Looe Cornwall - Octopus Blooms and Ochlophobia

It had all started with a wet dream not the metaphorical sort, but a very literal one, involving me on a windswept Cornish rock, heroically locked in battle with a wrasse the size of a small spaniel and the rain belting down like tsunami. 

It was majestic. I woke up convinced that fate, in all her fishy wisdom, was sending me a message. 

So we booked Looe for May half term: a place where dreams (and, more often, rain) come true. 

The kids were thrilled about buckets, sand, and potentially traumatising a few crabs with bacon-on-a-string. 

Sarah looked forward to cream teas and pasties and judging me silently from a safe, dry distance. And I? I had one mission to catch a wrasse. A big one. 

The kind of wrasse that fishermen whisper about and the sea herself respects. 

Looe, I had read, was a haven for such things: with rocky outcrops at Hannafore, charter boats galore, and that uniquely Cornish atmosphere where optimism persists despite skies that constantly threaten to weep on you. Now considering how many times I've been sea fishing now, I've yet to catch a UK wrasses which I find bizarre. I thought they were the nuisance fish ? well send some my way please. 

I envisioned myself as a sort of aquatic Hemingway, battling my leviathan through gusty winds and sideways drizzle, while holidaymakers in kagoules murmured in awe. Sam wanted to go on a mackerel fishing trip (a shark might pull me in) so rather than book it up before, the plan was to wait to get down there first and try and book a trip when the weather looked like it might be fair. 

I caught some decent rockpool giants when I was at Looe last time so I actually packed a few rods. A light lrf set-up, a rod with a float set-up and my usual lure rod to try and mix it up a bit. 

Now the The history of fishing off the coast of Looe, Cornwall, is a rich and salty tale stretching back centuries one of hard lives, strong communities, and the enduring pull of the sea. Looe’s natural geography—a sheltered estuary with easy access to abundant coastal waters made it an ideal base for fishing since medieval times. Records from the 12th and 13th centuries already mention fishing activities, with local fishermen primarily working small open boats close to shore, targeting mackerel, pilchards (a Cornish staple), and herring.

By the 14th century, Looe was trading fish and salt to France and Spain, and it grew steadily as both a port and market town. Its fishing fleet gradually expanded, and by the 18th and 19th centuries, Looe was part of Cornwall’s thriving pilchard industry.

Pilchards were once the lifeblood of Cornish fishing towns. In the 18th and 19th centuries, Looe was bustling during the "season" when huge shoals would arrive in late summer. Entire families were involved in the industry: men at sea, women salting and packing the fish into barrels, and children running errands or gutting.

These fish were salted and pressed in large “pilchard palaces” before being exported often to Catholic countries like Italy and Spain, where fish was in high demand during religious fasting periods. But like many boom industries, it didn’t last. Overfishing, changes in climate, and the decline in European demand saw the pilchard industry wane by the early 20th century.

In the mid-20th century, Looe gained a quirky claim to fame as the unofficial shark fishing capital of Britain. Recreational shark angling especially for blue shark and porbeagle became wildly popular, attracting anglers from all over the UK. The Shark Angling Club of Great Britain, founded in Looe in 1953, still operates today and is dedicated to responsible, catch-and-release fishing. It reflects a unique cultural shift: from fishing for food to fishing for sport and sustainability.

Now once absent from UK waters for decades, Atlantic bluefin tuna those powerful, torpedo-shaped giants capable of growing over 2.5 metres and weighing more than 600 kg have returned to Cornish seas, and Looe is right at the centre of the action. 

Bluefin tuna were historically caught off the southwest coast of England, including around Looe, but commercial overfishing and changing sea temperatures drove them away by the mid-20th century. For years, they were nothing more than a sea tale whispered by old anglers.

That's has all changed now, you can even get yourself on a charter boat to catch one if you don't mind spending a pretty penny. For 50 quid Sam and I went on a 2 hour mackerel fishing trip where despite fishing 5 different spots the whole boat of around 12 anglers only managed a handful of mackerel and a few pollock. 

Luckily we managed both species and we certainly picked the best afternoon to go fishing it was perfect really fishing in 90ft of water in the main and jigging those feathers. I think Sam and I was struggle to do more than a couple of hours, well unless there was loads of fish to be caught.

