There are moments in life when you begin to question your own sanity, and mine came somewhere between the carrot shelf and the reduced meat section in Aldi. Now, I’m not saying I’m easily excitable, but when you see perfectly respectable vegetables—carrots, garlic, swede, and potatoes (8p) practically being given away like unwanted raffle prizes at a village fĂȘte, you do start to wonder if you’ve accidentally wandered into some sort of alternate universe.
Naturally, I filled the basket with the urgency of a man preparing for the apocalypse. Then came the beef—half price, £7 a kilo, practically winking at me. It was destiny. That beef didn’t choose me, I chose it… repeatedly… until it was in the trolley.
Of course, all this bounty would usually signal one thing in our household: the sacred Sunday roast. A ritual so consistent that even Ben knows to loiter strategically near the table around 5:30pm. However, fate had other ideas this week.
While the wife and kids were likely dreaming of crispy roast potatoes and gravy lakes, I had other commitments—namely, a jaunt to Brum to meet my mate Simon. Plans included a few drinks (purely for hydration purposes), some Korean food, and an ACID house gig where 808 State would be twiddling knobs with the sort of enthusiasm usually reserved for men assembling flat-pack furniture. The legendary Hare and Hounds in Kings Heath would be our playground. Roast pork, therefore, has been unceremoniously postponed to Monday. The family will survive. Probably.
Now, before all that urban revelry, I had a far more noble pursuit in mind: fishing. The South Stratford Canal has always been a bit of a favourite—intimate, peaceful, and just the right amount of “I might actually catch something here.” But in a rare moment of adventurous thinking (clearly a mistake), I decided to try a different stretch on the Grand Union Canal.
It offered a bit of shelter from the wind, which, after the previous night’s visit from what I’ve decided to call Storm Dave, felt like a sensible move. At one point the wife and I stood outside with a glass of wine, staring into the gale like extras in a low-budget disaster film, fully expecting the roof to take flight.
I arrived at the canal at the ungodly hour of 6:30am, which for me is essentially the middle of the night. Spirits were high, optimism intact, and my back… well, my back had other plans. In a spectacular display of athletic incompetence, I managed to tweak it while getting the tackle out of the car. Nothing dramatic, just enough to remind me that my body is now less “elite angler” and more “fragile antique.” Still, onward we marched—or shuffled—into battle.
The first swim is usually a banker. A few casts, a bit of groundbait, maggots doing their thing, and before you know it, you’re into a nice run of fish. Not today. Forty-five minutes passed with absolutely nothing happening. Not even a courtesy nibble. It was like fishing in a bathtub. Normally I’d have moved on much sooner, but the combination of sunshine and a mildly broken back made sitting down seem like a tactical masterstroke rather than laziness.
Eventually, I embraced the inevitable and went on the rove, trying swim after swim with the same result: absolutely naff all. The predator rod sat there looking decorative, the maggots remained insultingly untouched, and I began to suspect I’d somehow offended the fishing gods. Perhaps they’d heard about the Aldi haul and decided I’d had enough luck for one weekend.
In a final act of desperation, I headed to a known zander spot. The “last throw of the dice” scenario. A smelt went out on a circle hook, and for a glorious moment—finally—the float twitched, dipped, and sprang to life.
Fish on! The zander, clearly unaware it was supposed to behave like a zander, fought like an overexcited chub, darting about under my feet as if auditioning for a circus act. I guided it in, heart pounding, net at the ready… and off it came. Gone. Vanished. Probably laughing.
To be fair, it wasn’t a monster maybe a 2lber, but it would have saved the blank and restored some dignity. Instead, I was left staring at the water like a man who’s just dropped his last chip down the side of the sofa. One final swim on the way back to the car yielded exactly what I’d come to expect by this point: nothing. Not a bite. Not a flicker. Not even a fishy insult. Just me, my thoughts, and a growing suspicion that maggots had suddenly become deeply unpopular overnight.
So there we have it. A morning that promised much and delivered the square root of absolutely nothing. Still, there’s always next time… assuming my back recovers, the fishing gods forgive me, and Aldi hasn’t sold out of everything worth eating.
And if not, well, there’s always Monday’s roast pork to look forward to. Assuming the rabble haven’t staged a revolt by then.
