Social committments had put a block on fishing earlier this week and as the weather steadily declined again, so did my enthusiasm to use up energy and precious fuel driving to the apparently lifeless lakes and ponds, that surround my home. I was encouraged a couple of weeks ago, when just a few half hearted bites put three decent carp in my net from my closest water, Allsmoor Pond.  A report from a friend, that he had caught some decent rudd, while carp fishing from the pond, got my interest, even though he failed in his attempts to persuade any carp to take his casters. If the rudd are feeding, so should everything else and as the grey clouds gave way to sunshine on Friday afternoon, I retreived some liquidised bread from the freezer, along with frozen punch bread, then loaded up my trolley for the walk down to the pond.

I prefer a swim opposite, but a cold east wind was blowing down that side, while mine was protected by a railway embankment to the rear, although my side is very shallow, requiring the pole at 8 metres to get into the deeper water, which is only 30 inches deep over the mud. I had hoped to fish into the lily bed on my left, but a dead branch was floating there, so I made up a sweet strawberry ground bait, that I trailed out along to my swim.

There were no apparent fish movements, but first cast of the 4 x 16 antenna float, with a 7 mm punch of bread on a size 14 hook, saw the float sail way, before the rig had settled and the first of many small rudd was speedily pulled back to hand.

I kept the feed going in, every four or five fish, mostly rudd, but gudgeon were making up the numbers, their bite similar to a carp’s, dipping then slowly tracking away. Some were quite large, but still a disappointment to hook, when expecting a carp.

The rudd were getting bigger too, this one having a beautiful golden sheen, doggedly fighting back against the heavy elastic.

At last, after bashing out rudd after rudd with little resistance, the elastic stayed out as a carp straight lined away from the pole, making a beeline for the lily bed and the floating branch. Keeping the pole high brought the carp to the surface. Not a large fish, it turned and accelarated back to the middle, where it gave up. The wind was gusting, catching the pole, bending it back to the carp giving it slack, but it stayed on and I used the net for the first time that afternoon.

The rudd and gudgeon bashing continued, with the occasional bonus rudd. I usually catch some large roach and crucians from this swim, but the water was still very cold despite the sun.

It was now gone 5 pm and the sun had long passed behind the railway embankment, the wind had increased to the point, that I was holding back to the float in the drift, although the bites could still be seen. On arrival I had removed my jacket. Now I put it back on, despite the constant pulling back of fish, it was getting chilly. I drank my last cup of tea, ate the last quarter of hot cross bun and scraped up another ball of groundbait, throwing it out in front of me.

The best time for carp here is once the direct sunshine leaves the surface, which was now, until dusk, but I set my time to pack up by 6 pm regardless. I knew that the next bite was a carp, not another gudgeon, when I saw the antenna very slowly sink. Yes! I was in to a much better carp, that steadily tracked off to the right, as I followed it with the pole against the strain. A burst of power stripped the elastic from the pole tip and I raised the pole to avoid losing one of the joints. Black mud was being stirred up, as the carp skidded along the bottom, bringing up a small branch in the process. Soon it was rolling on the surface and I broke down the pole joints, until it was at the top 3, bringing the fish over into the net.

It was now 5:45pm. I was happy with this carp. Another 15 minutes may have tempted another one to take the the 7 mm punch of bread, but this was enough. I’d been very busy all afternoon banging out the small stuff. Once the carp come sniffing around, the swim goes quiet until thay take. I’ll save that for another day, hopefully when it is a lot warmer.

The advantage of the bread punch, apart from actually working as a method, is that the bait and groundbait can be kept in the freezer, until the day of fishing. I took mine out and was using it an hour before I left home. No rushing around to the fishing shop to buy bait. There is an endless supply at my local Tesco. Cheap too, 41P buys a whole loaf.

A grey, bitterly cold morning, gradually gave way to a bright sunny Spring afternoon this week, causing me to abandon my wife to tackle a big Easter shopping expedition at Tesco on her own, while I tried to restore my faith in the nearby Allsmoor Pond, which has refused to provide anything, but a few small rudd in recent visits. Even these rudd had required hard winter canal tactics, a dotted down antenna float, giving the merest of indications of a bite, the ice cold rudd allowing themselves to be lifted from the shallow pond without a fight.

Today the earlier north wind had dropped and the air temperature risen to the point, that I was overheating by the time I had walked to my chosen swim. Another angler and his young daughter were already fishing and asked how they were doing as I passed. “A couple of knocks on the meat. No fish.” As has been the case all Winter, there was no sign of surface activity from the many rudd, let alone carp, but filling the water bottle from the pond for my groundbait gave the answer; it was icy cold, despite the sun. In the adjacent swim, I was setting out my stall with pole and antenna float to a size 16 hook, ready for another hard session, when next door came “I’ve got one Dad!” The young girl was leaning back on her box with her rod bent double, while a good fish took line from her reel, heading for the lily bed opposite. She was unflappable and had obviously done this before, listening to her father’s instructions, while she steered a carp out of the lilies and back across to the net held by Dad.

