Warwickshire Avon - Wideboys and Wombats (River Carp !!)

When we first acquired our little section of the syndicate stretch, I can fully understand why the landowner only gave us one bit of river to play with initially. After all, there’s no point handing over several hundred yards of prime Warwickshire Avon to a collection of complete strangers who may immediately erect bivvies, fell half the woodland, install a three-course kitchen and generally behave as though they’ve been given planning permission for a small caravan park with fishing rods.

The general principle, I suspect, was very much out of sight, out of mind. If we could demonstrate that we were reasonably normal human beings who occasionally caught fish rather than a travelling circus of nocturnal woodland developers, then perhaps further negotiations could take place.

Fortunately, we must have passed the audition, because eventually the second section of river, rather grandly christened 'The Untrodden', became available to us too. 

This was largely down to the negotiating skills of George Burton, whose ability to persuade somebody to part with something is apparently only surpassed by Herb Cohen, although George has yet to publish a book entitled You Can Have The River, But Only If I Can Have The River First.

The Untrodden really does appear to be just that. There are stretches where you get the distinct impression that a human being hasn't cast a bait into it since the invention of the wheel, and possibly not even then, although there are rumours that a Bronze Age angler once lost a wooden float in swim fourteen.

The irony, of course, is that now we can drive virtually bankside and park behind the swim we intend to fish, the original stretch has become rather neglected. Previously, you had to park beside a busy road, climb through a hole in a fence that appeared to have been specifically designed to remove skin from your elbows, and then descend the steps I built many moons ago, which had gradually acquired the structural integrity of a well dunked digestive biscuit.

With the Warwickshire Avon currently running low, however, the neglected stretch suddenly looked rather interesting. It carries considerably more depth than some of the other water, and as anyone who fishes rivers knows, a bit of extra depth can make a man start thinking thoughts that would otherwise be considered completely unreasonable.

So, naturally, I decided to have a go.

Sam and I had fished the stretch on Sunday and, unfortunately, there were signs that somebody else had discovered it too. 

A makeshift rod rest had appeared, and the gap in the fence looked rather suspiciously inviting, which is generally the point where your mind starts imagining somebody arriving at midnight wearing camouflage, carrying three rods, a folding chair and a Tupperware box containing enough luncheon meat to feed Wolverhampton.

I had already put some scalded pellet in beforehand, knowing I was going to fish the following evening, so when I arrived at The Untrodden I parked at the bottom of the stretch and wandered over to the swim. 

I put some more bait out, had a look around and then decided it was probably time to make the original access slightly less accessible, if only to give any potential nocturnal entrepreneurs a minor inconvenience to overcome.

It wasn't exactly Fort Knox. I was merely trying to make getting through the fence sufficiently annoying that anyone contemplating a bit of unauthorised fishing might conclude that Netflix was actually a better option.

The evening itself was absolutely glorious. Clear skies, completely still water and that lovely period around dusk when the river starts changing character and you get the distinct feeling that something is about to happen, even though nothing has actually happened and you've spent the previous forty minutes staring at a motionless float like a man waiting for his broadband engineer.

As the light faded, the fish activity increased. Nothing enormous was topping, but there was enough going on to suggest that the river was waking up and, for a brief moment, I felt that I had timed things rather cleverly.

This is always dangerous.

The water was still absolutely tap-water clear, and from the swim I could see all the way down to the bottom in around six feet of water. Had it been twelve feet deep, I reckon I could have identified the make and model of any deadbait resting on the bottom, along with the expiry date on its packaging.

But this is the Warwickshire Avon, and once darkness arrives it has a habit of changing the rules. Things happen at dusk, things happen after dusk, and occasionally things happen that make you question whether the fish have been attending secret evening classes while you've been at work.

I filled the feeder with scalded pellet and attached a Sonubaits Oozing Sausage Sizzle dumbell, wrapped in one of my homemade Robin Red paste concoction. It was cast over the prebaited area, which had been sitting there for around thirty-six hours, and I settled back expecting, at best, a few enquiries from the local chub population.

What I wasn't expecting was what happened approximately twenty minutes later.

There were a couple of little bangs on the rod tip, followed by a steady pull that developed into one of those unmistakable something rather substantial has just decided it doesn't want to be here moments. I lifted into it and immediately found myself attached to a solid fish that appeared to have no interest whatsoever in discussing the matter.