Apparently those after shellfish have been picking up lots of decent size octopus Regulators are due to meet fishing industry representatives as the sector grapples with an "explosion" of octopus in British waters, where a friend of one of the skippers Dan on Sowenna managed 900kg of them worth about £6k the day before we went fishing apparently. 

Was that anything to do with the struggle to catch fish ?

I tried some rockpool fishing and also some float fishing for wrasse in some tasty looking spots but then in the end decided that plenty of morning walks, and good food and booze throughout the holiday fishing took a back seat.

Another nice trip to Cornwall though and apart from the Tuesday when it peeded down literally all day we had some decent weather thankfully. Especially on the windy days the cloud cover seem to clear pretty quickly but then that can happen in this neck of the woods. It does get busy in these tourist towns such as Looe but within a 10 minute walk you can be in relative solitude, and believe you me I made the most of that !!

Transient Towpath Trudging - Pt.135 (Canal Zander)

There are moments in an angler’s life when he questions everything: his decisions, his tactics, even his alarm clock. This was one of those mornings. Closed season? Yes. Motivation levels? Somewhere between "should I bother?" and "what’s the point?" But still, like a stubborn terrier with a scent, I headed out because Zander don’t catch themselves, and my enthusiasm, though wavering, was just enough to push me through the door before sunrise.

Target for the day: canal Zander. Location: one of my local hotspots. Method: the old faithful—leapfrogging stretches of cover with a small roach deadbait, float set overdepth for that delicious visual take. It’s the kind of fishing that still gets the heart racing, even after years of chasing those spiky-finned vampires.

And bless the canal gods within minutes of my first cast, the float bobbed, trembled, and then zipped off like a toddler chasing a balloon. Strike! A modest schoolie, lightly hooked, clearly confused but compliant. Quick pic. Back he went. Then, not twenty minutes later, another one of similar size. Perhaps they'd missed the closed season memo.

But as it always does, the action slowed, and with it, my legs began to fidget. Time for a rove.

Now, if fishing teaches you anything, it's that anglers are a rare breed: part hunter, part philosopher, part caffeine-addled weather forecaster however, I bumped into a lure angler currently blanking and hoping a bit of chat would change his fortunes. 

We exchanged tales, tactics, and mutual grumbles about the absence of anything over 2lb in that stretch of the Grand Union.

Then BAM! My float, resting like a lazy duck just moments ago, suddenly shot left with all the subtlety of a speedboat in a no-wake zone. A textbook Zander strike. And there it was: another schoolie, not huge, but feisty enough to remind me why I do this. My lure-flinging companion looked mildly betrayed, but also impressed. The float method strikes again.

We parted ways, him still fishless, me smugly a few up up, and wouldn't you know it, one more Zander fell for the roach routine just as I was considering packing up. Four in total. All clones. No Grand Union monsters today apparently they were all having a lie-in or possibly off at some Zander conference discussing the ethics of float-fishing.

But time was ticking, and duty called. Not to work, not to errands but to the BBQ. Pulled pork doesn't slow cook itself, and my Weber kettle had a date with a lump of pork shoulder and an unhealthy dose of smoky ambition. There’s something sacred about prepping meat for hours of slow alchemy while reminiscing about a productive morning on the water.

As I laid out the charcoal and fired up the tunes Steve Parry and Selador pumping through the JBL a hawk moth the size of a Cornish pasty appeared. Not for the pork, I don’t think, but possibly to vibe to the beats. Fair play, moth. You've got taste.

And so, a morning of modest fish, a natter, and an accidental rave with local wildlife came to a close. The big Zander may have snubbed me, but the little ones danced. And so did the moth. Less than a month to the closed season chaps, I really cannot wait. 

Transient Towpath Trudging - Pt.134 (Canal Zander)

You're out for your usual afternoon stroll through the British countryside perhaps near the hedgerows of Bedfordshire or along the winding lanes of Kent, or in my case in the middle of Ansty Park industrial estate in Coventry (after good friend and work colleague Bethany badgered me to come and have a look), and suddenly, you see it. 

A tree, once leafy and proud, now stands like something out of a Victorian ghost story, wrapped entirely in silvery-white webbing. It’s not Halloween. It’s not a prank. It’s the work of nature’s most persistent decorators: moth caterpillars.

Now despite appearances, these spooky tree cocoons aren’t the result of poltergeists or budget horror films. 

The real culprits are ermine moth caterpillars, which, despite their dainty name, behave more like weekend ravers, well at a rave of all places !!

