‘Suddenly the tip of the Wondrex tapped twice and then lunged downstream. I grabbed the rod and felt a decent fish on the end, not huge but a fish nonetheless. I slowly played the fish back upstream, where Martin netted it for me‘
Our colleague, fellow raconteur and elder statesman Martin James invited me to a guided day on the river. Martin is arguably one of the best known current angling names in the UK, having a wealth of experience in all branches of our sport, whether game, coarse or sea angling. If you name it, the chances are that Martin has probably done it, and in the most esteemed of company. In fact Martin has three little letters after his name, these being MBE to indicate just how much he has been recognised as keeping angling ‘on the map’ over the years.
It was mid November 2022 and Martin, who had contacted me much earlier as a result of my interest and involvement with a brother internet platform that you may know as ‘TFF’,gave me a call. The phone call went something like “David, the water temperature has been steady for a couple of days and the level looks good, plus a few decent chub have been showing. Can you manage to get over and we can see if we can tempt a chub or two?”
Could I manage? Only one answer came to mind.
Plans were hastily altered at home and on the morning of Tuesday 8th November, after the forty mile drive to ‘Kingfishers’ , the name of Martin’s rural Lancashire home. Martin’s familiar countenance peered over the garden gate. We said our greetings and Martin climbed into the car.
Guiding me along Lancashire’s country lanes, we arrived at the banks of the Ribble and Martin’s fishing hut. After parking the car, we climbed out, I gathered my gear from the back and Martin proudly showed me the repair he had made on the wooden gate leading to the verandah in front of the hut.
You would not really know it but Martin has a bit of a sense of humour that he keeps hidden under his felt hat (…look for it later, the hat, I mean…). I looked at the gate, which was a ramshackle affair, leaning at a crazy angle against an upright post; it was cobbled together with baling twine and good intentions. He proudly said “Took me a good hour to fix that” with a beaming smile upon his face. Moving on, he said, “Grab your gear and come inside. Let’s have a cup of tea and decide what we are doing.”
Martin is an excellent host and, over a brew, Martin suggested we walk the bank of this particular stretch of the river. He would point out several known swims and advise as to the best way to approach fishing them. I gladly agreed, as a new water can be a bit of a puzzle sometimes and having this advice would hopefully be a short cut to success. Tea warming our stomachs, we gathered our gear together and marched off down the meadow to the far point of this stretch of water. The resident sheep had been taking an interest in the goings on but decided to keep clear as we made our way, rods and nets weaving about as we tramped the river bank. As we walked along, we talked about recent catches and the tackles we had used.
Martin is very much a traditional angler but is also very pragmatic in his approach to fishing. He knows he is no longer as young as he once was and in many ways would be considered somewhat frail due to his medical problems over the years. Martin, through perseverance and pure bloody mindedness has managed to overcome these and, with his steely determination, decided to continue to enjoy his lifetime’s work and enjoyment of angling. He has over the recent years, where appropriate, moved to use rods and lines that would be considered anything but traditional. Carbon fibre has helped greatly, being much lighter in hand, and as an octogenarian a carbon rod is keeping Martin out there and fishing and guiding when lesser mortals would have hung up their gear.
Eventually we reached a swim that Martin said should put me on a chub so I set up my seat with bait bucket to hand and made myself comfortable.
Martin fished about 30 yards downstream from me. I set my seat on the sloping bank and my golfer’s brolly sheltered me from the occasional drizzle which had set in since our morning brew. I followed his advice. I fixed a float stop on the line and a lump of plasticine wrapped around the stop as a rolling sinker, I fished straight through on 6lb mono, a size 8 hook with a distance of about fourteen inches from the weight. The hook was baited with bread flake, and a couple of balls of bread ‘mush’ graced the swim, hoping that any chub in the area would be enticed into seeking out my bait.
I was once again fishing on the Ribble after a couple of years sabbatical from fishing downstream at Ribchester. We fished in companionable silence, each trying different baits in an attempt to trick the watery inhabitants into taking an interest. Soon Martin shouted that he had a fish on. Looking downstream, I saw his rod was bucking and bending into a decent fish. What had he hooked? I wondered. Making my way down the bank I saw Martin was gaining line and upon my arrival I grabbed his net and after a spirited tussle banked a picture-perfect trout of a couple of pounds.
Martin was happy at this. Over the many years he has caught what must be hundreds or more specimen fish and in many exotic locations but this trout of maybe two pounds or so, caught on bread flake on his stretch of the Lancashire Ribble meant as much as any of them, even though it was an accidental catch when chub were the target. I snapped a couple of photos. Martin had carefully unhooked and released the fish to swim away undamaged. He was just a little ‘miffed’ that his day had been interrupted.
