unpublished

Angler

Spring Cast

Spring; and at long last the day doesn‟t end as you shut the computer down in the office for the evenings have drawn out and even if for the first few weeks you can only manage an hour, a glorious hour can be had by the water. I‟m never in a great hurry to get fishing in these first few weeks of spring, just happy to be listening to the evening chorus, watching the ripples roll by and briefly feel a little warmer before chilly nights set in. It‟s a time of year that sees me doing a little spring cleaning around a couple of lakes. I‟m always careful to move any frog and toad spawn that may be at risk from early season raking into safe quiet corners to ensure that in the coming weeks the margins will be black with tad-poles. The return of the geese is always heard before they are seen and their happy honking is a sign of good things just around the corner. Crabtree would have us reaching for quills and lobworms over the next few months in search of that beautiful fish synonymous with spring, old tinca tinca, and if i can, I will. But there are other fish waking up and returning to our coastal waters that are worthy of a spring cast or two. Plaice is the sea‟s answer to the lake‟s tench and this tasty prize will certainly be a target from the sandbanks and surf beaches. So to will the mullet who whilst is a target for many months of the year, is so missed during the winter months that an early season dabble at this most frus-trating of fish cannot be resisted. If you haven‟t already, make sure you get out there soon on a sunny spring day, you can practically watch the countryside and the coastline waking up and there‟s nothing better than being a part of it. Who knows, you might even catch a fish, but that would just be a bonus. In this edition of Unpublished Angler there are fantastic contributions from some brilliant angling writers. Welcome Mike “Halfday” Freeman, Jabez Foard to these pages and welcome back Colin “Biskit” Stephens as he continues his quest abroad for a mighty carp.

Thanks to the contributors of the “Spring Cast”, it‟s great to have you on board. If you would like to contribute articles or photos to Unpublished Angler, email unpublishedangler@gmail.com

TALES OF THE UNEXPECTED by Halfday While racking the brain cell for somewhere to fish in the cold winter months, without crowds and a chance to bend a rod I remembered a stretch of water with some rather nice Mullet in it. I had a chat with Alex and apprehensively he agreed to join me on the quest for a winter mullet. The cake of the day was a banana loaf, it‟s a thing I do when I have time, bake a cake to take fishing, seems to go down well and fights off the hunger pains later in the day. All the way to the chosen venue I was telling Al about the quality fish I had seen and caught from this mark albeit many moons ago and I could see his excitement building until I parked the van… Al‟s face dropped as I walked him along the water‟s edge and I was getting the, “you‟re an idiot vibe” coming from him. After some time we spotted our first fish that proved I wasn‟t going mad, the fish may have been dead but it was a fish. The mood didn‟t improve much for the next half hour or so, even when I was lobbing in bread to get some action Al still had that frown going on. We were just about to leave when a shape slid through the water under the cloud of bread. The frown turned to a shocked grin and we sprinted to the back of the van, ripping out tackle and fumbling to get line through rings let alone the silly little hooks.

Finally set up, we boshed in more bread and folded a flake onto the hook and flicked our floats out to where these leviathans prowled. Being next to a road we had to tolerate walkers, cyclists and gay joggers in lycra telling us there were no fish in there, and we weren‟t allowed to fish there, far from the peace and quiet of a rock or moonlit beach. We fished on for some time and then the magic started to happen, bits of bread started coming up through the almost gin clear water, and was it our eyes or were there shapes moving around again down there. Without registering it Al has struck into a slight dip on his float, the rod arced over and the, “he‟s caught a snag” thought enters my mind, until line screams off his reel. Bouncing to his feet and getting to a sensible position already 30yds of line has been stripped off his reel, the once frown is now a beaming grin and I am totally relieved he has hooked up. Al could write the fight with this fish better than me, but let‟s just say there was some loud laughing, rods bent to test curve and prayers to the gods of 6lb line being recited throughout. Finally Al tamed this fish after a few spirited runs and steered it into the waiting net. We just looked down at this perfect fish weighing in at around 5lbs I think it was, photos were taken, hands were shook, the fish was returned from where it had come, and I think I can safely say Al was well pleased.

We fished on, things were quite after the commotion for a while so we ate cake and drank coffee and kept pumping in the bread. The shapes returned, in numbers, we both watched, eyes like dinner plates and for some reason our voices high pitched until another bite, not your typical mullet bite, the float just slid away, I tapped into it and a fish rolled on the surface not quite knowing what was going on, but then decided this wasn‟t a good place to be, My reel screamed out as this rather fine looking fish tore for open water, I could do nothing, not even slow it down. At about 50yds I start to turn it and get some sort of control, gaining some line onto my rather empty looking reel was a relief but not for long. Anyone who has caught a reasonable mullet will know they, well they‟re mental! This thing dragged me all over, my arms were aching as much as my ribs from laughing at this battle, an audience had gathered behind us, luckily not the gay jogger, as I managed to tame this thing enough for Al to get a net under it, She‟s in and safe. More hooting and hand shaking and we get her out to admire and photograph. A beauti-ful fish of I think it was 6lb 8oz. Again she returned to whence she came unharmed. Alex‟s face was an absolute picture; we both had a cracking fish under our belt and agreed this was a special place which we named Pan-dora‟s Box because you really do not know what it will throw at you. We have had a couple more sessions there since, but I will let him tell you about that. For a few years now I have been taken back to my childhood by fishing how I used too. The bite alarms have taken a back seat and floats, quiver tips, maggots, bread and worms have been brought back into my armory. This has brought back the excitement and companionship into my fishing that was lost sitting behind a barrage of rods on your own for days on end. You can chat about your captures without worrying about letting out any secrets and try some ridiculous tactics that sometimes work. There is no competition, pressure or jealousy and best of all cake! I strongly recommend that you take a day out and just give it a go, it opens up a whole new world of piscatorial fun. Halfday…