This was encouraging, mixing up more groundbait than usual and feeding two swims, one five metres out and another eight. At eight metres the breeze was causing a bow in the line, dragging the float, so removing a joint of the pole, I moved in closer, putting in more feed, a cloud of small particals, ground hemp and 2 mm pellets, with liquidised bread sweetened with strawberry flavouring.

It made a change from sitting freezing under a leadened sky, to be feeling the sun on my face, while from the wood behind a woodpecker was hammering away at a tree and a blackbird practiced it’s springtime call. Perfect. This swim however was full of twigs and branches, which I snagged on each put in. I shallowed up the float, hoping that the fish may have moved up into the sun warmed upper levels of the shallow pond, holding back to avoid the drift. The float lifted a centimetre, then dropped back. There was something down there. It may have been a line bite fom something bigger, or a small rudd. The float began to very slowly move upwind. No bobs, or lifts, just very slow steady movement. Then it was gone and I lifted into resistance as the pole elastic streamed out from the tip, out of sight round the bush to my left. At this point my neighbour appeared at my side, offering his bait of small cubes of luncheon meat. I replied that I was doing OK on the bread punch and had one on! This was a big fish for this pond, keeping the pole at 5 metres, while the float followed in an arc that was making its way toward the lily bed to my right. As the heavy red elastic guided the carp away, it rolled revealing a deep golden flank. The run was not slowing, heading back my way to the reeds hidden by the bushes on my right. I fitted another length of pole and pushed it out in front of me, turning the carp back to the middle. It rolled a couple of times and I broke the pole down to the top three, as it swam in toward my landing net, but it wasn’t finished yet and sped out toward the middle, before heading into to reeds on my right at warp speed. The extra pole lengths were quickly added again to pull the carp free and it was back to the middle in front of me, but rolling slower this time. I broke down to the top three and guided it into the net. My net was full of twigs and a couple of reeds, complete with roots. I’m not sure who was more exhausted, me, or the carp. I think the image below, taken by my neighbour, after I had unhooked the size 16 barbless, says it all! It was a shade under six pounds.

My neigbour had been packing up, when he’d brought his bait round and I had put in more groundbait and was drinking a reviving cup of tea, when he walked past on his way home, just as the float dipped again, then disappeared. He was out of earshot, when my “Yup” followed setting the hook into a smaller version of the last fish, this one making a dash for freedom toward the far bank lily bed. With the pole at length, I pulled back and a sizeable common carp leapt clear of the pond, before turning to the reeds on my right. Pole lengths were added and removed in quick time again, as I attempted to keep the carp out of the snags in front of me, before the net slipped under it. I weighed this one at three and a half pounds, before adding it to the keepnet,

The sun was now shining through the trees and a chill was returning to the air and I rang my wife to say that I would pack up at 6 pm. There were no more bites in close, so I scraped up the last of my groundbait, lobbing balls out to the eight metre area and began tidying up, while having a cup of tea, but keeping an eye out on the float. It went under and came up again. I put the cup down on my bait tray with my left hand and lifted the pole with my right, just as the float cruised away. This seemed like an even larger fish than the first, bending the pole round as it rushed off to the left and out of sight, pulling and pulling. I feared for the hook link, but keeping the pole high, I could see the fish was coming back to the middle on the surface, that run had played it out and it was a case of taking my time to bring it to the net. A much darker carp, it too weighed three and a half pounds. I put it in the keepnet and checked my watch. It was still only 5:30, time for another fish, but decided to call it a day, like the fish, I was exhausted. Once again my confidence in the bread punch had put fish in the net on what could have been a hard day.

 The bites had been very shy, while all three carp had been hooked in the lip, the size 16 barbless easily pushing free with the disgorger. The last, darker fish had a stab mark on its shoulder, probably from the resident heron, or even a visiting cormorant.

The River Whitewater, a chalkstream which runs seven miles north, from Greywell in Hampshire, to the River Blackwater in Berkshire, is a little known trout stream, which has been giving Farnborough Angling Society members sport for over seventy years. The small number of flyfishermen, who control the final four miles of the river, were out again this week getting the banks in trim, before the season begins on 1st April.

One of the projects undertaken by the willing volunteers, was the contruction of a flow deflector, utilising a fallen tree blown down across the river, by the winter storms.

