The River Arrow - Gonktastrophication and Gobbledegook

There are people who go to spas, there are people who meditate on mountain tops, and then there are anglers. Personally, I find that two hours sat next to a river that most people would mistake for a drainage ditch does far more for my wellbeing than someone waving scented candles under my nose while whale music plays in the background. The fish are almost secondary; it's the glorious silence between casts where life's endless nonsense packs its bags and wanders off for a bit.

Even thinking about fishing works wonders. Half the therapy comes from sorting tackle the night before, convincing yourself you've finally cracked it, only to spend twenty minutes the following morning wondering where you put the disgorger that was definitely in the side pocket yesterday.

This particular adventure centred around a new club ticket and a tiny section of the River Arrow just down from a weir that I'd never fished before. Tiny really doesn't do it justice either because you could probably stand on one bank, throw an 18mm Robin Red pellet with enough enthusiasm and collect it off the opposite bank before it had chance to sink.

Still, it's a river. Rivers have fish. That's the sort of flawless optimism that keeps anglers buying bait, tackle and memberships despite decades of overwhelming evidence suggesting fish often have other ideas.

The plan was wonderfully simple. A couple of hours after gudgeon with the trusty Cadence Wand and maggots on a size 20, while keeping the light barbel rod assembled with a lump of bread because you never know when a suicidal chub might turn up with absolutely no sense of self-preservation.



One thing that immediately caught my attention was the enormous road bridge looming overhead. Normally that would mean endless traffic noise, but somehow it was remarkably civilised, almost as if the engineers had actually known what they were doing rather than just drawing lines on the back of a Greggs sausage roll bag.

Perhaps it was advanced computer modelling. Perhaps there were acoustic specialists involved. Or perhaps one bloke simply stood underneath during construction, had a finger in the air and declared, "That'll do," before everyone went to the pub. Whatever happened, it worked. 

I found myself perched in an elevated swim peering into water so clear you could probably read a fish's thoughts. That's when the comedy really began because out from beneath some cover drifted a chub with all the caution of a Labrador in a butcher's shop.

Now chub usually possess the survival instincts of someone carrying state secrets. They'll inspect a bait from seventeen different angles, hold committee meetings with other chub and eventually reject it because your float twitched half a millimetre too enthusiastically.

This one, however, had apparently skipped every lesson at Chub Academy. It surfaced and calmly hoovered up four or five enormous pieces of floating bread as though somebody had just announced an all-you-can-eat buffet.

I almost felt sorry for the poor thing. The first cast with a hooked crust landed and before I'd even settled into my best "I've definitely got this all planned out" pose, it absolutely inhaled it without so much as filling in a risk assessment.

The fight itself was less of a battle and more of a polite escort towards the landing net. My barbel rod was complete overkill and the fish seemed fully aware that resistance would merely delay the inevitable and waste everyone's valuable morning.

Still, a chub is a chub and I'll never complain about catching one, particularly when it's volunteered for the experience. If every fish behaved like that, tackle shops would go bankrupt because nobody would ever need to upgrade anything.

Naturally I assumed there must be others. There never are.

The upstream stretch looked equally inviting, with plenty of cover and enough fishy-looking features to make you start inventing imaginary double-figure specimens. Sadly, the only thing hiding there appeared to be disappointment wearing camouflage.

With the bread experiment over, it was time for the real target species. Out came the Cadence Wand fitted with a delicate 0.25oz tip, a setup so enjoyable to use that even catching leaves feels mildly entertaining. I settled beside a darker swim shaded by overhanging branches and a few scruffy reeds. The sort of place that whispers, "There's definitely something decent in here," before immediately proving itself to be full of creatures roughly the size of your little finger.

Minnows. Endless minnows.

I've genuinely seen fewer people queueing outside a garden centre café than the number of minnows attacking my bait. They arrived in such quantities I briefly wondered whether I'd accidentally stumbled into the annual Minnow Olympics.

Every cast resulted in another frantic tap, another microscopic silver flash and another reminder that evolution occasionally produces fish with absolutely no understanding of personal space. It was like lowering a sausage roll into a school playground.

