David Craine – The value of a diary, an entry from a few years back

Today is June the sixteenth and the long awaited opening of the coarse fishing season for us. However the date clashes rather nicely with the Piscatorial Raconteurs June edition, thus no contemporary catch reports can be published here. Instead, I have harked back to a diary entry from a June of a few years ago.

I was sat at home; it was quite early, about 8.00 am. Outside, the weather was a tad on the damp side with a fine drizzle which gave the trees and fields a fine sheen in the grey morning light. There were grey clouds overhead and really the sun did not offer any early hope on this dampest of days. The most depressing thing was that it was mid-June, the coarse season had opened with not so much of a bang and, more of a muted pop for me, the rivers were not really up to form yet and my favourite fish, the barbel, was stubbornly refusing to bite.

I was planning not very much at all and I was well, fidgety is the word, I think. I had a few jobs that needed doing, a reel to service for a boat-fishing friend, a Bentwood net-frame commission to complete, a couple of rods that needed a rebuild and a ring to replace on another friend’s boat rod.

Plenty to do, I hear you say, but today I…well… I could not be bothered and wanted something different. I had spent quite a few days in the workshop recently and it’s all well and good having a workshop but sometimes the mind craves something different to while away an hour or two. I had no plans.

The phone rang and, answering it, I heard the voice of my long time friend and angling companion Graham. We have known each other for over forty years and in all that time he always, well at least on the telephone, calls me “Mr Craine.“

“Hello Mr Craine. Have you a spare couple of hours today? I fancy a dangle and wondered if you wanted to join me.”

Suddenly the drizzle did not seem so bad. I asked where he fancied going, to which he replied: “I was rather hoping you may have an idea, just for a few hours maybe, not a long stay.

The mid-June was dull with wet weather, warm and muggy with a faint ‘fret’ rising from the fields; misty and mysterious. Where could we go until tea time? I pondered…

I said I would check my diaries and get back to him in ten minutes. Meanwhile he could throw his gear into the car,along with whatever bait he had, and make his way here. 

I retrieved my diaries from the drawer in the workshop, where they nestled cosily with some of the odds and ends of a lifetime’s angling. ‘What is the date today?’ I wondered as I thumbed my way through the pages.

I looked back through the pages to days past and, yes, there was a trip recorded, not the exact same date, but certainly the week was correct. We had fished a small farm pond and had a good day catching small carp, a few tench and the usual silver fish; not challenging and, best of all, we could use what I call ‘corner-shop bait’, bait that is always available, either in the cupboard or from almost any grocer’s shop en route.

Reading the entry, it said, ‘Fished 10am to 3pm…only anglers there…warm and dry…slight westerly wind. Baits: bread, corn and the old staple ‘spam’. The diary entry indicated that I had caught a few silver fish, a few tench, a couple of small crucians and I had lost a bigger fish, perhaps a carp, when it kited under a fallen tree. So, not a red letter day but just a pleasant few hours at the waterside.

Decision made, I made that all important trip upstairs to where my wife was busying herself. I said I was going fishing for the day with Graham but would be home for tea.Permission granted, I was off back downstairs.

Back in the workshop I gathered together a ‘Bitsa’ rod that I had constructed from three separate pieces of scavenged split cane. This was married up to a Rapidex that had sat in the reel drawer for too long without an outing. I also threw in a Mitchell 300 that I had owned since I was about sixteen years old and a second, unnamed split-cane rod that had come to me as a gift for rebuilding a rod for a colleague.

I suppose you could say that the tackles were, if anything,well used and a tad on the battered side, with evidence of a lifetime’s being carted around by various previous owners, being snuggled in holdalls or nestling alongside any amount of a fisherman’s paraphernalia in a canvas bag. There is a reason for this….

I have no real time for shiny ‘named’ rods, concourse vintage reels or, indeed commercially obtained accoutrements. My tackle is for using and not for looking at; these old items would perform in my experience equally as well as any Hardy, Aspindale, Aerial etc and, what is more, I would not be unduly concerned if a rod suddenly developed a delamination or a reel had a catastrophic failure. Any such accident could be made right again in the workshop.