By the time I arrived to do my bit, a team of six had already cut up the tree and dragged the logs out of the river, while Kevin the riverkeeper tidied up bankside snags.

The banks had now been cleared and the logs ready to be staked and wired in place. The aim is to raise the level of this shallow run, creating a longer pool, while increasing the fl0w down to the next, adding a new fish holding feature in the process. The top end of this pool has provided me with several overwintered brown trout over the years and this work can only improve it’s fish holding capabilities.

While I got a fire going to clear surplus wood from the bank, stakes were driven deep into the gravel riverbed, to hold the logs in place, the final step being to permanently secure them in place with heavy gauge wire stapled into the stakes.

With the fire well underway, it was just a case of keeping it fed with heavier logs, Jenny, Kevin’s wife keeping busy with a cordless mini chainsaw to help clear the bank, while the lads in the river worked up a sweat, taking turns to pound the stakes in. A halt was called at lunch time for tea and coffee, plus homemade sausage rolls and warming chilli pies courtesy of Jenny.

With lunch over and more importantly, a well earned rest, the team got on with completing the task, sawing off the tops of the stakes, which once the season starts, would have begun to collect angler’s flies.

The finished deflector was working well once we had finished, having raised the level above it, with new riffles cleaning the gravels downstream, while the new feature will soon hold a trout or two.

Oil booms have been out on my local River Cut since Christmas, but optimism saw me back beside the once prolific little river, for a last gasp attempt to conjure out some roach, before the UK river season ended this week. I could not have chosen a worse day weather wise, as the wind was howling through the bankside trees, but this has never affected the fishing from the weirside swim, where warm water pours from the town water treatment works. At this time of year roach have gathered in their hundreds to feed and spawn among the silk weed fronds, with 10 lb bags likely in a four hour session on the breadpunch. Parked next to the river, I saw this notice.

My heart sank at the sight of this sign. The Cut has been polluted many times and recovered, but this was the first time that I had seen an official notification from Thames Water.

I unloaded the gear and set up my 12 foot Hardy float rod, mixed up some sweet raspberry groundbait, the same combination as my successful roach bashing session last week, when those around me had blanked. In this swim I prefer to start off with a couple of balls beneath the brambles opposite, where a shoal of three to ten ounce chub live, attacking and disintegrating the grounbait balls in seconds. They sat visible on the bottom untouched. Oh dear, I thought that the gangs of gudgeon would at least be gorging themslves on the free offerings.

Trotting the length of the brambles brought not bites. A few balls of groundbait down the middle, brought no interest either, as I eased the over depth stick float rig down toward the foam. Holding it back hard, often results in a self hooked roach, but not this time, apart from a rotting reed, that dragged the float under, giving me a glimmer of hope.

For not the first time this season on the Cut, I went through the motions, trying against the evidence in front of my eyes, to get a bite. For years I have been a champion of this little river, but now I have to accept that it will probably never return to its once former glory. I packed up and returned to the car.

Other anglers have reported that the river seems dead all the way down the River Thames five miles away. Anyone that has seen the recent TV documentary Dirty Business  on the once beautiful chalk stream, the River Windrush, will understand that our rivers do not stand a chance against the need for big profits from the owners, many of them foreign, of our water companies.

An example of what could once have been expected on a cold windy March day on the Cut.

The sun was shining in a blue sky as I ate my lunch, the plan for the afternoon, being a visit to the garden centre to buy potting compound and Spring plants for the rain sodden garden, BUT after a walk around, the plan changed. My wife would rather spend the time out in the rare sunhine tidying up the borders. The magic words “Why don’t you go fishing?” left me with a dilema. Where can I go? Locally the river was polluted again and the pond had been scavenged by cormorants. The Blackwater was flooded, so it had to be Farnham’s Kings Pond, that always fishes, doesn’t it?

Leaving home, the clouds were already gathering, driven by a fresh wind coming my way. Once unloaded after the 30 minute drive, I headed for the end swim, which would be protected from the worst of the weather, due to a high, tree lined bank. You’ve guessed it, there was someone else fishing it! “Have you had much?” I asked. “Not a touch, nothing on the pole, or feeder.” Great, just what I need. After telling him how far I’d travelled to probably blank, I set up two pegs down, where the wind was already lashing the surface, only mixing up a couple of handfuls of ground bait, as I did not expect to stay long.

I started just off bottom at 8 metres over the shelf, putting in a couple of egg sized balls of strawberry groundbait, using a 4 x 16 anttenna rig, with a 5 mm punch on a size 16 barbless hook. Within minutes the float sank and I missed the bite, but the bread stayed on. A recast to the same spot and saw the float disappear immediately. I counted to two and struck, this time feeling the rattle of a small roach, which I drew back to my hand.