Fishing, I have long suspected, is a sport designed specifically to test the structural integrity of a man’s optimism. It lures you in with pastoral promises and then batters you about the head with wind, rain, rising water and the occasional two-ounce gudgeon that hooks itself in the nostril and looks at you as if to say, “Really? This is what you came for?” And yet we persist. We watch river levels like Victorian astronomers scanning the heavens, convinced that this time this precise alignment of rainfall, temperature and domestic scheduling will produce something magnificent.
The week in question had been one of those dreary, damp sagas where every river within sensible driving distance had decided to impersonate a minor ocean. The Arrow and the Alne were not merely up; they were exploring neighbouring counties. The only sliver of hope lay with the dear old Warwickshire Avon, which was high, yes, but not yet in the sort of mood where it tries to repossess your landing net. It was creeping upward, slow and ominous, like a cat preparing to leap onto a shelf full of heirlooms.
Now, I am not a man prone to gossip, but when Nic of Avon Angling was messaging me 24 hours before and he'd “bagged up” to the tune of 30lb of chub, including a brace of fives and a four, trotting maggots one listens. One leans in. One abandons all previous life plans and begins reorganising the boot of the car with the urgency of a Formula One pit crew. “Get out there,” he said. “It’s great conditions.” Which, translated from Tackle-Shop Optimism into English, means: “You might catch something memorable, provided you don’t drown.” I tend to fish maggots now rather than bread for chub as it's less messy for starters but it just works when the conditions are right.
As luck would have it, I finished work at midday on Friday. This is the sort of blessing that should be commemorated in stained glass. However, fishing time was to be rationed like wartime sugar because my wife had yoga at 5:30pm, meaning I needed to be home by 5:15pm to assume control of the household orchestra, conducted entirely in the key of chaos. Thus the window of opportunity was narrow more arrow slit than bay window.
Undeterred, I selected a stretch known for barbel, reasoning that the double-figure temperatures might have stirred them from their winter sulk. It was a 45-minute drive, which in angling mathematics leaves approximately 23 minutes of actual fishing once you factor in faffing, tea-pouring and the ceremonial staring at the river as though it might offer guidance. The upstream gauges were rising at a pace best described as “ambitious,” but hope is a stubborn weed in the angler’s garden.
Upon arrival, the car park resembled a modest trade fair for waterproof clothing. Vans lined up like damp pilgrims. Two of my favoured pegs were already occupied by men who clearly shared my hydrological obsession. I performed the customary wander hands in pockets, nodding sagely at nothing in particular before trudging downstream to a wider, steadier stretch. Here, the river flowed with a lovely, even pace. Upstream looked like it was auditioning for a disaster documentary; down here it was positively civilised.
Trotting it was, and then a go for the barbel at the end.
I fed maggots for a good fifteen minutes, sprinkling them with the reverence of a man sowing the seeds of destiny. A size 20 Guru hook nominally a 20 but in reality something closer to a 16 unless you’re measuring with electron microscopes adorned with two bronze maggots. First trot: nothing. Second trot: the float dipped with purpose and I lifted into a solid, reassuring thump.
A chub of about a pound and a half.
Reader, after a run of blanks that had me contemplating selling my rods and investing in a set of golf clubs (imagine the horror me discussing handicaps rather than hooklinks), this felt like redemption. Next cast: another. Then another.
The float buried with cheerful regularity, and soon I was in that rare state of angling bliss where you stop thinking about river gauges, domestic curfews and existential dread. In the first hour I landed six or seven chub of similar stamp solid, silvery, obliging creatures with faces that suggest mild disapproval.
And then, just as I was congratulating myself on my tactical brilliance, the float vanished in a manner that suggested something far more serious than another pound-and-a-half specimen had taken an interest. I struck into what can only be described as a moving sandbag. No rattling head shakes, no frantic darting just immense, implacable weight hugging the bottom.
“Barbel,” I whispered to myself, because hope is incurable.
I coaxed it upstream, rod hooped, heart thundering. Inch by inch it came, resisting with the quiet authority of something that has paid its council tax for decades. And then, in the olive-green water beneath the rod tip, it surfaced.
Good grief.
It was a chub. But not the sort one casually swings in while discussing the weather. This was a chub that had clearly made excellent life choices. Long, broad-backed, pale flanks gleaming in the muted light. When it saw me it bolted, as if suddenly remembering an urgent appointment elsewhere. I managed to turn it somewhere between panic and prayer and gradually it conceded. Into the net it slid, vast and magnificent, like a bronzed log with opinions.
