‘The night came and we slipped into position. I was hoping John would get the first fish so gave him what I thought was the best spot in the swim. We both cast out and…nothing. I felt like the proverbial Wally, having built the night-fishing expectations up all day into epic proportions’
The time is coming up to four and, with the winter solstice just around the corner, I am struggling to make out my rod tip in the gloom. The small amount of anglers who braved the cool drizzly day out on the river bank have now all disappeared. While for them their day is well and truly over, for me it really has only just begun. The last three hours were spent baiting, making some speculative casts and generally prepping the areas I have decided to target for my after-dark campaign.
I am fishing for chub but not just any chub; I’m after the most wary ones that have mastered the art of not getting caught by anything or anyone and have grown very large. A seven pounder is not out of the question on this incredible river, with several reported each season. And I will do my best to hook one of these fantastically rare creatures with an after-dark cast into a swim which has been baited during daylight hours.
I’m hoping that the biggest fish have lost their natural caution through hours of undisturbed feeding and, as a result, have pushed all the smaller ones aside and are now totally preoccupied with stuffing themselves on my bread-mash, hemp and scraps of cheese and spam. So, when I eventually drop my tempting morsel between them, it will be taken within minutes, no, within seconds, by the fattest, greediest fish in the shoal. And if that doesn’t work in one spot I have three others prepped and ready to go.
A nomadic approach is best for this style of fishing and not only does it mean I spread my chances, but I also avoid getting frozen to the river bank if it gets frosty. The only thing that will ruin it now is another angler, God forbid. I haven’t seen anyone else for at least an hour now and the later it gets, the more unlikely it is for anyone to show.
Night-time for me has become a big part of my fishing in recent years. How I came to be so comfortable on my own in the dark didn’t happen overnight! But, joking aside, I was always one for spooking myself with a vivid imagination. However, by slowly building on staying later into the dark on frequent fishing trips, after a while I made that switch where the night-time suddenly just no longer worried me. I think the biggest revelation was realising that, once the light levels stopped dropping through the evening, it became easier to focus with eyes adjusted to the consistent darkness, especially if use of the torch was kept to a minimum, on jobs like tying hooks or weighing record chub!
The orange glow from a nearby town, reflecting off cloud cover, does have its advantages too. I appreciate there may be a few eyebrows being raised at this point and I am very aware of the negative impact light pollution has on the environment and wildlife. But fishing these places that never really get totally dark because of nocturnal orange cloud cover can make the whole experience (dare I say) positively cosy. Like a peregrine nesting on the top of a high-rise in the middle of a city, please don’t begrudge me taking advantage of what is already there.
A place I’d go to, where this effect was most prevalent was on the river Colne. I fished a stretch sandwiched between Heathrow, two miles south, and a 1950s housing estate on the opposite bank. With so much light pollution around, it was almost brighter at night than in the day when the cloud was thick in the dead of winter. The place was surprisingly quiet too because of the way the runway was positioned and good for wildlife, being surrounded by lots of trees and reed beds. I would always see lots of red kites and buzzards along with kingfishers and the resident otters after dark. No one else really fished it either; in fact I barely ever saw another soul down there.
There was a swim I called ‘old board’ because of a platform the then disbanded fishing club had made which jutted out from a reed bed. I drilled a hole in it to support my trusty old rod rest and it soon became my favourite. A tree fell down next to it later on, making it totally enclosed and almost impossible to stumble over if you didn’t know it already existed. So taken was I with the spot that I described it in my fishing diary as like going through a portal into another world. It wasn’t always like this though – on nights without any atmosphere when nothing was stirring, the spell would easily break. But when the night was charged and electric I would take full advantage. It helped if the fish were in an obliging mood as well, of course. I even went there once in the close season, minus a rod, to see if I could conjure up that same feeling, but the night was dead and I guess no spell can be cast without a wand.
After moving to Dorset and leaving this ‘diamond in the rough’ behind, I thought I would never get back to that nocturnal other world. The first winter I arrived and I couldn’t find a place in which I felt settled enough to fish long after dark. But, by searching high and low, I have found a place with all of the right hallmarks for total immersion. It’s a bit of a drive to get here but,as the saying should go, distance makes the heart grow fonder.
I’ve now got myself totally organised for the night shift. It’s not a great look, scrabbling around on a muddy bank in the dark and not knowing where anything is. Besides, the last thing you want is a family of otters laughing at you!
So, I have spare hooks and weights ready in my pockets, along with a small set of forceps and a spring balance. I do have a bigger set of scales in the bag for exceptional fish. As you may have picked up, I’m a bit obsessed with the size of my fish. I’m also wearing one of those hats with a bright torch in the front which, as I said earlier, only gets switched on for the fiddly jobs. My bait is next to me, all contained in a small canvas bag.