Casting in again, the wind became stronger and I was having trouble keeping the pole steady, despite burying the pole tip, the float pulling under in the drift. The anttenna sank out of sight and I lifted into another small roach, which I skimmed back to hand. This was already two more than the angler on the end peg, who seemed to be using a similar rig, but feeding pellets. These roach were obviously taking on the drop and I shallowed up by a foot and increased the tail to the hook with instant success. Number three was in the keepnet.

Another angler arrived with his rod already made up, plonking himself down between me and the end peg and proceeded to bombard his swim with 10 mm boilies. With no other anglers along our bank, I was a bit peeved, as I had given the end peg the benefit of a 30 yard gap, but there you are, the days of curtesy among anglers seems to be gone.

The wind continued to gust, causing more missed bites and decided to feed a new line fishable with only the top two joints, stringing out the float shot, to allow the bait a slower fall, casting out through the groundbait each time. It now became easier to mend the bow in the line and bites soon became instant, striking as the float sank. The roach were getting bigger and bolder.

I was now feeding a small ball of groundbait a cast and needed to mix up more groundbait, while keeping an eye on the float. Needless to say that it had gone, when I looked up. I struck blind, feeling the weight of a better fish, this time a small skimmer bream splashing on the suface, but I swung it in anyway, the hook safely inside the lip.

I was now in the Zone, unhook, punch and hook the bread, flick out another small ball of feed, cast over it, wait for the float to go down, strike and swing in another fish. The guy next door was hunkered down out of the wind. He fed boilies a couple of times, then packed up. I don’t think he caught. It started to rain, which was the signal for Mr End Peg to pack up. I hadn’t started fishing until 2:30, intending to fish until 5:30, hoping to finish the afternoon with a carp or two, but the wind was getting colder and decided to stay until 4:30 to make it a two hour session. Mr E.P came over to watch me for five minutes, having never seen the punch in action, “a bit like bleak bashing with bigger fish.” I gave him a quick tutorial. I packed up, not before time, as I could hardly feel my fingers.

My fears of a blank were unfounded and I’d ended up with just over 30 fish, some better roach and a couple of small skimmers, but never needed the landing net once.

It has been a long, cold, wet winter, resulting in many hours sat waiting for a bite on my local river and ponds. I had become paranoid, fishing places that I knew held fish, but with no results, yet convinced that I would crack that magic code eventually and catch. For me, with a history of catching fish, when others failed, this was hard to take, every dryish day, with a glimpse of sunshine, seeing me huddled in thermal layers beside Allsmoor Pond, half a mile from home. Usually, unless covered by ice, the surface is dimpled by pimping rudd, or rising bursts of bubbles from feeding carp. Not this year. The surface was like a sheet of glass, with no signs of fish.

I kept going, mixing up my sweet smelling raspberry groundbait, feeding two swims, one in close alongside the decayed lily bed, the other in slightly deeper water 10 metres out. I began to see the merest signs of movement from my fine antenna 4 x 16 pole float with a 7 mm punch of bread, but nothing to strike at. My sessions were short, not more than two hours, but long enough due to no fish and the cold.

This week we had a day of sunshine and I was fishing by 3 pm. I’d fed my groundbait and fished over it. Movement and a half dip of the float! I struck. Nothing. My bread was gone. Back out again on the 10 metre line. The float lay flat. “Something” had taken the punch on the drop. I sat and stared at the float. No sign of movement.  I lifted anyway. Nothing, then solid a foot down. The elastic was slowly pulling from the pole tip. A carp was waking up and began accelerating away from me, while I pulled the pole round to get an angle on it. Ping! In seconds it was gone. Excitement and depression in an instant. The size 14 barbless hook had pulled out, catapulting the rig into the reeds in front of me, causing a massive tangle. Being a tangle master, I cut away the reeds and began unravelling the mess. I had other rigs, but could see the problem and persevered. Once the rig was free, I guessed that these carp were drifting around in the warm surface layer of water, not on the bottom, so reduced the depth by a foot. The float dithered, went under and popped up. I waited. The bread was gone. The temperature was falling fast and I walked home.

Wednesday at Noon is the UK MP’s Questions in Parliament on TV and with fast moving questions and answers between the Prime Minister and the Opposition MP’s, it was a must watch for anyone even slightly interested in Politics, like me. The PM was wriggling like a worm on a hook, as he tried to explain his reasons for a controversial political appointment, that had blown up in his face. I had an eye on the sky outside. It was blue. Time to go fishing again.