On the bank it looked even bigger. The sort of fish that makes you glance around to ensure witnesses are present. Surely this would be a new personal best? The scales were produced with trembling hands. 6lb 1oz.
It didn’t beat my all-tackle PB. But it did nudge past my float-caught best by a 6 ounces. The narrowest of margins it didn't beat my overall PB, but in angling terms that’s the difference between “quite pleased” and “insufferable for at least a fortnight.” I admired it in the rain because of course it had begun raining properly now, the heavens choosing this moment to re-enact the Great Flood before slipping it back to sulk beneath some tree roots.
With the maggots becoming increasingly enthusiastic about escape and the swim beginning to resemble a developing wetland, I switched to the barbel gear. By now the river was rising with alarming enthusiasm. The margin crept closer. The bank grew softer. Each step made a noise like a sponge contemplating its life choices.
I persisted.
A two-pound chub took the barbel bait with surprising gusto, followed by a bream that bit like a steam train and fought like a resigned cushion.
The water continued its climb. Debris sailed past with increasing frequency twigs, leaves, possibly someone’s garden furniture.
I fished right up to curfew, glancing at my watch with the anxiety of a man who knows yoga ends promptly and children expect dinner with alarming regularity.
No barbel came to the net.
And yet, as I packed away in the drizzle, boots squelching, net dripping, I felt absurdly content.
Because fishing is not, in truth, about the relentless pursuit of whiskered leviathans. It is about moments. The float sliding under. The sudden, immovable weight. The sight of a truly exceptional chub materialising from coloured water like a myth made flesh.
The Warwickshire Avon will likely be over its banks tomorrow, strutting about the floodplain like it owns the place. I will no doubt be poring over gauges again, convincing myself that floodwater barbel are not just possible but practically inevitable.
I will probably get soaked. I may blank. I may once again threaten to take up golf.
But somewhere beneath that rising water swims a 6lb 1oz chub that, for one glorious Friday afternoon, made all the damp socks, frantic dashes home and hydrological obsessing entirely worthwhile.
And that, dear readers, is quite enough to keep a man gloriously, hopelessly hooked.
There’s something inexplicably comforting about knowing you could knock up a pepperoni pizza mid-session while waiting for a chub to inhale a 14mm halibut pellet. The Jackery Explorer 1000 v2 what a name, like it ought to come with its own cape had arrived, and with its 1500 watts of fishless potential, the River Wye trip now had the culinary support of a high street takeaway. Sam won’t starve, that's for sure. Airfryer, kettle, USB fan, and possibly even a disco ball if the barbel get frisky.
With Sunday’s gastronomic angling expedition prepped, I fancied a few hours at a local stretch to scratch that barbel itch. Arriving at a well-trodden haunt, I was relieved to see just two cars in the carpark a rarity, like finding a tench in your garden pond after a storm.
Alas, within minutes of picking a peg with a “hot” reputation, a fellow angler appeared who seemed to be auditioning for Swim Wars: Episode III – The Peg Spreader. Not content with one pitch, he baited three like a Victorian land baron claiming territory. A bit much, I thought, so I gathered my gear, muttered something unrepeatable, and wandered off in search of solitude.
The weir it was then clear, shallow, fizzy with oxygen, and free from both peg pirates and loud social media live streamers.
I baited with some trusty groundbait and pellets, then let it rest while I had a saunter along the bank, which is where I bumped into Jon Pinfold. After the customary bank-side natter (which in fishing time equates to two cups of tea and the synopsis of three seasons’ worth of barbel blanks), he headed off downstream, and I trudged back to the foamy sanctuary of the weir.
The first cast in and the bait was getting instant attention. That gentle rattling, the kind that screams “I’m not the fish you’re looking for” echoed up the line. A suicidal gudgeon proved the point, followed by a roach with delusions of grandeur. Evening crept in, and I decided to double down with two 14mm halibut pellets, because nothing says “come hither Mr. Barbel” like a bait the size of a gobstopper.
With the centrepin poised, ratchet armed, and tea in hand, I relaxed into the last hour before dark. Then, a tug not a full-blooded wrench but enough to get the ratchet moaning briefly like an annoyed pensioner on a mobility scooter. I struck... into air. A chub, most likely, cheeky sods. Then, just as I’d re-entered that contemplative space where your brain flits between philosophical musings and wondering what happened to Wagon Wheels, all hell broke loose.
