures that the gear is kept to a minimum and cycling tiny lanes and riverside footpaths in summer is a lovely thing.

I had a look along a tiny feeder stream yesterday, heaving with life. Small fish, dragon and damselflies, a kingfisher. The water was crystal clear, as you'd expect after months without significant rainfall.

A beautiful place to spend a bit of time.

You can never be unhappy catching a gudgeon.

I've finally got round to (very, very loosely) planning the camper trip for late July and August, just over four weeks of fishing, cycling and generally poking about somewhere in Europe.

As Eisenhower said, "Its a bad plan that can't be altered", so we'll see where we end up. 

Solstice

I awoke at 03.30, the faint light already penetrating the room.

A quick cup of tea, the rod and net packed on the bike, lures in my pockets and I was off.

The smell and atmosphere as you step out the door hits you. Inside you live a comfortable half life, never feeling the extremes of the outdoors.

Living on a hill, I freewheeled half a mile, before pedalling the last few hundred yards.

I could here the oystercatchers and redshanks calling from the mudflats, a cettis warbler in thick patch of brambles and as I lay the bike down, the strange sound of an egret, disturbed by my appearance ( well, you would be, wouldn't you ? ).

The time an hour either side of dawn is magical, all the more so for being fleeting. I tried to take it in, absorbing the birdsong and stillness.

Something weird was happening with the tide, it should have been pushing in, but there was a total lack of movement,  possibly caused by extremely high pressure.

I had a go in the pool, the surface popper's sounds magnified by the lack of wind and background noise. The peace was disturbed as a small bass hit the lure hard,  a short struggle before being slid in on to the mud.

Five or six other fish followed, all around the pound mark, real litluns, but fun on light gear.

By 06.00 the action was over, despite the tide now pushing in hard. I sat next to the bike, looking for fry being attacked or any other activity, but I think the total lack of wind and sunshine,  even at this early hour, had discouraged any feeding.

Back on the bike and within fifteen minutes I was sat in the garden drinking coffee in the soft morning warmth.

Glorious June indeed.

A Pig on the Tidal

I'd found a spot on different tidal venue that was heaving with fish at a certain state of the tide.

Countless mullet, a few bass, a couple of brown trout and a group of carp. The carp were mostly small with one or two much better fish. How big was difficult to say but "big enough to make me want to catch them".

They seemed to move down to this particular spot as the river dropped, remaining there until there was only a foot or so of water.

After spending the previous evening observing and taking a few photos I went back on the bike, travelling very light, armed only with an 8 foot 6 inch, 15 gram spinning rod, small fixed spool and a bucket of mixed seed and maize.

Other bits a pieces in my pockets.

On getting to the ( very overgrown) spot  I went to put my foot down as the bike stopped, only to find that side was a mini ditch, whereupon I crashed, slowly and quite graciously, into the grass, stingers and brambles. Minor cuts only, worse things happen at sea.

A couple of handfuls of seed mix were deposited tight in the near side bank, where there was a tiny bit of slack water.

I watched for maybe twenty minutes, before I saw two carp travelling towards me in the middle of the river. They went straight over to the baited spot and started milling about. A good sign.

I decided to let them settle on the bait. A while  later the smaller fish drifted off, leaving only the bigger one.

I'd got a little 15mm orange poly ball as a float, set a foot deep and two bb on the bottom, four inches from the hook, on to which a single grain of maize was impailed. 

It was probably there ten minutes before it slid away. I struck and the fish immediately tore forty yards downstream, then started to kite into the far bank reeds.

I applied as much pressure as you can on a very light spinning rod and managed to ease it away from danger. For the next twenty minutes it came back and forth, twice I had it almost over the net before it dashed downstream again. I began to think I wasn't going to get it in.

It was much bigger than I'd previously thought but when, finally, I managed to scoop it up in the net and leant down to grab the arms, I realised this really was big, for a little river no more than fifteen yards wide.

I was shaking, sweating and absolute covered in stinging nettles. But most shaking.

25lb 3oz, a massive, bronze brute of a fish that I'm 99.9% certain has never been caught before.

To catch it on the float in twelve inches of water on a light spinning rod only added to the excitement and satisfaction. 