The sun was behind the trees as I set set up, plopping groundbait along the edge and along a line into the deeper water. There were no surface signs, but while staring at the float, it disappeared. Missed it! As if to mock me, hundreds of cackling jackdaws, rose as one from the trees, to begin there evening formation flying, swooping and ascending as of one mind, before circling back to their roosts in silence. An impressive sight that I had witnessed each evening, a sign of the approaching dusk. My float was silhouetted against the evening sky, when it tracked very slowly past the end of my pole. A firm lift and another submarine was on, running at speed along the edge of the lilies. It turned and rolled. Raising the pole and removing a section, the heavily scaled flank of a good common carp glinted on the surface. I got the landing net ready, but it dived into a thick mass of leaves and lilies, shedding the hook.

Another anticlimax. I scraped up anothe ball of groundbait and put it out in front of me, laying the rig through the cloud. Only minutes later, the float steadily tracked away and submerged. I was in again. A big lump that ran and rolled, pulling steadily toward the same clump of leaves. Keeping the pole at 8 metres, I kept this big fish on the surface, as it dived and rolled. In this light it looked black, like a big tench, but dismissed this as unlikely, the biggest tench I ever had out of here was golden and only a pound. The next target was a No Fishing post, the sign long gone, but the post ideal for wrapping a line around. The fight continued, like tennis from left to right, stirring up the black mud. Suddenly the fish gave up and I netted it.

We were both exhausted. The hook was just inside the the lip and pushed out with the disgorger. Allowing for the net it was 5 lb 8oz and 20 inches long, an epic battle. It was now too dark for a decent photo, the golden flanks now a dull grey. Flash was too bright. I must get a better camera.

As the pond warms up, the roach, rudd and crucians will beat the carp to the bait, but for the time being I be back soon.

Several people have contacted me recently, asking if I have given up writing this blog, as none have been posted lately. In fact the opposite is true, I have been out trying to catch a decent net of fish to celebrate the New Year, but a combination of low temperatures, standing snow, iced over ponds, then storms, followed by flooded rivers, have not helped. It’s not just me, honest! No one is catching, even getting bites. Before Christmas my local Jeanes Pond was plagued by small roach and rudd, while I was after the quality bread punch roach, that appear at this time of year, which did not show at all. My net was full of shimmering little silvers, but I did not bother with a photo, or a blog, promising myself a return the following week. It then snowed.

Last week I returned to Jeanes armed with finely ground liquidised bread and small hooks. The pond had been covered in ice the previous week. Now a bit of history. Some years ago, I entered a Chrismas Fur and Feather match at Jeanes to find the pond covered with a half inch thick layer of ice. Undeterred, we broke the ice in a dozen swims with a heavy grappling hook, removing enough ice in each to fish, drew for positions and fished an hour later for three hours. Feeding a pigeon egg sized ball of liquidised bread, I fished a fine antenna float with 4 mm punch of bread on a size 20 hook. After ten minutes a fine ring radiated out from the antenna, then the float slowly sank and I was playing my first roach of the morning. I kept the balls going in every other fish, ending up with over forty roach and the top prize of a bottle of whiskey, when most blanked fishing maggots. So this was my plan for Jeanes last week. Very light feed over a 4 x 14 antenna float, starting just off the bottom with a fine wire 20 hook, but dropping through with spaced out shot, just in case some of those pesky little roach and rudd wanted to start the fish catching ball rolling. I usually feed two swims over the shelf about four feet apart, to keep the fish moving between them for better bites. So much for the theory, how did I get on? Not a sign of a bite, apart from when the float dragged under in the drift and I lost one of my precious fine wire hooks on a snag, no doubt thrown in by one of the local lads trying to break the ice. Looking at the photo, you can see that it was a pretty lonely, cold afternoon.

Oh well, putting that one down to experience, following days of rain this week, I assumed that the River Cut would be in full flow for a change. One of my successful mates and his dad have been struggling for bites, when chub fishing on the Cut recently, complaining of clear water and no flow, so this extra water should do the trick I thought and loaded up my float rods for some stick float fishing. Getting down to the disabled platform by 11 am, the sky was blue, although there was a chilly downstream wind, but it is a comfortable place to fish. The river had been over the banks earlier and was ebbing, although where my keepnet now sat was an exposed mudflat for most of the season. I selected a 6 No 4 wire stemmed stick and mixed a small amount of heavy groundbait, that I formed into tight egg sized balls. The flow was running quickly along the opposite bank, reducing in pace toward my side, so put a couple of balls upstream my side of the fast water, while I tackled up. With the float set a foot over depth, I cast over to the baited line, expecting the balls to have broken up along the bottom and to have brought chub, roach and dace up onto the feed. Easing the float down at half speed, I expected bites straight away, but nothing. I kept feeding every few casts, until my groundbait ran out, finally adding another foot to the depth and resting the rod on the plaform woodwork to lay on in the slack water, while I ate my sandwiches and finished off my flask of tea. This is usually gudgeon alley, but not today.