Alex takes up the story Receiving this little gem through the email was a lovely surprise which brought the memories flooding back. With his consent I‟ll add my half of the story for that day. It was winter and the fishing had in recent weeks been successful, a day on the bream, a day‟s pike fishing and some whiting off the cliffs if I remember rightly. The variety of fishing had been very enjoyable but every time we went out Halfday would go on about this mark where he knew of mullet like submarines. Now that was a few years ago and I didn‟t know Halfday very well. He seemed like an honest decent bloke, no bull, just straight talking with a handful of piss-taking thrown in. But this mullet mark, I‟d managed to dodge it for a while but eventually I„d run out of excuses and had to go along with the idiot. It‟s a good job he‟s good in the kitchen, he serves a tasty humble pie! To call this spot unorthodox would be an understatement. When we found a dead mullet I honestly thought he‟d planted it there, he‟ll go to great lengths to pull off a prank! I didn‟t hide my feelings very well, “mate, what the frig are we doing here!?” I can still see clear as a bell that first fish as it cruised into view right under our feet. You‟ve got to be kidding me, it shouldn‟t be here, it just doesn‟t make sense! The smug look on Halfday‟s face was a picture. I‟ve learnt my lesson now, if that man comes up with a far fetched, ri-diculous idea (and he has them almost daily), I tend to go along with them now. It generally comes up trumps although the goat track down the side of a cliff which saw me genuinely fearing for my life didn‟t result in a bag of fish, or even a bite! But that‟s another story for a different time... For the record my fish was just about 3lbs, Halfday‟s however, well if we told how big his biggest from that water was, well, even I wouldn‟t be-lieve you and I was there! Alex

Great Uncle Stan by Alex Life is full of influences; good ones, bad ones, naughty ones and some downright risky ones. And they can come from an endless list of sources; friends, enemies, alcohol, television, music and possibly the greatest (or worst depending on your point of view) the opposite sex. Some influences are blatant and overt, in today‟s competitive world of advertising it‟s impossible to walk through the high street, turn on the television or browse the World Wide Web without someone, probably loads of them trying to persuade you one way or another. Then there are the more subtle approaches, a gentle steer here and a friendly nudge there to guide you through life‟s ups and downs. But there are oth-ers, others that never set out to influence anything or anyone yet for some reason, without even trying, they have more impact than you can shake a flashing neon stick at. In my experience these influences are typically people; friends, family, teachers and sports coaches. But even these normally have an obvi-ous agenda. For me, my greatest influences have come from those who did it without trying. Some may even be surprised to learn I was even listening let alone hanging on their every word, remembering it and recalling it to this very day. As a young boy growing up in the coastal town of Dawlish in South Devon I was extremely lucky. At the top of this tourist town to the north-west were two fantastic valleys full of woods, ponds and fields to explore and learn in. My best friend at the time lived on one of the big es-tates as his Dad was a game keeper. We got up to allsorts or mischief on that estate! In the opposite direction and to the south-east was the sea, the huge sheltered Lyme bay that offered safety and more chance to play and learn. Whilst none of my family can really quite remember why I ever became interested in fishing since neither of my parents fished, it sort of seemed inevitable that I would one day at least I would want to try this strange past time. It‟s just odd that I wanted to try it when I was just four years old. My Mum, using the limited skills she had remembered from her Dad, my late Grandfather Arthur, would take me to the break wall and cast a toby lure for mackerel which at the time was all I ever wanted to do and I did do for hours on end. And my cousin Pete and his Dad, my Uncle Len would occasionally take me out in their boat or we‟d go fishing off Early‟s Wall and into the rocks for fish I never caught. I can remember my first trip out with my Uncle Len vividly. My Dad and I met Uncle Len at Boat Cove and I was lifted into the little punt. Uncle Len then rowed us down the bay to Black Bridge, a local hotspot trolling my little toby lure from my little green Shakespear rod and reel. I remember the mo-ment the rod slid along the gunnel towards the stern of the boat and away from my seated position in the bow. The rod had simply slipped from its position, nothing more than that but as far as I was concerned the only thing which could have slid that little green rod along the gun-nel and possibly away into the sea never to be seen again was a Basking Shark! I don‟t think at that point I‟d ever actually caught anything before...

