Constant blue skies and 25 C temperatures have not been the ideal weather for sitting on the bank fishing, the nearest I have got is to my local pond, when my wife and I have been taking our daily morning Lockdown exercise. The walk through a small wood to a seat, that looks down the pond, is rewarded by the sound of birds singing, blackbirds being the most vocal at this time of year. Since restrictions were eased two weeks ago, the pond has had a succession of dads and lads, plus the occasional older angler occupying the swims sweltering in the heat. Not for me.

I have to admit that I have been searching the weather forecasts looking for rain and cool weather, but while those North of Watford and in Scotland been deluged with rain, we in the South have continued to wilt in the sun.

I got my chance last evening, when my wife decided that it was time for her to brave the queue of shoppers at Tesco waiting to be admitted to the supermarket. Intending to shop after 8 pm, it gave me the chance of a couple of hours fishing at the pond after Tea. Having trundled my trolley down to the water at 6:30 pm, the heat was still intense and I was sweating by the time I reached my favourite swim, only to find it crowded out by a dad with three young sons. They were busy catching small rudd on maggots, dad spending his time moving from one to the other taking out hooks and undoing tangles. Oh, happy memories.

The only swim available is shallow, half covered with lilies and overhung by a large tree, which is already adorned by a collection of fishing floats. I never fish this swim in the summer due to the lily bed, yes it holds fish, but it is also the obvious bolt hole for any fish capable of stretching pole elastic. It was time to bite the bullet and give it a try.

Three balls of damp liquidised bread, mixed with a quarter measure of ground fish pellets were thrown 8 to 9 metres out, a metre away from the lilies and by the time I was ready to fish at 7 pm, bubbles were already bursting on the surface. With the pole at 7 metres, I swung out into the baited area a short 3 No 4 waggler with a 6 mm punch of bread on a size 16 barbless hook. The float dipped and slid away toward the lilybed  and I lifted into the small rudd. Not! The elastic streamed out into the mass of lilies and I pulled hard round in the opposite direction to get the assumed carp back out. I say assumed, because after much tail wagging and splashing, the hook pulled free of the fish.

This attracted much attention round the pond, the dad looking over and asking what it was, while another angler the other side of my tree came round for a chat, by which time I was already playing my second fish, a nice crucian, which embedded itself in the lilies at my feet. Several attempts later, I had broken the lily and netted the fish. “Didn’t know there was anything that big in here?” he said, sipping on his can of beer.

Everything in the pond seems to be a hybrid of something else and this was no exception, having the colouring of a crucian, but the shape and mouth of a common carp. Now followed a quick tuitorial on the use of the bread punch, as I netted another crucian variant.

These I find are the hardest to catch. They attack the bait with dips and bangs, then seem to leave it, but are actually just holding station sucking the bread without moving off. As you can see in this image, the crucian is barely hooked in the lip. If the bite does not develope, I strike anyway and usually one is there, although lightly hooked they are often lost. My newfound friend was intrigued by the punch, having only caught small rudd on his maggots, while my elastic was out again with another nice crucian, that I had to bully away from the lilybed, raising the pole and stripping back to the top three to avoid snagging again close in.

Netting another of the bait stealing crucians was a signal for my beer drinking friend to comment, that he was surprised that such an old fashion method could still catch fish? Fish are fish. What worked 50 years ago will work today. Better presentation on the pole, just makes the punch an even deadlier method.

I could now concentrate on the job in hand, putting a ball of feed in at regular intervals bringing a response of even more bubbles, some bursts indicating that common carp were now in the area. My next fish was a rather tatty looking crucian that ran into the lilies, then out again.

The float zipping away meant contact with a proper carp that rushed out to the middle before rolling off the hook, leaving a black slick of mud behind. Another ball of feed and a true crucian was fighting at the end of the line.

As the evening went on, I had been shallowing up the float, going from two feet up to eighteen inches. This was giving more positive bites and the heavy crumb used in the mix, resulted in pieces of bread drifting around just off the muddy bottom. Stirred up by the fish, these were causing competition and better bites.

Another rush off bite brought a small common and I raised the pole high and let it fight to a standstill before bringing it to the net.

A lone gudgeon was followed by a pole bender that stripped out the elastic and made it to the sanctury of the lilybed, but firm pressure brought it back out again, stripping down to the top three quickly keeping the 12-18 elastic under pressure, the barbless hook hanging on to the net.

Very strange. As I said before, there are hybrids of all types here, this fan tail monstrosity no exception. Despite it’s looks a hard fighter none the less.

A fat, silver common hybrid was next, the hold the pole high method and the strong elastic doing the trick in the shallow pond.

Got another one! An even bigger fan tail battled it’s way to the net, followed by the smallest crucian of the evening.

Beautiful colours on this variety of crucian, the image here capturing the iridescent scales as the sunset.

This small common was the last photo that came out as the light reduced, switching to the flash on my pocket camera glaring out the image due to the silver scales. A few more of these found there way into the net, before I packed up dead on 9 pm.

What pleased me about this catch was the number of crucians, although in recent years small tench had grown to acceptable sizes, but now they seemed to have disappeared, but then who knows with this little pond in the corner of a housing estate. A final word. My wife drove to the Tesco supermarket to find the queue longer than ever, the customers spaced every two metres stretching for four hundred yards around the car park. She did not stop. Today the queue was even longer.