Things were quiet. I had a couple of taps on my rolling breadcrust and Spam but nothing to raise the blood pressure. Martin then shouted “Another fish here, David!“ I wound in my untouched bait and made my way downstream where Martin’s rod had another healthy bend in it. Martin was expertly guiding in a good fish and as I arrived he netted a decent chub. It was a nice fish and was returned carefully to swim away strongly. Two-nil to Martin..
Lunchtime was on the horizon. Martin said he was going to retreat to the fishing hut and prepare lunch. He would phone me, giving me a ten minute window to get back for lunch. Leaving me to fish solo, he gathered his gear and marched off across the meadow. Fate took a hand at this point. Martin had been gone for no more than a few minutes when I had a rod wrenching bite to my breadflake and connected with a chub; not large but large enough to need netting. It was brought to the bank without too many problems. I am the world’s worst at selfies but this is the photo of the fish. My apologies for the long face. (Editor’s note…a typically long face…)
The chub was returned no worse for the experience and a phone call told me that lunch was ready. Gathering up my bits and bobs I tramped across the field to the welcoming shelter of Martin’s hut where he had prepared a lunch composed of his signature hot sausage-rolls and tea, supplemented by some excellent fruit cake that my wife had baked for us.
Sitting there, Martin reminisced about the past, his trips overseas and his meetings with Dick Walker, Tag Barnes and many other angling legends. I could have sat listening for hours but the river once again sang its song and we were soon out again. I would like to say that the day progressed with many a fish gracing the net but sadly that did not happen. In fact, the weather broke and the wind and rain started and after a couple of fruitless hours sat watching the rod tip from underneath my small brolly and watching the river begin to rise at my feet, it was time to go.
I did not want to get caught in the tea-time traffic so the weather helped the decision. Dropping Martin off at home, we said our goodbyes and Martin’s parting words were “I will give you a call when the river is good for a day’s fishing.” I thanked him, said we must make a date, and set off home.
Fast forward now to Wednesday, 22nd February and once again Martin had taken the trouble to contact me a few days before, saying that the river was looking good and dropping after a recent flush of water. Would I like to pop across again and try for another chub? Of course I would. This time I was accompanied by another angling colleague, Graham, who had jumped at the chance to meet Martin.
We arranged to arrive early at about 8 am so as to get a reasonably full day on the river. Driving up to Martin’s home, he appeared at the gate dressed for the weather which was very cold, but as always wearing his trademark hat. After introductions, we set off once again for the Ribble…
This time I knew the way and in no time we were driving down the bumpy track to Martin’s hut where I parked the car and we unloaded the tackle. Martin was out of the car and into the hut straight away. He had been talking about tea on the way and it was my bet that he was already putting the kettle on. Graham and I donned our warm fishing clothing, leaned our rods and nets against the fence where the sheep in the meadow seemed to be taking a lot of interest in our antics.
We turned and made our way to the hut where Martin was just about to call, as I guessed he had a steaming kettle, and three mugs of piping hot tea were waiting for us. We sat down at the table and, looking around, we could see a fly rod and reel gracing the rafters, landing net and coarse rods propped in the corner, a pair of waders hooked up and waiting to be used, the odd bits of tackle, reels, etc. on the cabinet tops; it was the archetypal fishing-hut.
Martin began to explain his plan for the day. He would walk the bank with us, see us settled in a couple of likely swims and then he would head off downstream to give another swim a couple of hours. Baits were to be the ever reliable bread flake or Spam cubes. I had also brought along some worms and Graham had a half pint of maggots, or gentles as Martin likes to call them.
Graham settled in the swim where I had the chub on my last visit and I fished the next swim down. Seeing us settled,Martin tramped off downstream, obviously having a plan. The next couple of hours I tried bread and Spam but could not tempt a bite. I fully expected Graham to have some interest in his feeder stuffed with maggots from a trout or maybe a grayling. But the rod tips stayed stubbornly static and I eventually changed tactics, fishing a couple of redworms on a size ten hook with a lump of plasticine as a sinker.
I cast in and let it slowly bump its way down through the swim, on the edge of a crease formed where a fallen tree had entered the water on the opposite bank. The rod tip twitched and pulled around a little. I was convinced it was not a fish at all, maybe a leaf or similar fouling the line. I left the rod and bait to either develop into a proper bite or to continue its track downstream. The rod tip continued to rattle so I wound in and found the smallest trout firmly attached to the hook. I gave it ten out of ten for persistence.