So without doubt, my Uncle Len and my cousin Pete were massive influences in my young angling life and this would only grow to the point were dare I say it, Pete was a bad influence. When I should have been studying for my A-levels I would phone Pete up most nights of the week to see if he wanted to go fishing and generally we did! The only saving grace was we got pretty damn good and I could take the odd fish to my college lecturers; “a bass for a pass”! My parents never did understand how I had glowing reports yet failed the subject spectacularly, well now they do. At least it wasn‟t “an A for a lay”! Strangely though, it‟s not the aforementioned who I remember most from those very young days. It was in fact someone who I never actually went fishing with yet I idolised him. I bet in my life I was never in the same room as him more than twenty times yet some how this man was something special. As I write this I still can‟t quite put my finger on it. The only times we would meet would be at family gatherings and with me being possibly the youngest member of the family at the time and he one of the oldest, we didn‟t exactly sit down over a beer and have a good old natter when we did meet. No, on the odd occasions I saw him we‟d spend but a few minutes actually talking, him talking and me ex-citedly listening just briefly before he put on his flat cap and left. It was his stories that had me hooked for they were about that most elusive of fish, and not just fish, huge specimens which on a good night he would give to other anglers on the beach because he‟d caught several of them and his old crooked back couldn‟t carry them home! My Mum, keen to find someone else to take me fishing and actually catch some-thing would always follow his stories with, “maybe you could take Alex with you?” and he would invariably agree enthusiastically nodding his head at the suggestion. Frustratingly and sadly, we never did go fishing, not once, but he would still update me on his catches at the next fam-ily gathering and without fail another promise that I could join him on his next outing would be given and again my hopes would reach fever pitch. Every time I was sure this would be it, we‟re definitely going this time. Undoubtedly the pinnacle in his great fishing life came when I was perhaps seven years old. After years of coming so desperately close with dozens of fish he finally made the catch of his life. It followed, as I later learned, the oh so important weather conditions required to stir the gi-ants from their slumber, a big easterly wind for several days blowing down the English Channel coupled with big autumn spring tides. These conditions would scour the sea bed just offshore and on the next big high tide would leave scores of razor fish and clams which would signal twenty four hours of incredible fishing for those in know. The catch which was reported to me by my Mum made the local news paper and even the national publication The Angler‟s Mail so fantastic was the achievement.

I‟ve starred for hours at the photo they used for that article. It captures so perfectly the man, his character and his achievement. I‟m not sure how much he ever went fishing after he caught that fish, I don‟t think he ever felt the need any more. I can‟t remember ever hearing another report if he did. So he never did take me fishing, but perhaps he never needed to. Perhaps he knew the stories would be enough and to take me would be to risk my premature catch of a lifetime for if I‟d caught that great fish, would I have ever gone fishing again? I think he knew what he was doing and I thank him for it because the passion is as strong today as it‟s ever been and whilst I‟ve caught a few I‟m barely half way to his successes. It was with great sadness that around seven years ago after I had moved to Cornwall that I learned he

had passed away. His funeral was a real celebration of his life and his compassionate character. But his

influence over me lives on and just last year over twenty years after that first boat trip with my Dad and

Uncle Len and countless trips there after with my cousin Pete I bought myself my own boat. After some

thought the name of this modest vessel was obvious. So here‟s to you Great Uncle Stan, we‟ll catch that

big Bass one day!

“Somebody just back of you while you are fishing is as bad as someone looking over your shoulder while you write a letter to your girl.” - Ernest Hemingway

“Somebody just back of you while you are fishing is as bad as someone looking over your shoulder while you write a letter to your girl.” - Ernest Hemingway

Chapter One The New Syndicate by Jabez Foard

Well Friday had arrived and Jones my fishing buddy and I were preparing to have our first session on a syndicate water that we both had joined this particular year. The syndicate is a well established if not somewhat eccentric, which is probably why i was accepted as a member! Certainly the case for Mr Jones. The lake is a 4 acre gravel pit but to describe it as picturesque is a complete understatement! Completely surrounded by giant Rhododendrons that hang their twisted branches like witches fin-gers tentatively lurking on the waters edge creating vast areas of Carp safe sanctuary where no angler dare deliberate about placing baits! In the spring the flowering Rhododendrons are amass with fantastic purple flowers casting magical reflections across the dark green mirror of the lake. Come summer the huge white Lilies in the Margins along with rambling reed beds are a sight to take ones breath away home to giant dragon flys that flit busily from the stooped reed stalks swaying gently in the summer breezes . Such a gentle picture but all the while knowing that beneath the waters surface the reeds hold mighty perch stealth-ily hunting their prey of the unsuspecting tiny Roach or Rudd. Such behaviour not fitting for the ambience portrayed. One which could happily see one while away the time just sitting mesmerised in the surrounding glory lost in thoughts and dreams The membership runs at 25 but the lake is rarely fished. Maybe on an odd day an old gent maybe found sat watching his pea-cock quill float teetering aimlessly going no-where smoking a pipe, the smoke lingering on the water like ghosts from a distant past merrily enjoying a heavenly moment. The silence broken only to confirm you don‟t see many round these parts do ee boy. Jones and me had been a little concerned that no one fished such a stunning venue! So why was it so difficult to get on the syndicate! Some people waited for 5 or 6 years or even longer to become members. We had seen the Photos of previous Carp captures all neatly boxed with each individual fish named but these all dated back to the mid nineties! Perhaps they were all gone , would make sense, as even the swims were overgrown and looked lonely but also seemed to say come fish with me! Almost Spooky!! Always the optimists we decided that the Carp were still here and that had probably grown to a lot bigger weight! Neither of were convinced but we didn‟t want to admit Ah well we had nothing to lose!!