The rod buckled, the ratchet sang its song of war, and the fish surged. This, I thought, this is it. The barbel of prophecy. The one. The beast. The holy grail of whiskered dreams. But then... a lolloping swirl on the surface. And I knew.
Bream. đ
The barbel’s doughy, silt-loving cousin. It wallowed like a drunk grockle at an open mic night, and while the fight had lasted all of fifteen dramatic seconds, it was clear the finale had already been written. Five pounds and ten ounces of pure heartbreak. A fish shaped disappointment. Covered in the sort of slime you wouldn’t wish on your worst enemy’s sleeping bag.
I fished on for a bit, more out of principle than optimism, fed a bit more bait, and hoped in vain for redemption. It didn’t come. On the way back to the car, I met Jon again who’d had a lovely evening bagging up on chub, naturally.
Back home, the bream slime was a pungent reminder of what could have been. The clothes went straight in the wash before they walked there on their own. Honestly, I don’t know what it is about bream mucus, but it seems to bond at a molecular level to anything it touches like some kind of piscine superglue with notes of corpse flower and disappointment.
Still, with pizza planned for Sunday’s session and tea on tap, hope springs eternal. Because that’s fishing. One moment you’re dreaming of barbel, the next you’re reeling in aquatic bin-liners. But we carry on. Because somewhere, beneath the gin-clear water, a barbel waits. Fat, wary, smug.
Now it all started with a very optimistic plan: Sam and I would rise early, hit the canal marina at the crack of dawn, and gently pluck bream and hybrids from the water like serene, fish-whispering Zen masters. You know, just two chaps enjoying the quiet simplicity of angling, one with nature, rods in hand, sandwiches in pockets. A pure and noble pursuit.
Except we both needed to be prised from our duvets.
By the time we eventually rolled up to the canal, it was less "crack of dawn" and more "brunch with boats." The marina was alive with the chaos of holiday hire boats meandering about like oversized bath toys set loose by excitable toddlers. There was more engine revving and dodgy reversing than a learner driver's convention.
And, of course, all that boat activity stirred up the canal water. The tow was all over the place, so Sam had to stick his rod so high in the air it looked like he was trying to get a signal for canal Wi-Fi. He spent most of the morning adjusting his setup like a frustrated TV aerial technician in 1998.
Still, we gave it a good go. We baited our swims with bread and groundbait, settling in for what we hoped would be a replay of my last glorious bream-catching session. I had visions of thick, bronze-bodied bream sliding smoothly into my net while Sam looked on with the kind of jealousy only fishing buddies can muster.
What actually happened was... absolutely nothing.
Not a nibble. Not a bite. Not even a suspicious bubble. Just us, sat there like a pair of over-equipped statues, quietly pretending we weren’t losing the will to live. And to top it off, the towpath was heaving – like Piccadilly Circus on a Saturday, only with more Lycra-clad cyclists and less regard for personal space. One guy even managed to walk straight through our swim while loudly announcing he was training for a triathlon. We wished him luck and quietly cursed his calves.
Eventually, we reached the universal angler’s conclusion: Sod this.
So, we packed up the rods, took a deep breath, and pivoted to Plan B – magnet fishing. If you’re unfamiliar, magnet fishing is like fishing, but instead of hoping for scaly creatures, you’re trying to haul centuries-old junk out of the murky depths with a magnet that could probably ruin your phone from ten feet away.
We headed to a spot near the locks and bridges, prime magnet fishing locations, which is code for “where a lot of stuff has been accidentally (or drunkenly) thrown in since 1793.”
The sun had come out by then, and the skies were so blue it almost looked Photoshopped but don't be fooled. It was still cold enough to remind us that the British spring is more of a concept than a season.
After a good hour of flinging the magnet into the canal and pulling out increasingly disappointing bits of nothing, Sam finally struck gold metaphorically speaking. He reeled in a solid chunk of metal: an ancient-looking rivet, encrusted with history and canal gunk.
We both stared at it like archaeologists discovering an old Roman toothbrush.
“It’s probably from the South Stratford Canal itself,” I said, with all the confidence of someone who definitely didn’t just make that up. “Built between 1793 and 1816.”
Sam, beaming, declared it was going straight into his collection of tat , a proudly eclectic museum of mysterious metallic odds and ends. One kids’s rubbish is another kids’s weirdly shaped talking point.