Then, at last, everything changed. Instead of the frantic machine-gun rattles came a proper clonking bite that made the tiny rod nod with genuine purpose.

Ah yes... a gudgeon.

Or as they're affectionately known in certain circles, a proper little gonk. Nothing enormous by any stretch, but chunky enough to put a smile on my face and confirm that I'd accidentally located the deepest hole in the river.

When I say deepest, let's not get carried away. If I'd fallen in I'd probably have bruised my kneecaps and mildly dampened my socks, but on this stretch of the Arrow that's practically offshore fishing.

A few more gudgeon followed and mission accomplished. Sometimes success isn't measured in pounds and ounces but by finding exactly what you came looking for without accidentally ending up in a tree.

Curiosity got the better of me though and I carried on fishing. Predictably the tiny chub turned up to audition for the role of "Future Maybe," while the minnows continued behaving like unpaid extras in a disaster movie. I trickled a few pellets downstream hoping something with shoulders might appear. Instead the river erupted into what can only be described as minnow soup, with hundreds of tiny fish charging around as though somebody had announced free parking.

The water clarity certainly wasn't helping. It was proper gin clear; not just clear, but the sort of crystal clarity where even the kingfisher probably books appointments rather than risking embarrassment.

Any sensible larger fish would wait until darkness before venturing out. Broad daylight in water like that is basically standing in the middle of Tesco wearing a fluorescent vest labelled "Please Chase Me."

Eventually I packed up and wandered over to investigate another section of the Arrow included on the new ticket. Exploring unfamiliar water is always exciting because every bend promises hidden treasures, forgotten swims or, more commonly, fresh opportunities to question your life choices.

This stretch came with a public footpath. Not just any public footpath either, but seemingly the headquarters for every dog walker within a twenty-mile radius.

Honestly, I've seen quieter high streets on Christmas Eve. Labradors, cockapoos, spaniels, terriers, things that looked suspiciously like animated mops and at least one creature that may actually have been half sofa.

One particularly enthusiastic XL Bully wannabe decided another passing dog simply had to become its best friend immediately. Its owner was rapidly disappearing into the distance while loudly inventing entirely new ways of pronouncing the dog's name.

At that point I was reminded of the old saying about only mad dogs and Englishmen going out in the midday sun. The phrase originated from British India, poking fun at the tendency for sensible locals to seek shade while stubborn Brits marched around melting like forgotten candles.

Standing there with several dozen panting dogs, blazing sunshine and dog walkers dressed in enough waterproof clothing to survive the Arctic, I began to suspect the saying remains alarmingly accurate. We really are a peculiar bunch. At least these walkers were walking their dogs early doors before it got proper hot again. 

The fishing itself may never trouble the record books, but mornings like this are exactly why I keep returning. A daft chub, a handful of gudgeon, a million minnows and enough riverside comedy to last until the next outing are worth far more than sitting indoors worrying about things that can wait.

Besides, every tiny river has another mystery waiting around the next bend. Whether it's a hidden shoal of fish, a forgotten swim or another dog called Dave refusing to come back when shouted, I'll happily go and investigate... eventually.

The Tiny River Alne - Gonkholes and Gudgeonology

Thursday delivered rain not so much in drops as in volumes, biblical in ambition if not quite in duration. The sort of rain that causes river levels to rise with all the restraint of a politician spotting an expenses loophole. Every local river had been in flood, doing that thing rivers do when reminded who is actually in charge. Thankfully the little Warwickshire Alne, that most mercurial of watercourses, rises like a startled cat and drops again just as quickly, leaving behind only suspicion, turbidity, and a faint smell of uncertainty.

So this first session after finishing work for a much needed two week Christmas break the lunchtime before left me with a choice that wasn’t really a choice at all. Canals or flowing water. The canals would be there, of course flat, patient, faintly resentful but flowing water won as it always does. Flowing water has intent. It’s doing something. Even when it’s doing absolutely nothing useful to the angler, it’s still doing it with conviction.

The Alne, though, is a moody little beast. Chocolate brown at the best of times, and after a deluge it resembles less a river and more a moving accusation. You never quite know how it will fare until you’re there, standing on the bank, trying to read its intentions like tea leaves stirred by a guilty conscience. Twelve to sixteen hours earlier it would have been over the banks, liberating worms, drowning rats, and generally rearranging the furniture of its own ecosystem.