As I walked back to the car my phone pinged. It was another Cut regular bread punch fisherman Mick, who had been drawn out to fish by the sunshine and the increased flow. I was dreading to see his message, but sighed with relief, when I saw that he had fished five swims downstream on red maggots without a bite. As I said before its not just me!

Three months after my first visit to the Cattery stretch of the River Blackwater, controlled by Hartley Wintney AS, I was back again this week to find a transformed river. Gone were the reeds, that covered most of the shallow open areas, while recent rain had put another foot of water into the river. This was good for the fishing, but my intended swim had a small beach to fish from in August, which was now under water. On that occasion, I had moved from a downstream swim after pike trouble, to this swim, where I began catching decent skimmer bream, until I had another pike attack, landing this thin seven pound Mr Toothy on my float rod.

Not knowing the water, I had time to walk the 600 yard stretch, down to the HWAS notice boards. The river twists and turns, creating attractive runs and eddies, as it flows through mature trees, which for a float fisherman like me is not ideal, describing most swims as Parrot Cages, difficult to fish with any rod above 12 feet due to over hanging branches. I walked back upstream for about 100 yards and found a compromise swim between two trees, with a slight slope to a high bank. With the legs of my tackle box adjusted, I had a firm base to sit and fish from.

This swim looked deep, but testing with a plummet gave a maximum depth of only 30 inches. The flow came round from my left, forming an eddy at my feet, that flowed upstream, perfect for my keepnet, while the main flow started 6 feet out, just right for my 12 foot Hardy to trot beneath the over hanging branches. I mixed up liquidised bread and ground pellets, with a sprinkling of ground hemp, damping this down to form firm balls that sank quickly. My float was a 5 No 4 ali stemmed stick float to a size 16 barbless hook with 6 mm punch of bread pinched around the hook.

There was a chilling wind gusting upstream and across into my face, plus the discomfort of constant drizzle. Winter is here! I had my thermals on and had dug out my fishing mittens with fold back finger coverings, held down with Velrco. My right, rod hand had a mitten on, while the left was in my pocket, leaving this one free to punch the bread in my bait tray, the right fingers free to pass the hook through the slot in the loaded punch, then pull the hooked pellet through.

I had already fed a couple of balls of feed to the edge of the flow, before I made my first cast, the float dragging under on the bottom seconds later. Lifting the rod to free the hook, resulted in a flash beneath the surface as a decent roach felt the hook, before heading downstream and across, rolling on the surface in the shallow water. The landing net reached down to the roach, as it slid over the surface, the hook just inside the mouth. A fin perfect winter roach.

The roach just kept coming, deep healthy fish, that took with confidence and fought all the way to the net.

I had got too enthusiastic with the feed, putting in a small ball every other cast, which attracted fast biting dace into the swim, a single dip of the float enough to strip the hook, the proof being the big dace below, hooked on a tight line held back after the cast.

I stopped feeding the fish and fed myself, the sandwiches washed down with a hot cup of tea. I was pleased to take my time responding to a solid slow roach bite, feeling the steady thump of a good roach.

And again.

Just as the roach were getting bigger, the landing net was out for yet another silver sided beauty, when the water erupted in front of me and the fish was snatched from the surface by a good sized pike, that ran off downstream, while I back-wound my ABU501 to avoid a break. I kept up the pressure, bending the little Hardy in two, before the pike had time to turn and swallow the big roach. Sometimes they will lose their grip and the damaged roach can be retreived. This was not the case today, as bringing the pike within netting range, the hooklink parted just below the knot, proof that the roach had been turned. The float had sprung back and tangled in a low branch to my left. I got back what was left of the rig; shot was missing and it wasn’t worth trying to put it right. It was quicker to fit another made up float on a winder, from my spares department in the bowels of my tackle box.

The roach seemed to have disappeared, no doubt due to distrubance caused by the pike, but a long biteless trot saw the float sail away and solid resistance from a hard fighting chub, that ran all over the swim.

Having taken a fat six ounce roach, I hoped that the pike would not be back for a while, but it seemed that the shoal had moved elsewhere, as a couple more small chub from the end of the swim, were all I had for a while. I’d been feeding continuingly and was pleased to get a bite half way down the swim and even more pleased, when it turned out to be another clonker roach.

I was back into the roach again, even though it was only 2:30, the light was fading faster than my old camera could cope, but although I couldn’t do it justice, I’ve included it.

