There are some fishing trips where everything falls beautifully into place. The weather behaves itself, the sea resembles a large ornamental pond and the fish queue up politely to inspect your bait. And then there are trips to Westward Ho! in October half-term, where Mother Nature appears to have taken a personal dislike to you and the sea looks like it's auditioning for a disaster movie.
This particular expedition was brought to us courtesy of Storm Austen, who clearly hadn't received the memo that we were coming down for a relaxing week by the coast. Still, having made the journey from Warwickshire on what turned out to be a surprisingly straightforward Saturday morning, we weren't about to let a bit of weather interfere with our plans.
Saturday seems to be the day to travel south, with the traffic considerably more civilised than during the usual weekday chaos. We left at 7.00am, made excellent progress and, after a brief roadside pit stop to drain the main vein, rolled into Westward Ho! at approximately 10.30am.
Not bad at all. Three and a half hours, a reasonably comfortable journey and only one necessary interruption to proceedings. There's something rather satisfying about arriving at your destination before lunchtime, particularly when the alternative is spending half the morning staring at the back of a white Transit van somewhere near Bristol.
Mind you, the first sight of the sea rather brought us back down to earth. Looking out towards the water opposite the Pier House, it was immediately apparent that the fishing might have to take a back seat for a while.
Jesus Christ, what an angry-looking sea! This wasn't a gentle Atlantic swell rolling in to welcome visitors; this was the North Atlantic looking like it had just received a parking ticket and was determined to take it out on everyone within several hundred yards.
White water everywhere, huge swells and a general impression that anything attempting to fish from the rocks would probably be returning home several miles further down the coast, assuming they returned at all. Still, we'd arrived, the accommodation was ready and there was absolutely no reason to get too excited about the fishing just yet.
We were staying in the same accommodation as our summer visit, largely because it's convenient, comfortable and offers some cracking views across the Bristol Channel. There is something rather special about sitting in the warmth while watching the weather do its worst outside, particularly when you aren't the one standing on a slippery rock with a rod in one hand and a rapidly diminishing sense of self-preservation in the other.
The views were spectacular, although the building itself has rather more pressing matters to attend to. Apparently, the entire Horizon View block is due to have scaffolding erected in January, with the initial scaffolding bill alone reportedly coming in at a staggering £650,000.
And that's before the dodgy cladding is removed and replaced, which is likely to send the overall bill into the sort of territory normally reserved for national infrastructure projects and people with considerably more money than common sense. For the owners, particularly those operating holiday lets, it's an absolute nightmare.
No rental income for the duration of the work, substantial additional costs and, to add a little extra seasoning to an already unpleasant financial dish, owners being asked to contribute towards the pot themselves. It's hardly the sort of business plan that gets the champagne flowing.
Imagine buying a holiday property, calculating your annual income, working out your bookings and looking forward to a nice little return, only to discover that your investment is about to become an expensive metal-framed sculpture for an extended period.
You could hardly blame some owners for looking at the situation and wondering whether they'd accidentally purchased a building project rather than a holiday apartment.
We were fortunate enough to be in the property by midday, so there was no hanging about. Bags unpacked, a look at the views and the official start of a week of doing as little as humanly possible.
Which, as regular readers will appreciate, is something we have become rather good at. One of the great attractions of coming down here is the people, with my brother and his daughters, Chris and the wider Westward Ho! massive all part of what makes these visits so enjoyable.
There's something about arriving in North Devon that makes the outside world seem a very long way away. You could almost describe it as an enclave of its own, where we switch off big time, catch up with everyone, have a few drinks, exchange the usual insults and generally get on with enjoying ourselves.
A few drinks are consumed, naturally, although I'm not going to suggest that we're particularly enthusiastic about this sort of activity. That would be terribly unfair on the pubs and, more importantly, might damage our carefully cultivated reputations as sensible, responsible adults.
The sunsets were another highlight. On a couple of evenings the skies were absolutely spectacular, with those vibrant colours that make you stop whatever you're doing and simply stare.
Whether sitting in the Fairway Buoy, literally yards from the sea, or watching from the accommodation, there was no escaping them. When the sky puts on a performance like that, even the most hardened pub-goer has to pause between drinks and acknowledge that nature occasionally gets something right.
Although, judging by the sea conditions, she was clearly having a bit of a laugh at our expense elsewhere.
We also made another visit to the Crowbar in Northam, where they've really nailed the concept. It's great to see a new business getting things right, creating a place people actually want to visit and providing something that adds to the local community.
I genuinely hope they thrive. It's no secret that hospitality businesses are operating in challenging times, and anyone prepared to put their money, time and energy into opening a new venture deserves a fair crack at it.
The last thing we need is another empty premises with a faded To Let sign in the window. Of course, I have my own opinions about the wider economic situation, and government policy, taxation, fiscal drag and the ever-increasing cost of running a business are all subjects that can get me going, particularly after a couple of pints.
My view is fairly straightforward: if you want people spending money, you need to leave them with enough of it to actually spend.
