The River Arrow - Gonktastrophication and Gobbledegook

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Minnows. Endless minnows.

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

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

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

Ah yes... a gudgeon.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Tiny River Alne - Gonkholes and Gudgeonology

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

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

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

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

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

Anyway.

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

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

Then, out of nowhere, a thumping bite.

I struck.

Nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

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

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

What is this?

Oh.

A gonk.

A big, fat gudgeon.

NICE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Well.

It is for me anyway.

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

The Tiny River Alne - Press Officers and Pen Rods

Who Runs the Club?

The Press Officer

Press Officer. It sounds grand, that. Conjures up images of high-level journalistic intrigue; influencing decisions in the corridors of power; mingling with the mighty; slipping high-powered crusading reporters the scoop of a lifetime.

What it boils down to more often than not is discovering the whereabouts of the local reporter and phoning him the results of the evening's match. (No £68,000-a-year taxpayer funded Angela Rayner official photographers to be seen here, you, yes you do as a favour)

The latter is often a difficult and lengthy operation because he can't hear you over the noise in the four-ale bar where he's putting back what the day has taken out:

'What's that? Bludgeon? Trudgeon? Dudgeon? Gudgeon! Why didn't you say so? That a fish? How do you spell it?'

However carefully you spell everything out, after the reporter has tried to translate his crumpled and beer-stained notes next morning there's no guarantee that the news will hit the streets in a totally accurate form.

'Prize for the individual weight went to the 2 oz nutter landed by Mr Alfred Gudgeon,' is what appears. '2 oz gudgeon landed by Mr Alfred Nutter,' is what you said. Curses! But at least you tried.

Even the smallest club needs a press officer if it is to get the publicity it needs to build up its membership and have its achievements recognised. 

Local reporters, though permanently hungry for copy, cannot always spare the time to go chasing after match results, and might not even know that a match has been held. So it's up to the press officer to make life easier for them, to save them having to stir too far from the pub.

Do not be put off from making personal contact by the popular image of a journalist - scruffy, stubble-chinned, chain-smoking, drunken, noisy and brash. Arrange to meet in a pub so that the contact will be friendly and informal, and which the journalist will suggest anyway. 

Recognition is no problem: just look for someone scruffy, stubble-chinned, chain- smoking, drunken, noisy and brash. Give a firm handshake, a welcoming smile and a warm sincere greeting: 'Miss Jones! So nice to meet you...'

Providing the local reporter with match results means that his or her valuable time is not spent attending the match itself. It means also that the results, barring accidents and misprints, are accurate; that impossible demands are not made on the club's hospitality fund; that the reporter doesn't stagger from the match HQ and fall in the water, and that he's not present for the statutory punch-up at the weigh-in.

Your duties include not only supplying information which reflects well on the activities of the club. You must also prevent leaks or rumours which would reflect badly.

'RUNAWAY TREASURER IN CLUB- HOUSE LOVE NEST DRAMA' is not the kind of publicity you want to attract, and it is your duty to put the record straight, i.e. flatly deny it.

Do not be too categoric in your denials, though. Do not ring up the reporter and tell him: 'There is absolutely no truth in the scandalous rumour that our treasurer, Mr George Thistlethwaite, 52, of Potbank Terrace, Sludge Thorpe, absconded last night with the social club funds and bar takings and is believed to be headed for the Cayman Islands. 

Nor that he was accompanied by Mrs Lulu Waghorn, 33, of Foundry Road, wife of the former chairman of the veterans' committee, Mr Josiah Waghorn, 73. And certainly no foundation for the scurrilous allegations that Mr Thistlethwaite and Mrs Waghorn have been indulging in anything untoward in the clubhouse broom cupboard after our Wednesday social evenings.'

Should you feel, however, that the situation demands such specific denials, don't waste them on the local reporter. Ring up the nationals and make sure you fix your fee in advance.

Make a special point of inviting the press to the club's important social events, particularly the annual dinner and dance. If there's one thing the average reporter can't resist it's a glittering social occasion such as a free booze-up. Provide him with a list of prizewinners and copies of all the after-dinner speeches before- hand, so that if he nods off or slides under the table he'll have missed none of the side- splitting jokes and pearls of wisdom provided by the speakers.