Initially it simply sat there on the bottom. Then it started moving left in that familiar barbel fashion, and when it eventually felt the full bend of the Harrison rod it suddenly remembered that it had somewhere extremely important to be.

It took line like nothing I'd hooked for quite some time. The clutch was tightened as far as I dared, the reel was protesting, the rod was bent over and I was concentrating so hard that I probably looked like someone attempting to defuse a bomb using a packet of Twiglets.

I absolutely love this 1.75TC Harrison rod. It's got that wonderful combination of power and balance where you know you've got some serious stopping ability without feeling as though you're wielding a scaffolding pole.

The fish, however, wasn't particularly interested in my equipment review.

It was properly beasting me.

I did wonder whether I'd finally connected with some enormous barbel that had spent the last decade living underneath a submerged washing machine, and for a few moments thoughts of a new personal best began floating around my head.

This is another dangerous stage of fishing.

The brain starts doing things it shouldn't. You begin mentally writing the blog post, deciding which photograph will be the lead image and considering whether the words absolutely monstrous might be considered an understatement.

I was just about ready to put my hand over the spool and give it some additional encouragement when, after its initial twenty-yard run, the fish suddenly turned around and came charging back towards me.

Pheeeeeewwwww.

That was all very well, but when it eventually broke the surface I realised I hadn't hooked the gigantic barbel of my dreams at all.

I'd hooked a carp.

A very good carp, admittedly.

I'd caught a carp from this stretch before, a fourteen-pounder, but this fish was clearly bigger. For a few seconds I thought I'd got it under control, at which point the fish spotted the landing net and immediately decided that this was an unacceptable development.

It went absolutely berserk.

Another enormous run followed, accompanied by the sort of frantic clutch adjustment and rod manoeuvring normally associated with somebody trying to land a washing machine that has just been thrown into the river from a bridge.

I was holding on for dear life, praying that nothing would come adrift, but I was confident in the tackle. The Harrison rod was doing exactly what it needed to do, absorbing those savage lunges and taking some of the sting out of the fish's attempts to relocate itself to Birmingham.

Eventually, after what seemed like an age, the carp appeared to accept that its escape plan had been systematically dismantled.

The net went underneath it.

The fish went in.

I punched the air.

There are few things more satisfying than getting a good river fish safely into the net after a proper battle, particularly when you've spent the previous ten minutes wondering whether you're about to be humiliated by something with fins.

I let it rest for a while, sorted out the mat, sling and scales and eventually weighed it.

16lb 5oz.

Not a bad carp at all.

And this wasn't some obese, overfed, semi-domesticated lake carp whose idea of exercise is moving six feet between a boilie and a floating pellet. This was a proper river carp, built like a brick outhouse and shaped rather like an Australian wombat that had spent several years doing deadlifts.

An impressive beast, in other words.

I took a few photographs, admired it for a while and then slipped it back into the Avon. It swam away strongly, presumably off to tell its mates that some lunatic had tried to abduct it using a sausage-flavoured dumbell.

I carried on fishing for another forty-five minutes, well into darkness, but there wasn't so much as a chub pull. Nothing, nada, zilch, the sort of silence that makes you start wondering whether the fish have all gathered in another swim and are currently laughing at you.

It didn't matter.

I was still grinning.

There's something particularly satisfying about catching a surprise fish from water that you've perhaps been overlooking, especially when you arrive wondering whether there's actually anything worth bothering with and leave having just had your arms pulled off by a sixteen-pound river carp.

It also leaves the rather interesting question of what else might be lurking in that neglected stretch.

There are certainly barbel there. There are carp. There are chub, although apparently none of them felt sufficiently charitable to make an appearance on this particular evening, and given the depth and relative lack of disturbance, I suspect there may be one or two other surprises waiting for somebody sufficiently stupid—or optimistic—to go looking.

And that, really, is the problem.

Once you've caught one good fish from somewhere like this, you don't go home thinking, Lovely, that's that then.

You go home thinking, I wonder what's underneath that tree?

Then you start looking at the river differently.

And before you know it you're studying maps, checking levels, examining gaps in hedges and convincing yourself that a swim you haven't fished for three years is almost certainly holding the biggest fish in the county.

Which means, inevitably, I'll have to go back.

Not because I'm greedy, obviously.

Purely for research purposes.

And if another sixteen-pound carp happens to accidentally fall into my landing net while I'm conducting said research, then frankly it would be rude not to weigh it.

