Looe Cornwall - Octopus Blooms and Ochlophobia

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Transient Towpath Trudging - Pt.135 (Canal Zander)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Transient Towpath Trudging - Pt.134 (Canal Zander)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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