Building up to the Friday Jones and me visited the lake most evenings that week, scouting likely areas for signs of fish feeding or patrolling. Again the doubt was entering our heads! Not so much as a bubble or a the sight of the unmistakable dark shadows that give the carps location away could be seen. In the end I was keen to go for the furthest swim towards the Easterly bank where the wind had been drifting debris from the rhododendron flowers that were now fading and going to seed, creating what appeared to be giant floating carpets….. this had to be the place. The marginal areas looked perfect with the large green lilies stretching for about 30 yards and small little bays created by the hanging Rhododendrons dotted with idyllic patches of sedges and reeds I thought this if any would be where my money should be put! . Jones agreed and he decided to pitch in the next swim. At least we would be able to share a cuppa and put the world to rights. Before any fishing though an evening needed to be spent with the brush cutter clearing the way for the rods to be set and to ensure utmost comfort for the bivvie area. I say an evening! The work was done in about 10 minutes flat, while the rest of the time was spent gazing at the water straining ones eyesight at every shadow or ripple hoping that it could be an appearance from the so far elusive creatures that we hoped still lurked amongst the depths and shadows. Each evening we trickled small amounts of free offerings of the bait that we intended to fish into the selected areas that we had chosen. Neither of us disclosed our bait to each other but i had decided to go for a boilie called Tangy made by mate Tony, which has a good texture and tough enough to withstand the interests from the ever eager roach and Rudd. The night before i loaded up the van with all the tackle and equipment to ensure a flyer from work, which unfortunately was all in vain, then up to the lake i went with my bucket of goodies. Maples, chick peas. Tares, hemp, black eyes, all mixed together with liquid molasses plus of course the ole secret additives that every angler thinks he has! Scrambling through the dense thicket of twisted branches along with the moss covered swamp that i failed to see, somewhat muddy and sweating with what i put down to the excitement, others may say i could be a little out of condition, i reached the bank next to the lilies were i would cast my baits the following day. What was left in the bucket after the journey through the jungle i spread across an area 3 rod lengths out from the pads taking in 3 little bays in about 9 feet of water which had been identi-fied during the week whilst dragging the marker float all over the lake bed. This had helped identify many a feature including a gravel bar cov-ered in weed that runs the whole width of the lake along with many deep holes and the tackle magnet snags that no doubt many anglers from the past had left their favourite fish catching rigs to hang like washing on a line.

We had arranged to meet at the lake at 2 o`clock, i had gone into work early so as to get away good time and pick a few weekend essentials from the shop up on the way. Needless to say i was still stuck in the office at 3 and ones mood was far from sweet. Don‟t people understand i thought mumbling something like i had fish to catch!! Luckily the good lady was working from home so a quick text message explaining an ever infuriating Friday afternoon convinced her to toddle of to the shops to pick up the goodies! What a wonderful women she is! At times i have to pinch myself hard. Everything she does is geared to ensuring the family has what it needs, and that particular day was ensuring i had my weekends food! I thought you will have your finca in the Sun one day, but not while i got the energy and enthusiasm to do battle with the monsters of the lake. Eventually i rolled the truck down the bamboo lined track and pulled the truck to a standstill in the small car park. Jones‟ Van a 1980 White Ford Escort Van was already there and although we had agreed which swims we were to fish i couldn‟t help being apprehensive as i scuttled down the peaty path! I needn‟t have worried as i drew site of the first swim there was Jones Bivvy ll set up complete with camo front due to the fact it was a small swim and he would be sat right on the waters edge hence reducing the risk of spooking any patrolling fish cruising through the reed margins just in front of him. A quick chat and a slightly explicit use of words were used to explain my late entrance, and i was off to fetch the gear!! On returning i scuttled rapidly through the Rhododendrons once again to the area where i had baited with the particle mix the night before, carefully trying not to disturb the area too much especially as Jones was nearly ready to cast his rods. I added some more particle and a few loose boilies before fighting my way back to my swim in eager anticipation. The rods were hastily assembled all with running rigs I had decided to go back to basics after tearing myself inside out worrying that the rig set ups that id been using were not quite as they should be or perhaps i should use something more technical in order to wangle more fish!! The mind never stopped!! Like a kid in a sweet shop! So back to basics it was.

