‘I’ve always had a fascination with the indigenous apex predator; the fearsome water wolf, hunter killer of our rivers, lakes and lochs. They really are a force of nature, powerful and cunning, sublime carnivores that have changed little during an evolutionary period dating back millions of years’
Prologue
The final days of the river season can be quite dispiriting. Not only does it herald the cessation of piscatorial pursuits, it provokes reflection upon one’s success, or lack thereof, and if the latter prevails then the gloom clouds weigh heavy on one’s horizon.
My season had started reasonably well with the capture of a fine chub from my local river; a harbinger, perhaps, of good fortune during the months to come. Sadly, that was not to be the case. I became more and more disillusioned as the season wore on. It got to a point where I became so demoralised that I considered throwing in the towel. Was it my poor technique, polluted water, adverse river conditions, bad weather or predation? Who knows, maybe all of these things conspired against me and it was just down to rotten luck.
“Our doubts are traitors, and make us lose the good we oft might win, by fearing to attempt.”
(William Shakespeare)
Luck is akin to a strong tide. You’re either being euphorically swept along with it, making good progress or, conversely, struggling against its power and might. I felt as though I’d been punching the tide all season. To redress the balance of fortune, I needed a change of direction, a new venture. I was stuck in a rut and needed to break free; steer a different course towards a more fulfilling destination. Happily, two of my angling chums, both seasoned pike anglers, came to my aid.
I’ve always had a fascination with the indigenous apex predator; the fearsome water wolf, hunter killer of our rivers, lakes and lochs. They really are a force of nature, powerful and cunning, sublime carnivores that have changed little during an evolutionary period dating back millions of years. Fossil records exist from the Cretaceous, the period when dinosaurs roamed our planet. Nothing prepared me, though, for what was to be my first encounter with these magnificent creatures.
Kevin and Paul kindly offered to coach me through my first attempts, employing a float-rigged dead bait. The fabulous Warwickshire Avon was to be the theatre of operations for mydebut performance. The river meanders through the lush Warwickshire countryside and it historically served as an arterial route to the inland port of Stratford-upon-Avon.William Shakespeare made his home here and I too called it home when I lived here during my youth. I always feel at home when returning to this fine county and today was no exception.
I fancy The Bard himself once angled here with hazel twig and a line woven from horse hair, perhaps seeking inspiration for his great works, or maybe it served as an escape from the demands placed upon such literary genius.
“I like this place and could willingly waste my time in it.”
(William Shakespeare)
During my journey southwards, I began to ponder on my likely mood during the return journey; what events would fill the void between the sun rising just ahead of me, and the gloaming, as I neared my journey’s end. My inner being spoke to me: “Just one fish, that would do. That would make it worthwhile. It needn’t be a big one; four to five pounds would be fine. I just don’t want to blank…yet again.”
I had prepared myself for what was to be the last event of the river season. I had acquired a stout salmon spinning rod manufactured by Sharpes of Aberdeen, just shy of ten feet and powerful enough to cope with any pike resident in the river. A Hardy Altex No3 Mk.V reel had been purchased at the Redditch tackle fair (under Kevin’s approving gaze) and was the ideal tool to partner the rod.
I’d bought a job lot of cork-bodied pike bungs or ‘Gazette Floats’ as I later discovered to be their correct description. They were cheap but in pretty poor fettle, so I set about refurbishing them with repairs to the cork, a lick of paint and varnish. I converted some of them to sliders, simply by removing the stick and inserting a tube. The slot was filled with bits of cork to smooth them out. At Paul’s suggestion, I’d made up some rigs using circle hooks and they were to be used on the day.
The journey south from Derbyshire passed without incident and I was soon enjoying a cappuccino in Kevin’s kitchen.
“Give me mine angle, we’ll to th’river; there.”
(William Shakespeare)
We journey down to the river in fine style, my first trip in ‘Wallis’, Kevin’s recently acquired Land Rover. Paul had stolen a march on us and was tackling up bankside…
Act I
We tackled my rod up and I made my first cast, a short lob alongside an overhanging tree. Paul told me to watch the float for a wobble or a twitch, and to anticipate the float sinking and gliding away.