Taxing businesses and individuals to the hilt and then wondering why everyone is tightening their belts isn't exactly a masterclass in economic genius.
Hospitality needs customers, customers need disposable income and businesses need some encouragement rather than another financial obstacle course.
But enough of that, I hadn't come to Devon to solve the economy, although judging by some of the decisions being made, perhaps I should have packed a calculator and a government policy document alongside the fishing tackle.
I had fish to catch. Or at least that was the general idea.
As already mentioned, the sea was looking rather lively on arrival, and the initial fishing opportunities were somewhat limited. Still, anglers are a stubborn breed, and the prospect of catching something occasionally overrides the perfectly sensible suggestion that perhaps today isn't the day to go anywhere near the water.
Sam and I ventured out with Chris to try the rocks, although conditions were still far from ideal. It was turbulent, the water was moving around considerably and the general feeling was that we were probably a little early in trying to get amongst the fish.
There is a fine line between being determined and being an absolute idiot. We were probably operating somewhere around that boundary.
The following morning Chris kindly picked us up at 7.00am, and we headed off to Greysands to fish approximately an hour before high tide. It was a much more promising proposition, although the fish weren't exactly throwing themselves at us.
We did manage to locate a few small schoolie bass, which seemed to have developed an unhealthy enthusiasm for anything that entered the water. Small they might have been, but they certainly weren't short of appetite.
Anything that came their way was getting nailed, and for a while there was a bit of activity to keep us interested. They were typical school bass, though, and whilst always welcome, they weren't exactly the sort of fish that would have you ringing the local newspaper to announce a major angling achievement.
Still, it was fishing, and after looking at the sea on arrival, we weren't going to complain.
The final opportunity came when Sam and I decided to return to the original rock mark. This time we positioned ourselves approximately 100 yards away, where the water looked a little calmer and, perhaps more importantly, there seemed to be a reasonable opportunity to fish without having to negotiate the sort of conditions normally encountered during a naval training exercise.
We were using crab and squid bombs, and followed the tide down for around an hour and a half. Nothing particularly exciting was happening, and I was beginning to wonder whether the fish had all decided to relocate somewhere considerably more hospitable.
Then, completely out of the blue, something happened.
There was suddenly some interest on the crab and squid offering, and it wasn't the usual little tap that leaves you wondering whether you've got a fish, a crab or a particularly enthusiastic piece of weed attached to the hook. The rod pulled over and, before I had much opportunity to contemplate what was happening, I was into a solid fish.
Now, anyone who has fished this sort of ground will understand why heavy tackle is necessary. This isn't delicate fishing where you spend ten minutes admiring the bend in a light rod and discussing the fish's possible intentions.
It's more a case of lift, haul and hang on. The ground can be unforgiving, the water moves considerably and there is very little room for making mistakes.
But this time there was a decent weight on the end, accompanied by some proper heavy pulls. This was no occasional cluster of seaweed requiring a recast, although I've been fooled by that particular performance often enough to know better than to get too carried away.
Something substantial was attached, and it was giving a good account of itself.
I've fished around this area quite a few times and had been keen to add a smoothhound to the species list. It was one of those fish I'd wanted to catch from this particular coastline, and the persistence was finally about to pay off.
There is always that moment when you're fishing a rough mark and you know you've got something decent, but you haven't yet seen exactly what you're dealing with. Your imagination starts working overtime, your concentration goes through the roof and suddenly every decision seems to have the importance of a military operation.
Then the fish appeared from the depths. A smoothhound!
And not just any smoothhound, but a rather lovely starry smoothhound. Absolutely fantastic.
I had my heart in my mouth, but fortunately I'd chosen the swim with a little thought behind it. I'd identified a vantage point that offered a realistic opportunity to land a decent fish, rather than simply hooking one and then discovering that the only available landing area was a vertical rock face surrounded by several million gallons of angry seawater.
It was all about timing. The next wave would lift the water level sufficiently to allow me to slide the fish towards safety, and that was exactly what I needed.
A little patience, a bit of careful handling and, thankfully, no spectacular swimming demonstration required. Before long, the fish was safely in my hands.
Mission complete!
A beautiful starry smoothhound and another species ticked off the list. You can spend an awful lot of time fishing, trying different marks and experimenting with different baits, but there's nothing quite like finally catching a species you've been after for some time.
And especially when it comes from a mark that has been giving you absolutely nothing but grief. I was delighted.
The fish was returned safely, and I stood there with the sort of grin normally associated with someone who has just discovered they've won the lottery, although unfortunately without the accompanying bank balance. A cracking fish, a great moment and well worth the effort.As if that wasn't enough excitement, the angler positioned further down from me was suddenly into a fish himself. It looked to be a decent huss, which added a little more interest to proceedings.
Then I had another bite after recasting. This time it turned out to be a dogfish, although it provided a slightly unusual landing performance.
At one point it came up on top of a rock before promptly falling off again, apparently having decided that being landed was rather too much commitment. I'm assuming it had simply been clasping onto the bait rather than being properly hooked, although I'm not entirely sure what its long-term strategy was. Perhaps it had spotted the smoothhound being returned and decided it didn't fancy the interview process. Either way, things were certainly becoming lively.