The rods were cast to their desired place with small pva bags with about 6 free offerings inside. The second rod I cast actually temporarily landed in the Rhododendron bush, but lady luck was on my side and all in tact flipped back out about 5 yards in the A1 position! It had to be an omen i thought chuckling to myself. Still the rods were set in the rests alarms tweaked and bobbins set loose due to fishing slack lines. Now fishing i could set about setting up the bivvy and lighting the stove for a much needed cup of tea! Boy i needed one! The evening was pleasant with a clear sky that contained streaks of pastel orange and purples that eventually turned to shades of green and eventually black as the sun dimmed to nothing behind the horizon far beyond the trees surrounding the lake. Heaven on earth came to mind! It was nearly full moon that night so light would not be an issue during the night if one had to be out scrabbling around. My mate arrived with his cup with his soulful eyes almost begging for a cup of tea! Tea was made and we sat chatting, reminiscing about the myths that monsters were here to catch beneath the darkening water although..... Jones was edgy which was surprising as he was continually puffing plumes of purple haze into the dimming night air which created a scene more reminiscing of a 70s bash at Stonehenge . Anxiously he kept popping briefly to his next door swim to check on bleeps sounding hope from his alarms!! Wind i laughed as a freshening breeze disturbed the mirrored sheen of the what was still lake and sent a rustling of furious whispers through the trees. The breeze increased to a small blow, and soon the end of the rods were quivering and waving like magicians wands causing both our alarms to intermittingly send our heart beats into overdrive. One of my alarms sounded and the receiver vibrated vio-lently on top of the bait bucket! Expecting it to be a false alarm no immediate attention was paid! There it was again and this time Jones was shouting fish on as he heard the bait runner wining as the fish poured line from the reel. It seemed like everything stood till. I was hesitant through the fact that I had no real confidence that i had any chance of catching a carp from this water through the year yet alone three hours after placing the baits! Once it dawned i was on the rods like a flash! The reel was almost smoking as the fish tore off across the lake. Steadily i leant into the fish i had no need to strike. The rod tip plunged as the fish felt the resistance and the battle commenced. I knew immediately this was something special i couldn‟t get over the power of this beast! I could feel the pounding vibration through the by now highly tensioned line that felt it could break at any point. I had to keep the pressure on to avoid the fish going into the main bay of the lake from where i had no chance due to the trees and reeds that would block any playing of this from this swim! I would have to swim i thought. I was in a state! Though it may have seemed i was controlling the situation, thoughts of disaster and hook pulls started coming to the forefront of my mind. I got to get this one in! Please!!! Eventually the fish swirled on the surface. That‟s hell of a fish Jones shouted.. Look at that tail... The fish was slowly weakening with its less frequent surging plunges for the deep getting less and without the clutch giving line. The fish con-tinued to wrestle under the rod tip repelling any attempt Jones made to introduce the net but eventually after what seemed eternity but was around twenty minutes Jones slid the net under the surrendering prisoner to be. I was triumphant, shaking with all the adrenalin pumping. On top of the world Jones and me shared a high five and got together the necessary weigh sling and Scales. Twenty two pounds and eight ounces the scales read. Not a monster by today‟s fish but a true soldier of carp. Lean muscular with a paddle of a tail that gave the fish the tool to battle the way it did! Amazing.

Photographed and the business done the soldier was returned gracefully to its watery home with both of us watching till the last sights of the fish could be seen swishing that mighty paddle as it slid off to the deep. Triumphant I returned to the bivvy to set about re doing the rig but it was impossible. I was still in disbelief and shaking from the recent events, so on went the kettle for a well deserved brew! Jones returned shortly and I cracked open a couple of beers to celebrate!! You know mate i said this has got to be a better feeling than win-ning the World cup, as we raised our bottles and saluted! Although obviously I had the fish Jones was just as excited especially after he witnessed the amazing battle and the condition of the prey, which had also raised his optimism as it was the first Carp he had seen at Wheel Parr in or out of the water.

The time slipped bye and after all the ups and downs of the day we decided to grab a bit of kip and hopefully see each other during the night. I was shattered and was just beginning to doze when the dull vibration of the remote rattled on the bait bucket! I didn‟t have time to think as it rattled of again like a sub machine gun in a hurry to empty its round! As i arrived at the rods i didn‟t need to know which one it was as i could see the middle rod being thrashed around and could here the purr of the line peeling of the spinning spool. Almost nervously i clicked off the bait runner and lifted the rod! Again the test curve was at its maximum! Like a piano string i could here the tune of the taught line change as the fish plied all its power in an attempt to reach its attempted destination presumably a deep snag or weed bed that it new of and certainly one that i was not aware of. The difference now was it was pitch black apart from the little headlight i had on. The fight was just as ferocious as the first with searing lunges for the deep water. All the time though i knew i had to keep as much pressure on as i could and with the clutch was set just allowing line to be given when the run off the fish could be to much for the creaking line. With me continually pumping the rod and the fish surging back it seemed the stalemate was going on for ever. Finally with the rod being lifted a mighty swirl appeared some 30 yard from the bank! The fish was far from done mind but the surges had less power and the reel gave no line. Playing the fish with the rod tip and gently gaining line the fish was brought within netting range. Aware of our presence the fish tried mustering a few last ditch attempts to make its escape sneaking just a few yards of line. Eventually it succumbed and the surrendered to the awaiting net that Jones had been waiting pa-tiently with. With the fish on the mat we both admired another amazing specimen a beautiful bronze common in perfect condition. A slightly smaller fish at 21lb 4oz but just as much a warrior as its previous compatriot. Photos taken and the fish was quickly back in the water, where due to the extent of the battle the fish was nurtured until it revived enough energy to go on its way. Again the sight of the fish heading of with its enormous paddle of a tail was a memory never to be forgotten.