But when I arrived, miracle of miracles, it was back within its banks. Still brown, mind. Brown in a way that suggested light entering it had signed a waiver. This was not a day for finesse. This was not a day for subtlety. This was a worm day.

A worm day with a maggot cocktail, no less. A combination chosen not because it is elegant, but because in water this coloured, subtlety is just arrogance with a hook. The river looked about as clear as Severn Trent’s conscience, following yet another “unfortunate discharge” into local waterways a phrase that somehow manages to sound both accidental and deliberate at the same time. Bugger the environment, let’s pay huge bonuses to the fat cats. The fish can always learn to hold their breath, can’t they?

Anyway.

Simple tactics, really. Find the slack or steady water and send a wriggly worm on what can only be described as a swimming lesson with poor prospects. No ledgering sophistication, no float wizardry just letting gravity, current, and blind optimism do the work.

The morning was misty in that soft, apologetic way that makes everything look slightly unreal, like the river itself wasn’t entirely convinced it wanted to be there. Still, it didn’t take long to get the first signs of life. Minnows arrived first, as they always do, like excitable children at the front of a queue, pecking, fussing, and generally being a nuisance without actually committing to anything.

Then, out of nowhere, a thumping bite.

I struck.

Nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

That hollow, soul-sinking moment where the rod tip springs back and you’re left wondering if you imagined the whole thing. Was it a fish? A stick? A hallucination brought on by acid and low expectations? We’ll never know. The river, naturally, declined to comment.

I halved the worm because if there’s one thing fishing teaches you, it’s that confidence should always be immediately abandoned and got it back out again. This time, when I struck, there was weight. Proper weight. Alive weight. The rod nodded, the line trembled, and for a brief, glorious moment I wondered if something altogether unreasonable had made a terrible mistake.

What is this?

Oh.

A gonk.

A big, fat gudgeon.

NICE.

I love it when gudgeon turn up. Truly love it. They are everything good about fishing distilled into a fish the size of a man’s finger. Bold biters, no nonsense, and looking for all the world like barbel in miniature, as if someone had photocopied a proper fish and forgotten to adjust the scale.

This one was a cracker, all whiskers and attitude, and I admired it like you would a small but perfectly engineered tool. Then back it went, no doubt to tell its mates about the terrifying sky-worm incident.

Bites, after that, were hard to come by. As were fishable swims. The river had that freshly rearranged look gravel shifted, banks scoured, flow lines altered just enough to make last season’s knowledge completely redundant. I worked my way downstream, poking worm into likely-looking steadies, waiting, listening, thinking.

Three more gudgeon followed, each greeted with the enthusiasm usually reserved for far larger species. Because frankly, in conditions like these, anything that bites deserves respect.

In the most downstream swim, I hooked a dace. A proper silver flash, briefly airborne in that way dace do, before in a moment of stupidity entirely my own I decided to swing it to hand. It dropped off, naturally, because the fishing gods have an excellent sense of timing. Thankfully not one of the massive dace that do reside in this small Warwickshire river. Just a small one. Thank God. Losing a big dace would have required reflection. Possibly a sulk.

I had expected the stretch to myself, and I was not disappointed. No dog walkers, no well-meaning passers-by asking “caught owt then?” Just me, the river, and the low-level hum of existential satisfaction that comes from being exactly where you ought to be, even if nothing much is happening.

The fishing wasn’t exactly productive compared to the massive chub haul. But so what?

I was out in nature, boots damp, hands smelling faintly of worm, mind pleasantly emptied of emails, deadlines, and general nonsense. And that’s good for the wellbeing, isn’t it?

Well.

It is for me anyway.

And if a big fat gudgeon is the price of admission, I’ll pay it every time.

The Tiny River Alne - Mongrels and Monopsychisms

Great white sharks are one of the most feared animals across the globe and according to the marine experts at Ocearch they could end up in UK waters in the near future. 

You see their investigations based on tracking showed that the creatures have started to regularly swim north as they search for food, being spotted at the United States’s New England coast more and more in recent years. 

