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.

June

Yes, the month when all life bursts forth and it doesn't get dark until gone ten o clock. Magic.

Along with fellow blogger and old mate Waaaak I've been hounded with van trouble recently. "Check Engine" says the computer.

It could be this, it could be that, said the mechanic. All manner of fixes tried and still     "Check Engine". Until yesterday when they found the ( very expensive) fault. FFS.

But, as grumpiness started to intrude as the realisation that very many pounds were heading out of my dwindling bank account, I remembered the phrase that Jake Humphrey has tattooed on his wrist. 

Momento Mori. Remember you die. 

Now, you may think that's a bit morbid, but far from it. It's a reminder to seize the day ( Carpe Diem...the Latin prufundities just keep coming ). So, a few quid spent on a vehicle shouldn't trouble a sixty year old well on the way to the abyss.

This week the only work I've done is a few local jobs where I can use a wheel barrow to get the tools to the job. Necessity is the mother of invention ( Plato...😆 ).

I've been out on lots of very short sessions after the bass and mullet, with little success, but have found where they're holed up up at present. Rod and net secured on the bike, few bits in my pockets and I'm away.

The garden, which previously looked like a pikey yard, has been filled with tubs and plants, along with the raspberries, which have come through via suckers from next door, delivering a free feast with no effort on my part.

Highlight of the week was The Day I Mended The Umbrella. Yes, the lightweight, weedy Angling Direct thing that the Dutch winds destroyed. 

From this....

To this....

I was victorious !

Now, you may be thinking "You boring old bstard, blogging about your garden and fixing an umbrella" and you may well be right, but I've also been planning the mid-late summer month long camper tour of somewhere in Europe.

When I say planning, I mean farting about on the Internet looking for fishing spots and places to park up near rivers and lakes. 

This evening I'm back with the lure rod after bass, if this horrible easterly wind eases up.

Fill yer boots, it's the lovely month of June.

Bass

Last week I was standing in the river in just a few inches of water, waiting for the mullet to appear as the tide pushed in.

A shoal of fry scattered as a fish struck and continued to do so with ferocity, two or three times.

I'd previously put the fry jumping down to mullet dashing about as they do, but no, these were no mullet. A few minutes later a decent sized bass materialised in front of me, out of nowhere in the shallow, clear water. Most definitely a bass.

I've plenty of bass here before but mostly small ones. 

The tide was perfect yesterday,  so I bought the lure rod along with some small plugs ( or as they call them these days, "hard plastics" ), roughly the same size as the bait fish.

The wind had started to drop and it was turning out to be a fine evening. The flow increased just a touch and the fry on the shallows began to be attacked.

The surface popper landed right on top of baitfish as they were scattering and was immediately savagely hit. In the ultra shallow water the fish fought long and hard on the light gear, much better than most of the mullet I've been catching on the fly.

Turned out to be a lovely fish.

As the tide pushed in the fish moved, as did I. The surface lure was replaced with a tiny shallow runner, which resulted in three more cracking bass, all of which battled hard in the now fast flowing water. 

It's so satisfying observing something happening, devising a plan and then coming back and it working.

You'll not be surprised to learn that I'm going to give it another go this evening. 

Oh, I almost forgot, they weren't all big'uns.

A lovely evening and literally two minutes drive from the house. Magic.