So a weeks holiday with the family in Westward Ho! North Devon to see my twin brother and his youngest daughter, the accommodation had a sea view and was right in the heart of Westward Ho! so it would be rude to not do some sea fishing now would it.
To be honest I fancied trying for a smoothhound so I packed the cheap beachcaster however not having much time to pack, I basically chucked in the usual sea fishing fair, so a lure rod as well as some LRF gear so fish some of the big rock pools that are here.
We usually stay in Instow or Appledore when were are down this neck of the woods, so it was nice to actually stay where my brother lives for once. The weather looked like it would be relatively mild for this time of year so hopefully I'd get a few fishing sessions in. I've caught bass on lures in this area but oddly I fancied a smoothhound🦈mainly to poke fun on their lack of teeth, what's all that about 🤣
Sadly Summerlands tackle is now closed in Westward Ho! it's a shame as it was a well stocked tackle shop and plenty of bait and I'd always had good service there. On a positive not the butchers a stone throws from here is superb,
Sign of the times I suppose, I was surprised just how much coarse fishing gear they had, but still sea fishing was their mainstay.
Now one of the myths of our island race is that we feel, periodically and irresistibly, the call of the sea.
When we get back from a trip on a heaving boat, we realise that most of our ancestors must have walked here before the Channel was cut.
What we mistake for the call of the sea is the euphoria of ozone, winkles and Guinness which overcomes most of us during our week in Blackpool, that feeling of superhuman well-being which can be used either to boost the birthrate of the following spring or diverted towards the pursuit of the saltwater monsters.
Most of our wives, with the kids already squawking for ice creams, buckets and spades, candy floss and a donkey ride, would much rather we got with the monsters.
The first thing to do is to get kitted out. Tartan shirt, windproof trousers, canvas jacket with kinky rope fastening, jaunty trawlerman's cap guaranteed to make anyone but a genuine jaunty trawlerman look a right burke, and a pair of bright yellow wellies with a spare just incase one of them leaks.
Once the wife sees you in that lot you have no chance at all of getting to work on the birth-rate.
You are now left with a choice of fishing from the beach or the pier, from the rocks, from a rowing boat or in company with a bunch of other yellow-wellied euphorics from a hired inshore fishing boat.
Anyway apart from the dangers from wind and tide, sea and storm, hook and weight, there are also dangers in sea fishing from the catch itself.
Sea fish are not at all keen on being caught and have their own special ways of showing it.
The angler learns very quickly, for instance, not to go 'Koochy, koochy, koo', to the pretty little whiting.
The pretty little whiting has a set of teeth which turn the chin-chucking accompaniment into 'Koochy, koochy-aaaaaaaargh!!!' And anybody daft enough to try the same thing on a ling is known thereafter to his friends as Lefty.
Careless conger fishermen can be recognised by the way they walk up to the bar, shout 'Four pints, please' and hold up two widely separated fingers.
It is still common, even after centuries of sweeping up finger-ends littering the bottoms of boats, for a conger to be slung into a box along with the rest of the catch. Before long, someone prods around in the box for a mackerel to cut up as bait. As soon as his exploring fingers come within chomping distance of the uptight conger, he realises that his ambition of becoming a concert pianist has hit a snag.
Trouble with a conger starts as soon as it is hauled inboard. It twists and turns, bucks, somersaults, spins, loops, thrashes and writhes. All the time its mouth is snapping like the scissors of a demented barber. Half Nelsons, full Nelsons, Japanese strangleholds and Indian deathlocks are not recommended as a means of subduing it unless you are on the short list for a job as harem master.
The only sure way to deal with a big one is to gaff it with two gaffs-one at the head and one at the tail-bash it on the tail to keep it quiet, and then cut through its spinal cord, just behind the head, with a sharp knife. Yuck.
Be careful with the knife. Don't lunge. If ever you see a party of anglers trooping off a boat, carrying one of their number and singing
Hi Ho!
Hi Ho!
Old Fred has lost a toe.
you can lay even money that Fred was a lunger. The conger is then dropped in a bag, the trace cut, and the bag tied tightly at the neck. ('Rubbish! No need at all to cut the trace. Just unhook the conger as you would any other fish,' he said, prodding me with his stump.)
The poor old thing, gaffed, bashed, knifed and tied up in a sack, should now be past caring. But after lying quiet for a couple of hours, waiting for the string to work loose, many a conger has slipped out for a quick chomp at the nearest wellie.
The weever is a nice little thing. Covered in poisonous spines. One jab from these spines can put you straight into hospital. Every seaside hospital ward has one-the bloke who knew all about the weever, but who insisted on stamping on one with plimsolls or rope-soled sandals.
The skin of the lesser spotted dogfish was once used as sandpaper. Lots of anglers who never knew this interesting fact before are acquainted with it after trying to hold a spinning dog in their bare hands. Another interesting discovery can be the spines in front of the dorsal fins of the spur dog. Excellent for blood poisoning. Giving it to you, that is.
The torpedo ray isn't caught very often. When it is, it can be recognised by the electric shock it gives. 'That,' you can say knowingly to the bloke who has been thrown halfway across the boat by the charge, 'is a torpedo ray."
The thornback ray and common skate have neat little rows of thorns all the way down their tails. Which is why it it is not a pleasant experience to handle them. The tail of the stingray is even better equipped with a barbed and poisonous spear. Never attempt to hold its tail while you take the hook out: ask the chap next to you to do it.
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| A rare fishing trip for brother Chris !! |
The poor old skate is the one to feel sorry for. The male skate has a pair of 'claspers' on its underside, like the two blades of a pair of shears.
These claspers, when they come together, can do a neat pinking job on your hand, and many fishermen are in the habit of cutting them off as soon as the fish is caught. This is a bit anti-social, really, because the claspers are the sex organ of the male skate. I mean, how would they like it?
The claspers have given rise to a variation on the old hedgehog joke:
Question: How do skates make love?
Answer: Very, very carefully.
One jolly thing about all sea fish is that any bite, cut or jab from them is poisonous and liable to turn septic if not disinfected very quickly.
Anyone for fishing?
Well where do I start, a new species for me a bull huss that took a mackerel head, a couple of eels and also a dog fish which to be honest put up the better fight. The weather was generally mild and some really nice days where fishing took a back seat. Sam and I tried various rock pools with some LRF gear but they were not that productive so it was back to the bigger fish hunt.
No smoothhounds showed and I fish with crab bait one of the mornings. Certainly the choppier the sea more bites were forthcoming and one bite nearly pulled my rod in but I hooked in to nothing oddly.
A few seals around but little or not bait fish were seen and also no bass strikes. I could have fished in to dark maybe that would have been the better option, but probably not wise considering the rock mark you're walking on.
A rather enjoyable break with good company and good weather and plenty of chilled out liquid lunches and good food, it's certainly a nice part of the world down here, it feels like England of old and that's not a bad thing. My brother and his daughter enjoyed the roast dinner I made them from the accommodation and we met up plenty which is good. Anyway i'll be heading back down to Devon(ish) well Somerset anyway for a long weekender. Fatboy Slim, Utah Saints and Groove Armada amongst other knob twiddlers.
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