The next fish I thought that it was a good chub, that ran to the far side, before transforming into another big roach. It had been taken by that same pike, when I hooked it, then let go. The roach was now skimming over the surface in panic, being chased by the pike, as I reeled frantically to get it back. Whoomph! The pike engulfed the roach on the surface and dived away snapping the hooklink.

I tied on another hook, there was enough groundbait for another hour, but decided that two beautiful roach fed to a pike in one afternoon was two too many and began packing up.

As I began dismantling my rod, a pike fisherman came along the bank asking if I had seen any pike, I relayed my story of stolen fish and he looked down into the river and said “Oh yes, its here looking at the fish in your keep net!” He was wearing poloroid glasses and could see it clearly, pointing it out. It looked a good size, maybe 10 pounds. I pulled the net out and it drifted over the vacant space. I photographed my fish, weighed them and the piker took the net upstream, then released them. He returned, then cast to the pike with various rubber lures, a bright pink one getting the most interest, but no strikes.

Not a bad haul on a cold December afternoon, over 8 lb of quality roach taken on the bread punch in a three hour session, that included playing two pike, an inevitable hazard on the Blackwater.

Not so long ago fishing in mid November meant thermals and shy bites, but not since Global Warming crept into our lives. This week, following a day and half of  tropical rain, the sun came out to dry the roads, ushering in a warm, but windy afternoon. After lunch, I announced to my wife that the local river Cut would now have some water flowing through it, giving me the chance of a decent net of fish at last. Being married to a confirmed fishing addict, she knows not to resist these sudden urges, and readied the tea flask and a Wagon Wheel to keep me going for the brief afternoon session, to avoid being bombarded by an afternoon of “What ifs” had I stayed home.

Just needing to grab my bag of liquidised bread and a few squares of punch bread from the freezer, I was soon on my way, after putting my float rods in the pre-loaded car. Minutes later at the car park, the gear was transferred to my trolley, which dutifully followed my brisk down hill walk to the river, aided by a strong tail wind.

That wind carried a familiar smell. Oil! The enthusiasm drained from my body, on first sight of the river, the wild, natural side had a rainbow sheen to it. My side is where the usual suspects dump their waste oil,  a pair of concrete outlets from under the industrial estate, that spill over a sill to join the brook. There were no oil booms out, so this must be a recent event. Having intended to walk downstream to a favourite swim, I unloaded my gear at the first fishable swim. Why waste time and energy walking to a guaranteed blank, when I can have one right here?

What happened to all that rain? The river was the lowest I’ve ever seen it. This mudbank is new. My mate Martyn was catching carp over the edge of this bank in June. These images show the rainbow effect of the oil at the new water’s edge.

My 12 foot Hardy float rod was already rigged with a 5 No 4 Ali stemmed stick float, to a size 16 hook, when I plumbed the depth, which gave only 20 inches from the float tip to the hook, a yard out from the opposite bank. I was not confident of even getting a bite, but it was worth a try. Dipping my hand into the bag of liquidised bread, I squeezed up a small ball and lobbed it over into the deeper water, watching it sink slowly through the film, sending a mini snow storm of feed to spread along the bottom. With a 6 mm punch on the hook, I followed the cloud and the float slid away downstream, being met with a steady lift by a bouncing rod top from a small, but determined chublet.

That was quick, I thought that I would have to work hard to get a bite.

I could see small silver fish flashing over in the clear water, a couple of small dace swinging in minutes, it taking longer to punch the bread, hook it and cast, than to pull the line straight and lift into another battling dace. I dropped a few off, while missing others and decided that a heavier groundbait would slow the bites down. Liquidised bread, ground pellets and ground hemp was damped down and squeezed into firm balls and plopped over. There was still an intial cloud, but the balls broke up slowly and bounced their way along the bottom. A better roach sank the float.

Smaller roach and gudgeon moved in at first, but then the gudgeon got bigger, hugging the bottom.

I was busy bashing these out, when two figures towered over me in dayglo boiler suits. “Caught anything?” “Mostly small stuff!” I replied, as I swung in another gudgeon. It was two men from Thames Water, taking photos of the water, working their way down from further up the brook. I’d seen their vans on the way down, parked a couple of miles upstream. The brook that runs down from Swinley Forest,  passes under about a mile of culverts, before joining with other streams to form the Cut, and has many land drains flowing into it. They were tight lipped about this spillage. Later a female lab worker taking water samples came along, casting jars in, then retrieving them. So much for my peaceful afternoon.

Later a pair of large dogs came to visit, and before I realised, they had scooped up the remains of my groundbait and eaten the punch bread off my bait tray! I complained to the owner, who comiserated with a “Sorry about that Mate!” It was time to go anyway, being close to 4 pm and the light was going fast.