So while we didn’t catch any bream, or even see one, the day wasn’t a total loss. We got fresh air, a bit of sun, and the thrill of possibly tetanus-inducing treasure. Not to mention the deep satisfaction of knowing we beat the triathlon guy to the best lockside bench.
All in all, not a bad way to spend a slightly disorganized, thoroughly entertaining morning on the canal.
Moral of the story? Always pack a magnet. The bream might ghost you, but the tat never disappoints.
And here was the prize !!
I don't think I'll be able to retire on it anyway đStill Sam went home happy and that's all that mattered !!
I headed out to the Grand Union Canal, chasing that ever-elusive perfect session. The plan was simple: float fishing for bream with a bit of bread and groundbait, followed by a go at some zander fishing near cover. What could possibly go wrong?
The morning kicked off cold and damp classic canal weather. The kind that makes your fingers feel like they’ve been cryogenically frozen within the first ten minutes.
But spirits were high. I picked a decent looking swim, fed a bit of groundbait in (a tad on the damp side, like me), and got cracking with bread on the hook. And to be fair… it actually went pretty well (the third swim I tried).
The bream were on! Not massive slabs, but I managed to land six maybe more, I lost count somewhere between juggling the landing net and trying not to spill my tea. They were all taken on the float, and the bites were proper sail away jobbies. It’s always satisfying when it all just clicks.
Now, this isn’t just a random stretch of water it’s got history. Back in the day, it was the venue for some huge fishing matches. The reason? There’s a really long, straight run of canal there that’s perfect for pegging out big competitions. You can almost feel the echoes of old match banter in the hedgerows. It’s not as bustling these days đ, but every time I fish it, I imagine the old-school match lads, shoulder to shoulder, weighing in nets full of roach and bream with grins (and the occasional grumble) all round.
At one point, I looked up and even the ducks seemed mildly impressed. Well, except for one that looked like it was plotting to mug me for my groundbait. You know the type.
Anyway, with the bream box ticked and the float rod packed away, I figured it was time to get serious. Out came the deadbait rod. Mission: Zander.
Now, if catching zander were as easy as talking about them in the pub, I’d have needed a wheelbarrow. I worked up and down the stretch, casting nex to thick cover, near reed beds, and even gave a hopeful flick next to a submerged traffic cone that looked a bit “zander-ish.” Nada.
Not a sniff. Not even a nibble, I whispered sweet nothings to the canal… nothing.
I bumped into another angler who gave me that look you know the one that says, “You’re wasting your time, mate,” but in a polite, nodding British way. Even he was struggling, so at least I wasn’t alone in my zander humiliation.
When things slowed up I retraced my steps and beyond and fished an area of reeds that produced a bite rather quickly. Another small bream, nothing like the stamp up at 'bream bay' but at least I was getting a few bites.
By the end of the short session, my hands were cold, my flask was empty, and the zander had well and truly ghosted me. But you know what? I didn’t mind. Seven bream on the float, a bit of nature, and the usual mind-clearing peace that only fishing brings. What more can you ask for?
I’ll be back. And so will the zander… probably. Maybe. Eventually.
Another fantastic lunch at Stratford-Upon-Avon's Beleza Rodizio, meat, meat and more meat, Brazilian rodizio-style.
Now Brazilian rodĂzio-style is a type of all-you-can-eat dining experience, especially popular in Brazilian steakhouses (churrascarias), where a wide variety of meats are served continuously at your table until you say stop.
If you've not tried these type of restaurants servers, called passadores, come around with large skewers of freshly grilled meats beef, pork, chicken, lamb, sausage, etc. and you help yourself to the self service salad bar., which is also superb to be honest.
You usually get a red or green card (or in Straford's case a block of wood shaped like an egg timer, red one end, green the other) Green "yes, bring more" and red "I'm taking a break" or "I'm full".
No rush, just pace yourself, the highlights well, the Picanha is hard to fault which is a cap of rump, the Alcatra (the wife's favorite) which is top sirloin cut, Cordeiro which is lamb with mint and then my favorite, the beef in garlic marinade. I love the chicken hearts they do, but sadly not on the lunch menu, oddly the garlic beef wasn't either, but I wasn't complaining !!!
Greedy, you betcha, but not that horrible full feeling you get when you've consumed a pizza for example. The service well, it was absolutely superb, we will be back !! Anyway talking of greedy !!