Canal Roach: Trapped in a Sisyphean Loop - Pt.7

Now there is, if you spend any time among river anglers of a certain persuasion (usually slightly damp, faintly bearded, and carrying at least one item of tackle older than their knees), a particular look that appears when the coarse close season rolls around. 

It is not quite grief, not quite boredom, but something in between like being told your favourite pub has shut for renovations and will reopen as a vape shop. 

This, blog readers, is the moment when the suggestion inevitably arises: “Why not try a lake or even a commercial?” And at this point, a silence falls. A deep, meaningful, slightly horrified silence.

Because to many river anglers, fishing a stillwater in the close season feels less like fishing and more like attending a very damp, mildly competitive picnic where the sandwiches occasionally scream and pull back.

Now, this is not to say stillwaters or commercials, for that matter do not have their place. They do. 

They are, objectively, full of fish. Obscenely full of fish. Fish that appear to have been raised on a strict diet of protein pellets and low self-esteem, willing to fling themselves at anything that vaguely resembles food. 

There is a certain efficiency to it all. You arrive, you sit down, and within minutes something is tugging at your line with all the subtlety of a daily deposit specialist encountering a sausage.

But for the river angler, accustomed to the slow, contemplative rhythm of flowing water, this can feel… unsettling.

On a river in April, during the close season, there is a stillness that borders on the sacred. The banks are empty. The swims lie untouched. 

The only sounds are wind through reeds, the occasional plop of something unseen, and your own thoughts usually revolving around how big that chub definitely was last winter. 

You walk the bank not to fish, but to look, to imagine, to quietly conspire with the water about future plans. It is solitude in its purest form, a kind of gentle conspiracy between angler and river.

Compare this to a stillwater in the same period.

You arrive to a car park already hosting a small festival. There are voices. Many voices. Laughter, shouting, the unmistakable beep-beep-beeeeeep of bite alarms going off with the urgency of a reversing lorry in a supermarket car park. Pegs are lined with bivvies resembling a nylon housing estate. Someone is frying something. Someone else is explaining, at volume, how they “had one over twenty yesterday, mate, absolute unit.”

You sit down, carefully threading your way between keepnets, bait buckets, and a gentleman who appears to have brought his entire garage. You cast out. Within moments BEEEEEEP. A fish. Efficient. Immediate. Undeniable.

And yet…

There is no mystery.

On a river, a bite is a question. On a stillwater, it is more of a notification.

Canals, meanwhile, occupy a peculiar middle ground. They promise something of the old world towpaths, narrowboats, a hint of industrial nostalgia but during the close season they often inherit the same crowded enthusiasm as lakes, gravel pits and commercials. Dog walkers and poop peddlers, cyclists, joggers, entire families of ducks and swans with no regard for personal space. The water itself sits there, straight and slightly suspicious, as if it knows it is not quite a river but would very much like you not to mention it.

Fishing a canal can feel like trying to read a book in a corridor.

The scenery, too, plays its part in this quiet rebellion against “soulless holes.” A river is never the same twice. Light changes it, rain reshapes it, seasons repaint it entirely. One bend might hold deep, shadowed secrets; the next, a shallow glide sparkling like something out of a dream you forgot upon waking. You are not just fishing you are participating in something alive, something that existed long before you and will continue long after you’ve lost your favourite float in a tree.

A stillwater, by contrast, is often… consistent. Reassuringly, relentlessly consistent. The same pegs, the same margins, the same islands placed with geometric certainty. The same fish, too, though perhaps that’s unkind they are individuals, each with their own hopes, dreams, and alarming willingness to eat bright orange spheres. But the setting rarely surprises you. It is designed not to.

And that is, perhaps, the crux of it.

River anglers are, at heart, romantics. Slightly impractical, occasionally muddy romantics. They do not just want to catch fish they want to feel something while doing it. They want the uncertainty, the waiting, the quiet triumph of decoding a stretch of water that initially gave them nothing but suspicion and a nettle sting. They want the story.

On a stillwater, you often get the ending first.

Of course, there are those who happily fish both worlds, slipping between river and lake with admirable flexibility, enjoying each for what it offers. And they are probably healthier, both mentally and in terms of catch rates. But for the dyed-in-the-wool river angler, the close season presents a peculiar kind of exile.

So they walk the banks instead.

