Fishing lesson 3742 - do not try and handline angry Trout

A cold winter’s day taught me yet another harsh fishing lesson.

Thanks to leaving the warm confines of my bed so early on Valentines day (thanks Philippa) I had managed to bag my favourite swim. After quickly tackling up I trotted out a bunch of maggots looking for an obliging Chub.

Second cast my float bobbed down and I reeled in a small Chevin under a pound. Suitably encouraged I cast again and the float disappeared on cue.

However this time the bend on my rod and strong tugging told me I had a bigger fish to contend with.

After a short fight I brought the fish to the surface and could see a personal best Trout wallowing close to my net. However disaster struck as I led the Trout in, the bung connecting my net to the telescopic poll fell off and the net floated off down stream away from the Trout.

My mind quickly worked out that the net could look after its self and hand lining the Trout in was the best option. As the Trout came within an inch of my hand it became angry at the unconventional landing, vigorously shook its head and fell off the barbless hook into the river.

At this point I swore, cursed and repeatedly kicked the floor.

Recovering my composure I hooked my net with the poll and made some running repairs. Still cursing under my breath I baited up and cast out. Sure enough the float bobbed under and I was rewarded with a Trout, not, the 4lb beauty I should have had, but a younger brother only three inches long.

Truly the fishing gods were laughing at me.

Some luck returned as the day went on a pair of nice Chub made the day better, safely landed using my repaired landing net. But as I left the river all I could think of was that old fishing cliché, ' the one that got away'. Sod it.

Fish at last...

After a run of two weeks with no fish I had begun to think about taking up a new hobby.

Tangled Knitting anyone?

But as deities go the fishing Gods are incredibly fickle. Working in strange and mysterious ways a mortal fisherman such as myself can not begin to fathom their great plan.

After the drought came the flood. A flood of Roach. Over the course of  the day around 30 red fin lemmings leapt onto my hook.

The biggest was only a pound I was deliriously happy. Happy to feel like an Angler again.

Towards the end of the day a shoal of Chevin crept into my swim and the rod began to bend a little more. A fellow fisherman (Michael from Taiwan) who was fishing with his friend kindly netted the bigger specimens that dragged my stick float under.

This was the first time  Michael had seen a Chub. As the biggest fish of the day glistened in the net, he exclaimed, 'it is beautiful'. I had never really thought of Chub as beautiful before. Perch and Grayling always seem incredibly elegant and pretty compared to a bucket mouthed Chevin.  But Michael was right, the Chub was beautiful.

Maybe my new found appreciation of Chub was the fishing Gods plan all along.

Do fish melt like snow?

The great freeze has ended.

The people of Hampshire have dug themselves out of the great snow drifts.

Some over a inch deep.

River ice flows away and the ducks put away their ice skates for another year.

An intrepid Angler returns to the river; hopeful of a first Perch or even a greedy Chub.

He moves from swim to swim; braving gangs of malnourished Swans.

The water is a green brown colour and ice cold to the touch.

Trotting, ledgering or freelining. It makes no difference; no bites are forthcoming.

As the light fades the float bobs under. The Angler strikes, the fish stubbornly hugs the bottom.

With a great effort he brings the beast to the surface.

He stands there in amazement, his mind unbelieving of his hard won prize.

A shed panel.

One more cast

This post was really meant to be about a successful days Chub fishing. However the very last cast of the day completely altered the nature of both my days angling and the words you are now reading.

Armed to the teeth with red maggots and worms I appoached my local river and elected to fish my two favourite swims. After a couple of hours in each all I had to show for my efforts was a shiny Chub and a baby Trout smaller than my thumb.

Realising a change in tactics was required I opened my recently purchased worm pot. As I searched around the earth for a fat lobworm it became apparent that the pot was completely wormless and empty. I had been duped by my local tackle shop into buying a worm free pot. However I must shoulder some of the blame, I really should have checked the pot before leaving the shop. Buyer beware indeed.

Cursing my luck I packed up my kit and walked the river looking for a fishy swim. I paused over a quick glide that went from shallow to deep water. I decided to stop and catch some of the rivers elusive winter Grayling.

After a while I had my first bite and reeled in a friendly looking Roach. The next cast went unanswered but the following two brought in a brace of hungry Chub who regurgitated crushed up maggots into my net that I had been loose feeding into the swim for the last hour. More Chub followed, clearly I do not know what a Grayling swim looks like.