Once hatched, they build enormous communal silk webs think Glastonbury tents but with more legs and less music. In the UK, apparently these critters are particularly fond of hawthorn, cherry, apple, and spindle trees, which are already doing their best to survive British weather without being mummified by moth spawn.  

From a distance, the trees look like they’ve been hit by a blizzard or perhaps got into a fight with a giant ball of cotton wool. Up close, it’s a writhing silk metropolis, with thousands of tiny caterpillars going about their business like commuters on the M25. 

The effect is equal parts fascinating and mildly horrifying, like watching a David Attenborough documentary filmed by Tim Burton.

These webs can stretch across entire trees, bushes, fences, and nearby bikes yes, someone once came back to find their bicycle entombed like Tutankhamun’s sarcophagus. 

It’s the closest Britain gets to a supernatural plague, and frankly, it’s more stylish than most.

The trees usually survive just fine. That’s right, while they might look like they’ve seen the ghost of Christmas past, these trees bounce back as soon as the caterpillars pupate and flutter off to become surprisingly elegant moths. 

The leaves regrow, the webs disappear, and the tree is left with nothing but some awkward memories and possibly PTSD. Experts assure us that unless a tree is already stressed or unhealthy (and who isn’t these days?), it’ll be fine. In fact, it’s the humans who seem more psychologically scarred by the sight.

So the next time you see what looks like a spectral tree wrapped in the gauze of the underworld, take a moment. Don’t call an exorcist or the council. Just appreciate it for what it is: a seasonal, slightly gross, natural spectacle like pollen, or people sunbathing in April. 

It’s a reminder that even in the calm and orderly English countryside or an industrial estate in our case, nature sometimes likes to get a bit weird. Whether it’s hedgefoxes, angry badgers, or trees that appear to have been ghosted by silk-spinning larvae, Britain remains gloriously unpredictable.

And if you’re worried about your own apple tree turning into a mummy next spring? Don’t panic. Just keep an eye out for tiny squatters... and maybe invest in a very large lint roller. Anyway talking about being scarred by the sight, imagine a small roach having to contended with a canal Zander coming towards them with an empty stomach and hunger pangs to rival Beard Meets Food. 

Yeap something to share with the Grandkids if you survive the escape that is, Anyway post work WFH it was still 23 degrees and I had to be back by 7.30pm at the lastest, so only a couple of hours fishing, but hopefully enough time to catch a Zander or two down at hotspot No.2 which is producing some bites as the minute. 

So 2 hours to catch a Zander, should be simple shouldn't it ?

Well you would think so, but there was definitely some signs of spawning when I go there and throughout the session. The crud on the surface was causing some issues as well. I need not have worried though as the more reliable bit of cover produced a bite quite quick where the left hand float jumped in to life and I tightened up to clearly a small fish.

As I was unhooking it though the right hand float also jumped in to life and this was a bait with a perfect cast with the dead roach literally vertically parallel to the cover. 

I got onto the rod as quickly as I could but the by this time the float was already a good foot inside the thick cover where upon tightening up, the fish had already escaped leaving me to lift up the canopy cover and not a Zander. Bugger !!!

So one schoolie and one lost fish, and sadly that's where the excitement ended, I leapfrogged the cover and back again, and even fished another area that was more in the shade, but that was my lot. A very warm day indeed so I glad I got out to fish, I'm sure fishing in to dusk would produce a few more fish as even when a boat came through, those fish that I knew were laying up, didn't really venture out on their usual sorties.  

Transient Towpath Trudging - Pt.133 (Canal Zander)

Well, this lingering cold is proving harder to shake than a bailiff at a dodgy car boot sale. The sore throat, thanks to a chesty cough that sounds like I’ve been chain-smoking kippers, and a streaming nose that could rival Niagara Falls, has put a firm kibosh on anything remotely enjoyable. 

I’m rarely ill, so when I do catch something, I like to really make a meal of it you know, go full Shakespearean tragedy. Fishing? Not exactly top of the agenda when you're coughing up what looks like frogspawn every half hour. All I want is to feel vaguely human again so I can get back on the bank and remind the fish who's boss (spoiler: it’s not always me). I've still manage to maintain my 10k steps a day which is good having some walks out in the village, but I have needed the odd pick me up !!

Out with the Comfort Food !!