If any of the speakers has a fatal heart attack in mid-peroration, don't forget to mention this to the reporter when he comes round. He can then phone his news desk like a true professional and say, 'No story on the big speech. The speaker dropped dead."

Anyway enough of that, after a bit of a sabbatical Sam and I were back fishing again where the local Alne was about the best option. The Warwickshire Avon is in the fields however hopefully it will be fishable again where we are hoping to target Barbara the Barbel, some some renewed vigour.

Anyway nothing to write home about but Sam tested out his winter jacket and his new neoprene gloves where plenty of bites were to be had in the first swim, where oddly it was dead in the second. The Alne usually fishes well for the bigger fish in these conditions but they didn't show whatsoever, so my quiver rod didn't get much a testing.

Warwickshire Avon - Treadmills and Transcendentalisms

Sam was up for fishing again so we decided to head down to his favorite bit of the Warwickshire Avon to try and catch a chub off the top. We also had some maggots with a float rod to try and catch some gudgeon. A bag with bits and pieces,two rods, and a landing net, simple roving tactics, no kitchen sink to be seen here.  

Now the landing net, this comes basically in two pieces, the net and the handle, and is used to net the fish as it is drawn on the line to the bank. The golden rule is to make up the landing net before anything else; before you even assemble the rod.

Many anglers, in their hurry to get to the fish, neglect to do this, and find themselves with the catch of the season on the line and the landing net lying in two pieces at the top of the bank. Assuming, that is, that it's been unpacked at all. Those who do make up the net tend to forget it in their wanderings and hook a whopper 50 yards round the river bend.

Those who keep the net constantly by their side can also suffer from the application of Sod's Law when the bottom of the net which has frayed a little and which they have been meaning to mend for weeks  gives way under the weight of the first decent fish.

The handle gets far more use than the net as a cow-prodder, swan-blonger, duck-dissuader and dog-basher. 

A telescopic handle allows cows to be prodded, swans to be blonged and ducks dissuaded at some distance from the bank; dogs can be bashed well before they can steal your butties, sneeze in your maggots or cock their legs up against your leg.

When landing a fish, the idea is to have the net in the water before the fish gets to the bank, and then to draw the fish gently over the tim, dropping the rod tip as the net is lifted clear of the water. Why so wait until the fish is thrashing almost at their feet and then bash it with the next, causing it to jerk and break the line, is one of the deeper mysteries of angling....I jest !! 

Anyway enough of that, Sam out fished daddy, today, well to be honest I couldn't get my hands on the rod, because the chub were really up to take the bread off the surface today in almost all swims we fished. 

So after catching a few maggot munchers it was Chub that were the target and I was really proud of Sam, barely a teenager he is a cracking angler and battled with some hard fighting chub this morning and lost a few too sadly. I've taken him since he was 4 years old though, he's had some experience over the years. 

Sam actually caught the biggest chub that went 4lb and 14 ounces on the scales and I couldn't be more made up for him, as he chose the swim, baited the hook, cast out and followed the bread quite a way down the river before the chub hoovered it up and the fish was on. 

The first fish in this swim I caught in the swim was retained in the landing net out of sight of the other fish, because they can easily spook the other fish in the swim. The next cast was Sam's turn, and and wallop !!!, I saw the fish come up and nail it it and there was no second takes from this fish. 

It's snag city here and Sam did the business with no coaching whatsoever, getting on top of the fish asap before they could get tangled up in the reeds, where the inevitable would happen. A lovely mornings fishing, the chub just seemed to let their guard down today, for some reason. I bet they would have seen us too in a couple of the swims, odd behavior I must admit. 😆

The Tiny River Alne - Mongrels and Monopsychisms

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Obviously a hybrid of some sort DaceXBream (George Burton)

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

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

The Warwickshire Stour - Cockalorums and Coconuts

You can tell a good curry recipe by the state of the page in the book and this beef and coconut curry from the Hairy Bikers really is very nice indeed. I wanted shin to use however they had sold out of it in Barry the Butchers however 2 kg's of casserole steak was a nice compromise.

