The River Leam - Quivertipping and Quasi-philosophising

I fancied a change of scenery for this short morning session, which is angler-speak for “I was bored of the usual places and deluded myself into thinking novelty alone might improve my catch rate.” Thus, I found myself once again standing beside the River Leam, a river I’ve not fished for ages, mainly because of a change of job and the inconvenient reality that I no longer finish work, leap into the car like an escapee from a low-security prison, and arrive at the river fifteen minutes later just as the light begins to fade and the fish presumably alerted by some ancient piscine WhatsApp group decide to feed for precisely fifty-eight minutes before going on strike again. 

Back then, nothing of particular note was caught: a few chub with expressions of mild irritation, the occasional roach that looked as if it had been interrupted mid-thought, and a general sense that I was participating in something deeply traditional and profoundly pointless, which of course is the very essence of river fishing.

The plan, if it could be dignified with such a term, was to fish two of the WBAS stretches and stretch my ageing legs, which much like my tackle still function but occasionally make worrying noises. Last year I averaged 10,000 steps a day over the entire year, which isn’t bad at all for someone who spends a significant portion of life welded to a chair, staring at a computer screen and wondering if this is really what evolution had in mind. 

Roving tactics were therefore employed, partly for fish-finding purposes and partly because standing still for too long now results in joints seizing up like forgotten bait tins. A small feeder filled with liquidised bread was deployed, along with a modest piece of bread on the hook a bait that has fooled fish for centuries and continues to fool anglers into thinking it will solve everything.

The river itself was fining down nicely after having recently been in the fields, which is the riverine equivalent of saying it had been out drinking heavily but was now pulling itself together. The Leam, to its credit, drops fast, and on this occasion it was perfectly fishable a phrase that always sounds optimistic but usually just means “not actively impossible.” The slack by the bridge swim, however, was utterly devoid of interest, life, or any indication that fish had ever existed as a concept, so I roved onwards, performing the familiar angling march of quiet hope interspersed with exaggerated care not to fall in.

In the next swim, something interesting almost happened. A chub or possibly a figment of my imagination appeared to grab the bread on the drop, because the feeder refused to settle properly. I struck heroically into absolutely nothing, which is a skill I have perfected over many years, but the very next cast produced a bite in under a minute and suddenly a fish was on. 

Not the biggest fish, not a river-defining leviathan, but a chub nonetheless, and as all anglers know, scores on the doors. There is something deeply reassuring about actually catching a fish, if only to confirm that one has not completely misunderstood the basic premise of angling.

What followed was a sequence of swims that could best be described as extremely quiet indeed. The sun, however, was rather nice, and this is how rivers get away with things. You forgive them everything when the light hits the water just right and the world briefly looks like a brochure. I settled into the big, deep bay swim the very same swim where I once won a syndicate match, an event that now exists mainly as a personal legend trotted out whenever morale is low. 

After twenty minutes without so much as a twitch, I decided that destiny was clearly elsewhere and headed to the other stretch, only five minutes away, because nothing says optimism like repeatedly uprooting oneself.

That’s the thing with the River Leam: it’s a lovely river, moody and understated, but it’s a 25-minute drive for me, and I’m spoiled by the Arrow and the Alne being less than fifteen minutes away and generally more inclined to provide bites rather than philosophical reflection. Still, variety is the spice of life, or at least the mild seasoning of angling disappointment. 

On the next stretch, I managed a nice chub first cast, following a series of tentative nibbles and quivertip tremors that suggest a fish deeply conflicted about its life choices. I struck more in hope than expectation and discovered a chub was indeed on, leading to a spirited battle in which it attempted to bury itself under my feet amongst some dead reeds, presumably in an effort to end the whole affair quickly. Eventually, it was persuaded otherwise, and that, sadly, was my lot.

I fished several more swims, introduced cheesepaste at one point the olfactory equivalent of shouting into the river but the remaining fish were resolutely uninterested. 