Now Long ago, in the heart of Middlesbrough, someone looked at a chicken breast, a vat of béchamel sauce, and a questionable amount of cheese, and thought, “Yes. This is what the people need.” Thus, the chicken parmo was born not in an Italian trattoria, but in a Northern English kitchen that believed in deep-frying first and asking questions never.

The parmo is Middlesbrough’s answer to comfort food. It’s not delicate. It’s not subtle. It arrives on your plate with all the grace of a bulldozer made of cheese, and honestly, that’s what makes it beautiful. Breaded chicken, fried to golden perfection, blanketed in creamy béchamel, and finished with a melted cheese crust thick enough to stop traffic what’s not to love?

Well it's a little bland if I'm honest 🤯

Anyway some foods whisper sweet nothings to your taste buds. The parmo kicks open the door in a dressing gown, hands you a pint, and says, “Come here, mate. You’ve had a rough day.” It doesn’t judge you for eating it at 2 a.m. in your kitchen while Googling your symptoms. It just wants you to feel okay.

To outsiders, it may look like a calorie-laden crime scene. But to the people of Teesside, it’s tradition. It’s therapy. It’s Friday night. The parmo isn’t just a dish it’s a greasy, glorious friend who always knows what you need, and honestly 'slightly' better for you than a dirty doner kebab I suppose.  

Now the countdown to the start of the river season is ticking nicely, and with my Voluntary Redundancy signed, sealed, and delivered (like a break-up letter with a big cheque), and a termination date finally confirmed, I’m now starting to hatch some plans. 

We’ve got a few holidays lined up to soften the landing Cornwall, North Devon, and Lanzarote for a bit of sea fishing and sunburn in equal measure. I've already got a few leads for some salty action not that kind, behave but it’s the return to the rivers in June that really has my heart doing little excited flutters. Or that might just be the lingering fever. Hard to say.

On the tackle front, I’ve been channeling my inner inventor and knocked up a couple of meat punches using the 3D printer. These lozenge-shaped beauties are designed to scale down my barbel approach, secured nicely with a quickstop. 

A couple of pieces can look just enough "off-piste" to draw attention without making the fish recoil in horror like it’s seen a ghost (or a Lidl bait). Some of the other chaps in the WBAS syndicate have used this scaled-down method with some success, and let’s be honest a bonus roach is always welcome, especially when those barbel and chub are not playing ball.

I actually used my first 3D printer way back in 1998 at the Gaydon design studio we’re talking the Stone Age of additive manufacturing ( a wax layered jobbie), where you'd send off an STL file and cross your fingers it didn’t come back looking like a melted jelly baby.

Fast forward a couple of decades and you can now buy a half-decent, auto-calibrating printer for a bag of sand. It's mad how far the tech’s come makes you wonder how we ever managed without one. Though I’m still waiting for someone to invent a printer that churns out usable excuses for blanking...

Feeling slightly more human, I thought I'd sneak out for a dabble with the canal Zander. No monsters of late just a few curious nudges and one suspicious-looking stick that fought surprisingly well for an inanimate object. 

Truth be told, I haven’t been targeting the Zeds with any real conviction. My heart’s just not in it during the closed season. You can tell the spark’s missing even the blogging brigade have gone a bit quiet. But worry not, dear readers June’s whispering sweet nothings to us from the horizon. Running water is near, and with it, that familiar hope that the next cast is the one.

Not as an early start as I had planned but I was by some cover on the towpath for around 7.00am where the sun was already illuminating the canal, so not exactly ideal conditions to fish for canal Zander. But having fished for them for many a year now, you just need to find the fish really and that's where leapfrogging sections of cover seems to work.

A good hour in though only one tentative pull on a very still canal I decided to try up by some boats to see if they were laying up there.

Nothing doing whatsoever there so I returned to the cover where I had an enquiry where within 5 minutes fishing a roach tight to cover the left hand float jumps in to life and is motoring down the canal. I tightened up to the circle hook where I pulled the bait out of its mouth, bugger. In my experience they are smaller fish where the bait is too big to take it properly.

I got the bait back out and then 5 minutes later the right hand float goes off with the same vigour but this time I've hooked up nicely and I'm playing a decent Zander.

A lovely fish (6lb ish) as well and still full of spawn however spawning is imminent I'd imagine with the daytime temperatures trying to mimic Spain. That section of cover went quiet so I decided to upsticks and try a completely different area of canal where the fish go really dark for some reason. I think it is because it's a clearer section of canal, anyway on-route I decided to fish the start of the length of cover where I managed another 2 Zander within about 10 minutes of the baits being out.