For a brief period it was almost as though the fish had received a group message informing them that there was free food available and everyone should attend immediately. Smooth-hound, possible huss, dogfish and a general sense that something was finally happening.
Of course, it couldn't last. The mark was gradually becoming unfishable as the tide dropped, and the more the water receded, the more apparent it became just how much ground we had actually been fishing over. This is one of the fascinating aspects of fishing from rocks. When you first arrive, you're looking at a mass of water and trying to imagine what lies beneath it.
You might see a few gullies, some rocks and the odd patch of white water, but you don't really appreciate the scale of the underwater landscape until the tide starts to disappear. And disappear it certainly did. With the full moon these were spring tides, with an incredible 9.5 metres of water at high tide and less than a metre at low. The sheer volume of water shifting in and out is genuinely astonishing to watch.
You can stand there and appreciate the power of the wider Atlantic, but when you start seeing the underwater ground that was previously hidden beneath several metres of water, it really brings home what you're dealing with. It's quite incredible. It's also a bit of a nuisance when you're trying to fish. One minute you're casting into what looks like a perfectly reasonable expanse of water, and the next you're wondering whether you should be putting your fishing tackle away and opening a geological survey business.
The mark was becoming increasingly difficult to fish, so eventually it was time to call it a day. But what a result.
After returning the smooth-hound and packing away the gear, there was only one sensible thing left to do. Celebrate.
And what better way than with a pint alongside my brother and his mates? After all, we'd endured the weather, battled the conditions and finally managed to get amongst a decent fish, so it would have been positively irresponsible not to mark the occasion. The conversation was flowing, the usual banter was in full swing and, as is often the case down here, there was no shortage of characters to keep things entertaining. One particular individual deserves a mention.
The one and only Rob Braddick who yet again thought I was Chris before correcting him !!
For those unfamiliar with Rob, he's a prominent local businessman, employing somewhere in the region of 170 people in the area, as well as being a prankster, publican, family man and owner of Westward Ho!'s rather famous haunted house and the car-park and bought and made free.
He's also the owner of the pub we happened to be in, which meant there was always a reasonable chance that proceedings could become slightly unpredictable. Rob is one of those characters who doesn't need much encouragement to get involved in a bit of mischief and made headline news in the USA when he put some toilet rolls in the arcade grabber machines during the COVID hauding madness.
There's always a story, a joke or some form of entertainment lurking around the corner, and this occasion was no exception. Between the banter, the stories and the general nonsense, it was another thoroughly enjoyable evening.
You could spend a fortune trying to organise entertainment of this nature, but sometimes all you need is a local pub, a few familiar faces and someone like Rob wandering about with a mischievous look on his face. Far more effective than most television programmes, and considerably better value.
So there we have it. A week that started with Storm Austen throwing everything at the coastline, a sea that looked positively homicidal, a few fishing sessions that required more optimism than ability and, ultimately, a lovely starry smoothhound to make the whole expedition worthwhile.
We caught up with family, spent time with friends, enjoyed some cracking sunsets, ate some good scran, supported a local business and managed to squeeze in a fair amount of fishing whenever the Atlantic allowed us to do so without requiring a lifeboat.
The fishing wasn't easy, but then it rarely is when you're fishing unfamiliar ground and dealing with enormous spring tides. The schoolie bass at Greysands were welcome, the final session produced some proper excitement and that smoothhound was the icing on the cake.
It's also another reminder that sometimes you just have to keep putting the hours in. You can read the conditions, choose your marks, select your bait and prepare your tackle, but ultimately the fish decide whether they're going to play ball.
And on this occasion, one finally did.
The starry smoothhound was safely returned, the species list gained another tick and I had that very satisfying feeling of having achieved something I'd been wanting to do for a while.
As for Westward Ho!, well, what can I say? We absolutely love the place.
There's something about the whole area that gets under your skin. The coastline, the people, the pubs, the views, the sunsets and the general atmosphere make it somewhere we keep returning to, and I suspect that won't be changing any time soon. Even when the weather is doing its best to discourage us. Even when the accommodation is facing a scaffolding bill that would make a property developer faint. Even when the spring tides are shifting enough water to make the Hoover Dam look like a garden pond. And even when the fishing is so challenging that you begin to wonder whether the fish have all been relocated to another county.
We'll be back, and yes the kids still love bodyboarding despite the chill !! There'll be more fishing, more laughs, more pints, more banter and no doubt another collection of stories that probably sound slightly exaggerated when recounted to people who weren't there. But that's Westward Ho! for you. A cracking place, cracking people and another fantastic escape from the everyday grind.
And if you happen to be reading this from somewhere warm and comfortable, just spare a thought for those of us who occasionally stand on a rock in the middle of winter, holding a rather expensive carbon fishing rod while several tonnes of Atlantic Ocean attempt to rearrange our afternoon.
Still, I got my smoothhound. And frankly, that's all that matters!
Until the next one, tight lines!