Eventually, I packed up, legs stretched, soul mildly soothed, and expectations once again recalibrated to a sensible level. The Leam hadn’t produced miracles, but it had delivered sunshine, movement, and the comforting reminder that fishing isn’t always about catching although it does help. And besides, there’s always tomorrow… or at least somewhere closer.

The River Leam - Ogres and Organography

Angling is no occupation for the hypersensitive.

Let's face it. Some of the things we take for granted as a normal part of angling are pretty revolting.

Handling maggots. Used as we are to them as bait, it's always a shock to come across them in their wild state when we pick up a dead bird or mouse. That horrible, slimy, heaving mass, straight out of a Hammer film-surely they can't be the cousins of the little beauties we play with so tenderly every weekend?

And as for the old match anglers who kept maggies warm under their tongues in cold weather-how did they do it, Stanley?

No wonder we get black looks in the pub when we've spent an hour poking around reeking ditches for bloodworms, turning over cowpats in the hope of finding something tempting underneath, or spiking on lengths of smelly fishguts and nauseous squid.

But hold on. Hang about. Wait a minute.

Perhaps it is not we who are revolting after all. Perhaps everybody else is too refined. We do, after all, live in an age dedicated to removing all traces of our animality.

We spray ourselves all over with stuff to take away our cosy human smell. (When I say we, I don't mean us, of course. I mean them.) We powder ourselves from top to bottom, and further down than that. We shave our armpits. 

We are scared of using a toothpaste that doesn't promise a tingling fresh ring of thing in the close-up zone. We take tablets to rid our breath of unpleasant things like the smell of scotch. Our socks are treated with chemicals that leave our old plates smelling like violets. After every shave we slap on stuff that makes us smell like the Queen of the Fairies. And I do mean fairies.

Our food is bought ready scrubbed, peeled, homogenised, shrink- wrapped and unrecognisable. Even the flavour has been removed so that we don't actually taste anything resembling something that once grew in the earth or walked about on it. How many hausfraus nowadays buy a chicken with its feathers on and its guts still inside, or buy a bunny with its coat on?

Our beer has been rationalised out of all recognition. Of course it never goes off; there's nothing in the plastic gnat's hiss that can go off.

So perhaps the angler now stands for something more than just the quiet waterside philosopher. Perhaps, in staying close to the earth, in keeping contact with the creatures which swim, walk, fly, or crawl over it, we are preserving something for future generations: the ability to operate as a human animal and not as a deodorised, computerised, compliant zombie.

Perhaps we are the last of the ogres in the land of the pygmies, and perhaps we ought not to give up our ogrehood without a fight. There are very few of us left with this gift-this very precious gift-of being so thoroughly, unutterably, unashamedly and irretrievably... revolting.

Anyway to the fishing, after another day in the office after a short detour I had a couple of hours fishing time before I had to head off home. Timing, preparation and making every bite count is everything to maximise fishing time however that didn't get off with a good start. 

 You see after a bite within a few minutes of putting out a groundbait filled small feeder and a thumbnail piece of bread in to a >6ft deep swim, I struck in to a solid fish that within a second the rod went went solid. Damn It, a SNAG !!

Thankfully it was only the light hook-link so that was sorted quickly and the rig cast out again. Another bite came quite quickly casting a couple of meters to the right and I was hooked in to a small chub. Not the biggest of fish for this stretch but a blank avoided. 

As the light was going the first of those sharp roach pulls which I can only assume were from small fish because nothing materialised in to a strikable bite. 

A switch to a lobworm tail didn't have any interest whatsoever and oddly as the torch was needed to illuminate the rod tip those bites tailed off. 

I had half an hour fishing time left but after casting straight in to a tree 🙈 where I got the whole lot snagged I decided to call it a day rather than set-up again under torchlight. 

Sadly none of the big roach showed up that swim here however next time I'll try some more swims I think. A lovely little river though, my sort of stamping ground. 

