‘I make my way along the path, through the long grass, passing the copse and then there is my first view of the pool. I have walked and fished this pool several times and after the close season lay off I just have a feeling that today if I take my time, bait up carefully and keep disturbance to a minimum, I may just, well, have a successful day’
Oh how I dislike winter. Maybe it is a case of getting older and the thought of sitting on a cold river bank, waiting for old Esox to show an interest in my deadbaits has little appeal. Why? I know not; I suppose it is complicated because, yes, I still make the journey to the river, the cold seeps into the bones and the wearing of multiple layers of clothing to keep the icy fingers of winter at bay is still tolerated. But while I sit and freeze my thoughts turn to summer. I can say now that I still observe the close season; it gives our rivers a much needed rest. While the still-waters have an ‘open season’ for a good percentage of anglers, I do think that a break ‘twixt March and June is needed there as much as on any river. Thus, I refrain…
So, let us venture out on June 16th, just as I used to so many years ago, before the close season was virtually abolished. Will you join me?
The alarm is set for 3.30 am. I am not an angler that now will sit on a bank waiting for the magic of midnight on the opening day of the season. I would much rather see the dawn while I make my way to the water and enjoy the quiet solitude of my first day of the season unhurried. True, for many years past I would be there at midnight, on a favourite but little used stretch of the river Ribble. Those were very special times for me and I was very fortunate to have access to that place, a place that saw almost no footfall but my own. Sometimes the long wait was even rewarded with a barbel, a fish that, once in the net, had fins a-bristling with righteous indignation at being tricked into seeking out a lump of spam with me on the other end. Mostly these were not large fish, maybe eight or nine pounds, but very welcome all the same. One time I managed a thirteen pounder and that was a red letter day never to be forgotten.
So, having moved from my beloved Yorkshire (yes, I know the Ribble is a Lancashire river) to Lincolnshire, what type of venue do I choose? I am lucky enough to have access to several waters, ignoring the river Trent which is a tad too large and well populated by anglers for my tastes. I prefer to visit mature ponds, meres or lakes that have an air of ‘Mr Crabtree’ about them. Most are carp waters but some have tench as well, and maybe the ever popular roach, or even crucian carp if I am lucky. These are all species that I have grown to like over the past years.
The gate has been opened and we are here. I park my van in a glade out of sight of the water and of the public road. I leave my tackles in the van and take a bait bag containing prepared chickpeas, maize and sweetcorn (no man-made baits for me). I have no use for boilies, or ‘wafters’ whatever they are; I much prefer natural baits. Bait bag in hand, I make my way along the path, through the long grass, passing the copse and then there is my first view of the pool. I have walked and fished this pool several times and after the close season lay off I just have a feeling that today if I take my time, bait up carefully and keep disturbance to a minimum, I may just, well, have a successful day.
But…I am not a person who must catch fish at all costs. If I blank or even only manage to catch the odd small fish, the solitude and being at one with nature in this lovely place will be enough.
Quietly making my way around, I head for a shallow bay where I feel I may get a glimpse of one of the pools scaly residents and, yes, there is a carp, lazily finning around. I quietly take my camera and do my best to capture the moment. The short video below captured the scene completely.
If I have no further luck today, this will do. I am feeling so privileged at having this encounter so I just take a moment to gather my senses. Moving on, I bait up three separate swims with a mixture of the three prepared baits I have with me. Then, making my way quietly back to the van, I gather my tackles and set off to my first pre-baited chosen swim. This swim is in a slightly deeper part of the water and I have hopes that a tench may grace me with a visit. Preparing the area, I set out my seat, bank sticks and net all to hand. I am using traditional tackles today, cane and pin, and another heavier cane rod that is matched with a vintage Mitchell 300. The cane and pin are for a hoped-for tench,and the Mitchell and Mk IV rod are for a hoped-for carp.
I have no time for long casts and there would be no point in doing so as the pre-baiting has been done no more than a couple of rod-lengths along the bank to my left and no further than a rod-length out: true margin fishing. The bait, a single chick pea, is flicked out onto the pre-baited area and has no more than a light link-ledger to aid its journey to the spot. A home-made bobbin indicator completes the set.
Once I am satisfied that the margin rod is in place I turn my attention to the second rod. It is an eleven-foot, three-piece, split-cane rod that I made myself some years ago. It is composed from parts of three separate rods; all had suffered at the hands of previous owners. Some careful dismantling, total stripping down, re-fitting of ferrules and, finally, rebuilding had provided me with a very capable rod which had the capability of (with careful use) mastering almost any fish which I was likely to encounter this day. I had christened the rod ‘The Water Rail’. Do not ask why, it just seemed fitting at the time and I had no reason to change the name.
I had introduced another handful of chick peas, maize and sweetcorn to the right-hand side of the swim, just at the edge of some water lilies. The reel was loaded with ten-pound strain line which may seem heavy for tench but I had encountered much larger fish than the intended tench here before and had no desire to lose such a capture due to using tackles not up to the job, so ten-pound line it was. It has been my experience that tench are not shy feeders and will readily take baits presented on what may seem heavy tackles. A size ten hook was tied direct to the reel line and a good quill float completed the ensemble. The baited hook is flicked out, the rod is placed in the rest and I sit quietly, taking in the pastoral scene.
The peace is suddenly shattered by the raucous calling of crows in the nearby copse. One bird calling soon alerts others and in no time the air is filled with the calls of corvids. They fly overhead and, just as quickly as they had sounded, they vanish and peace is restored.