In the heart of Birmingham, the bin crisis had reached apocalyptic proportions. Rubbish heaps were so high, local pigeons were getting vertigo.
Out of the chaos emerged a new kind of urban legend: a heroic, caped rat named Captain Quagswag, riding a sleek black cat and rallying the city's rodent population to reclaim the streets… and the bins.
But Captain Quagswag was no ordinary rodent. He had a dream a dream that didn’t stink of old kebabs and leaking nappies. He longed for fresh air, calm waters, and the gentle tug of a fish on a line. So, after rallying his crew of bin-diving rat warriors, he announced:
"We're going fishing, lads. And not just anywhere we’re hitting the canals of Stratford-upon-Avon!"
With a trail of wheelie bins behind them and a stolen mobility scooter leading the charge, Captain Quagswag and his rat brigade made their way down the canal towpath. They dodged swans, jumped over barbecues, and even stopped briefly to battle a gang of angry geese.
Upon arrival at the marina, they commandeered an abandoned canal boat—“The HMS Stinkbait”—painted it bright red, and set sail (slowly) into open waters. The rats cast their makeshift fishing lines (recycled coat hangers with cheese strings for bait) and waited.
To everyone’s shock, Captain Quagswag soon hooked something massive. The boat rocked. The black cat, acting as first mate, hissed in excitement. After a 30-minute battle that involved three rats getting flung into the canal and a small explosion involving a camping stove, Quagswag landed it—a shopping trolley filled with fish fingers and a half-eaten Greggs sausage roll.
Cheers erupted. It was a feast. The Birmingham rats had gone from bin-bothered scavengers to canal-fishing legends. From that day forward, canal-goers in Stratford spoke of the strange boat manned by a masked rat and his feline companion. And the sign on the back of the boat said it all:
“Captain Quagswag’s Piscatorial Patrol – Bin There, Fished That.”
Now I've fished this marina many a time and to be honest I've not done brilliantly. Ok I've had some Zander but nothing big, but this time I fancied also trying for some other species so I had some bread slop with me and bread for the hook. Was I missing a trick ? quite possibly as Blog Reader Nick (Waves to Nick) emailed me over winter to say he was doing ok when he fished it.
You cannot really get much cruder than this set-up, a 2 SSG Guru Pellet waggler sits on the surface like my Zander deadbait setup and a SSG shot an inch from the size 12 hook provides the anchor and plummet.
Feed some groundbait and wait for a bite. It didn't take long either however the first fish I bumped off, still I need not have worried because the fish were on it straight away. You see I managed 9 or so fish within the first hour where I should have used a keepnet, here a small selection of the fish caught. Mainly bream but some nice hard fighting hybrids kept me entertained.
The swim went dead when the sun came out so I decided to put the zander rod out when chilling out with a cup of tea and ten minutes later it bobs and sails confidently under and I'm in to a fish. A proper hard fighting Zander this one and it gave me the run around for a while, trying to get under the boat to my right at one point.
I didn't weigh it but it was a decent one and certainly worth getting out of bed early for. I tried another 2 spots but the fish after the initial madness were just not up for feeding for some reason. The sun was illuminating the whole marina though so not ideal.
I went for a nose at another marina entrance a short walk away but there was nothing doing whatsoever and when the first boat was heading away from its moorings I called it a day. I've not been doing that well for a while, so it was nice to get a few bites for a change.
The bank holiday weekend was over in a blink of an eye and back to the daily drudgery where the final countdown is on to the car I've been working on for 5 years is in full swing, and those latest prototypes rolling off the production line are almost saleable vehicles such the quality at the moment.
A long time coming I must admit but from a sketch to a production car especially one of this specification not uncommon especially with the ever increasing technology involved.
Some things to sort out from parts off tool not quite going together as expected, and fit and finish issues here and there but considering I had to redesign a load of parts that were already off tool, and also design some new one due to some 'late packaging changes', the outcome thus far has been better than expected.
Family stuff as always occupied much of my weekend, but then why wouldn't it, however some down time is nice. Cooking is my thing especially with a glass of red in hand where one of the highlights was the Turkish Lahmacuns with homemade flatbreads, very nice they were too, with the distinctive flavours of lamb, parsley, aleppo pepper and copious amounts of lemon.