There is so much to go at and so little fishing time that is half the problem, but these little rivers I love to death despite the often mediocre returns, it's when those surprises turn up all these blank sessions and those fish nothing to write home about are quickly forgotten !!

On to the next one which I think might well be down at the Untrodden as George managed some nice chub at the same time I heading home, and with a hard frost overnight I doubt much else will be biting. 

Warwickshire Stour - Redfins and Representationalisms

With the Avon still banging through I fancied a small river fix to hopefully catch a decent roach that the Leam holds or a few chub would do to be honest. The Stour had been over its banks recently like the other local river however I really was surprised of the colour of it when I got bankside for this short morning session.

It was that lovely green colour that the Stour is renowned for so the roach might not be up for a feed but the chub certainly would be.

I've found the bigger roach seem to only show when the river is strong tea coloured and also when the river is carrying lots of water like it was today. Still plenty of swims to go at to try and winkle out a fish or two.

The first swim I fished I caught 3 chub on the last trip so I had high hopes for a bite which came around 5 minutes of the thumbnail piece of bread being out. A rattly bite rather than a chub pull round and sure enough the culprit was a roach I thought it could be.

A minter too but I've caught them to well over 3 times the size of this previously but who doesn't like to catch roach like this ? I thought I was on for a few more bites but sadly no more bites in that swim so I went on the rove.

I'm an inpatient angler and certainly small rivers like this you need to try and find the fish rather than them try and find you.

As I made my way down the stretch the signs of the recent high water was all there to see. In the 3rd field the whole electric fence had been wiped out giving the farmer I right old headache I'd imagine because it was in the hundreds of yards rather than a small section of it.

Anyway the banker swim didn't produce apart from the odd tippy tappy bites which presumably were small fish nibbling at the bread. I swapped to worm from time to time throughout the session but not one bite, bread seemed to get the most interest.

Anyway the morning was ticking by fast and I was wondering where the chub were. I need not worry though because the swim I caught my biggest river roach from produced a tell-tale chub bite, and I struck in to a solid lump.

A dirty fighter too and at one point I thought I was going to lose it as is was trying to get right under my feet. A stroke of luck I managed to get it in to the landing net at full reach because it's quite an elevated swim this.

Only a 2lber but a welcome sight because if I'm honest it wasn't fishing well at all. A small dace got in on the act in the next swim but that was that. Three fish and that was it, and that was after a few hours and probably 6 or 7 swims.

Some of the swims were just not fishable because the river was still banging through and boiling so I was limited to the ones that were. So not that productive but I wasn't complaining, a nice bit of winter sun and roving this cracking little river. 

The River Leam - Thrutching and Thremmatology

I have this mate called Long Tall Tony who climbs mountains and is always going on about thrutching.

'Sssh!' I said once in a posh pub. (You could tell it was posh by the way the barmaid stuck out her little finger when she picked her nose.) 'Sssh! There are ladies present.'

'No,' he said. "Thrutching means having a hard climb. Really having to work to get to the top. I bet you have to do lots of thrutching when you're out fishing.'

'No,' I said. 'We don't go in for things like that.'

I lied. We do. Thrutching really means doing things the hard way. Which, in angling terms, is fishing by the book. Doing what the experts tell you. Which always works out more expensive, more nerve-racking and more muscle-bending than doing what comes naturally.

Thrutching means breeding your own maggots. Having the shed, the garage, the loft or the back end of the yard permanently ponging like a knacker's yard in a bank holiday heatwave. And neighbours getting up petitions.

Thrutching means tying your own flies. Going boss-eyed and getting the trembles of the fingertips which precede the total seizing up known as Dapper's Doom. All to produce something that looks like a badly made bog brush.

Thrutching means stewing your own hemp. And having the wife storm out of the house. With the kids. And the pussycat and hamster. Pausing only to call in at the solicitor's to file papers for mental cruelty and misuse of her nonstick pans.

