Mitchell mania...

Iv'e always had a soft spot for the dinky Mitchell 304 - there is something about it that I find most appealing. The look I guess. The round body, satisfying clunk of the bail arm, the tick of the ratchet and many more. There were not many variations over the years - a small change here and there.....for those who need to satisfy their thirst I can only direct you to the Mitchell Reel Museum where you should find all you need. 

I have fished with them everywhere and for everything. My friend Pete and I had a rule one season where we would only use 304's - we caught our first River Wye barbel (pioneering days) using them in the late 1980's early 1990's and even used them at Redmire Pool. If I see one on my travels I just can't resist them!   

A years turning...

I can't believe we are well and truly into another coarse fishing season - to celebrate this I thought I would post some buried treasure and ephemera that sometimes turns up or makes itself known from some dark corner of the tackle shed.

Woolworths or Woolies was a regular haunt for me, the child angler. I would spend an age in the fishing isle with pocket money burning a hole in my trousers - floats, hooks, bait boxes, reels and brightly coloured reel pouches all spring to mind. Here are some size 10 hooks to nylon - river hook pack no less!

Market Finds No 25

The wonderful world of Winfield...a magnificent market find which was tucked away out of sight. Just waiting to be put back into service with half a pint of white gentles, a few reds and a generous sprinkling of curry powder. Change from a pound for this childhood memory - I had quite a lot of Winfield tackle as a nipper.

First knockings....

I like the prospect of a dawn start which coincides with the high tide...it's the best start to a day, especially when the forecast is set good and gives me the rest of the day to do other things as well. 

The beach car park was busy at 4am - a mix of anglers, beach campers, dog walkers and those recovering after too many libations around the fires which now smouldered in the early morning hush. As per usual I walked as far away as I possibly could from everyone. The terns confirmed my plan a good one as in the distance I could see a few diving for whitebait.

Within half an hour the old Dennis Pye was casting out, not to the distant horizon but a fair chuck where the fish were hitting the tiddlers - it wasn't long before a hollow in the shingle was the final resting place for my mackies.....these destined for the freezer as winter pike bait. 

The Kelly was duly fired up for the first brew of the day and tackle changed to catch a couple more on a small lure close in before the tide changed. It wasn't long before it was all over and another angler decided to fish next to me.....with miles of beach he decided my spot was the one....I decided on another brew before heading home.

That contemplative moment when all is done and all is good is magical - time to just watch the day unfold...a mix of birds coming in...egrets, yaffles, swifts galore and then the cry went up from the terns....a peregrine. The other angler didn't notice. No response either as I wished him tight lines as I headed back up the beach. It was a joyous drive home along the Jurassic Coast Highway with the swifts still screaming above.  

The social pike

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....

Buried Treasure from a lost tackle shop

Chased by the Harvest Moon

 I love this time of year. The passing of such a glorious summer as we cling on to some warmer days just past the equinox, but these last few nights have been cold and are a reminder of what is to come. The season of plenty is just about hanging on as hedgerow fruits and orchard fair are sweet after a few golden months and my thoughts turn to wood stores and is there enough to see out the harsher, colder days to come.

It's always good to go with an instinct....as it usually is with the angler who treads his path all the months of the year. He just knows. As it was for me yesterday afternoon. I just knew I had to be by the water, still water as it may very well be my last chance to say farewell to the fish of summer - the crucian and tench. Also, there was the prospect of a Harvest Moon and these occurrences never fail when an angler gets a calling to go fishing. 

I love the old ponds which are hidden in a remote Wiltshire valley. It's a lost landscape in a wealthy corner of the county where the old farming ways and ramshackle out-buildings still harbour the memories of the old days. It won't last forever, nothing ever does, so I enjoy it for the time being knowing full well I am the only one here with just the church bells for company along with the cattle gently grazing the valley slopes. I know the swallows will not be joining me this evening - they are all near the coast feasting, whirling and whorling before they head for warmer days - during the summer you can set the church clock for their arrival to feed and when they arrive and what joy they bring. Not this evening, the pool is eerily silent, covered in a thick paint like blanket weed and algal bloom and no stirring to betray the presence of the creatures beneath.

The breeze drifts along my sheltered path and it brings a chill wind scented with woodsmoke and the spice of trodden ground and herbage...would there be a chance, just one to say farewell to summer?

I travel light, shoulder bag, rod, net, bait and flask of tea but today I am glad I have a warm hat to keep out the chill which is already creeping into the shadier parts of the pond. A few hens egg sized lumps of "special stuff" fizzy ground bait and maggots over the top and I wait.

A few bubbles betray the movings and ploddings of something stirring beneath the weed and it is not long before the first crucian is being admired before being quickly returned. A beautiful smaller bar of gold comes quite soon after the first and just like the swallows they are gone as quickly as they arrive. 