Before the 1970s, Cape Cod, a peninsula in Massachusetts, had virtually no great white sharks, but the area is among those that have seen a rise in the number of great whites near its shores in the past 50 years. Experts believe that this is due to the number of seals that have migrated towards these regions.

 

The US Government’s efforts to protect the seals have ended up helping the species thrive and seals are one of the key sources of food the great whites depend on.

The Ocearch team are hoping to visit the UK next summer and expect to locate some of the vicious predators in British waters. 

Talking to The Times, the research group’s founder Chris Fischer said: “We believe they should be moving up past Brest [in Brittany, France] and Cornwall”.

Marine biologist Gregory Skomal disagrees with Ocearch’s theory, sharing that there have been zero white shark spottings around Cornwall. He’s explained: “They should be there but they are not and we don’t know why.” However, according to the University of Plymouth’s records, great whites have been spotted around the UK since 1965, with nearly 100 credible but unconfirmed sightings being noted in the last decade.

Great white sharks are most commonly found around the coastline of California, Hawaii, and the Gulf of Mexico, as well as in Australia and South Africa. They are predators that are known for swimming great distances to get to food and are said to be able to smell a drop of blood in one million drops of water.

Previously, scientists have warned that climate change, which contributes to rising ocean temperatures, would force the species to migrate and end up off the UK coastline by 2050.

So the huge quantities of seals in British waters better watch their backs !!! 

Recently, in April, a rare smalltooth tiger shark was discovered at a beach in Wexford, Ireland following the first shark corpse find in Hampshire in March. Experts believe the species, previously rarely seen in British waters, are making UK shores their full-time home.

Anyway I'm going to start at the bottom with my own research as gudgeon were the target  on the river Alne for this ((you've got two hours !! (The Wife)) short session with a float rod and maggots. One swim in-particular seems to hold them in numbers as I managed something like 40 odd last time here and I reckon I could have caught even more before the curfew bell sounded.  

Anyway the gudgeon were there straight away and I was building up a decent number of them fishing two maggots on a size 20 hook, but then a trout turned up and spoilt the action, because after that no bites from the gudgeon, in-fact no more bites in that swim whatsoever so I went on the rove to try and get some bites.

The next swim it was minnow, minnow, minnow, what the heck is that ? 

Obviously a hybrid of some sort DaceXBream (George Burton)

I thought it looked silver breamy from first glance, anyway the minnows were getting a pest so I changed swims again where I had 2 more small brownies this time where the water was carrying some pace.

The sun was beating down by this time and bites were not exactly frequent, so when the minnows turned up again it was time to call the session early. Shame the gudgeon didn't show after that trout because I was enjoying it, either that or I had caught all of them out of the swim. I'm not feeling 100% at the minute so I'm no desperate to get out, but we will see what tomorrow brings. 

The Tiny River Alne - Tiddlers and Tidology

The Alne was fishable which was a surprise because the other local rivers were banging through and carrying a ridiculous amount of extra water again. It drops like a stone though however I caught it when it was on the rise again with rain overnight and again in the morning.

It would be chocolate brown I know that so it was out with the small feeder and and half a lobworm was bait. I've found the Alne hard to work out, it's feast or famine I must admit.  

More famine than feast of late sadly, but then looking back at my blog I've had some cracking sessions here when the water has been exactly like this.

Now you know very quickly if there are fish in the swim and it is a matter of roving the stretch to try and drop on the fish. Fishing this method had bagged me plenty of dace, chub and trout over the years and the Alne can often throw up some nice surprises for a small waterway. 

2 swims down though nothing much was happening so I decided to negotiate the bridge of death to where the river is wider and also a tad deeper. Within a few minutes I was getting taps and pulls on the worm and I knew exactly what the culprit was and yeah a greedy minnow.

They eventually hook themselves due to their perseverance and it was clear there were plenty of them in the swim because as soon as the worm hit the bottom the tip was rattling like a good'un.

This was the gonk swim I found though so I decided to stick it out in that swim because at least I was getting a few bites. I've had some nice fish from this peg and often the fat dace make an appearance as well but sadly not for this session.