Thrutching means getting your own wasp grubs. At short notice. And thereby having neither the protection nor the armoury. Going out on a Sunday afternoon to Big McGinty's compost heap. Armed only with a spade, a bait tin and an aerosol thing that claims to kill all flying nasties stone dead. Leaving you backing away, squirting like mad at the kamikaze wopsies who don't know they're supposed to be dead, and who sting you in places you never knew you had.

Thrutching means making your own groundbait. To the jealously guarded secret formula. Setting fire to the oven in which you left the breadcrusts while you popped out to the Nag and Knocker. 

Forgetting that 475 degrees Fahrenheit or Gas No. 9 is not exactly a low light. Coming back to be greeted by the jolly lads from the fire brigade. Who haven't been around since you tried to bake the wasp grubs.

Thrutching means making your own floats. Slicing chunks off the left thumb as you shave down bits of balsa or trim the old quills. To produce a thing like a pot-bellied ballpoint refill that sinks at the first cast. At a cost of only £35.37 plus VAT and french polishing the table.

Thrutching means collecting natural bait from the hedgerows. Like elderberries. Which come off the trees in lovely great bunches and fill up the spare room until you can get round to preserving them. Leaving plenty of time for the forty thousand earwigs hidden in the bunches to abscond and take over the whole house. Playing hell with the cat's peace of mind.

Thrutching means stalking the fish. Crawling to the water in camouflage gear and with burnt cork or Cherry Blossom all over the old mush. Which gives you spots and gets you arrested as an IRA suspect or illegal immigrant. And which, if you don't actually overshoot the bank and fall in, leaves you with earwigs in your ears, hares in your hair, daddies in your long legs and bot flies up your nose.

The lesson is plain. If you feel a thrutch coming on, go and sit in a nice safe pub until it wears off.

Alternatively, be strong. Nip it in the bud. Knock it on the head.

Kick it in the thrutch. ☺

Anyway back to the fishing !! 

A short session after work this where after leaving the office in Ansty in Coventry I could be at the syndicate stretch of the Leam within 15 minutes where I'd arrive just as the sun was setting. That would give me some time to set myself up and bait up a couple of swims with liquidised bread around half an hour before dusk.

Simple tactics again with a small cage feeder filled with squeezed liquidised bread and then I'd fish either worm or a thumbnail piece of bread on a size 12 hook. 

Small rivers like this the bites often come quick if you're on the fish so after around 15 minutes without a bite I moved swims which was the first swim I primed where I had an indication straight away. Within 5 minutes of that fish pluck the 1oz glass tip jumped in to life and after a couple of pulls I had a drop back bite and hooked in to a fish.

I was expecting a chub but it was the distinctive fight of a roach and sure enough when I landed it under the head torch it was a decent one. It went 14 ounces on the scales which is a nice roach in my book. 

I reabited and cast out in the same swim and 10 minutes after a proper pull round from nothing and I struck into something more solid this time that was giving me the run around. I netted it eventually after a good strap and it was a nice chunky small river chub that went 3lb on the nose. The fish were certainly on it now and after that swim disturbance that I managed another one soon after this one smaller at 2lb and 3 ounces. 

Then the swim went dead where I switched to worm as it was now dark but despite the pungency of the wrigglers I didn't get another bite and decided to head home with a few nice fish caught in little more than an hour and a half of actual fishing. I've said before small rivers suit me perfectly, I love the mystery and ok the fish are not likely to be huge but there are certainly gems to be had. 

The River Leam - Old Boys and Ololygmancy

Well another birthday ticked off where the 3rd of November I turned the grand old age of 52. To be honest I didn't want much of a celebration so a slap up Sunday roast and a rather good fireworks display in Stratford-Upon-Avon with a few bottle of bitter, was most welcome indeed.

This weekend it's 3 nights of partying and to me these are the sort of things you need to do to keep you young and I couldn't care less about the finger pointers. The problem is the fishing of late has been rather curtailed especially when it gets dark early these days. 