They peer into swims like archaeologists of their own past successes. They nod knowingly at overhanging branches. They mutter things like “that’ll do in September” to nobody in particular. And somewhere, in the distance, a bite alarm echoes faintly across a lake, a mechanical birdsong of efficiency. 

The river angler pauses, listens for a moment, and then carries on walking content, slightly smug, and absolutely certain that whatever that noise represents, it is not quite fishing as they understand it.
Anyway to the canal forthwith where I arrived at the stretch with all the optimism of a man who has absolutely no evidence things will go well, but a stubborn belief that today—today—the roach would queue like civilised humans, not feral pigeons. 

The canal lay there motionless, looking less like a thriving waterway and more like someone had spilled a very long puddle and forgotten to mop it up. Still, this was hallowed ground. Legends had been made here, not only decent Zander but there are carp here to be caught as well. Well, one legend. Mine. And I intended to remind the fish of that fact.

The ghosts of past glories were hard to ignore. That old zander the nine-pounder that I caught many moons ago turned into a proper canal heifer had clearly spent its days hoovering up the unfortunate descendants of those 20,000 silver fish that were stocked when maggot peddler Martyn who owns the local tackle shop used to lease the stretch. 

It must have waddled about down there like a chubby underwater landlord. And then of course came the near twelve-pounder from the Hallowed 20 miles away, which I like to think of as the canal’s way of apologising for everything else it’s ever done to me. So naturally, with that sort of history, I fully expected either a record roach or a carp with delusions of grandeur to turn up within minutes.

Tactics, as always, were flawless in theory. A gentle introduction of liquidised bread went in clouding the water like I’d just tipped in a bag of canal-flavoured milkshake followed by maggots under a lift-method float. Classic, elegant, deadly… in magazines. Alongside that, the sleeper rod sat poised with a boilie, alarm set, looking far more professional than anything else in my setup. It’s always nice to have at least one rod that suggests you know what you’re doing, even if the rest of the scene screams otherwise.

Anyway to cut a long story short I arrived at the bank armed with optimism, maggots, and the vague athleticism required to squat down for a couple of hours, only to discover the fish were already in a cooperative mood—either that or they pitied me. Before the first boat rudely announced the concept of “morning traffic” at 8:30, I’d amassed a respectable tally of bites, several of which I gallantly declined to convert into actual fish, purely to keep things sporting. 

The highlight was a plucky hybrid that fought like it had something to prove—unfortunately not its identity as a roach, which would have seen my personal best shattered and my ego inflated to dangerous levels. Still, clear skies and blazing sunshine conspired to suggest fishing should have been dreadful, yet by the ancient and noble technique of “chucking a maggot somewhere vaguely promising,” I managed to prove otherwise. 

The real spectacle, however, was the parade of humanity: six joggers pretending to enjoy themselves, five cyclists dressed like escaped highlighters, and two dog walkers being dragged by creatures with far more purpose than their owners. All in all, not a bad morning—fish caught, dignity mostly intact, and only minimal resentment toward passing boats. Oh and nought on the sleeper rod. 

Warwickshire Avon - The Untrodden Pt.5

Arthur Ransome, best known for children's stories like Swallows and Amazons, is probably the only really stylish angling writer of the twentieth century. His book Rod and Line has little in it that will help you catch more or bigger fish, but Ransome can be relied on to get right to the heart of what makes fishing so appealing and he usually does it by describing nothing more than a day catching gudgeon, or watching the anglers on some remote Russian river ply their rods. Ransome was himself a very keen angler, though disarmingly modest about his abilities.

Only once did he land a carp and it was an experience so shattering that he wrote about it at length. Catching just one carp may sound like a pretty poor show, but until modern tackle and techniques began to develop in the 1950s, carp were considered almost uncatchable. 

They were seen as huge, mysterious fish, the inscrutable inhabitants of deep, long-forgotten lakes. They would rarely take a bait and if by chance one was hooked its speed, power and cunning almost always meant the fisherman's tackle was smashed before he realised what had hit him.

Ransome said that even the salmon could not match the carp's appalling pace and anyone who has caught both would probably agree with him. The difficulties of catching carp when Ransome was writing in the early 1900s can be judged by the fact that the British record stood at about twenty pounds at that time. Carp commonly grow to twice that size or more.