Anyway I WONDERED when you would want to know how to go about catching bream. These fish can be as aggravating as the carp in its most tantalizing mood. When fishing for bream you can expect first class sport or absolute disappointment. They either feed all out or go on a hunger strike.
There are two kinds of bream silver and bronze. You will catch silver bream but I should say you would be angling for bronze. There are no big silver bream! To what weight does the bream grow? The biggest ever recorded in the UK is one weighing 22 lb. 11 oz. If you catch a four pounder you can be pleased with yourself, though six pounders aren't all that rare. Of course there are the occasional eight or ten pounders, and if you take one of them it will be an opportunity for the glass case and gold lettering. I'm still waiting!
The bream is a tricky chap. When I have had a blank day fishing for bream I often think of the picture of the monks who haven't had a good day's fishing.
Very doleful they look! The picture is Tomorrow will be Friday and we've caught no fish today.
Carp and bream were the monks' fish on Friday which was, as you know, a meatless day. I used to think to myself that they must have had a few hungry Fridays. And so they would, if they'd had to depend upon a good catch of bream or carp every Thursday! But the monks were as artful as the fish. They were always fishing and kept the fish alive in special small ponds stew ponds from which they could net them when needed. And they stuffed them with herbs, baked them in butter and wine. I wonder if they had bilious attacks?
I'll begin telling you about bream with a piece of sound advice.
Really ? literally where the public footpath turns 90 degrees, I despair
If there is any wind from the east in the air, angle for some other fish. I have never caught any bream when there has been an east wind in evidence.
Further, I have found that winter fishing for bream is useless. Bream don't like the cold, and I can't say I blame them. Summer is the time for bream, but I will qualify that by telling you that they dislike hot sun. Before the sun gets too high in the sky and when it begins to drop in the west - those are your times. Mark you, when on a summer day there is a soft south or west wind ruffling the water, and a little cloud in the sky that is very different!
Oh yes, you want to know about tackle. Line? Breaking-strain 3 lb minimum., use a small waggler Hook? A number 12 should suit. If you find a school of really big bream change over to a number 8. I'm all against VERY heavy tackle. After all, we aren't angling for sharks! Bait? Paste, worm, maggot. Ground bait? Bran and bread or cloud
There, now we know what we need.
Yet we must know a little more about the bream before we set off after him. He can be a very contrary chap when he likes which is far too often for any but a keen angler. We have agreed that he is a summer fish, so we know the time of year when we are most likely to catch him. But where? In rivers and in the still waters of lakes, ponds and canals. But bream rivers are generally slow running, with muddy bottoms, and away from the main flow there must be deep 'holes', the deeper the better, for in those holes the big ones will be found. Both in rivers and ponds there must be weed if we are to find good bream.
What more about the fish itself? The bream is, essentially, a bottom feeder. He feeds mainly upon insect life and vegetation which he collects by sucking it from the bottom. And because he is 'as deep as he is long' he has to get his tail well up to get his head well down.
Then, for no apparent reason though some anglers believe it is preparatory to feeding the water will become alive with bream rolling about all over the surface. Maybe they are just playing for I can't believe that they are preparing to feed. I've tried all the tricks I know to tempt them with various baits at varying depths, with the odd scrap of success.
Bream travel about in schools. If you can 'get into' those schools you are in for really fast and furious sport. To do so depends on the way you use your ground bait. We will return to that matter in a few minutes. Keep an eye open for the school travelling on the bottom.
We can spot this school by the bubble trails it makes. As the school travels, the fish are poking about in the bottom mud with their noses, which makes the bubbles rise to the surface. You may have sport with this kind of school. Cast your bait in front of it. As the fish are sucking up insect life, offer them a worm. I suggest the tail of a lob. So far so good.
I now suggest that unless you know the water you are to fish, you get to know an expert angler who does, and who will point out the best places to you (not good asking me). It is essential that you should know the holes both in the rivers and still water. You must know where to do your ground baiting.
While bream travel around in schools, they invariably return to the hole or swim. You must find two or three holes, ground bait them and stick to them. There isn't much point in wandering all over the water. You'll probably miss the schools. Use groundbait wisely and bring the bream to you. We are getting along nicely, but just one word more about your needs. For a day's fishing I don't think 10 lb. of ground bait would be too much. You will have two or three holes or swims to feed. And one more thing: don't have your shot closer than 18 in. from your hook. Now we are all set.