Work if I'm honest has been a bit of a pain after coming back of holiday, rush CAD jobs, 3D prints that needed to be fitted to prototype vehicles YESTERDAY !! when will I get to go fishing ? Well luckily a syndicate stretch of the River Leam is not far away so after work had finished, as short drive later I rocked up at the river with fellow blogger and Artificial Flight Youtuber George Burton already in resident in the pump pool. 

He hadn't been there long but had already caught a nice roach and there was also other fish topping when we were having a natter. It had a couple of foot of visibility and was rather sluggish but the fish activity was encouraging.  

Dusk wasn't far off so I had to get moving so I settled in to a snag filled swim not far downstream where I'd scale down a little from my usual set-up where roach and chub were the target. Simple tactics with a small feeder full of liquidised bread and then a small piece of pinched bread on the size 12 hook. 

It's a lovely little river this and this stretch is surprisingly deep in places in-fact both swims George and I were fishing you had to count 1,2,3-------7 before the feeder hit the bottom.

Anyway it was looking good for a bite however my luck of late has been rather lacking however after only fifteen minutes or so after casting out, the 1oz tip jumped in to life where after a couple of small pulls a tentative bite developed and I struck in to a solid lump !!

This was not one of the nice roach that reside here but one of the chunky chub and sure enough after taking me all over the shop and trying to get in to every escape route thankfully I landed it. 

A nice one too going 3lb and 8 ounces on the scales with the trophy shot not really showing just how little light was left. It was definitely on the cusk of dusk and after putting it back in another swim I managed another one of about 2.5lb, so 2 chub in less than 45 minutes happy days.

George was being outwitted by the topping roach so he made and exit where I continued on for another half an hour or so with the torch illuminating the rod tip. One quick roach type bite that I missed and the odd rattle but when I left at 6.00pm the fish activity definitely lessened. Oh well at least I'm back on the score sheet, it's been a long time. 

The River Leam - Frosts and Frontogenesis

I was really looking forward to this WBAS match on another stretch of Leam within the piscatorial portfolio mainly because I was looking forward to see what would turn up on the day. 6 anglers for this one so the whole river would be covered and broken up into roving sections.

It was a nippy one again but not as cold as last time where I managed to win with 3 chub caught from a pool swim. There is so much to go at here as a roving angler and I've barely scratched the surface hence why I was hoping some gems might turn up during the duration of the 4 hour match.

A light quivertip rod would be my approach as it was last time. Chub would be key again as they usually are on these small rivers and I'd have bread, worms, maggots and some cheesepaste with me for bait. Groundbait would be liquidised bread and also some pungent black roach as well.

Cheesepaste did it for me last time but it was clear from the last match the fish were very localised and it wasn't so much the bait, but was there any fish in-front of you. At least with a roving match you have a few swims you can try, rather than being anchored to the spot, which to be honest, is not for me anyway. 

George provided the maps again and I drew area 3 with Eric just downstream of me and then Ian was in the big deep pool. George, Jacub and Sean were at the top of the stretch.

What I didn't expect was a hard frost and it being crisp underfoot but I'm sure the odd fish would be up for biting despite the cold weather. A quick temp check it was 6.2 degrees so not too bad.  Anyway with around 40 minutes to get sorted the match was from 8.30am till - 12.30pm, better get fishing hadn't we !!

Now I had by far the longest stretch to rover and I would feed some swims with mashed bread and would drop in to those swims in the duration of the 4 hour match.

A quick wander there was more than enough to go at and I probably fed 6 or 7 swims to try and get any fish in the area interested before I dropped in with the bait. 

There was a large open swim which I decided to fish first and a feel of the cheesepaste down to the bottom it was probably 6 or 7 foot or so. A feature like this is often a haven for chub especially when the water is likely to be a tad warmer.