What did show up though was a few gonks, with one weighing just under my PB of 1.2 ounces. It's a shame I didn't have my scales here the other day because one of them was definitely bigger than this one. 

And that was my lot sadly, all a bit quiet on the Alne front the fish don't know what the heck is going on at the moment. Nothing big showed up either so maybe scaling down and catching gonks was the way to go. A float could just about be used but I've always found that getting the maggots to sit on the bottom is the way to go.

I've seen gudgeon up close when the Avon is clear and they are bottom dwellers there is no doubt about that. It will be nice for the river to settle in to some stability because I'm sure it will fish much better then. Still nice to see gudgeon isn't it, definitely my favourite tiddler.  

The Tiny River Alne - Gonks and Gynotikolobomassophiles

36 hours prior to this session the local River Alne had another 2 metres of water on where if the rain had continued for another few hours it would have most likely have broken the highest river level record at this measuring station (recorded on 21 July 2007) where it reached 3.38m. 

Levels approaching 3 metres the road is impassable because the Sherborne Brook bursts its banks and spills out on to the road which is adjacent to it. Once it has peaked it really does plummet so it was nicely within the banks for this early morning session.

The Alne hasn't been fishing well at all really of late, but the methods in my madness that finding those slack areas could be the key to any piscatorial success. Those little streams I fish always fish well when there is plenty of water on and the water is the colour of hot chocolate. 

(This was Dick Walker's thoughts on the matter)

"At this time of the year many of our rivers are either flooding the surrounding country or threatening to do so, and this abnormal state of affairs has caused many anglers to postpone their next fishing excursion until such a time as the waters have abated somewhat.

These anglers are missing some of the best sport that is to be obtained in coarse fishing, for when the rivers are feet above their normal level, and the water is of that consistency which is generally known as ‘pea-soup’, then is the best fishing of the the whole year to be had. When such conditions are prevalent, nearly all freshwater fish are feeding freely, and the larger fish put aside their usual shrewd suspicions so far as to be willing to investigate anything in the shape of food.

The chief difficulty which the beginner to this sort of fishing will find himself up against is finding the fish, for they are anywhere in their usual swims. Indeed, it is practically useless to fish in the main stream, a diminutive dace or chub being all that is likely to reward one’s efforts.

Backwaters, drinking-places for cattle, eddies at the tails of islands or on the inside of bends, and flooded ditches are most likely to produce a fair bag of fair-sized fish, and it should be borne in mind that fish will be found in much shallower water than is usual in winter. Flooded ditches are very good places in which to try for perch, and only last week I took five nice fish from the mouth of a ditch leading on to a flooded meadow, in less than 18 inches of water.

Another excellent place in which to try is the extreme edges of mill-pools. All sorts of insects, snails, worms, etc., are washed from the banks when the river is high, and after passing over the mill-race, are deposited in the shallows at the edges of the pool, hence the presence of the fish there.

With regard to baits, I do not think one can do better than use worms of one kind or another, and personally I like good big ones best. When the water is very thick a large bait is easier seen than a small one, and has the advantage of weight which makes possible the use of little or no lead. Other baits which are more or less useful in flood-fishing are snails (both land and water), freshwater shrimps, which are very difficult to obtain at this time of the year and the catching of which is guaranteed to produce a severe cold, small frogs or newts, which may be found under stones near water, and various grubs.

If you prefer to fish from the bank, or rather the water’s edge, remember that soggy land transmits vibrations very much more than dry land, and tread accordingly, for the fish, though biting freely, are just as easily frightened by heavy footfalls in flood time as when more orthodox conditions prevail. 

It is not advisable to remain long at one spot unless something is forthcoming, and groundbait is not often effective in bringing the fish together. The best method is to keep moving until the fish are found, and then to cast in a few chopped worms from time to time to keep them there; but often this is unnecessary. I will conclude by saying that the softer your tread, the longer your cast, and the bigger your worm, the greater will be your bag in flood-fishing"

Well thanks Dick but your advice was all well and good, but the problem was I'd only a few lobworms left so maggots and some bread would have to do for this session. The first swim has a nice slack and I thought that would produce this morning but all I could must up was when switching to some maggots was a few Gonks. Nothing wrong with gonks as I love catching them but I was really after some dace and any chub if they were around.