When Ransome hooked his carp he was using a multiplier and rod combination on which he'd caught numerous large salmon. Yet when he hooked his carp with the same tackle he admitted he simply could not keep in touch with it. More by luck than judgement he managed to land the fish and was astonished to discover after what he considered an epic battle, that it was really quite a small specimen.

On that same day Ransome had a bizarre and quite unforgettable encounter with another carp. He hooked the fish late in the afternoon and realised immediately that fish rather than angler was in control of events. 

As soon as it was hooked the carp set off at a blistering pace for the far side of the lake. It was so quick that Ransome could not give it line in time and the cast snapped like cotton. Then there occurred one of the strangest events of Ransome's long angling career.

His line had snapped a foot or so above his float and while considering how or even whether he should tackle up again he kept an eye on the lost float, which lay flat on the water and still well out towards the middle of the pond. 

As he watched, he saw the float begin to move. It sailed directly towards Rancome's feet. When it came to within six feet of the edge of the lake the float stopped, there was a mighty swirl and a great bronze flank was seen to shoot off towards deeper water. Using his net Ransome retrieved his float, which still had its hook and weights attached.

As he remarked later, it was as though the fish had returned his tackle as if to say: 'Not a bad first attempt. Do try again."

However as an engineer to try again never worked with me when it came to art, my brain just isn't programmed to be artistic and Sam is the same. This effort he came home recently with and at least you could work out what is was. Anyway to the fishing, I wanted some revenge from the chub that Sam lost down at the untrodden but being a busy man this week, my fishing time is very limited indeed, however I decided to set the alarm for 5.00am and have few hours before work.

To be fair I wanted to bring the deeper here as well to see how deep the pool was because I'm sure it could hold some fish. The pool itself was as the deepest 10ft and in the main between 7-8ft. So it carries some reasonable depth that's for sure.

The fish though seemed to be in the shallower half of the pool and I'm not sure what they were because prior to casting the deeper those bits of bread on the surface didn't have much interest apart from some small fish initially. Then a good hour eventually a huge wake where a chub had taken it off the top from a competing duck.

Could it have been a carp though ? Sam reckons "it looks like an area where a carp would live" whatever it was though despite managing a freebee, never came back for more. 

So sadly I blanked before curfew called time, however on a positive note I dropped in to the swim I made the other day which was alive with fish because where I secured a couple of SSG shots on the line and the bread hit the bottom it was getting mullered by the peckers !!!

Next time I'll bring some maggots I think just to see what I can pick up. Encouraging signs for sure, because this area was affected by the pollution incident a year ago. Anyway better get off to work, got tax to pay for those sofa dwellers. 

Transient Towpath Trudging - Pt.106 (Maggots)

Jon Arthur's recent Youtube upload was a painful watch I must admit, a really nice guy and family (His brother Mick is a good mate of mine) but a heat of the moment misjudgement in a FishOMania qualifier has spiralled and you can clearly see it has affected him mentally and it looks like physically too.  

He's properly beaten himself up over it and will probably haunt him for the rest of his match fishing days, especially when no doubt there will be those finger pointers most likely jealous of his success, and it's one of those situations that he would play back differently if he could go back in time.

That's why <----------Mick---------------------------------------------------competitive match fishing---------> because I'd have no qualms about cheating whatsoever 🙈 in-fact I remember fishing Tunnel Barn once for a Shanghai AC match and I'd plumbed up the depth 5 minutes before the match has started, removed the plummet and flicked out the float rig in to the margins and a fish had hooked itself on a bare hook a few minutes afterwards. 

Obviously me being me I'd tightened up the clutch and let the fish take some line, where upon the sound of the horn 30 seconds later I'd scooped the 3lb manky F1 in the landing net. 💪

Fish with two rods, yeah I'm sure I've done that too, if I think about it, but then I did 'accidently' leave the bomb and pellet rod in after going back to the float again. No issues fishing the canal this way though because I was back up Wild Garlic Way where I'd have a sleeper rod out for the carp and a float rod with maggots for anything that came along. I fancied catching a fish this time though because I had a nightmare here the other evening when I couldn't buy a bite. 

I intended to give it another go here before trying elsewhere because the carp was on patrol and Nic from Avon Angling had spotted it too when he was here as well, so the big roach didn't seem to be showing but at least I might get a chance to catch the carp because I wanted to see if it was the same one I caught here almost a year to the day. 

