I hadn't been fishing for weeks and weeks. You know how it goes....stuff comes up from all angles and it just doesn't happen. The date had been in the diary for weeks. It was never going to move as it is one of the most eagerly awaited trips of the fishing season - The Christmas Pike Social.
I fish with my pal Jim regularly, but this trip involves another good friend who I sadly only seem to see on this festive social trip and we enjoy the day from the minute we start planning where, what food, what libations and then it stumbles to tactics and weather until the day finally arrives and we greet each other like excited schoolboys.
The Dorset Stour is always our venue of choice and we were lucky after some recent lumpy weather that the river was just fishable for our day. Colour had only just dropped out and the level was down by quite a few feet. We exchange small gifts before we start and then the most social of days begins.
It's not just about the pike. I am pretty sure we three have fishing as an excuse for actually just being there in the landscape, in nature, breathing it, smelling it and seeing it. Each year this trip provides us with pleasure for what we see - otters, egrets, lapwing, water rail, kingfishers galore, sparrow hawk and an amazing rook display at dusk.
Even though an otter had obviously taken a liking to my pike at some stage during its life I still do get a feeling of complete excitement when I see one on my fishing trips.
The wind was biting. One of those squally windy days which Simon said "send kids and cats loopy" - it was cold too. They generally are from the east. We would be fine though as the social provides - Kelly Kettle tea, pork pie, mince pies, stollen, whisky and pickled onions.
The fishing was hard as it can be on such days, but the river did grant us a wish to see a fish or two and bring some Christmas cheer. We three, kings of the river for a day reflected on what had been a special day as we trudged across the fields to the twinkling festive lights of the village and home to warm fires and liquid cheer....
The annual Christmas pike social is an eagerly awaited day in my anglers diary - to be honest it is not just about the catching of pike for me, but the joy of being out before Christmas when others are rushing about with last minute preparations. The joy of good company, fine pork pie, mince pies, tea, Christmas spirit and all being well a hip flask of medicinal spirit to keep the chill away.
This year did not disappoint - they never do. Always some drama to make then day memorable and this year there was the added spice of a new stretch of the Stour to fish. I have an obsession with the writings and fishermen of the Victorian age and I like to think old Francis Francis and JW Martin would enjoy these days, so I always think of them on such occasions and raise my bankside glass to them - never forgotten.
The river looked perfect as it had just fined down after the recent heavy rains. We exchanged cards, presents and stories and it was one of those days when watching the nature around us would have been just enough. The pike had other plans though and it was not until later in the day as the light was starting to fade that our bauble like floats twitched as pike started to search out their festive feast...........we had devoured ours and it was their turn now to seek out the spratts.
Much merriment, landing of fish, the drama of unhooking, admiring, nurturing of such a fine species before being gently returned to their watery Christmas home. The glass of Christmas beer I raised to old Esox was very sweet that evening as I sat in quiet contemplation of a day most generous. Three cheers for old Esox and three cheers for Christmas!
It’s a busy time of the year – hard to squeeze in a fishing
trip of more than a few hours, so anything is gratefully received. I think they
call it being opportunistic. Tackle at the ready and a tub of lobworms to hand.
It was just so the other evening.
The Stour is up and down at this time of year,
you have to time your trips to perfection…..if you get it wrong you are fishing
in chocolate soup, but all the stars were going my way and I arrived with a
couple of hours to go before last knockings. The banks were wet and slippery after
rain and the wind was up. I knew where I wanted to go as perch were my quarry - I walked with purpose across the fields head down. The wind was biting and thankfully
my perchy hole would at least shelter me from its bite.
It never ceases to amaze me that roach love a big lobworm,
much more than we give them credit for – I never set out to catch roach on
lobworms, but when perch fishing they are the first to take. As the witching
hour approaches I am thankful to have caught a few lovely silvery blue darlings
of the river.
The light fading and our resident otter makes an appearance and
screeches at my outline and is gone. I love them. The fish continue to feed and
as the owls start to call in the woods across the river I get that wonderful jaggy
sensation as perch takes worm. The wind is deafening, but I feel warm and
contented knowing I am the only person here experiencing this joy that is nature…..the
sound of nature……..I get back to my car and pour a cup of stewed, sweet flask
tea just as the rain makes that wonderful, almost metallic noise as it hits the
glass.