Furry Wet Beaver by Colin Stephens

Like most years, during January I always have the urge to give the carp angling a rest and have a go at some other winter species, pristine winter Roach, large Pike in their radiant winter coats and now the chance to catch some Zander. But every year I end up carting the gear wherever in pursuit of the old carpy! January this year was no exception. The chance of two nights was on the cards, the only problem was where to go? I managed to find the small tackle shop in Eijsden in Holland just off the Meuse. It is only a small shop but packed from floor to ceiling with freshwater tackle, game, match and specimen, all the usual big name brands and a few more. The shop is run by a middle aged guy and an old chap well past retiring age and they were both friendly and helpful. They sorted my licence (VISpas) for Holland to go with my licence for Belgium (see below) and along with that came all sorts of literature. Amongst it was a leaflet showing Eijsden Meer. Ah, perfect time to ask some questions. Contrary to what I had previously been told the Meer can be fished at night in certain areas, these areas marked on the plan of the Meer, as were the areas not for night fishing and also the areas designated as na-ture reserves. Just as I was getting really excited at getting to fish the Meer during the winter I was informed that night fishing is only allowed during the summer months of June, July and August, bugger. Licences for fishing in Holland and Belgium. As you can see the laid back Dutch have gone for a title of VIS-pas, unlike the good old German speaking Belgians who have gone for Fischereierlaubnisschein!! Don‟t worry, I can‟t say it either!!!

So the harbour is out of bounds for night fishing too. In fact for the harbour you need to join a small angling club, which I was told was just a quick phone call once my licence arrived in the post. Here you fill out a form, two sections perforated down the middle, one half you post and the other half you keep until your credit card style license appears in the post. I asked the guy in the shop where would be a good spot to fish, as the river resembled the rocky mountain rapids. He smiled and pulled out the map of the Meer and said you need to be fishing here. The spot is a wide open area of the Meer adjacent to where the river enters. Most of the fish seek refuge in the Meer at this time of year when the river flow becomes so strong. But hang on a minute I said to the guy, you just told me there is no night fishing in the Meer, again he smiled and said that the controls were not yet checking so it would be ok fish. It was tempting but to get a fine on my first trip fishing in Holland just did not seem a good idea, so where else to go. I had found a bay about the size of Bilberry off the Meuse back in November. There is an island at one end, where the bay is at its widest and at its narrow-est is where the river flows in. The far bank access via road and by the wide track I had found on Google earth was no longer in use. Between the bay and the Albert Canal there is a huge construction of some sort and the road comes to a dead end and the track is fenced off. The other side of the bay is also fenced off and clearly out of bounds. So I had the choice, fish the bay or do not fish, the bay it was. Whether the bay held any carp was another matter. I had seen plenty of silvers but no visible signs of carp. The bay was only 15 minutes drive from the office so some pre-baiting might pay dividends.

Eijsden Meer

The Bay

The weekend was approaching and the weather was dry but supposedly turning cold as the weekend went on. Thursday evening saw a visit from the mother in law and her elderly sis-ter. The mother in law was staying but the sister in her 80‟s I had offered to drive home, where her son would be waiting to get her into her house. Once she was safely buckled into the back seat I set off on the short journey to her house. It was cold so the heater was on full blast and i think with the heat and the sherry she had consumed, she was soon sleeping away. The snoring was getting ever louder but there was only a few minutes to go. Eventually I pulled up outside the house. The son was in and the lights were on, good, just to get the old girl out and home. I turned around and nearly had an heart attack. Her head was slumped to one side and her false top set was hanging out the side of her mouth !!! Oh bloody hell, how do you wake someone up like that and keep their dignity, job for the son I would say. Af-ter a few minutes and a quick hand shake I was on my way home. Monday saw me at the bay. I walked down the long strip of land which slopes steeply on both sides, this bank separates the bay from the river, at the end the river flows in, during the summer the bay has its own level and even in October there was very little depth to the flow in and out. The lack of spots to put up the brolly was an understatement. The only choice was to put the brolly up on the top of the bank in full view of all. The no camping sign at the beginning of the lane leading to the bay made this not an option, so I was in a fix. The far bank had numerous really good spots, which were far too far to walk to. The next day I was back at the bay. The high bank near the car park area was fenced off with a clear