Rod rests, my bentwood net and, of course, a box with the bits and pieces we all love so much, a few floats, sinkers, hooks, shot etc and not forgetting the catapult; the gear was almost complete and packed in my green canvas bag. Don’t forget the brolly, David…

A hasty ten minutes in the kitchen provided a snack for myself; a few biscuits, an apple and my ever faithful flask. Even on a hot day I take a flask containing coffee with me. I would prefer tea but I find that flasks tend to stew any tea and for a few hours angling a Kelly kettle would be overkill, I thought. 

Everything was in my canvas bag, along with a loaf, some frozen spam from my bait freezer and an unopened tin of sweetcorn. I would have liked a few worms to complete the ensemble but on a short-notice trip I would have to do without.

Grabbing my fold-up seat, green bag and canvas rod holdall and, managing to drop everything at least once, I made my way to the door, stopping to grab a coat, over-trousers and hat.I hate fishing in the rain and today it was damp; you know, the kind of rain that makes you wet. I had the old brolly in the holdall so hopefully I would stay half dry. Just before leaving the house I shouted upstairs: “I’m off now“, and made a quick phone call to Graham, saying we would be heading over the border to ‘Bandit Country’ or Lancashire as it is also known. 

Fast forward a tad…Graham had picked me up and I said: “Head for the hills.”

”What hills? It’s all blinking hills around here.” was his answer.

I gave him the name of the destination, he smiled and said: “Not been there for an age. Here’s hoping it has not changed.” After about a half hour we were entering the farmyard. I waved at the farmer who was looking up from underneath an ageing tractor. He waved back and ambled over to the car. We exchanged a few words and paid for the day tickets. He remembered us from our visits previously and said with a smile: “Don’t be strangers; it’s too long since you visited.” He gave us a few tips as to what had been caught and where, and wished us luck. 

Parking up, we saw there were no other cars there, which meant there were no other anglers, so we had the place to ourselves. We grabbed our tackle, dressed in our wet weather gear and made our way through the gate, past the sheep and over the field to the pond. It was still drizzling but quite warm. We chose our swims and tackled up. I decided to fish close in over some weed with the float rod and set up the ledger rod to my right. I started off by firstly feeding a hand-full of corn to the right, very near to a reed-bed bay where I had had tench previously and catapulted a few loosely rolled small bits of bread where I intended to float fish. Job done, I set about assembling the rods. I opted to fish with a light, link-ledgered corn bait in front of the reeds to the right; a bobbin indicator would alert me to any interest in the bait.

I cast out a small piece of bread flake across the reed-bed in front of me and placed my landing net to hand in case a networthy fish should suddenly appear. I knew that there were tench to several pounds here and wanted to be ready ‘just in case.’

The rain had temporarily stopped so, feeling much cheered up, I poured a cup of coffee. As is always the case, as I did so the float dipped and slid away slowly. Connecting with the fish it was obvious it was no monster; a lovely little redfin had taken a fancy to the breadflake.

Happy to see the little fish I took a hasty snap and gently set it back in the water; it swam away without a backward glance.Having baited up and recast, I sat back to finish the coffee when the rain started again.

This was no fun. I put up the brolly and settled down. Looking to my left, I saw Graham was nestled under his own brolly. Was he catching fish? I knew not but my float was dipping again and needed my attention; this time a lovely little crucian carp had taken a fancy to the breadflake. So, two species in my first casts; things were going well despite the rather wet weather.

The sweetcorn did not seem to be attracting any attention. I sprayed a few more free offerings in the area where I had cast the corn bait and settled back under the brolly. I was not concerned that there had been no interest so far, as it could take time for a patrolling tench to come across the baited area. 

Now my attention was back to the float and it remained motionless in the rain; it seemed the breadflake was being ignored. I decided to have a change of baits to see if something different would tempt the scaly occupants of this pleasant little pond. 

I was staying dry and comfortable so that was fine; any fish was a bonus on what had been an unscheduled trip. 