The ground was certainly welly testing as it was proper sodden because this time yesterday the fields were acting as floodplains, so much so to get to the upstream pegs above the bridge I'd have to don the waders if I wanted to venture up there because it was still waterlogged. 

I fished 4 swims in total and only swim produced sadly despite the bait being presented properly. Well maybe it wasn't who knows but the fish were really sulking having to endure one of the worst floods in a while. Still a lovely morning I must admit and I'll be back don't worry to bother those specimen dace that reside here. Well I'm hoping anyway, the 12 ounce fish I caught I'm hoping was not just a one off. On to the next one, Chub maybe ? 

I'll have a think, all I know is I need a decent pull on ones rod, it's not happened for a good while. I've made a new batch of cheesepaste, maybe I'll give that a go. 

The Tiny River Alne - Cognac's and Consequentialisms

As a lover of McEwan's Champion Ale, I'm surprised Fuller's Golden Pride has passed me by as it's right up my street. To be honest it was a chance purchase from the Wife when she went to Waitrose to buy a new kettle to replace the one that went kaput, she decided some wine for herself and a couple of beers for me. 

Anyway somehow with some finger circling in the air she settled on this one. I'm sure God was looking down on me at that point, because I usually end up with mere mediocrity if Champion isn't on the shelves.  

Now from the marketing bumph equivalent in strength to Belgian Abbey beer or barley wine, Fuller's Golden Pride provides one of our richest drinking experiences. Described as the 'cognac of beers' by one leading beer writer, it's a deep-amber drop of distinction that finds favour with even the most discerning palate.

Rich, malty aromas lead to a similarly styled palate, with sweet and bitter flavours expressed in good balance. There's sweet orange oil, toasted grain and spicy fruit cake flavours on the tongue, and an intense, lasting finish. 

Long seen as something extra special, Golden Pride used to be gifted to Fuller's landlords at Christmas. They'd keep a barrel behind the bar, giving customers a chance to indulge over the festive period.

Certainly right up my street anyway, a beer to be savoured not quaffed so give it a go when you're passing the local Waitrose, I rival for Champion, quite possibly so, its got that sort of vibe.

Which poses a question why are the stores always packed with OAP's ? certainly not a cost of living crisis with these shoppers,  trollies full to the brim, anyway !!. not cheap at £2.95 a bottle but I'll be stocking up especially when winter hits and we are enjoying an open fire and a movie. Give it a go if you're in to this sort of beverage.

Now talking of big hitters the latest session down the Alne I wanted to fish for chub in to dusk. 

You see last last time I was here on the failed big gonk hunt there was some decent fish moving about just to the left of me that I'm sure were big chub. 

I've caught some nice fish here in the past but a 4lber would be a specimen on the stretch I fish and a few months back a holiday maker fishing from a bordering campsite said he'd caught a clonker at dusk that he estimated at 5lb. 

Now if it was I want in on that sort of fish especially from a small river that is so dear to my heart. The gonks were not forgotten though so I'd feed some bread mash in to a swim initially and then fish maggot on the bottom to try for a decent one before switching to bread as the light went.

 

I could fish the Warwickshire Avon for it's bigger residents but to be honest it's quite nice fish the closest river to me especially when it's thrown up some nice surprises. 

The latest being the 12 ounce dace, which to be honest has got me champing at the bit for better conditions.

Small rivers really do it for me at the moment and it just goes to show that there is PB potential in rivers that are often overlooked. 

Dace especially where some of the biggest I've caught prior to the capture on the Alne came from small local brooks when they are in flood. The types of waterways not admittedly for everybody, but for me, I love to find out what's actually in them, which over the years has been a bit of an eyeopener to be honest and long may it continue. 

After priming the swim to fish bread flake an hour in to the session I got fishing with maggots. It's not a good sign when the first, second, third and forth fish were minnows as a couple of sessions ago it was gonk, gonk, gonk, minnow, dace, gonk, trout, gonk !!!

