The alarm went at 7 am. It was still dark. Out of the window the grass was white with frost. I had organised a Fur and Feather fishing match with my local club today and had to attend whatever the weather. Distant memories of the feelings of dread, having to fish winter leagues on similar frozen mornings with my old matchteam, came flooding back. It was going to be hard.

Scraping ice from the windscreen, I remembered long drives in the dark to distant canals; at least this would be a short hop to my local pond. A hundred yards from home I stopped behind a car at the exit of my housing estate, blocking its way was another that had gone straight on at the roundabout. The road was like sheet ice. When we all got going again, my wheels slid on the slope.

It was no surprise to find the pond like a skating rink, the club chairman already busy with a grappling hook on a rope smashing through the frozen surface at each swim. A 30 minute delay was agreed and after the draw for the numbered pegs, we made our way to our swims to begin netting out the broken ice.

With the match reduced to three hours, I was prepared to struggle for bites, setting up a canal rig on the pole with a fine wire long shank size 20 barbless hook to fish small 3 and 4 mm bread punches, just off bottom. Plumbing the depth there was a drop off close to the bank, which allowed me to fish with only the top two joints, swinging the rig out to the ice and dragging it back to fall off the edge. A couple of tiny balls of finely liquidised bread placed close to the ice went in to start things off and I waited.

With the float bristle shotted to sit 6 mm above the surface, it sat there for five minutes, before a slight tremble of the float was followed by a slow sink of a few millimetres. I struck and there was resistance on the line, the elastic pulling from the tip. I netted my first roach.

Each time I put the rig out, the tremble and slow sink was repeated. I had six roach before the first of my competitors, the club chairman, swung in a tiny roach. I was still catching fish and was confident enough to put in another small ball of feed, also seeding a dozen casters at the edge of the ice for later.

My main rival was John the chairman, who has fished the pond since a child, going on in later life to be an accomplished match angler. I was catching more fish, but his were bigger. The 3 mm punch was giving better bites and after two hours there were 28 fish in my net. I put on a caster, dropping in over the seeded area. The float went straight down and I was playing another nettable roach.

Great, the roach were on the caster. No other bites in the next five minutes saw me switch back to the bread. Putting in another half dozen casters, I pulled out a piece of compressed rolled punch bread to give a more hookable 3 mm pellet. The bites continued, but I began to miss them, hitting one in five. John on the bank opposite had netted a good roach worth a dozen of mine. I went back on the caster and hooked another net roach.

I needed a lot more of these, but depite a few dips of the float, no more came on the caster. I was still missing bites with the rolled bread and realised too late, that it was too hard on the hook for the fish to take into their mouths. They could pull the float under, but the hook would not set. Getting out a fresh slice segmant, with only minutes to spare, I put another half dozen small roach in my net before time was called.

Three hours of hard work for 1 lb 13 oz on the scales was only enough for second place for me, the winner being John the club chairman, who had also fished the bread punch and caster, finding some better roach toward the end for a 2 lb 15 oz total. There was a tie for third with 14 oz.

Before the match it had been suggested that we draw lots for the seasonal prizes and go back home to our beds, but all caught something, with prizes for all.

The origin of the Fur and Feather match was a contest at Christmas fishing for meat prizes in harder times, when a voucher at the local butchers shop could be redeemed for a turkey, or a ham. Now days a bottle of whiskey, or a box of chocolates are a welcome substitution.