Content with a great days fishing and struggling with the fading light I opted for one final cast. My stick float trotted merrily down the flowing water and plunged under. I struck lightly and I felt something a little bigger tighten the line. After some quick negotiations with my captive I landed a fine 2lb Chub, my biggest to date.

At this point I should have packed up and gone home but a voice in my head encouraged me to make one final cast. The float skipped through the swim and disappeared from view at exactly the same spot where the last Chub had taken my bait. After I had made contact the fish executed a quick dash to the river bank. With a little bit of luck I succeeded in coaxing it away from it's intended safe haven and bring it slowly to the surface.

My jaw hit the floor, it was a massive Roach!

Reeling in, I carefully manoeuvred the Roach into my net and prayed that my barbless hook remained true. After some further work the silver giant was safely in my net. Pulling myself together I placed the ancient looking Roach into the weighing sling just as a passer by and his children popped over to see what all the noise was about. We all stared as the scales stopped just under 3lbs. Taking off the weight of the light mesh sling we estimated a final weight of between 2lb 12 oz - 2lb 13oz!

As I returned the venerable old Roach to the water, the greedy part of me wanted to make one more cast. Opposed to this the romantic part of me felt that it would somehow dishonour the memory of such a beautiful fish if I was to cast again. The romantic side of me won out and I happily walked to the car dreaming of monster Roach.

Groundhog day

Like Bill Murray in Groundhog day I am stuck on repeat.

A good size Chub continues to elude me but the Mr Trout keeps popping in to visit.

Everything was identical, I waited five hours for a bite using exactly the same bait. I then lost a good size fish after a frantic battle. Slumping defeated into my chair I struggled to suppress the rising urge to jump up and down on my rod.

After a while I decided against this course of action and flicked my bait lazily out a few feet in front of me. The float trotted down the swim and dipped under. I struck and everything went mental.

I now understand why people like Trout fishing. I have always felt that that Trout and game fishing was an elitist pursuit. The domain of people with double barrelled names and country estates. But I now understand how people can become hooked on catching one type of fish repeatedly. In a shallow run with a light hook length a Brown Trout puts up an amazing fight. The Trout ploughed up stream, shaking it's head from left to right before leaping clean out of the water, it's tail wagging as it swam in mid air.

After the battle was finally over and I returned the Trout to the river, I reflected on how identical the day has been to my previous fishing trip. Maybe I am going to have to try a different bait to lure a Chub if I am to escape from Groundhog day...

An unexpected visitor

I have an unhealthy addiction...

...an addiction to maggots.

Not in a smoking or drinking kind of way.

That would be weird.

My addiction stems from my inability to go fishing without them.


Ever.

They whisper to me, 'take us with you and you'll never blank' (talking maggots, now that is weird) and in my cowardice I pack them ready for the days fishing.

Now there is nothing wrong with maggots they are a great bait and they can catch all kinds of fish. But in my mind this also means that all other baits catch no fish. I know this is not true, so I may be a little mental.

On a cold day I decided that today was the day and I left my house armed only with home made cheese paste and a can of sweetcorn. The greedy Chub of the local river were my target.

Five hours and several swims later and I had not experienced a single bite. Just as I was longing for a pint of maggots the float dipped under. I struck, the rod bent over and line was torn off the reel. After a brief battle the fish came up to the surface still fighting.

A Chub and a big one!

I picked up my net, ready to grab the prize...

...the crafty fish slipped off the barbless hook and swam away. Bugger.

Five hours, no bites and then I lose the fish. God, I hate fishing.

I pulled my self together and elected to have a couple more casts before returning home with my tail between my legs. I gently lobbed my bait out only a few feet in front of me and sat down sulking.

My float slammed under, I struck again and line roared off my reel.

I managed to stop the fish and reel it in slowly. Then it stopped, shook it's head violently and shot off in the other direction!

What the hell is this, I thought as I struggled to get the fish under control.

A few minutes later a brown body appeared on the surface. A wild Trout, on cheese paste!

After I netted the frisky Trout a kind passer by took the photo of me and my new friend, I realised that I had been taught a valued lesson. The most important skill a fisherman possesses apart from pure luck is patience.

Maybe I will leave the maggots home next time as well...