My attention had momentarily been taken by the corvids and in that short time something magical was happening in the water to my right, a stream of tiny bubbles had appeared around my float. This could only mean one thing, a tench or, maybe more than one, was rootling around the baits I had introduced and my hookbait was hopefully in the centre of the tiny bubbles.
Now, I am sure every tench angler must love that first sighting of interest around his baits. I am no exception, and my hand was hovering over the rod, waiting for the tell-tale signs of a bite; either the float would rise up and lay flat or, yes, there it goes, the float would slowly slide off and away out of sight. Fish on! Butthis was no monster, only a smaller specimen of a tench but perfect in its own way. I net the tiny chap and he is lost in the folds. After the barbless hook is released, I place the net in the water to rest him but, as I do so, suddenly the bobbin on the Mk IV rod lifts and the Mitchell reel handle begins a slow anti-clockwise turn. This is unexpected. I lift into the fish and the rod takes on a healthy curve but it is no carp, no strong, jet propelled stubborn effort by the fish to head into the weeds or, indeed, off across the pool. Instead the fish stays deep and circles in the water below the rod tip. It seems intent on just avoiding being raised into the surface layers of the water. Slowly I raise the rod tip and eventually the fish reveals itself; it is in fact a further tench but one more sizeable than its earlier small cousin. I net the second tench and both fish are in the net at the same time. Both fish are rested and then released back into the pool. They have made me a very happy chap; today has already fulfilled its purpose and I have been here no more than two hours. I momentarily sit back on my seat to savour the moments.
Now, satisfied as I am, there is still time for another cast or a few. The MK IV Avon is baited again, this time with a kernel of prepared maize, and the float rod is baited this time with sweetcorn. Both are cast back into the same places, no point in wasting a pre-baited area.
I remember that I still have two further pre baited areas to explore. However, since this swim is proving fruitful it would (in my own humble opinion) be wasted effort to up-sticks and move, having spent so little time here. So wait I will; if nothing further happens I will move, otherwise…
The peaceful scene around me lulls into a sense of half wakefulness. I am used to rising early but maybe 3.30 am is a tad too early. I have not been up at such an unearthly hour since last year or, more correctly, last season, when it was a common occurrence. A long cold winter has come and gone since then and I have put on another seven or eight months worth of ‘padding’ so,yes, I am probably a bit lazy and this must be rectified and will be as the new season progresses.
My eyes slowly close, the birdsong is sweet to my ears and there is little else to intrude upon my reverie. A tractor can be heard some way away but it is only background noise and of no consequence. I slowly open my eyes and realise I have a thirst. Nothing is happening with reference to my baited rods so,reaching into my bag, I take out a water bottle and as I take a swig, a rattling noise alerts me to the Avon rod. Line is whirring from the spool and the counter rotating handle makes the rod swing from side to side. Yet again, fish on!
This time it quickly becomes apparent that this is no early season tench but, more probably, a feisty carp. The fish leads me a merry dance up and down the pool, first left then right and then out toward the centre of the pool, then back toward me at speed. Had this been on a centrepin I would have been hard pressed to keep up with the fish. As it is, the reliable if very dated Mitchell 300 reel is working as fast as it can. I am more or less in control, managing to keep the fish away from reed beds, trees and bushes that dip deeply into the water. Soon I sense the fish is tiring and the laminated cane landing net is dipped into the water. The fish, a common carp, slides into the net and its meshes gently enfold it.This time I lay the carp on the waiting unhooking mat, remove the barbless hook and take a second to appreciate it. A snap is in orderand, that done, I notice that there is some scale damage and apply a little antiseptic to the blemish, probably a spawning injury. The carp, probably about seven or eight pounds, the weight matters not, is rested in the margins in the folds of the net and afterwards swims off into the lily pads, no doubt to sulk for a while.
During all this commotion I had completely forgotten about ‘The Water Rail’. It had sat upon its bank-stick unnoticed, the float still stubbornly waiting to be disturbed. I placed the Mk IV rod in its rest, without rebaiting or casting it back in. Lifting the second rod, I batted the centrepin and in came the quill float. I threw a scattering of sweetcorn along the edge of the water lilies and re-baited with another juicy yellow kernel of corn. Dropping the baited hook no more than six inches from the edge of the lily pads, the quill float was sat just off the vertical, showing me that the bait was well on the bottom, just the place to catch the wary eye of a passing tench, I hoped. This time I placed the rod part on the bankstick and held the cork butt section in my right hand. I sat back content; should the day have no more surprises for me I would still go home a very happy man.
Once again I felt my eyes closing; the hum of insects, the birdsong and far off beat of the tractor had a soporific effect, coupled with the warm June sunlight. I could have quickly fallen asleep if it had not been for the slight sound of the ‘pin rotating against my knee.Looking down, line was slowly peeling from the reel and the float had vanished. I lifted into what I thought would be another tench but, no, there was a lovely redfin giving its best. Roach always seem to give a good account of themselves and this one was no exception, not huge by any means but a tad bigger than what I would call stock size and very welcome as well. The fish was obviously no match for the ten pound line and I was surprised that it had taken the corn on such relatively heavy tackles but no matter.
Time was moving along and as I had been up since the crack of dawn and had had what I would call a very successful morning’s fishing on the first day of my season, I decided to let the pools inhabitants rest awhile. My tackles were packed away and I slowly made my way back to the van.
As I drove along the track, I reflected that maybe in the years before 1995, the year the close season for still waters in England was abolished, this pool would probably have had a dozen anglers or more on the first day of the coarse season but today I had been the only angler present. I wondered just how much attention the country’s rivers received on this day. Thank you for joining me on this first day of my coarse fishing season…
Writing & Images David Craine – The Wolds, June 2026
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