Things continued in a similar manner and, as the day moved on, I had a few more small roach and a small perch had grabbed a piece of luncheon meat as it was wound in. What it had mistaken it for is anybody’s guess but nevertheless it was something different and showed that my lack of garden worms had not limited the ability to tempt a different variety of species. There was no sign of any more crucians though, which was a puzzle as they could be quite prolific once they had found a swim with bait being presented. 

A confused perch perhaps…

As I sat watching the float, it bobbed and this time a lovely small tench graced my net; fin-perfect and a fine example of how the fishery was developing. This was target achieved, not the size I would have liked but nevertheless it was a pretty little fish which would no doubt one day grow into a sizeable specimen. A quick photo and it was released.

Thinking it was time to check the sweetcorn bait, I placed the float rod in the rest. As I did so, suddenly the bobbin on the bottom rod jerked twice and then shot up, banging the split cane. The Mitchell 300 started to backwind, a classic ‘churner’ as we used to call it. I had not engaged the anti-reverse purposely. I grabbed the rod but the line went slack and whatever had taken the sweetcorn had dropped the bait.

Winding in, the sweetcorn was gone. I rebaited, set the rod in the rest with its bobbin once again adjusted to indicate any bites, the reel was once again set without the anti-reverse engaged. Satisfied, I sat back down, soon the rain stopped and some gaps were appearing in the clouds. 

The weather was improving by the minute, soon the brolly was dry and I was getting rather warm in my waterproofs. These were removed and I sat there in the watery sunshine, pleased that the weather was improving and I had had a couple of different species. I had a coffee and munched on a biscuit. Looking round, I saw that Graham was having a bit of success; he was netting a fish that looked decent from a distance. I did not want to bother him, nor leave my rods unattended, so we would have to have a catch-up later. I sat back and mused over the venue.

This little pond was the result of the farmer clearing out a silted-up farm pond some years ago; at first this was as a personal fishery, something any angler would probably give a right arm for. Over time he had dug it out, managed the stream that fed the pond and mapped the contours of the bottom. He created swims that although they were actually man made, had the look of being completely natural; reed beds had been planted and matured, water-lilies took root, The farmer had obviously taken the time and trouble to consult his angling friends who were not of the ‘carp or nothing’ mindset. He had a nicely mixed fishery with a good head of mixed species. There were perch to a good size if you had the patience to find them, and the silver fish and tench provided anglers with regular sport. What were missing were pike and bream. 

Yes, there were carp present but also a nice mix of crucian, some mirrors, and a few larger commons that could be seen patrolling the margins occasionally. It certainly was not the archetypal commercial Fishery; the farmer, himself an angler,did not want the pond to be such a place. He had decided after a few years to open the place as a day ticket venue but had no night-fishing, no ‘bivvies’, a two rod limit and a keepnet ban; all things which I could heartily support.

A fallen tree which I had lost a fish under before had been removed and now the banks had repaired themselves; all in all, a pleasant place that was well managed and not overly busy, a rare thing indeed.

I was jerked back to reality when the bobbin on the bottomrod once again jerked upward once… twice…then the reel started its back-winding dance. No mistaking this; a bite! I rushed over to the rod, removed the bobbin and lifted into the fish which was heading across and to the right-hand side of the pond, towards the reed bed. It felt like a good fish and I did not want it to gain sanctuary amongst the reds so applied as much side-strain as I could safely manage. It worked; the fish turned and headed off in the opposite direction. There then followed a game of cat and mouse but I steadily gained the upper hand and was soon sliding the bentwood net under my best fish of the day, not huge at all but very satisfying, a tench of about two and a half pounds or so. 

Graham had seen the rod bending and came around to see what the fuss was about. He took a quick snap and said: “A bit smaller than mine Mr Craine. You will have to do better.”

I laughed; I was not concerned at the size. The fish was rested for a few minutes in the landing net and then swam slowly away.

All too soon it was time to pack up and leave. The pond had provided us with a few hours of first damp, then warm and dry entertainment. A few fish had graced our nets; nothing to write home about but what had started for me as another day in the workshop had improved no end. As we left we bade our farewells to the farmer and gave him a short catch report. As we drove away he waved and shouted: “Don’t leave it so long until next time.

”Writing & Images – David Craine, Summer 2024