Such stunning fish that frequent these midland canals we are lucky to have them I say. Anyway that cover also went quite so I decided to stick to my original plan and go to a section of canal a 5 minutes drive away.

Past the pungent wild garlic this lock mouth often gives up some nice fish, it's a bit deeper here you see and obviously well oxygenated. By this time the sun was right in my face and illuminating the canal  more than I'd liked. So unsurprisingly a good half an hour out with two deadbaits not even a bobble of either one of the floats.

I could have fished for another hour or so but I decided to knock it on the head and be thankful I finished on three nice Zander and got some vitamin D in the process. On to the next one !!!

Transient Towpath Trudging - Pt.132 (Canal Zander)

Now there’s something about canal fishing that keeps me coming back. Maybe it’s the unpredictability. Maybe it’s the peace and quiet, only broken by the occasional boat engine or nattering dog walker. Or maybe it’s the sense that, beneath the still, murky surface, there’s always the potential for something special a hidden predator, a surprise strike, or just that one magic moment that makes it all worthwhile.

I found myself on the banks of the Grand Union Canal again, a stretch I’ve fished more times than I can count. There’s one particular spot I’ve come to think of as a bit of a “hotspot”a piece of cover that, more often than not, holds fish. But as any seasoned angler will tell you, nothing is ever guaranteed, especially when you’re targeting something as temperamental as Zander.

The morning was far from inviting. A distinct chill hung in the air, the kind that stiffens your fingers before you’ve even baited a hook. Gusts of wind swirled down the canal, rustling the hedges and biting through every layer of inadequate clothing. The canal looked flat, lifeless. Still, I set up optimistically with two overdepth deadbait rigs, both with roach, and settled in.

The first couple of hours were dead. Not a knock. Not a twitch. Nothing to suggest a predator was even in the vicinity. At 9:00 a.m. a full two hours into the session the first boat finally came through. I’d been hoping the wash might shake things up, stir the bottom, and get those elusive Zander on the move. But again, nothing. The floats sat undisturbed like sentinels over a desert.

Just when the monotony of the wait was beginning to wear thin, an old chap with an even older dog stopped for a chat. I’ve spoken to him before this canal path is part of his daily walk. He always seems pleased to see anglers about, and he’s usually got a tale or two to tell. Today was no different. He told me about a pike he’d seen caught along this very stretch a “25-pounder, apparently.” I must’ve raised an eyebrow, but he was adamant. Said the angler could hardly believe it either. It’s one of those stories that sticks with you not just for the size of the fish, but because it reignites that little spark of wonder. Who knows what’s really lurking in these ‘mucky waters’, as he put it?

Still, the floats remained motionless. I was just about ready to move on, thinking the fish simply weren’t feeding. As I pulled out my phone and left a quick voice message for Nic over at Avon Angling, the unthinkable happened both floats shot off. Simultaneously. I had to double-take. It was chaos in the best possible way.

That spot my trusted bit of cover had come good once again. The rods bent round, and soon enough, I had two cracking Zander in the net. Not monsters, but very respectable fish. Clean, powerful, and beautifully marked. After two hours of complete inactivity, it was like someone flipped a switch.

It’s one of those moments that makes canal fishing so special. You can sit in silence, questioning your sanity for hours, and then in a heartbeat, everything changes. One minute you're considering packing it in, the next you're scrambling to keep up with two takes at once.

Naturally, I assumed this would be the start of a feeding spell a golden window where bite after bite would follow. But no. That was it. Two fish, then silence again. It was like the Zander had just stopped in for a quick visit and moved on.

Not quite ready to call it a day, I decided to try a secondary spot, a good 800 metres away another section that’s produced fish in the past. I gave it a good go, tried different bits of cover and even the swim known as the 'deep bit', but again, the Zander were suspicious in their absence. It was as if they’d vanished entirely.

Perhaps it's the time of year. Spawning isn't far off now, and maybe that instinct is starting to kick in. When fish go quiet like this, you can only speculate. They're there one moment and gone the next, like ghosts. It’s frustrating, sure but it’s also why we keep coming back. You never know when things might switch on.

So no flurry of fish, no grand haul, but still two lovely Zander, an unexpected double take, and a tale of a canal monster to chew over. That’s canal fishing for you. A test of patience, a dash of luck, and just enough magic to keep you dreaming of the next session.