The landing net arms had actually snapped as I lifted it out, but that was a small price to pay. 

I cycled back immediately, jumped in the shower and then sat in the garden, the evening still warm as the dark encroached, enjoying a beer and texting friends to share the success.

It's a long time since a silly old mud pig got me that excited

Day 22,283

Interviewer - " Why do you keep working at your age ?"

Clint Eastwood - " To keep the old man from the door "

Yesterday I had an appointment in a small town ten or eleven miles away. Looked out the window, saw how windy it was and thought "I'll take the van, not the bike "

What a wimp. I changed my mind, jumped on the bike and headed along the tiny lanes, some so neglected they have grass down the middle. 

Big flat fields, full now with wheat and sweet peas, with the occasional rape seed field adding a bright burst of yellow in sea of green.

I arrived early for the appointment and sat on a bench overlooking the tidal river. The familier smell of the mud and marsh of the Colne estuary entered my nostrils, a great way to start the day.

Formalities over, I cycled to a neighbouring village to see The Olds. Up an unmade stoney track, past the old old farmyard, a proper one with delapidated buildings, cattle and the stench of dung, along the uncultivated fields, until I looked south, got off the bike and leant on the gatepost for ten minutes, taking in the winding view of the Colne as it snaked towards Brightlingsea and Mersea.

What a place, not on the tourist trail and all the better for it. This is Betjemen's Essex,

"Mirrored in ponds and seen through gates

Sweet,uneventful countryside"

Back on the bike, past Duttons, through Cockcaynes wood, or what remains of it. In the 80s much of it was cut down and pits excavated for sand and gravel.

After WW2, as the country was being rebuilt, a number of Interim Planning Orders were granted, so as to re construct quickly.

The ballast company used this order in the 80s to destroy a huge piece of ancient woodland. 

It's still a beautiful place, just different, with lakes and scrubland along with patches of woods.

After checking on The Olds, I headed down to Tenpenny brook. As kids we used to go down here with air guns and shoot each other. We zipped up our snorkel parkers as part of the Health and Safety procedure to prevent being hit in the face. 

There was a big, man made hill there, made from spoils from a lake excavation. We rode our bikes at high speed down the hill and pulled the handle bars up sharply at the bottom, so we made it over the ditch at the bottom.

A boy from another village joined us one day. On his Chopper bike. Not suitable for said game. I think you know what's coming

Being little bstards, we didn't tell him of the ditch at the bottom. He hit the far bank of the ditch at high speed with his front tyre and rocketed over the handlebars, ending in a screaming heap in the field. It was the shock, he wasn't seriously hurt, which was good as we were pissing ourselves laughing.

I try not to moan about "da yoof of today", playing on their phones, when they should be out there shooting their friends with air guns and laughing at mates involved in bike crashes.

Down the rutted path, over the stream and up a steep path overhung with elder, brambles and honeysuckle. Then it's a huge, featureless field until I pass Frating Memorial Hall and I think back forty five years.

1979, a party, I'm fifteen and drink about four pints of snakebite before throwing up over the bonnet of a Ford Capri. My dad picks me up and I say " Someone must of spiked my drinks".

To his credit he says nothing and drives me home.

There's more huge fields now, all lined with hedges and a massive horizon, typical of this part of the Tendring Peninsula.  The lanes are tiny, quiet and car free.

In at least two places on my route there are resident corn buntings, a bird now suffering a massive decline, so especially nice to see. It's the metallic call you hear first, before looking up and seeing the scruffy fat finch of a bird.

One field is uncultivated, full of camomile, tufted vetch, sainfoin, trafolium and poppies, a  rowdy and wild expanse in a sea of agricultural order.

Home, tea on and a bite to eat.

A quick dash to the river to prebait a swim on the tidal and then it's time for a bass session with Stuart. He's a newbie angler and has never fished with lures before.

He immediately gets stuck in the mud and collapes in a heap, covered in the stuff.

It's a really warm, balmy evening.  There are small bass everywhere and we catch loads of them on surface lures,such an exciting way to fish.

The mullet are here, but I can't get a touch and as the light fades we leave, the river full of rising, swirling fish.

Ten minutes later I'm sitting in the garden with a beer.

It's been a good day.