Well, that was my blank beaten, I suppose. Graham continued to try several different baits but still had no interest. I recast and had a definite bite on a large piece of breadflake but failed to connect striking into nothing. Martin appeared on the bank behind me saying that he was returning to the hut to prepare lunch. Ever the good host Martin took the time to suggest that after lunch we should move swims. He had had a couple of ‘twitchy’ bites down river and maybe we would like to try there. With a cheery smile Martin trudged off across the meadow.
It seemed as if the river was telling us that we needed lunch, by being stubbornly absent of fish at least just here, so we gathered together our things and made our way back to the hut, passing the sheep who seemed to have lost interest in us. Once inside, Martin already had steaming mugs of tea waiting and was busy at his stove, the table had been set and the smell of hot sausage rolls filled the cabin. We discussed the lack of bites; maybe the water temperature had dropped causing the fish to become lethargic? Martin, whilst serving lunch, told us that he had taken the temperature on arriving at his swim and it had been OK but the water was a bit coloured; in all we agreed that there should be fish moving and we just had to find them.
Once again the conversation turned to Martin’s angling exploits over the years but it was not only the angling interests, with many other subjects keeping us entertained. All too soon it was time to return to the river. Martin elected to remain in the hut as he had a few things to do but did walk out to the meadow with us suggesting that luncheon meat would be a good bait this afternoon.
We made our way through the meadow to a spot where the river began a long meander to the left, giving a good depth and width of water to explore. The current was much slower than upstream, and there was a back eddy just below my feet.
I cast out the Spam bait. In fact, taking Martins advice, it was not one but two lumps of Spam mounted one behind the other. It was Martin’s thoughts that sometimes a chub will come along gently peck at the first Spam bait, maybe even managing to remove it, then feeling safe in the knowledge that there was no hook there would come back for the second bait, sometimes anything up to ten minutes later. The rig was 6lbs line straight through to a size eight barbless hook and the sinker was a piece of plasticine moulded around an adjustable float mount which allowed it to slide up and down the line if required.
Trusting the Hardy Mitre ‘Super Wondrex’ and 6 lbs line to safely handle the bait and any potential catch despite it being labelled a float rod (!), I set the rod in the rest with line just about tight to the rod tip. The Mitchell 300 reel was behaving flawlessly as always. Bait was positioned roughly midstream and about thirty yards down. I had been warned that the nearside bank downstream was a jumble of rocks, like much of the lower Ribble, so wanted to keep away from any potential known snags. The trap was set…
Above me, Graham was persevering with his maggot-feeder but having no success. I had a few half- hearted taps on the rod-tip; obviously there was something there but maybe the bait was too big or maybe whatever it was not really interested, or maybe Martin’s theory about the two-bait rig was working. I kept an eye on the rod whilst also in conversation with Graham. He had changed his bait to Spam and was also getting small taps to the rod tip. We were both anticipating and hoping for a bite.
A couple of people passed by on the footpath behind us, asking how we were doing. Joking, I replied things were so busy that I may just go along with them for a walk to have a rest. Laughing, they made their way along the path, passing Martin who was approaching, his ‘jobs’ having been completed, and was coming to see how we were doing in the new swims. As he approached, suddenly the tip of the Wondrex tapped twice and then lunged downstream. I grabbed the rod and felt a decent fish on the end, not huge but a fish nonetheless. I slowly played the fish back upstream, where Martin netted it for me; it was a chub. I thought it might go three pounds, so not big as chub go. I am no specimen hunter and if any fish graces my net then it is pleasing to see. Martin must keep records and as he asked to weigh it, it went 3lbs 8oz. The fish was gently returned to the river and swam away strongly.
I now had to consider: did the two-bait theory work or was it just a coincidence? Sitting on the bank, in conversation with Martin and Graham, it was obvious that Martin enjoyed just being there; he looked after the river and in return it gave him so much back, and in so many ways.
We fished on for a further hour but rain clouds started to appear, a cold wind began to track upstream and the weather had every appearance of turning from cold and clear to cold,wet and windy, so we decided to call it a day. Graham had not managed to catch and I had managed one micro trout and a chub.
Walking back to the hut, we discussed the day and what we could have done differently but came to no firm conclusions. We considered that fishing was not just about catching, after all there is so much more to be gained from being out in the countryside and if we didn’t appreciate this then maybe we should have another pastime.
Martin asked us back but this time saying that we should if possible fish into darkness as that is when the river really comes alive so now I am sat at home, waiting for the next phone call from Lancashire and a voice with a definite ‘down sarff’ accent, saying “The river is looking good, the fish are feeding, do you fancy an evening on the Ribble?”
I know it will be worth the wait…
Writing & Photographs David Craine, Lincolnshire, Winter 2025
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