I go for a walk, make tea and as the dew gathers have a wonderful evening catching what will surely be the last tench of the season. These lovely fish, as green as weed, are a joy to catch and for once I am glad I have brought my steely Sowerbutts Roach Master rod which steers these glorious creatures away from weed beds and lily pads. I pack up with a rising Harvest Moon for company and a warm glow as the moon becomes a Hunters Moon seeing me home, chasing me home as I drift from the folds of Wiltshire and into Dorset and the warmth of an early home fire.  

  

Summoned by Bells

Another fishing season begins…June’s Glorious 16^th seems to come round quicker these days just as life’s turning does and the way I notice the changing of the seasons and mark each coming and going on the previous years experience – the joy of reaching a significant age maybe? I just seem to notice it more now – once I felt and looked the youngest of our merry band who meet at this time, as we have always done for over thirty years, and now we sort of look similar – musty, creaking like our cane with age but in our hearts we are young and still miss those who had the happy times with us but are no longer here. We toast them each year and laugh heartily as we recount wonderful tales of joy and friendship.

I have been to the place that calls me so often, at all ages, in all weathers, physically, in my dreams, often alone, with my friends, some of my closest friends and we did realise at the time we were living the dream as we cast our baited hooks for myths and legends. These days it’s just the being there that’s enough. Comfortable in each other’s company and comfortable just listening, sitting, watching and noticing. We almost get enveloped by the place and are growing old like its ancient trees that have witnessed so much of us. Boy and man.

I wouldn’t change the way I see in the new season for anything. I missed one year in pursuit of another quarry and my capture became my wife much to the amusement of my pals – back then as I watched the sparkling sea from our small cliff top tent I toasted them and sent good wishes on the wind. It stays with you wherever you are and with the closing of the eyes you can be walking, watching each footfall in front of the other as you creep quietly over centuries of fallen leaves along a fisherman’s path so familiar you could walk it blindfolded.

I fished last night at another place I hold dearly and have written of fondly in my anglers journal – it was so peaceful and quiet – a sense of quiet I had not experienced for a while. It felt like I was the only person alive, but perhaps not. The hum of insects and fizzing of fish were the only indication that this scene was moving and not still.

My mind wandered to friends who I have shared such days with before and are now fishing more celestial waters – are they here on the light warm breeze? Do they see the float as I do? I like to think so. As the kettle finally boiled and smoke drifted across my pond the wind brought with it the sound of church bells as soft as a hand on my shoulder. It felt reassuring.The float twitched and slid away as floats sometimes have a liking to do on a summer evening…   

      

Make your own tackle?

Newnes Practical Mechanics, September 1954 - Home-Made Fishing Tackle

One for the pot?

John Northcote Nash, younger brother of Paul Nash and in many ways long overshadowed by his older brother - but what we do know about JN was his love of nature and in particular fishing - pike fishing.

This picture was taken by Anthea Sieveking some time in the 1960's - the rather gruesome way of holding the deceased fish makes me think it was either for the pot or sadly the compost heap as so many found themselves in less informed and conservation minded times.

Best farming practice? We have always done it this way....

The new trout season started on the first of April - I must admit that this season has seen me more excited than ever at actually getting out and casting a fly for our local wild brown trout. The majority of my local fishing is opportunistic and free, so I not only treasure it, but try to keep more than a lazy eye on what's happening within the river corridor.

Needless to say I haven't been fishing yet. It's the usual thing. Rivers have been up and down like a yo-yo, it has rained endlessly and on the rare occasion and I mean rare that the conditions have been sort of OK I haven't been able to go - so there you are.

The forecast is looking better for next week, so with that in mind I had a quick whizz round some local haunts the other evening. The river was out of sorts and it was no surprise as it had been pouring down all day with more on the horizon. 

I'm no farmer, but I do take an interest in agricultural practices and the farming way of life as live in a rich farming area and I have friends and family who farm. But, some things really do piss me off and it just shouldn't be that way - even by my reckoning as I watched the muck spreader make even more of a mess on a sopping wet field I couldn't help but think what a pathetic waste of time - the whole lot of shit destined at some stage to percolate into the watercourse. The mess that the tractor was making would take an age to put right, talk about looking after your assets!

Just pray for no more rain......

Pike & Nash

John Nash, pike fishing by Kurt Hutton (1958) 

As I am on a bit of John Nash thread I thought it worth sharing the wonderful picture of JN fishing for pike. This was taken by Kurt Hutton and the bromide print was formerly in the ownership of Ronald Blythe who then passed it on to the National Portrait Gallery.

The wonderful illustration, below, is by Nash and was also from 1958 - a magnificent study which he was commissioned to deliver for a calendar (Benhams of Colchester - printers & publishers). I make no apologies - I have previously shown the picture on the blog.....I am sure you will forgive me for sharing it again, it's an absolute smasher! 

John Nash, Pike, 1958

Three cheers for Christmas

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!