The last match the swim was very much like this and the fact that the fish have room to escape if they wanted to means that they are not always found tight to snags. Odd I know but the more I fish these small rivers they can often defy convention. 

A gave the swim a good 45 minutes or so without even a nibble so I had to get on the rove to try and find the fish. I was getting cold as well just sat there so I needed to get on my feet. 

3 or 4 swims later though I was biteless do I decided to go back to the pool swim scale down a nadger and try worm instead. 

The bait was only out for ten minutes or so when Whammmmm a proper decent bite that I missed, damn it !!

It wasn't a big chub bite it was a chublet bite or a roach bite and what I didn't expect was a bite within seconds of the bait going back out again. As soon as it felt the hook it went on a mad run however after a spirited bite it was soon in the net. 

A pristine fish and probably a pound or so in weight but not exactly the size I was after but at least it was a fish and I'd not blanked.

The four hours went quicker than I thought and I did quite a lot of toing and froing between the swims with nothing doing whatsoever. I scaled down as well and swapped between cheesepaste, bread and worms but the fish were suspicious in their absence for me and that was my lot. 

With the match over I met up with Ian and Eric for the weigh in, Eric had caught quite early on and had a couple of crackers in the net. One went 3lb's and 4 ounces on the scales and the two in total weighed 5lb's and 2 ounces. He missed quite a few bites too and thinking they were small fish tried trotting maggots and also tried maggots on the feeder but oddly a change of tactic didn't work whatsoever.

Ian had blanked in the pool and my fish weighed 1lb and 1oz !! The others met us back at the car where George was the only anglers to bag a fish, his chub weighed 1lb and 4oz 😀 So the results !!!

1st Eric with 5lb 2oz 🏆💸🤑💰

2nd George with 1lb 4oz💸🤑

3rd Me with 1lb 1oz

Sean, Jacub, Ian DNW

The River Leam - Matches and Mathematicasters

Being well below freezing wouldn't deter George Burton and I from fishing the mornings roving match on the River Leam, you see we are both not fair weather fisherman because let me tell you, there is nothing better than being beside a river at this time of the year when there is a hard frost. 

Proper brass monkey weather, now apparently the expression: "It is cold enough to freeze the balls of a brass monkey" comes from the practice of putting iron cannon balls on a dimpled brass plate on the deck of a war-ship. When very cold the brass contracted sufficiently to cause the iron balls to fall out.

Now I remember a session down at another WBAS River Leam water where we arrived bankside and it was -6,🥶 however we both caught that day albeit not the intended target, and we both went home happy. There were another four mad men up for this challenge thankfully where we'd all to try and winkle out a fish from these chilly waters.

Now George constructed this map to show the zones we'd be fishing after the 7.15am draw where we'd each have a section to rove to winkle out a fish or two. Roving is most welcome especially in these conditions because despite being dressed up for the occasion if you're just sitting there cold can set in quicker than you could say frostbite 100 times !!.

For me there was only one target and that was the chub. You see I could have scaled down with ones set-up for the smaller species such as roach and dace but you'd need to catch quite a few of them to one Leam chub, and sods law knowing me I'd lose a chub if I hooked one on lighter tackle. There was only a prize for first and second place too because there was only 6 anglers, so for me that dictated what I was going to fish for. 

So the plan was to link ledger cheesepaste where I'd prime some likely looking chub swims on my section with bread, and then fish them in rotation. If the cheespaste wasn't doing the business I'd swap to bread occasionally to see if that would make the difference. The chub are not huge in this stretch a 4'lber a proper lump so I rigged up my TFG River and Stream Rod and would fish a 1 ounce quiver tip. 

Now talking of cold the vagaries of the British climate are responsible for the queues of goose-pimpled anglers in doctors waiting rooms every Monday morning. Any sport which keeps its participants out of the whole of an English summer's day, with its mixture of hail, rain, sleet, snow, fog, frost, khamseen, mistral, haboob and Scotch mist, is bound to have its martyrs.