You have chosen the water and you have taken the depth. Remember that the bream is a bottom feeder. I believe that it is better to fish just off the bottom a mere inch or two. It is rather a tricky job to adjust the float correctly, but I feel it is worth it. The bream is a 'deep' fish, so while his belly is on the bottom, his nose is a few inches above.
But you should try both fishing right on the bottom and an inch or two above, and learn by trial and error. If you are fishing the river holes, I suggest you try first with bread or maggot, but if there has been rain and the river has risen, then the tail of a lob is the bait. (You may well pick up a good chub or perch with the lob tail, too.)
In still water, unless you are trying the tail of a lob in front of a travelling bottom shoal, begin with bread, and if that does not tempt your fish, try maggot. Vary your bait and vary the method if need be, the feeder is another good way to fish for them.
You begin to fish, and you are lucky. You have tempted a fish. But, oh dear, what a miserable little twitch the float gave! And that is the way of the bream. He is far more hesitant than the carp.
He will mess about, and then just when you are fed up away the float will go. Then you strike. Now and again you will find that, as with the carp, your float will be 'lifted' or flattened.
Of course, there will be no preliminary twitches and such like dithering. Your float will dive as if a whacking great perch had taken your bait. Keep your eyes open and keep your hand ready to strike.
I think you have all that I can tell you about bream and if you have just that bit of luck to help you to find a shoal on the feed, you will have sport, but don't be too disappointed if the day is blank.
I'm sorry to tell you this, but it is no good pretending that the bream is anything like a fighter unless you happen to hook a good one in a river hole and he gets out into the current; then you may think you've hooked a submarine!
Anyway looking back over coarse angling over the years, and thinking about bream, I can see a great deal of difference in the attitude to coarse fishing. Nowadays we take fish and we put them back for another day. But in the days before the war when there were so many people without work, fish were not so often returned. This is not a fisherman's story, but I was told by my Dad as many as twenty bream, weighing over 70 lb. altogether, being taken by one fisherman he knew and not one of those fish was returned! They were all for the pot. And that angler wasn't the only one.
However, what I want you to understand is not only the different attitude of the angler of today, but the sport which bream can give when on the feed. Twenty fish weighing more than 70lb. altogether was not a particularly out-of-the way catch then, nor is it today. You will have blank days. What angler does not ? Yet there will be those days when the bream will give sport you will remember as long as you live.
Just look a this memorable session from Nic from Avon Angling up at bream bay prior to an invite to a marina to fish where this was a taster for what was to come. Bream soup !! Bites are good, bream are good, what's not to like. Well maybe the smell of the garage afterwards from the keepnet or landing net.
Anyway to the fishing, I was back to the area I caught my PB from because I've had others that were not far off that weight too over the years. I decided to fish the method I've been trying of late which is fish a small buoyant waggler that can be fished overdepth with a SSG anchoring the shot on the bottom, and a large piece of bread on the hook. It's more sensitive than the Generation Z'ers, and boy (insert one of the other 71 genders (apparently) they are sensitive, there is no denying that !!
The reason why I like it is because it just seems to work rather well for the roach and the roach bream hybrids as well as the bream, any interest whatsoever is registered on the float and you don't need the reactions of a fighter jet pilot to strike at a light bite. Obviously I'd have a Zander bait out as well, because there are a few knocking about here.
I arrived just as a boat was headed up the track but luckily the lock paddles were already open meaning that the disturbance would be minimal once the boat had churned up the water. It soon settled down thankfully so I could get the baits out.
The bites were slow to come by to honest and the bigger bream didn't show this evening. But one schoolie Zander on the roach deadbait and also some nice roach bream hybrids succumbed to the overdepth pellet waggler set-up.
The key is to fish as many swims as you can because after dropping the bread in, feed some bread slop it's surprising just how quickly you get a bite if a fish is there. Bread seems a very selective bait as well and it's my preference over maggots if I'm to bag a large roach that may slip up using this technique.
Still a few fish caught but overall very quiet indeed. The heavy rain ended the session but an enjoyable few hours I must admit. Now I need to give a recently dredged (5-6 mths or so) area a go sometime because I'm sure the extra depth might hold some nice fish. It's also where I bagged a 9lb Zander many moons ago so it would be nice to see if there are any hanging around. The problem is it's a popular mooring stretch and I'd be fishing the winding hole, so being early or late is a necessity.
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