This was my last roach.

One way, or another, it had been a busy two hours, plenty of variety, but no decent fish, if you don’t count the specimen gudgeon. The flow was much faster than of late, but the river was very low and shallow. Later on in the week, the rain hammered down again, but I doubt that it has affected the water table.

About 50 fish

What do you do when nowhere is fishing? You try somewhere else of course. For one reason, or the other this has been the case for me lately and this week I travelled to one of my banker swims on the River Blackwater controlled by the Farnborough and District club, where big roach and dace have been guaranteed, although pike have also been a certainty, which is why I’ve stopped going there.

Another reason has been the difficulty in finding a parking spot, due to the presence of a “Jump” trampolining facility across the road, which of course I’d not realised that it was the Half Term school holidays and cars lined both sides of the road, with a long queue of cars being directed by an overwhelmed, teenaged young lady, not used harassed drivers with children in the back asking the inevitable, “Are we there yet!”

She spotted my desperate look and flagged me through and I turned off down the council service road to the river, managing to squeeze my car into the turning bay. It was already well past noon and I was keen to get fishing, bearing in mind the one hour earlier lighting up time. I loaded my trolley and made my way to the favourite swim and was pleased to see that it was empty, although less pleased with depth of the river from the high bank, being able to see every feature of the bottom, while trees from the opposite bank now hung over to the middle. I usually fish from the top of the swim, where a left hand bend pushes the flow down the opposite bank, but now the trees would restrict my rod. Problems, problems? Stop whingeing Ken, cut in a new swim and get fishing!

This swim gave cover over the shallows ahead of me, setting my tackle box back from the bank, while there was now a convenient back eddy, which carried my keepnet back upstream into deeper water. Despite the shallows, there was still a good flow and I set up with a 5 No 4 ali stemmed stick float to a size 16 barbless hook, with 6 mm punch of bread on a long tail. Plumbing the depth the deepest point was hard over to the opposite bank, but this swim had a gravel bar with only 18 inches of water over it ten yards down stream, where the flow split from the far side.

I put a couple of small balls of groundbait two thirds over and watched them break up as they rolled along the bottom, casting downstream and across to follow them down. I had expected a bite first cast, but had to wait for a second ball before the float stabbed under, bringing a roach to the surface immediately, lightly hooked in the lip, I netted it.

Not a big roach for this swim, I expected larger, but always tend to take a photo of my first fish. The bites were fussy, dips and bobs, with the bread stolen from the hook often, until I hooked my next fish, a small dace, that rattled off the hook. Dace, this is what they do, especially the small ones. They attack the hook bait, stripping the hook. With casters, or maggot, they shell the casters and reduce the maggots to skins in seconds. Holding back hard, the dace will often hook themselves, but being five inch fish they had no weight to stay on in this fast water.

I could have waited for the larger roach to swim up through the dace, but instead threw the  groundbait further upstream and cast down over the gravel bar, then held back, let it run, and held back again. The float sank and another roach splashed over the surface. This was better.

Small dace were still being hooked and lost, while small roach were playing with the bait. I stopped for a cup of tea and a sandwich, while I mixed up some more groundbait. I mixed in some ground hemp and bunched shot at the hook link, as I felt that the small roach and dace were taking the punch as it swung up, when I held back. When the better roach are there, they just take it, but this shoal were not that interested. Bulking the shot seemed to work, as the next fish was a good roach, that hugged the far bank.

Trotting further down, the float lifted, then turned right across the stream, then sank. I struck, there was a swirl from a big fish that kicked, then bore away down stream taking line, while I back wound the reel. I had seen a carp under the opposite bank, while tackling up, was this it? My 14 foot Browning was bent over with the weight of the fish in the current. I was aware of the size 16 barbless hook and hoped that it would hold, as it now swam toward me upstream, with the odd kick to let me know that it was there. Ten yards away it turned with a swirl. A small pike of about two pounds, not giving up, ruining my swim. Soon it was wallowing on the shallows out of reach of my landing net. I pulled its head up and drew it closer. It jumped and broke the line, firing the float into the tree above me. The pike was still there out of reach of my three metre landing net pole. Just lying there, played out in a few inches of water. I was in luck with the float, the shot was tangled in the leaves above me and a long pull freed it.

I considered making up the float again, or using another on a spare made up rig, but the pike now working its way back to deeper water, had probably put the fish down. The light was already going at 3 pm and decided that this was going to be yet another potentially good session cut short.

The River Blackwater has a fantastic head of fish, but pike have proved to be one the great survivors, that can sense small fish activity created by anglers, homing in until it reaches its quarry, often a hooked fish.

Some nice roach there, shame about the pike.