The feast of Saint Mark commemorates Mark the Evangelist and today is St Mark's Day. A national holiday throughout Italy and a day that is celebrated lightly here - for me, the angler and especially one who is fishing for trout with artificial imitation flies at this time of year I give thanks to St Mark.
I will doff my cap to St Mark the Evangelist, but raise my rod and a libation to St Mark the fly! A little known insect that gives me great pleasure at this time of year - the Hawthorn Fly (Bibio marci), also known as the St Marks Fly.
I have always had likings for it - a friendly sort of insect that usually coincides with my first real trout forays of the season. The large females hatch around now,although the males have been around for quite a few weeks on my local West Dorset Streams and the trout have been enjoying them.
The nippers asked what do they do? Do they bite? The answer is no of course and they are one of the unsung heroes as far as pollinators go.
The deceased example you see on my fly box was not hurt as part of this post - it was found in a web on my fishing shed window. So, if like me, you are fishing today or this evening and using a Hawthorn pattern please give thanks to St Mark as well as the fly of the same name - it's always good to cultivate your luck where fishing is concerned.
I adore this time of year. It gathers pace. Blink and you miss things. The trout season started the other week and I am now getting twitchy. I usually take a little break before I cast a fly line, but I cannot wait any longer. My time will come this week. It is likely to be my local West Dorset streams and I will come to the Stour Valley a week or so later.
The swallows are here in growing numbers, the dace are thinking of spawning - large gathers of the silver lovelies are on the sparkling shallows doing the early spawning shuffle. Just thinking about it. They leave the group to sip at a fly and then get back to it.
The church you see here is one of my favourite Stour Valley spots - nestled in a fold of nowhere its flint walls reflect in the pure chalk waters of the trout stream you can hear as you while away some time in the churchyard. This I do regularly whilst eating my lunch. The dace do a spawning shuffle as I do a cellandine shuffle. It is a special place. Much has happened here in days gone by and more is to come, but at this moment in time I could be the only person alive as I hear nothing other than the babble of the stream.
To say the last few days of the traditional coarse fishing season were not as expected and hoped for is an understatement. The river had been out of sorts. It comes up quickly once the ground is sodden and the multitude of streams which enter its upper reaches make it react quickly. All sorts of Plan B locations were being discussed as a localised downpour put it up and over the banks for the last weekend of the season.
I still went for the last two days - I could not bring myself to fish still waters for these last two days. The river was the colour of weak chocolate - nearer Caramac. The temperature rose and it was shirtsleeve weather with poached feet in wellie boots - what's going on? Bumblebees, butterflies and sand martins made it seem not quite seasons end.
One visitor I was not pleased to see was that little bastard the Blandford Fly - the ale of the same name is alright I suppose, but this biting little critter made an unwelcome early appearance on both days.
The river actually fished alright, slowly, but just enough interest in the baited slacks of the river out of the main flow to catch a goodly bag of roach, dace and gudgeon. What lovely gudgeon they were - I lost count of how many of the greedy fellows I caught and am always flabbergasted to hear some of the old timers actually speak of eating them, how could they!
I am having a love affair with some of my lightly used Ambidex reels at the moment - they don't get used as often as I would like, but with a switch to a static bait on the bottom of the river it felt the right reel to use. I love the gawdy blue hues of these reels and the bakelite fittings.
A stroll downstream to see how the rest of our gather were faring, with the added hope of cake and tea, and I was overjoyed to see some river debris in the form of someones Christmas lights half way up a willow - lovely.
It was more of the same for day two - the river was still not in the best of condition and bites were much harder to get, but the company was splendid, tea magnificent and cake orgasmic. As the light faded from the day I had my last cast and the tiniest tremble resulted in that hoped for thud and lunge of a large roach. A huge roach. A giant roach. A Stour roach like this has been in my dreams for many years, but it was only to be the tale of the one that got away in the pub that evening..............another season ends and dreams, sometimes, maybe one day will become reality.
Hardly! The roach you see here were about as big as they got, but who cares. They are delightful and show what fine fettle the river is in as they cover all the year classes and sometimes, just sometimes you may get lucky and catch the roach of your dreams.
It was an opportunity for me to use a recent market find - the Allcock Record Breaker reel would look much more at home on the rod of the same name, but coupled with my 1950's Hardy General it looked just the ticket.
Not a free running trotting reel, it needed more than a helping hand to trot my River Stour glide, but enjoyable all the same.