no entry sign. But investigation was needed to see if there was a space amongst the trees big enough for a brolly. I clambered down the bank through the trees and soon picked up an old walking route, which was still marked by a post with various colours depicting each route. The walking from here was good and it reminded me of the walk from the carp park at Rashleigh to the top of the steps. The mixture of Oak and silver birch took me back to many walks to the beach laden with gear. Half way along the back of the bay a small opening down towards the water edge appeared. I walked down through the trees and there was a cutting clearly fished over the years. There was room for two rods and after clearing the undergrowth just about room for the brolly. It would be a squeeze but this looked as good as it was going to get. I put out about 30 baits to the island which was about 80 yards and the same amount of bait not far out from the left margin. I repeated this each day until the Thursday. I had still not seen any sign of carp, in fact the only sign that was really visible was the work of the resident bea-vers. To be honest I had no idea Belgium had any beaver. Apparently they were reintroduced and were now doing well in several areas, in-cluding the bay. The banks of the bay are wooded and along the banks many trees lay fallen, chomped through near the base of the trunk. In fact floating in the bay was a recently felled tree, it‟s amazing to see. Other trees are half carved through and many show signs of beaver at-tention. The other drawback to fishing the bay is it is not safe to park your car unattended, so one of my colleagues agreed to drive my car. I unloaded my gear and she drove my car back to work. Mireille and Finlay would come and pick me up at 11 on Sunday morning. I carried my gear to the swim and got the rods out, this was done and I set about putting the brolly up. Darkness descended as I put the trangia on to heat up the culinary delight of meat balls with noodles ! I do miss my Co-op chicken curry. I lay in my bag and took in the surroundings. There was not much of a moon but it seemed bright none the less. There was a slight breeze from time to time but mostly the night was calm. For the first time in a while an owl could be heard in the distance, some way away. A fox called three or four times from what sounded like the left hand bank. It was now about nine, ten o‟clock and I was thinking about getting some kip, but then out of the corner of my eye I saw a shape low in the wa-ter swimming, then another appeared not far behind. It was a really amazing moment to witness two beavers, animals that I had never seen before so close. I could not really make them out that well but it was one of those moments you feel great about being out amongst nature and really enjoying it. As they passed from view to my right there was one almighty crash in the water, it really sounded like a cow had been dropped from the sky, this was quickly followed by another splash, a total of five huge splashes. Mega carp was my first thought. I text Ian and told him about the beavers and the huge crashes I had heard. I had visions of monster carp swimming just in front of me and my confidence was high. On reflection I do not really know what made the crashes, they just seemed too loud and big to be carp, they really did seem like something had been dropped into the lake from a great height, very strange. I lay there for a few minutes longer and all was quiet. The next thing I know it‟s the morning, the night had passed without so much as a bleep and I had slept really well.

I had a brew and scratched my head, what to do, a second night here at this end of the bay or a move. I reeled in to find both rigs as they went out. I decided to take a walk to the left bank where I had seen all the good looking swims. Indeed there were many spots that had obviously been fished over the years but all were just too far to get to with all the gear. I decided I would go to the other end of the bay and fish where the river came into the bay. I hoped that if any fish were coming in and out of the bay this would be a good spot. The trick was finding a spot for the brolly. It took me about an hour or more to pack up and move all the gear. I was knackered by the time it was all moved. I put the rods out which was just a gentle cast as the chan-nel where the water came in from the river was only about forty feet wide. Now for the brolly. I had found the most level spot I could near the water‟s edge. I put up the bed chair with the legs on one side fully extended. The bed was still sloping so I grabbed a long log kindly prepared by the beavers and wedged this into the bank where the feet of the bed chair sat, perfect. Then I put the brolly up, another branch was used as a storm pole to prop the front up. This gave me just about enough room to squeeze into my bag. The bay is home to a large amount of water fowl, so many coots it‟s not true, various geese and ducks, grebes and the ever present cormorants, bloody huge too. The air was fresh now, far colder than the night before but I sat on my mat enjoying the peace and quiet of the still night. Eventually I got my head down and hoped the log propping up the bed stayed in place. I woke a few times during the night to the odd bleep but the morning arrived as it does and the night had given up nothing in the way of carp. I smiled as I looked at my rods, they were white with a heavy frost, as were my boots sat neatly next to the rods. The end of my peach skin was also white so the temperature must have dropped well be-low during the night.

I put on the trangia and drank a welcome mug of coffee. A couple of bacon sarnies later and another brew and I was feeling good. I climbed up the bank to the top, slipping on the frozen bank. At the top I looked across the river towards Holland. It was a beautiful scene. The cold air was rising of the fast flowing Meuse and the banks were white with frost. The fields along the far bank were white as snow and glistened in the sunlight as the sun rose above Eijsden in the distance. I stood there watching groups of people on the Dutch out for an early morning walk along the river and in the distance church bells rang out summoning the god fearing folk to Sunday prayers. A small scruffy looking dog came bounding down the bank and stopped a few feet away from me. He gave out a small gruff growl and turned and ran off to his owner who was just appearing from the trees down the track. Not long after this a couple came down the track and stopped to talk to me. They were doing a bird survey and I re-marked he needed a bigger pad, the bay was now full of birds and a green wood pecker dipped through the air from tree to tree on the far bank. They looked at me incredulously when they realised I had fished all night. The brolly at the bottom of the slope was frozen white, as was my holdall and mat. The landing net was still frozen to the ground, they thought me quite mad and they were probably right. I went to text Mireille that all was well only to find my phone screen was completely blank. I received a few texts in the morning but could not see them due to the screen fault. No doubt one was from Steppy claiming Wolves were worth their point against the mighty spurs, ha! As the morning progressed I moved everything to the top of the bank to thaw out on the sun. As I stood there the river police boat drifted by, no doubt on it‟s way to the Meer to catch all those that had fished there in the night. I had re-cently read about a Belgium angler who had been caught twice already this year fishing at night with three rods where it is not allowed. The end result was a 550 euro fine, ouch. Mireille and Finlay eventually arrived to pick me up and we headed off for home. First trip of the year, a resounding blank, just like most first trips of the year. Perhaps I should do some Pike fishing, ……………………….my arse ;) Make sure you are all blanking, don‟t let me have all the fun.