The minnows had been filling themselves with the bread as well by the looks of it. On a positive note at least they were decent sized minnows. As dusk approached I had a couple of tiny gudgeon but nothing like the scale I was catching the other day. 

Dusk came and I fully expected a chub to gatecrash the party but nope the tip apart from the odd small knock never went round sadly. So a good half an hour with the tip illuminated by a torch thankfully the battery was on its last legs so I was forced to leave to be able to negotiate the bridge of death.

Such a disappointing trip as I expected a lot more, but that's fishing for you. I've not had anything decent for a while, I need to up the game a little me thinks, because I don't really want more sessions like this. 

The Tiny River Alne - Albinos and Alcoholometers

Now as we know Anglers are prone to telling lies. A sad reflection on the practitioners of the Noble Art, but unfortunately true. Psychologists have come up with several reasons for it, including:

POETIC LICENCE: Every angler is a poet at heart, and so given to the poet's natural habit of embellishing the boring old truth to make a story worth listening to. Who wants to hear about a one-eyed gudgeon, for God's sake? or an albino bullhead !!! well I do. 

COMPETITIVE SPIRIT: It's a cruel, hard world we live in, with every man trying to prove that he's the greatest. So when those around you are boasting nineteen to the dozen, what are you supposed to do? 

CREDIBILITY GAP: Nobody believes an angler, anyway, least of all his fellow anglers. So it's no use telling them you landed a 20 lb carp: they'll knock a good third off the weight for starters. 

Tell 'em you caught a 30 lb carp. By the time they've finished their mental arithmetic, they'll have got it right. 

INFLUENCE OF THE MEDIA: Open any angling publication and what do you see? Monstrous fish being smirked over by immodest captors. These, you are told, are the only fish worth taking notice of. Makes you spit.

FAULTY OBSERVATION: A fish always looks bigger underwater, especially if it's fighting hard. Often all the angler sees of a fish which breaks him is a flash of scales from its flanks. Who's to say it's not four feet long?

SENSORY DEPRIVATION: Sitting all day cocooned in weatherproof clothing causes sensory deprivation, one common symptom of which is hallucination. Nothing like a good hallucination to tell in the pub. Which brings us to:

THE DEMON DRINK: Now that's a bit more like...

Well you say that I've been off it for a while, the odd glass of wine, and the odd beer but to be honest I've not really missed it after 3 weeks of holidays. I'm sleeping better I must admit so maybe I'll continue on with the odd drink here and there. Much like my fishing I suppose the odd session here and there. Now with a river Zander session planned with Nic skirting the high winds of Storm Agnes, I fancied a dabble for the gudgeon down at the Rive Alne. 

I've stumbled upon a swim where there could well be a PB beater, so with the river conditions all a bit naff I was well up for giving it a go. The best Sam and I have mustered up so far is 32 grams or 1.13oz which ain't a bad gudgeon until you're told the British record is 5 times that, wtf !! 👀. Still ignoring that for a sec I've gudgeon to catch. 

This time I'd have the small drug dealer scales with me because I'm sure the biggest of the Gonks I managed to catch last time here was a PB it was certainly up there with the larger ones I've caught over the years.

What I didn't expect though was the first few fish were minnows that were determined to get the maggots. This is with the bait dragging the bottom too to try and intercept those bottom feeding Gonks. This was turning in to a totally different session to last time though as the bites were much much harder to come by.

I was going to move but then out of the blue I managed a small'un so I continued on in the swim where in and amongst the minnows there was the odd gudgeon. The problem was nothing like the scale of the ones I was catching the other day.

Just out of interest I popped the biggest of them on the scales and it only registered 0.5 ounces which when I looked back at the pics of the other ones I caught on the previous session these were a 1/2 / 1/3 of the size., so it's a shame I didn't have the scales with me last time.

Still I've got a gauge on how big they are now so at least I know not to forget them next time. That's where the fun ended because boy it couldn't be a more different session than last time. I moved swims for 10 minutes where it was minnow after minnow and then had to re-rig after casting in a tree 😁

I started to lose the light where I was hoping things would pick up but sadly, no they didn't. A tough session indeed even though I caught the old gudgeon not the size I was after.