I was joined at the river by Chris and Merv and a very welcome gather it was too. By nature I am a solitary angler, but these last few weeks of the season usually involve fishing with friends which make them a much looked forward to season in my anglers calendar - Chris nabbed hooks and bait from Merv and I a float - this is pretty much how it goes these days. One of us usually forgets something and all being well the more organised among us has what we are after. Thanks Merv!
A glorious late afternoon that chilled quickly at last knockings saw a slow, but steady trickle of roachlings, chublings and dace come to my float fished curried maggots. As has been the norm over the last few weeks the scene was sound tracked by the most wonderful bird song - song thrush and blackbird singing in perfect harmony.
I was for once grateful of a thick jumper but annoyed at forgetting fingerless gloves and a flask. These early days of bright spring flowers can catch you out. Slight warmth by day and quickly chilling as the afternoon wends its way into evening.
There aren't many days left now before the season closes on March 14th, but each trip will be eagerly expected just as we do for the glorious opening on the 16th June - we anglers are lucky, not only to fish in such wonderful landscapes, but it brings out the little boy in us all, the feeling you get before Christmas and long may it continue.
We trudged back to the cars as darkness quickly descended, sharing our tales of fish caught and plans for the last two weeks of the season, but as always ever grateful for what the river has given us..........and Merv of course for floats, bait and hooks!
After fishing the Hampshire Avon off and on for well over 30 years I realised that actually my affections were swinging towards another river - the Dorset Stour. I have always had a liking for it, especially the middle and upper reaches.
As the year turned I also realised that I no longer have any permits to fish the Avon - all of mine are for the Stour. I can't really call myself a man of the Stour as I guess that honour comes after many more years treading its banks but I do know my love is strong for this jewel of a river, so long in its near neighbours shadow.
You will have noticed from my recent posts that pike have got a hold of me lately - I really enjoy the simplicity of pike fishing, especially when it involves a lightweight spinning rod, net and shoulder bag. What with last knockings edging ever so closely to 6pm I can even sneak in quick after work trips on my way home and again start to feel like all is getting along nicely with the world again.
There has been something of a shift this last week or so. The noise generated by the birds is just superb. Not just at home, but riverside as well. My latest foray was made even more enjoyable by the birdsong - what is it at this time of year when a blackbird is in full voice? They stopped me in my tracks as I cast my Ondex spinner in search of a Stour Esox.
My last few trips here have rewarded me with sightings and sounds of the shy water rail - on each occasion I see and hear him going about his delicate business hoping to not be spotted.
I can walk miles travelling light, only guided by the distant church bell chimes as to how far I have actually walked. This last trip had seen me have my fill as I got back to the car as the Norman church bell rang out at six - four small fish to about 7lbs was enough to keep me going and give me my fix until my next trip. The verges around the church awash with snowdrop, crocus and daffodil.
A day riverside is the perfect tonic indeed. Even though the conditions were far from ideal it was good to be in the open Stour valley landscape. I was probably the only one enjoying all the river had to offer on this particular stretch. I laid new footprints in the dewy wet grass as I walked upstream to where I felt there may be some hope of actually catching something, but to be honest, just being by the river was enough.
Rain after a very cold period is never that good a prospect - not only is the river coming down after a brief period of being high it usually means the fish are hunkered down and waiting for food to pass them by in the quieter areas of the river. The roads have been plastered in salt of late and most of this gets washed in and adds to the soup which no doubt puts the fish off their stride.
I always have visions of those lovely illustrations by BV in Mr Crabtree that show you each species of fish that will be in each part of the river - he would have been proud of my tactics today!
Trotting with a float sees two dace caught and it's hard going - cold, drizzle leading to longer spells of heavier rain which gets blown intermittently away by the odd heavier gust of wind. For once I was glad of an extra large flask of tea as brewing with the Kelly Kettle would have been hard work on a day like this. The flask of sweet tea offered instant gratification.
A change of tactic to lobworm tail hard and fast on the bed of the river in a quiet slack eventually lead to a goodly bag of roach up to just over the pound mark - they do amaze me how they find the worm in coloured water. Tentative plucks on the bait before a nice hard rattle on the rod top - all is good with the world.
The owls started their call earlier than usual - the church clock hadn't even struck five and the last cast comes much later than previous weeks. We are getting through the dark days now, slowly but surely.
I lost my hook on the last cast at last knockings to an unseen underwater snag so called it a day. A lovely stroll away from the river - two fingers held aloft in the V sign - not to the river which I of course gave thanks, but to Blue Monday which I had firmly kicked up the arse this year.