I'd hooked it recently on the roach gear so could do nought about it and that took bread that day like it did when I caught it off the surface, but I literally dropped it on its nose last time because it was spooky as hell when it was out in the middle of the canal, where if you flicked bread towards it, it would skoot off the other way. 

On-route to the area to fish there was a hype of activity in the reeds because yes fish were spawning again. A load of them too so that could well make the fishing a little tricky but I didn't take long to get the first bite to be honest so at least I'd not blanked,

The first spot produced a few small roach, a perch and small hybrid but as expected the bream were not showing. The carp rod had gone out next to some reeds with some bream mash and some pellets over the top but that remained silent throughout the session. I was fully expecting to see it or them during the morning as it was glorious but they were suspicious in their absence.  

The bites dried up in the first swim and being the inpatient me I decided to try a few other spots. The first next to a oxygenated lock but despite a couple of fish topping the float remained motionless. So the next port of call was tight to some near margin reeds where it's no more than a couple of foot deep. Eventually the bigger fish started to show themselves but nothing to write home about really with the 5 or so bream caught the biggest shown below.

As the morning went on the bites were hard to come by really but with the sun blazing down on a relatively clear canal, for here anyway where there was a least a foot of visibility, not entirely unexpected. 

Sometimes it's just nice to be out at this time of year when everything has woken up from the winter slumber. The fish I bet must be feeding on these tadpoles because there was thousands of them in one particular spot.  

A slightly disappointing session really considering the amount of fish that were here the other evening but I still enjoyed myself and that's the main thing. I spotted a few mayfly too so I'm hoping to give the trout a go on the lure soon because I bet they are on the munch at the moment.  

The Tiny River Alne - Shirkers and Shuftiscopes

Thankfully I don't have to speak to the DWP that often, 'don't contact us, we will contact you' 'we have received your letter, you will get a response in 11 weeks' nice of them isn't it. Still none the wiser after 12 weeks, so I tried to ring, 5 times I was cut off after 10 minutes or so, then 97 minutes on hold, doing better this time, and then 'our service is temporarily unavailable please call again later' 😠😠😠 Beeeeeeeeeeeeppppppppppppp !!!!!! and it cuts off. 

I've had to renew my driving licence last week, it's anyone guess when that will turn up, at least the evening greeted us with a lovely sunset as I was losing the will. So hoping for better I tried again in the morning and after nearly another hour I finally get though 'No decision made yet!! 

Where they’re now advising 18 weeks for a response WTF !!!. Piss up in a brewery springs to mind, I don't know why I thought anything other than the contrary, good to see my hard earned tax money is being put to good use. Not just me moaning about the service though, see for yourself. 

Now talking of not turning up, the chub down the Alne, well when the heck are they going to arrive because the trout have been the only species that have fancied a grab of the lure, well apart from the odd rare perch. However the last session here from under the polarised sunglasses a decent size chub followed the lure in to the bank but sadly didn't decide to make a snatch for it. 

With a smidgen more water on, the lure rod was ditched and swapped for a link ledger rod where for this short after work session, I'd feed four or five swims with some bread slop and then fish a large piece of bread flake on the hook, to try and tempt one of them. 

Having fished this stretch for a good while now it is very random when the different species of fish turn up. Certain conditions where you would think the dace would be showing, you catch trout and then when you think trout would be up for a feed the chub turn up.

It's a lovely place to be in the summer months but the threat of a shower my lightweight waterproof jacket was donned just in-case it hammered it down.

The first primed swim I managed two small chub that were caught within 10 minutes of each other. With the bread flake suspended off the bottom within seconds I was getting plucks from small fish I presume, but there was no denying a chub bite.

Lovely fish in cracking condition that were caught in one of the deeper swims where up and till recently the swim has been static. Now with extra water on almost trottable.

Another couple of unmissable bites missed I moved downstream to the next swim where within 10 minutes I'd missed another bite, this time a drop back bite where my slow reactions the fish had felt the hook. After a massive bow wave that started close in I thought what the heck was that and decided to feed some bread where it was taken off the top just as it passed under an over hanging tree.

I was fully expecting and otter to appear but now I'm convinced it might have been a carp but despite drifting more bread down the fish never re-appeared, so I didn't get to see what it was.

The chub were still biting though and after missing another bite 🙈 I managed another two fish, the best going 2lb 8 ounces. I've caught fish approaching 4lb here in the past but they only usually show in winter when it's about the only fish that is biting.

