What are friends for?

Fishing, by its very nature is a solitary affair…

…a battle of wits (or no wits) between fish and man that is only separated by the thin film of water and the even thinner line between the Anglers hope and the fishes freedom.  This enforced loneliness can drive anglers to madness or obsession, as their unwavering focus is directed at catching the largest carp in the pool, or the monster chub that slipped the hook the previous day.

But the solitary angler is never truly alone.

Summer trips to reed lined river banks are always best enjoyed with a fellow angler. An experience that is shared is somehow more visceral, and embeds itself in the memory, ready to be recalled during late nights at fishing at the local lake. A fishing friend is someone who can help you with your rig or point you towards a unseen swim where a shoal of red finned roach may lie hidden from your gaze. A fishing friend should be able to make an adequate cup of tea or possess the athleticism to help fish your landing net from the river it breaks under the strain of a bullish trout.

My last year of angling has seen me fishing alone but I have made some great friends on the riverbank. Without the help of experienced hands like Marvin, I would not be able to Wallis cast, or understand the best way to trot bread flake for the Itchen' roach. Due to my relative inexperience the only way I can pay them back for their help is the occasional cup of tea and a pleasant chat about the wiley local chub.

Recently I have enjoyed a couple of day's fishing with one of my oldest friends - Dave. On the windiest day I have ever seen on the local farmer’s pond, Dave not only out fished me, catching some very fine Perch and roach, but my competitive spirit was happy for his success. It was enough for me to net Dave's increasingly bigger stripies and take photos, as our tackle was blown away with the gusting wind.

If I has been alone I would not have seen the mighty 20lb Pike engulf the biggest perch of the day, as Dave carefully returned it to the wind swept water. The pike rolled only a foot away from the edge of the bank that disappeared from view, leaving a pair of startled anglers and an event seared into our shared memory.

 I know that during the summer, when the wind has dropped, and we wait for first light. The bubbles of morning tench will start to appear through the darkness of the morning.  We will talk of the winter’s day on the same lake when a Pike devoured the day’s prize perch, and it was so close we could have scooped it up in our hands. 

 That is what friends are for.

My First Perch

When you are a child often the first fish  you catch is a very small example of it's species. As you grow older and more rotund the fish in turn also become more portly old specimens. But for some strange reason I seem to be the exception to this age old fishing rule.

At a beautiful farm pond, teaming with fish, I caught the smallest Perch possible . He was so small he could have passed as a Stickleback with a bad attitude.

The angry small Perchlet devoured a bait meant for his much larger brother.

With his vicious eyes and his bristling spine I could never have been disappointed by such a small cub being my first Perch. I caught larger Perch over the course of the day but none seemed quite so special.

The poll result - what was your first fish?

The fishing public have spoken, the votes have been counted and the winner is preparing to warble the latest Simon Cowell produced travesty.

In Tangled reel's first online poll the hot favourites Roach and Perch have been trounced by a fish in batter. Truly this is a reflection of the decline of modern fishing along with giant man eating Otters and Moet flavoured ground bait.

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.

The Perch Whisperer

When you are a kid you always dream of having a cool nick name like Ice Man or Mr T. But you always end of with a crap nick name that the mouthy kid in the class coins and everyone copies.

On one of my first trips back to Fishing I confidently stated that I was going to catch a Perch. It did not matter that I had never, ever caught one before, a stripey would be mine. Of course my arrogance ensured I fell flat on my face.

I fished all day with out a bite and to rub salt into the wound my friend Phil caught a fierce looking Perch on the Feeder straight away. It was like the fishing Gods were laughing at me. Ever quick off the mark my friend Dave christened me 'The Perch Whisperer'. Not for my amazing angling skills but for my complete inability to catch a Perch from a river seemingly teeming with them. The sod.

The nickname has now stuck and I am still no closer to catching a Perch. If I have one aim for 2010 it is to break my Perch duck...and maybe get a new nickname.

No fish required

My previous post may have led you to believe that I was some what dismayed at blanking. I really thought I would be upset, but on reflection this can not be further than the truth.

The cold winter winds may have froze my extremities and led the fish to move to a more sheltered home than my favourite swim. However I can not escape from the fact that I still enjoyed my last trip to the river.

The brown, debris strewn water of a few weeks previous had been replaced by a shiny crystal clear liquid. As the cold December sun reflected off the quickly flowing water and my icy breath puffed into the winter air, I realised that fishing makes me happy and catching a fish is merely incidental.

When Christmas day has passed I will make plans to return to the river again. It will be interesting to find out if my new found zen will stand up to another blank day or if I return to my normal behaviour of throwing a tantrum and sulking.

Now if I can only catch a Perch...

River Roach

Something odd has started to happen.

I am now beginning to catch Roach that are larger than a match box.

My previous best Roach could have been beaten up by a Gudgeon.

My tactics haven't really changed, the bait is the same, just a couple of red maggots.

The difference is not 'how' but 'where' I am fishing.

When I was young my friends and I spent our summer days catching hundreds of stunted Roach in overstocked ponds ( I may have mentioned this before).

The ponds were devoid of natural predators such as Pike and Perch. This meant that the waters Roach were plentiful in number but never grew larger than three-four inches. The poorly fish that would have been eaten by the predators lived on unmolested. Thereby denying space for the stronger fish to grow into.

Most of my fishing is now on small rivers, where food is easily available to the schoals of Roach and natural predators ensure the balance of the local ecosystem by picking off the sick fish. The surviving Roach are not only bigger but stronger. Sometimes when I strike into one and struggle to get control, I think it is a small chub until I manage to get the fish close to my net.

I have developed a new found respect for the humble Roach and a dream to break the magical 2lb mark (although at the moment I am more likley to catch a submerged tree).

It seems like the local Gudgeon may have to find someone new to bully.