‘I have assembled the necessary items of tackle in anticipation of an Esox encounter, including a net large enough to land a St. Bernard, a stout Sharpe’s of Aberdeen salmon spinning rod & a large Hardy Altex stationary drum reel’
There’s something amiss…the river is just not co-operating… In fact, it’s having a proper sulk. I’ve visited on numerous occasions, walked the banks, popped into several swims, but I’ve not had any contact with the chub which in previous seasons have obliged me with a cane-crooking tussle, and a sporting chance of teasing a plump Squalius Cephalus into a readied net. In point of fact, the mesh has remained frustratingly dry since its last dip in June.
I’ve tried to charm and entice my quarry to the hook with the most aromatic and flavoursome bait reputedly favoured by this most hesitant and timid species. However, notwithstanding my very best attempts to create a cheese paste of superlative flavour, texture and aroma, I have tragically remained ‘piscator defectus’.
Having chatted with my fellow anglers, however, it would seem that I am not alone in my failings. Those fishing locally also appear similarly afflicted with this malediction cast upon the disfavoured, i.e. those of us who dare deploy a baited hook in pursuit of the ‘most fearfullest of fishes.’ Of course, that’s utter bunkum. If one brings logic to bear, there has to be a rational explanation for my recent lack of glory. Given that others have, and still do, struggle to capture a chub of any stature, I have concluded that they are simply not there anymore. So, where have they gone and if they have gone, for what reason, and will they ever come back?
I am inclined to believe that there is little point flogging the proverbial ‘mortuus equus,’ a term my Latin master often used to describe his attempts to teach me the rudiments of a language I had little use, nor aptitude, for. However, despite his condemnation of my prowess, I do understand some Latin and, having once admitted regret at my scholarly shortcomings, my wife bought me a book: “Latin For Idiots.” I stopped reading this when I noticed that in the ‘vocab’ section there appeared the Latin word for helicopter.
I have therefore conceded defeat, tended my wounded ego and, in order to preserve soundness of mind, shall target other species. One’s hopes can remain as such, without resolution, or we can abandon ambition to wilt like an ill attended pot plant and move on. Sometimes, it’s best to simply place our unfulfilled aspirations on the back burner and embrace a new agenda.
A wise and experienced angling guru once told me, “Fish where you know there’s fish.” It’s an obvious statement really but fishing where one simply hopes there may be fish is not going to inspire the sort of confidence needed to fish effectively and efficiently; doubt is the enemy.
I know for sure that there are grayling present in my local river, as they are the staple species netted by the winter league competitors. When the rain stops and the gales blow themselves out, I shall trot a float through the chub swims with the fervent hope of snaring a worthy Thymallus.
As to the other noble inhabitants of our rivers, I have always had a predilection for pike, a species I have not hunted in earnest, yet they have fascinated me for as long as I can remember. I’ve caught a couple by mistake when lure fishing for perch, although I’ve never resolutely pitted my wits against these worthy apex predators. I will therefore seek guidance and wise counsel from friends who are seasoned Esox hunters. I wouldn’t embark on a solo session until I have some training and experience in the process of separating fish and tackle to the mutual benefit, and safety, of both hunter and hunted.
From my research and discussions with those whom I consider expert, there is much to consider and prepare for, and much to anticipate and appreciate, with experience of the craft. I have assembled the necessary items of tackle in anticipation of an Esox encounter, including a net large enough to land a St. Bernard, a stout Sharpe’s of Aberdeen salmon spinning rod and a large Hardy Altex stationary drum reel. These weapons represent the heavy artillery of my angling armoury and will be pressed into service to tame the monster I am most assuredly likely to encounter in my predator pursuits.
I have acquired a number of ancient, cork-bodied floats which could best be described as ‘requiring significant remedial work.’ These have subsequently received my best attention and now pass muster for the purpose originally intended. I am given to believe that this style of float was originally called a Fishing Gazette float, or bung, incorporating a slotted aperture into which a stick was inserted to trap the line. I have converted a couple of these to a slider style, simply by replacing the wooden stick with a tube.
So, I am looking forward to an opportunity to try my hand at dead baiting for the ‘water wolf’ which, I have recently discovered, translates to Esox Lucius in Latin. Now, why didn’t my Latin master teach me something useful like that?
Jeremy Croxall – Derbyshire, 2025
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