I've lost count of the butties and balls of cheesepaste nicked by wandering tripehounds. And the bags of dry groundbait dampened beyond redemption and with their fish-appeal definitely impaired. I've lost count, too, of the number of bites I've missed by having a great slobbering tongue stuck in my ear just as the float dipped.
Have you ever had a dog stick its nose in your tin of maggots, take a hearty sniff of ammonia-scented sawdust and then sneeze? Maggots all over the bank, all over the dog, all over you and not a one left in the tin. I was once pulled off my chair by a thing like an economy-size grizzly.
It sank its teeth into my sleeve and was playfully dragging me along the bank (slightly overexaggerated) when the lady owner turned up.
'Could you ask this thing to put me down, Missis?' I croaked from my recumbent posture. 'And could I suggest you try feeding it?'
'Nonsense,' she said. 'He's only showing he likes you.' 'What does he do if he hates you? Take your leg off?' Come here, Tuppence,' she said. 'Put the man down. You never know where he's been.'
Tuppence! The size of the flaming thing. Thank God she didn't have another one called Fourpence. So these days, I'm afraid, I am not at all encouraging to Man's Best Friend.
But how do you dissuade them? It's no use just ingoring them in the hope that they'll go away. They're out to play and they're determined that you're not going to miss any of the fun.
All that thundering around your pitch, too, tends to leave your gear in a hell of a mess. chairs, rods, tins, groundbait and butties get smashed, trampled and strewn all over. The line tangles around them all, around you, and often around the dog. Meanwhile, every fish within earshot is heading for the hills.
Inevitably, just as you are raising the old power-packed welly to do the nasty, the dog's owner turns up. There are two kinds of owner: an intimidating matron with a voice like a klaxon and a lethal technique with a brolly, or a seven-foot gentleman with outsize muscles and an inclination to use them.
You could try a touch of animal psychology. Give the dog something to keep it occupied. Teach it to swim, perhaps. And make sure the brick is tied firmly round its neck. (Only kidding, Dog Lover of Dudley. Ha ha.)
The best means of dissuasion, I've found, is the landing net handle, applied smartly to the doggie-pog's bonce. It has to be applied immediately the dog appears, before it can beguile you with its soulful eyes, wagging tail and engaging ways. And before the owner appears. This ensures that there is no emotional involvement with the dog. And no physical involvement with the owner.
In the old days, admittedly, the application of a steel or stout ash handle could prove a touch on the fatal side. But landing net handles these days are almost always of a light alloy, and do not really hurt the animal. They bounce off with a reverberating boi-oi-oi-oinggg... which is quite pleasant to the ear, and which leaves the dog with nothing worse than a syncopating skull.
Still, I suppose nowadays we can count ourselves lucky. Discounting cows and horses, pigs and sheep, and perhaps the odd goat, we've nothing bigger than dogs to worry about on the bank. I've just been reading about the Thames in between Ice Ages, when the banks were swarming with mammoths and woolly rhinoceroses and things.
Imagine it:
'Hey, Missis! Have you got a licence for that mammoth?' 'What's it got to do with you?'
'It's just sat on my mate's umbrella, that's what.' 'Why don't you let your mate speak for himself?" 'He can't. He's under the umbrella...
Anyway to the canal forthwith before the boats turn up. After the reccy session the other day I fancied a chilled few hours in the morning to see what was swimming around in these forgotten waters. With a fridge full of maggots they would be my main stay and I'd fish bread from time to time as well to try and winkle out a better fish.
I'd have a method feeder as well because well the bream seem to like being tight to the reeds usually on the far bank.
Sweetcorn as bait on the quick stop hair rig. I balled in some supercrush green mixed with some micro pellets and get about fishing. A lovely morning indeed but the only action in two hours was a small fish that dropped off just before I went to lift it, damn !!! There was plenty of bubbles and I was expecting some bream to turn up, but no, they were suspicious in their absence.
In the end I decided enough was enough and headed up to an area I spotted when I was here last, and with some tow on the water I fished the whip close in and within ten minutes had the first fish.
It was a nice roach that buried the float almost hooking itself with the ferocity of the bite. With another sprinkling of maggots with each bite I manged 5 in the end all from the same spot. Sods law though because a boat turned up and that was that.
A lovely stamp of fish though all, probably shy of a 1lb but a welcome sight because the fishing wasn't exactly memorable.
Once the sun came up and illuminated the canal I managed one more bite which I missed in another spot and that was my lot. 4 hours in total and 5 fish, still that is canal fishing for you. Locating the fish is the hardest part. On the way back to the car I fed some floating bread in a couple of swims with cover to see if I could spot any carp but once another boat came through I decided enough was enough and I headed back home.
0 comments:
Post a Comment