After that swim went dead I went upstream and managed another 2 small chub from two different swims so 6 in total. I was very pleased indeed because apart from that one chub following the lure they have been suspicious in their absence.

As soon as the sun came out the river went dead, If I fished at dusk would the better fish have turned up ? A light and fragrant prawn Keralan coconut curry concocted when I got back, an enjoyable few hours indeed. 

Transient Towpath Trudging - Pt.79

With some renewed vigour to go fishing down the canal, well ok, I woke up early Sunday morning and after the kids got up and were overly noisy I decided that some peace down the towpath was a solution to ones predicament. 

The sun was high in the sky again so carp spotting was in order down at a section where a while ago I actually spotted a decent number of them.

After creating a fist size hole in my handing net within the first mile when the mesh had draped down and ended up jamming in my disc brake I got about the job in hand.

The stretch is usually busy because it's a nice route in to the town and this morning was no exception. Mainly bikers and walkers with the off narrowboat here and there.

There were plenty of zander snack sized fish about, and in one swim I actually saw a zander of a few pounds launch itself clear out of the water to get its breakfast. 

Those carp were nowhere to be seen though and I fish a couple of swims thick with cover to see if they were hiding there. A couple of miles ridden, nada and then on the return the same again. Those areas that did have them in resident before didn't appear to hold them any more.

By this time the sun was beating down and with the carp not showing whatsoever I decided to make haste. On the way back I bumped in to a CRT volunteer who said "it's been dredged mate, they took all the fish out".

"Oh ok thanks for that !!"

Strange because those areas that have been dredged I've caught fish recently, oh well better not let him know that, don't want to spoil his day. 

Transient Towpath Trudging - Pt.78 (Otters & Eels)

What a stunning day this was with the mercury reaching a rather nice 28 degrees. After enjoying the beer garden in the pub a few hours after lunch, later I was trudging the towpaths for carp. I'd not been up at this bit for a good while but I'd spotted carp in the past so with the sun beating down to illuminate the canal this would be one of those rare days that it might be easier to spot them.

There was a nice breeze and the towpaths were a little quieter than I thought they would be, but then many were probably BBQ'ing like I would do later, and enjoying their own gardens or someone else's. 

The two mile stretch I ended walking really is a rather nice place to be. Often the canal is in shade because of the trees that shroud it but any carp on the surface would be pretty easy to spot.

What I did spot in a few areas were shoals of snack sized roach which were lovely to see. One particular shoal was a thousand strong I'd imagine. Very spooky mind you as a small piece of bread thrown in amongst them they scarpered never to be seen again. 

I've rarely wet a line here apart from a few of the lock mouths for zander but the results have been mediocre so it's been off my radar. I have caught them here don't get me wrong, but it's never really got me thinking I need to do a bit of a campaign down here. 

Some of the swims look perfect for a decent fish to be laying up though with plenty of overhanging cover that stretches over the canal. A couple of the swims also were full with snags where trees and branches litter these turbid waters. 

With the two miles covers though I didn't see any sign of carp whatsoever. One particular where area I'd seen them before, was a couple enjoying some Pimm's on the towpath that had been moored up for a few days and they'd seen naff all.

I was really hopeful in stumbling upon one on the return and after fishing a few of the lock mouths to see if there were any chub about I spent a little more time scoping out any likely spots. Talking of chub I've really missed them I must admit. The more I think it about, probably my favourite river species. 

After passing the lazy otter not long after on one particular secluded stretch I spot the tell-tale bubbles from an otter. This was 5.30pm or something where you wouldn't expect to see them, but as anglers we know that not to be the case.

Now look away blog reader Nick Duffy from the National Anguilla Club because I watched it take a reasonable sized eel up on to the bank, play about with it for a bit then it went off hunting again. Not the best footage sadly as I had to grab my phone quick as my 72x zoom camera in my bag would have been far better, but still you can make it out pretty clearly. Well I can on my phone anyway but then you can zoom in closer on that, not sure about a YouTube video.

I've seen Otters not far from here before to be fair and filmed them too and it turns out a local club lake literally a stones throw where I captured them that did contain carp, is now not a patch on it's former self for obvious reasons. This stretch also has mink and they happily live together, brothers in arms !!

On the return back to the car again no carp spotted, so that pint and some pork scratchings to reward myself again for catching one of the rare carp that swim in these turbid troubled waters, sadly never happened. And yes you guessed it, I'm not going to return any time soon.