You see it is the annual curry night round at the Newey's later where we have a house full of close friends where these days it's about the only night of the year we have a good turn out. 

Like many I do seem to be getting busier and busier as every year passes and to be honest that's probably not a bad thing. 

It's a chilled and relaxed evening where the only requirement is to bring a bottle or two and a pot of curry. That means we generally have at least 6 different homemade curries on offer, and you know me I love a good curry. 

Anyway my go-to dish most years has been this beef curry because much of the prep can be done the night before when on the day of eating, you slow cook it in coconut milk where the beef goes really rather tender, and the flavours really intensify. 

Before I went to bed I checked the local river gauges and they really were looking unfishable especially the Alne and the Avon where the Alne especially would have been well in the fields.

The Avon looked just about dooable though and I decided to get the luncheon meat out of the freezer and have a go for the barbel in the floodwater conditions. It would have been banging through but I'm sure it would have been ok provided I could find a slack. A new location I fished recently was the plan and I was looking forward to 4 hours of blanking. 

The Stour though can drop significantly like the Alne and it looked like it had peaked so I was pleasantly surprised in the morning it had dropped like a stone, a good half a meter down and it would have been within the banks. So the barbel idea was kiboshed and I decided to try and winkle out a roach instead.

I didn't have long to be honest before I had to get back but enough time to try for one and I caught a cracking roach here recently that went 1lb and 9 ounces on the scales. That was caught in similar conditions too where there was literally a handful of fishable swims.

I had some bread, worms and maggots and that was it !!!

Well ok some black roach groundbait for in the feeder to put some extra attraction in the water. In these conditions when the fish have to batten down their hatches often the fish can be easier to find in theory. Why would the fish be right in the middle of the mosh pit ?

So finding those slacks is the key for this sort of fishing and like I said I was really quite surprised just how much the river had dropped when I got bankside. Ok it was still very high but after walking passed a few fishable swims I settled in to one that is usually quite productive.

There was a nice back eddy to my left and then over at the otherside another slack swim that looked fishable if only the feeder would hold bottom. I settled on a small but heavish 25g feeder and it worked from the off.

As long as you present to bait the best you can in floodwater you have a chance of a bite however a good hour in this swim without anything at all, I decided to go on the rove.

The swim I caught the decent roach from (actually my mediocre river PB) was a few minutes walk downstream and sure enough when I got there it looked perfect for a bite. A large tree in the water hinders the flow and a satisfying donk of the feeder meant at the least I was fishing on a clean bottom.

What I didn't expect though was that after a few unstrikeable twitches on the 1oz tip the tip sprung back where I lifted in to a fish that had already made inroads and was trying to get in the reeds to my left. When I saw it is was a decent sized roach, easily over a 1lb, but that was the only glimpse I'd got because one last lunge it got right in the middle of the reeds and that was my downfall. 

Yes my foul language would have been heard by the locals I'd imagine, but I hate losing decent fish as does every angler. I stuck it out for a chublet which took worm and maggot and then decided to head downstream to the tailend of the stretch where there is another nice slack that could be fished.

There were small fish in the swim straight from the off because the bread was being battered around and the quiver tip rattling away. 

I got to find what the culprit was though because with time motoring by I switched to a size 16 hook and a couple of red maggots where within a few minutes I had a gudgeon on the bank. I'm sure if I stayed longer I'd have banked some more fish because it was clear they were holding up in the slacks. 

On the way back to the car having had to set up again after getting caught in some hidden tree branches I fished this raft swim with a couple of SSG shots and a large piece of bread flake, but the chub that usually hang around here didn't seem to be home, so after 15 minutes I headed home feeling a little disheartened. 

I'm sure if I fished cheesepaste I'd have had a better chance of catching one of the chub but it was a decent roach I wanted and it did feel like a kick in the balls considering that was the target at the start of the session for me to lose a decent one. Oh well I'll be back !!! I might try another Stour stretch next time mind you, because I might be missing a trick. 

The Tiny River Alne - Tiddlers and Tidology

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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