I'm still not feeling 100% with a chest phlegmy cough that doesn't seem to be shifting so maybe that's why my enthusiasm is waving a bit, but I'm sure I will get there soon enough, watching two floats go off at once certainly got the angling adrenaline kicking in anyway. 

There fish are there certainly there to be caught, you just need to get them in the right mood it seems. Still I'll stick with it for a while and maybe switch to some other species when I get bored. In-fact some double dipping might be worth a go with bread or some maggots. 

Transient Towpath Trudging - Pt.131 (Canal Zander)

Now there comes a time in every angler’s life when the fire goes out. The rods gather dust. The hooks stay sharp but unused. And the bankside once your weekend cathedral starts to feel like just a soggy footpath that smells faintly of damp crisps and dog regret.

Yes, blog readers, I’m talking about losing your fishing mojo.
And as I write this, sipping lukewarm tea and fending off another massive hornet that’s moved into my home office, I must admit I’ve been struggling of late. Some good food recently and I've been raving again which has certainly improved my mood, Dave Seaman, Steve Parry and Quivver testing the sound system at the Hare and Hounds in Birmingham with beats just how I like them. 

It hasn’t helped that the weather around Stratford-Upon-Avon has decided to cosplay as Thailand in peak monsoon. It’s hot, sticky, and the canals are starting to resemble slow-cooked soup. The only thing missing is a tuk-tuk roaring past Bream Bay.

But let’s not pin it all on the weather.

The real problem? The canals of South Warwickshire just aren’t doing it for me right now.
 

Last year, I couldn’t get enough of them. I was prowling up and down the South Stratford Canal like a bearded water witch. Bream Bay, Carp Corner, and even Tramp Alley were my go-to spots. 

The Hallowed, oh yeah, what happened to the urge to go there ?

Each name a whispered promise of mystery, mud, and mediocre fish. And yet this year… meh. Tramp Alley feels less like an angler’s haven and more like a bad decision in a budget horror film.

I keep asking myself: “Have I changed? Or have the fish just stopped texting back?”

But here’s the thing. In between my dramatic sighs and forlorn looks at the tackle shed, a little voice reminded me of something.

A name.
A species.
A reason to bloody well get back out there.

Zander.

Canal Zander, to be precise. My gill-faced, sharp-toothed, deadbait-smashing soulmates. 

They’re still out there, skulking in the shadows, judging me silently from beneath submerged supermarket trolleys. So, it’s time to stop sulking and start fishing. Let’s talk strategy:

Step 1: Open bait freezer. Cry softly at the smell. Pull out a packet of freezer-burned roach from last October. Perfect.

Step 2: Dust off the overdepth deadbait rods. Resist the urge to Google “easy hobbies for tired men.”

Step 3: March determinedly past The Polished Knob. Maybe pop in after, but for now, we fish.

Step 4: Pick a stretch of canal so dark, murky, and eerie it could host a new Netflix crime drama.

Step 5: Cast. Wait. Hope.

Because the truth is, the mojo isn’t gone it’s just been hiding behind the excuses (a recent bad cold and VR contract signed so I'm job hunting). Sometimes it takes a little sweat, a bit of nostalgia, and the scent of defrosted roach to remember why you fell in love with fishing in the first place. 

So to anyone else out there feeling the slump: grab your gear. Trust your gut. And if all else fails, remember even Tramp Alley holds treasure if you squint hard enough and bring a pint.

Now then… where did I leave that flask?

Anyway I went to the hotspot to try and get a bite but the middle of the day wasn't ideal and there was plenty of tow on the canal which I hate really. This happens when a boat goes by or a nearby lock opens where the scum on the surface can take out those overdepth float rods.

The way to counteract it, is to raise those rods high in the air so there little or no line suspended on the scummy surface. A good couple of hours up and down the cover those Zander just didn't seem to be interested. 

So bugger this, back in the car to hotspot number two where things started to kick off !!!

Literally a couple of minutes of the deadbaits being out the right hand float jumps in to life and a fish had taken the bait. I hooked up nicely and the fish was giving me a right run around when the other float now starts to go off on a merry dance.

I obviously stumbled on a few fish which was nice and after netting both fish I got the float back out where over the next 45 minutes I managed another 4 Zander. Nice !!! ok not the biggest but most welcome all the same.