The madness continues out in the real world, when fishing, the only reality is the float going under.

With a month to go before the UK river fishing season opens, I was devastated to see that another pollution event has wiped out the recovering fish population of my little local River Cut. A few years ago oil cleaning fluid was being released down the drains of the upstream industrial estate, coating the banks and bottom of the river, killing thousands of fish.

This time there was no tell tale smell of oil, only the sight of dead fish coating the bottom of the river, or trapped by branches as they drifted downstream.

Looking down into the river from a road bridge, I could see hundreds of fish from one ounce to over a pound in the mirke, chub, roach, dace and gudgeon, even a tench on its side in the margins.

In the last few days of the season in March, I had an enjoyable stick float session catching healthy chub and roach. It is hard to think that these fin perfect fish are down there rotting somewhere.

Even when I was catching these fish, Thames Water had pollution booms out across the river upstream and I took a picture of the mud at the edge of my swim. It was oozing oil.

Unfortunately we live in a selfish society, where the majority of the population are disconnected from the natural world, not knowing, or caring that a roadside drain eventually finds its way into a living, balanced ecosystem. This is the result.

The UK Government took everyone by surprise, by easing the English Lockdown and allowing travel to extended periods of exercise, including angling and other fieldsports among their list of approved exercise. I had already decided that my first foray into the countryside, would be a session on Farnborough and District’s Hampshire  trout stream, the River Whitewater.

Due to the Covid-19 outbreak, there had been only the minimum of work parties and no stocking, so was not optimistic about catching much as I climbed the gate, the code in the club book not opening the lock, a sign of things to come? Once in the open pasture, the icy north wind was cutting through my lightweight jacket. Despite bright afternoon sunshine, the air temperature was 10 degrees C down on last week, not ideal for my hoped for Mayfly hatch and I headed straight for a big S bend in the river, which has been kind to me in the past.

The river was pushing hard round the bend with a tinge of colour, but it was good to see it rushing over clean gravel. There was no fly life visible and no rising fish, so a good early season stanby, an unweighted Gold Ribbed Hare’s Ear was tied on and I worked my way up round the bend toward the main pool. Once teeming with dace, this fast run yielded no takes and I was already considering the points that I would gain from my wife for being home early for Tea. Working to the top of the pool, I considered my options, go home now, sit and wait for the Mayfly to hatch, if at all, or continue downstream to another promising area. I chose the latter.

With only sheep for company, I was alone with my thoughts. Again there were no rising fish, but it was good to be out with the fly rod among the luxuriant spring growth, although the gusting wind caused a few close calls, as I tried some of the more over grown runs, where no winter trimming has taken place.

After an hour, it was time to head back upstream again, watching a few Mayfly drift with the flow, temptingly spinning in the current, as I waited for a spotted nose to appear to suck them down to oblivion. None rose.

Walking through the copse close to the S bend, I heard the unmistakable sound of a large fish breaking the surface and as I emerged, saw the swirl of another rise in the main pool. Without waders, I had to edge along the bottom of the high bank with reeds out in front of me, the bank stopping my progress. I could now see a few light green Mayfly lifting off and being intercepted by a large fish in the middle of the river.

I took this pic just after it had risen again, a cast of about 20 yards, where the faster water entered the pool. Looking in my Mayfly box, a likely candidate stood out, a green bodied, shadow Mayfly.

With fumbling fingers, I managed a perfect improved clinch knot, licked it and slid it down to the hook, then tested it and trimmed off. This was a big fish and the last thing I wanted was to lose it due to a dodgy knot tied in haste.

Rubbing floatant grease into the Mayfly, I tried a few false casts to get the range, battling the wind that blew my 4 lb tippet off target, everywhere but down the middle, where the trout continued to slurp down Mayfly. My artificial was riding the surface perfectly as it passed out of range of the feeding trout, but a moment of calm allowed the fly to float down to the surface, where it was engulfed.

I struck, feeling the full weight of the trout, as it powered up toward the bend, screaming the reel as it took line. Not for long, it turned and rushed past me, heading for the fast water downstream. Stripping line, I lost contact momentarily, fearing that the barbless hook would lose its hold, but my 3 WT, seven foot rod was soon bending double with the run. Now the fight began, giving just enough line, letting the rod do its work, the trout leaping clear in a shower of spray and spots, shaking its head as it made off upstream again.

Last season I had lost a decent trout at the net from a high bank, but this time had extended the landing net to full length and waited for the trout to come to the surface, letting it swim in, only for it to accelerate out again! Take your time Ken, the hook is holding. This time the head went in and I lifted. It was mine! Phew, that was hard work!

22 inches of pure muscle, that tested man and rod. I did not have scales with me, but estimate that this twice over wintered stockie went about 4 pounds. Inside the scissors of its jaw, the mangled fly pushed out with forceps and I returned it to the river in my landing net, keeping the head upstream for ten minutes, it swimming strongly away, when released.

Checking my watch, there would be no brownie points tonight. I had said that I would be home by 6 pm, it was almost that now and I still had not reached the locked gate. At the van I called to make my apologies for being late. “Why break the habit of a lifetime? Dinner will be ready for 6:45” I made it with 5 minutes to spare. Homemade chicken and ham pie!