A Window In The Weather by Alex Ledbrooke

Like all good fisherman, surfers and just about anyone else whose hobby takes place outdoors and away from plastic clad liquid crystal dis-plays, I‟d been keeping my eye on the Atlantic for weeks ironically via the very distractions just mentioned. With the jet stream active and fo-cused further south than in recent winters, low after low tracked across the mighty Atlantic bringing rain and gales for weeks on end. The only rest bite came in small windows and so far this winter not one of them had fallen on a weekend; some were painfully close but alas no cigar. So when a pattern of weather began to emerge the tide book was checked and yes, that would be ideal and on a Saturday too! But, with a birthday celebration in Devon planned for the same day it looked like the first day in weeks would be missed and the window would blow shut again within twenty four hours. Being the right side of December 21st, the mornings were drawing out and with clear skies forecast it was guestimated that it would be light enough to be on the water at 7.30am, just... The temptation was too much and a quick phone call making a convincing suggestion that the rendezvous point and time for the birthday meeting could be changed to the benefit of everyone (it meant I would have to forego a beer at the Rugby match but I was willing) and the deal was done. Uncle Stan (my boat) was prepared the night before to save precious time in the morning leaving just the flask to fill before departing. The early morning weekend alarm clock was quickly dispatched, the better half barely stirred as I slipped out from under the covers, clothes al-ready laid out in the spare room and on stepping outside into the dark, cold but calm morning, a wry smile said the effort was going to be worth it. Arriving in the half light at the slip, a light north wind ruffled the surface, a little more than was expected but the forecast was for complete calm within an hour or two. With the boat readied, the car parked and trailer secured the rope was slipped from the mooring. The engine kicked over first time and quietly turned us towards the river mouth. It really was a little too dark to be on the water without navigational aids but with no-one on the river there was little cause for concern. With the sun coming up fast in just ten minutes it would be light. The numbers were punched into the GPS and the engine opened up for the short distance to the first mark. A look to the east revealed I wasn‟t alone that morn-ing as eleven other boats were already plundering the dense winter mackerel shoals present just outside the mouth of the river. Huge mack-erel, like tuna they were!

Arriving over the mark the sounder revealed the wreckage that lay on the seabed some ten fathoms below. A leisurely exploration identified good signs on the bottom hiding behind the taller structures, large fish no doubt ambushing anything the tide brought their way. With the light breeze and powerful tide flowing in the same direction setting up the drift was made easy. The tackle was lowered to the bottom and immedi-ately worked in a way which would hopefully appeal to whatever was lurking below. The sounder was alive with positive shapes and anticipa-tion was high was but it wasn‟t until that momentary lapse in concentration, or is that moment when you relax and become accepted (?) that the first take came. The rod kicked over hard and line was stripped from the clutch before stopping and holding ground in a stalemate. The rod raised and some line was gained before another run saw more line disappearing in the direction of the sunken wreckage. Eventually the runs tired and with the hook hold feeling good the fish was gently worked towards the surface. The wry smile was now a beaming grin as in complete silence other than that of the slipping clutch the orange glow came into view below the hull. Resting at the side of the boat the beautiful fish slid into the net without fuss. A prime winter cod which was destined for the pot was my prize and in the early rising sun it looked perfect, unrecognisable from that which is sold in the supermarket. A complete success within a couple hours of climbing out of bed; there was a slight temptation to head home there and then but the chance of more sport was too much to resist. The morning continued in a similar vein with excellent sport coming over the gunwales of Uncle Stan. Improving conditions invited a little ex-ploration further offshore to the “drop-off” where the depth falls away to over twenty fathoms before settling. The good sport continued with hard fighting ling and an unseasonal but most welcome conger eel all taken on light tackle. It was clearly a morning of good fortune as the eel was lipped hooked which meant easy release but the hook only just held before being straightened. Despite the fishing being excellent the clock was ticking so the engine opened up for the run home. It was truly a great day to be an angler, I

was just lucky the fishing was good too.

unpublished

Angler

Thanks to the contributors of the “Spring Cast”, it‟s great to have you on board. If you would like to contribute articles or photos to Unpublished Angler, email unpublishedangler@gmail.com