I am using my classic ‘Tookes Special’, twelve feet of quality split bamboo, coupled with my go-to Hardy Altex and six pound line running right through to a size six, wide-gape, barbless hook. The weight is a couple of swan shot on a length of line to keep the bait mobile. The river has been up for the last week but the section I’m fishing has a nice slack in the bank where I think the fish will be hanging out tonight.
I’ve also attached one of those green night-lights to the tip of my rod, using a chunky float rubber, ready for my first cast of the evening. In the past I’ve missed way too many savage takes by leaving the rod on the ground and watching the tip alone. I now fish after dark with my rod in my lap, one hand lightly gripped around the handle with the other feeling the line for bites and a rod rest out in front to take the weight. The bonus with this set-up is that I can look out and around at the river, do some star gazing on frosty nights or, if I’ve had enough of it all, have a little snooze. It’s amazing how a pluck on the fingers pulls you out from an aqua doze.
Last year I invited my friend John here, who I originally met on the banks of the river Mole years ago. We fished a stretch further up-river during a rather mild spell in February. It had also been wetter than of late and, as a result, the river was higher than it is today. I knew he was no stranger to a big fish or two, so thought I’d take him to a spot where I’d had some proper clonkers out earlier that season. We caught a few decent chub elsewhere through the day on trotted bread flake, which was great fun. I kept peeling off to bait up the big chub spot and two backups just in case.
The night came and we slipped into position. I was hoping John would get the first fish so gave him what I thought was the best spot in the swim. We both cast out and…nothing. I felt like the proverbial Wally, having built the night-fishing expectations up all day into epic proportions. After an hour, he decided to go back to his car to get some refreshments while nothing was happening.
I suspect you already know what’s coming. As I watched his torch-light moving off down-river in the direction of the car park, twang went my line, followed by a few later taps of the rod tip and I was soon steering a four pound chub over my net. He wasn’t even back at his car when I gave him a call to tell him the news. I felt I should probably wait for him to return before having another cast but just couldn’t help myself. So I flicked a small lump of meat out and another bite followed, but this I missed.
Some time passed and I started to wonder where he’d got to. Another cast and this time I felt a subtle tap on my line and then a shudder on the night-light. I could feel the fish shuffling around with my bait in its mouth. For some reason I didn’t strike, then came the thought that I’d left it too long, followed by that sinking feeling but then… tap, tap and BANG! I lifted the rod into a powerful fish. It sat still for ages in the deep water far out in the darkness. Next, it took some line slowly, ponderously the fish moved away from me, never leaving the river bed and never making a mad dash for freedom. The fish eventually surfaced near the bank and after a few heart-stopping lunges I managed to bundle it into the net. With both hands grasped around the rim of the net, I lifted the great chub out of the water after having waited for John to return. He gave out the right noises as I laid it down in the long grass behind us. We both stared for a while, the fish’s scales shimmering in the torch light. I got the big scales out from my bag and, after subtracting the net, found that the weight came to a rather hefty six pounds ten ounces. Obviously I threw it back in disgust, embarrassed it wasn’t over the seven-pound mark. But of course this didn’t happen, I’m just being silly, and anyway it’s not in my nature to take such things for granted. Needless to say, I drove back home that night with my head still spinning.
Although tonight I am not expecting anything close to that fish of last year, I am expecting something fishy to go down. The big chub in this river seem to feed better during a prolonged arctic blast or, conversely, in high water when the river is lapping around your feet. Even though neither of these are the case today, I do feel a charge in the air and it is heavy with anticipation.
The earlier drizzle and cool breeze have now stopped, making the evening feel warmer than the day. The heavy cloud cover and general gloom has lifted to a thin veil and, as a result, the street-lights from the nearby town now only have a small influence on the night. My green glow-stick is showing up well in the dark. A barn owl is screeching somewhere behind me, waking up after a short day’s sleep. I have crept into position and am now quietly sat with rod in hand and bail-arm open. I take a deep breath before swinging my bait out into the dark night.
My senses are sharp and I know there is at least one feeding fish down there in my spot. In less than five minutes’ time, I will be proven right when my line will draw out, the slack will tighten and the rod-tip pull over. Even though I am very sure that all this is going to happen, it will still come as a huge surprise when it does. In fact it will come as an even bigger surprise exactly because I am so sure of this happening.
It’s such a joy to be back…
Writing & Images Edward Barrett – Dorset, Winter 2025
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