“…and greedily devour the treacherous bait.”
(William Shakespeare)It wasn’t long before it did precisely that. I pointed the rod at the float and wound down until I felt resistance, then, raising the rod I felt the fish kick. I shouted to Paul in the next swim. He hurried over but just as he appeared the line went slack… I had been too hasty in winding into the fish and the hook hadnot got a hold. Disappointed, but encouraged at some activity, I re-baited and cast again.
I fervently hoped that my fluffed previous attempt wouldn’t be my only opportunity of the day; I chastised myself for my schoolboy error.The float bobbed again, I paid full attention to the trembling cream and green cork bung, willing it to slide gracefully beneath the surface. It did… I waited until it was no longer visible, paused, wound down until I felt resistance and raised the rod. The rod arched over and thumped soundly but I waited until I was reasonably sure of a secure hook-up before alerting Paul again. He appeared, looked at the rod tip, and grinned. He readied the net and stood by my side. Once the fish was safely netted, Paul glanced up at me and said, “It’s a double.” I couldn’t quite believe it! After a quick phone call to Kevin, Paul plucked the net from the river and laid my prize on the mat.
“The pleasant’st angling is to see the fish.”
(William Shakespeare)
Kevin arrived hot foot from his swim to assist with weighing and photos. The barbless circle hook was easily removed, the fish hoisted in the sling and we watched the scales with eager anticipation…just over thirteen pounds, I was ecstatic! I think the boys were mightily relieved, given my poor results during the course of the season. We broke for lunch, walked back to the cars and enjoyed the comestibles generously provided by Kevin.
Act II
I was happy to return to the bank, the pressure was off, I had had my fish and could enjoy the afternoon session, safe in the knowledge that I wouldn’t be driving home disappointed. I sat in my chair and watched my float; it dawned on me that I had christened my rod, reel and float.
The float wobbled again, little ripples appearing around it and I held my breath. It cocked over to one side, bobbed under and reappeared. Then, it moved sideways and slid away, so I waited until it sank from sight, paused and cranked the handle of the Altex. A good, strong pull drew the rod tip down towards the water.
“And say, “Ah, ha! Y’are caught.”
(William Shakespeare)
I yelled out to Paul who appeared just as the reel gave line and the clutch sang out. I commented that I thought this one was bigger; it felt stronger, and the clutch hadn’t given line with my previous fish. As it came up in the water and showed its ample flank, I gasped: it was significantly larger!
It was easily as long as my net, a net I thought was larger than I would ever need. I had bought the net on Paul’s recommendation; he said a smaller net is a serious disadvantage with a long pike. How right he was. We ogled the fish in the submerged net, Paul said, “It may just be a twenty, certainly late teens.” Another call to Kevin, “He’s just beaten his P.B.!”
I couldn’t help but marvel at this truly magnificent creature spread across my net and mat. It was a beautiful specimen and I was in awe of its splendour. The scales registered a little over eighteen pounds, the scale of my delight registered far more. My prize catch was returned to the river in the net, and I marvelled at its stature and beauty as I released it from the mesh. It moved off, a hunter killer, quietly and efficiently ghosting away to the depths.
Act III
Before the session ended, I had another fish of just over sixteen pounds; beautifully proportioned, and the prettiest fish of the three. The boys strolled back to the vehicles; I floated back on cloud nine. Kevin warned me that piking is not always so successful; I’d had an exceptional day. Well, be that as it may, it was quite the most glorious way to end the river season and I can reflect upon a notable event that will keep the gloom clouds at bay for quite some time.
“Bait the hook well; this fish will bite.”
(William Shakespeare)
Epilogue
Time spent angling in the tender embrace of nature slips by as though the hours are but minutes. Time lost to such pleasurable pursuits can never be recovered but fond memories will endure. Those much cherished episodes of our angling endeavours will be re-lived a thousand times and the recollection untarnished by frequent iteration. Happily, my season ended as it began, with hope and optimistic anticipation. With my faith restored in the artful craft that we know and love as angling, that intoxicating elixir that fuels thought and deed driving us to river pond and stream, I can look forward with great relish to more notable days, chasing dreams.
Writing & Images Jeremy Croxall, Spring 2025
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