But chilling is avoidable if the necessary precautions are taken. First, check your clothing. Never cast a clout. Or anything else. More than one seasoned angler has gone to the great peg draw in the sky because he left off one of his vests.

Secondly, look after the inner man. Have a good breakfast before you leave home. It need be nothing elaborate: eggs, bacon, sausages, fried bread, tomatoes, toasted cheese, potato cakes, liver, onions, beans, cabbage and ribs, fish fingers, black pudding, faggots and bubble and squeak should see you through until you can open your sandwiches.

Do not neglect to have a couple of good mugs of tea, liberally laced with rum or whisky. Better still, a couple of mugs of rum or whisky liberally laced with tea.

At the water's edge, set out your tackle so that everything can be reached without your having to move from the spot. Put up the windbreak, lash the umbrella to the top of it, lay down the groundsheet, set up your stool, put your feet in the foot muff, cover your knees with a travelling rug, put up the hood of your anorak and make sure your nose cosy fits snugly. Every half hour, or as often as is deemed necessary, take a tot of something to keep up the inner glow.

At opening time, when the fish will have stopped biting, move into the nearest pub and stay close to the fire. When the fish come on again, which is generally about half an hour after closing time, go back to the water and fish until the evening opening hour. This time, because of failing light, pack up your tackle and take it with you.

When you leave the pub at the end of the evening, keep in mind the importance of a good warm bed. Get into it as soon as you can. Do not bore your beloved with tales of the day's fishing; restore your circulation with some horizontal jogging, then wrap up well for the journey home. 

Anyway enough of that, Jacub drew the 1st section, Eric the 2nd, me the 3rd, Dave the 4th, Andy the 5th and last but not least George the 6th section. The fishing was from 8.30 till 12.30 where those next to each other would weigh in each others catch. 

My area had a nice pool which I was hoping was a little deeper where some chub may well be laying up. A quick check of the pool it was around 5ft deep so certainly a feature where the other swims on my section were mainly shallow. 4 or so apart from this were fishable though so when the match got started I put some bread mash in the swims to prime them. 

Dave didn't get off to a good start because he somehow had either lost his landing net on route or left it in the car. Colin was keeping check of the Whatsapp chat though and he came down with his landing net and gave the scores on the door after the first hour having spoken to all the anglers when he got to the river. 

I got off to a cracking start because with 5 minutes I had my first chub in the net after it picked up the cheesepaste in the middle of the river and pulled the tip round confidently. I sure didn't expect that !! The fish felt like a block of ice but good to get a quick bite.

Another fish came along not long after so I had two in the net when Colin popped by. Jacub was on two chub as well and George on one chub, the rest was biteless. I really wanted another chub and when I missed a bite after it all went quiet and the other swims didn't produce even a bite, it was back to the pool peg for the last couple of hours. 

It was certainly cold just sat there in the mud but I kept at it feeding some balls of bread after every ten minutes or so. I'm sure there was some other chub milling around there had to. This deeper swim I'm sure would have helped in the cold conditions.

It all went dead though however with half an hour to go I decided to cast over to the far side where I had saw some signs of fish and within 10 minutes a couple of tentative pulls which developed in to a proper bite, the 1oz quiver amplifying the bite from a relatively cautious fish.

The smallest of the three this one but a most welcome addition to the keepnet. No more bites sadly but I was happy with that. Dave came to witness the weigh in having sadly blanked and I managed 6lbs and 8 ounces. When heading back to the car Andy and George appeared where it turns out Andy has blanked too and George had one fish a 2lb on the nose.

We headed to the starting meeting point where Eric hadn't a bite even when switching to maggot and Jacub was still on just the two fish where they weighed 4lb and 2 ounces. So I won somehow !! Fair play for the other anglers for braving the conditions as it was baltic out there I must admit. The winnings enough to pay for my next curry, happy days !!!!