‘On checking the water temperature, I found it had dropped another degree F. This did not surprise me as the cold northerly wind ruffled the water surface. How I would love to see a week of rain and south westerly winds’
This month I am looking back to some freezing cold conditions when most will not venture to the waterside. I say: “Ignore the weather, you never know when the fish will bite.” The following is just one of many hundreds of sessions when I have caught as others sit indoors moaning about the weather.
I arrived home on February 2nd from a trip to the United States to find the Rivers Ribble, Aire, Calder and Hodder low and gin clear in a strong easterly wind with snow and ice, even the river margins were ice covered.
Conditions didn’t look good for fishing. I’d planned to spend Friday fly-fishing for grayling on the Hodder, or pike with a fly rod on the Aire. On Thursday evening, the late Mick Holgate of Standish called to ask if we were going fishing on Friday. He said that, if so, he wouldn’t be able to make it until the afternoon. I didn’t want to tell Mick I thought we would be wasting our time so I said: “Yes, let’s fish close to home. Either on the middle reaches of the Ribble or the Aire at Kildwick.”
Friday morning was spent cleaning all the bird feeders, then sorting out some tackle. I then had an early lunch. Just after 2 o’clock Mick, who is the Director of Excellence at Macclesfield Football Club, arrived at my house, having been held up due to work commitments. With so little time we agreed to fish the River Ribble. I consider that I’m a lucky angler, having several stretches of this fine river where I can fish and take a guest. Today we chose to fish a stretch just upstream of Ribchester. As we drove down the track alongside the river, we watched a sparrow hawk hunched over a ring necked dove, having a late lunch. Leaving the car to open the car park gate, a blast of cold air hit me in the face; I shivered.
The forecast was right; a cold easterly wind with ice down the margins and we could see the river low and gin clear. In fact some of the bigger rocks in the water towards the far bank could be seen. As we pulled on our chest-high waders I said to Mick: “I don’t give much for our chances until dusk, then I think it will be tough going”. Having got dressed up against the cold wind and sorted out my tackle and bait, I checked the water temperature at 34 degrees F. ‘Where to fish?’ was the next thought that crossed my mind. We chose to fish on a bend below a high bank. On the opposite side of the river was another very high bank with a small copse. This was an area well known for being a good salmon and sea trout holding area and where I’d also caught some excellent chub, barbel, grayling and dace in the past.
My tackle was an Avon action rod, Mitchell 300 reel (1953 vintage) and though my friends say they sound like coffee grinders they still do the job. In fact, in my book they are perfect for my fishing. Line was 6lb Cortland Cam-O-Flage. Today I decided to use a three foot length of 10lb braid, to which I tied a size 4 barbless hook. No doubt some of my fishing friends on reading this will ask themselves: why is Martin using braid? I can’t answer that question, except to say that a sixth sense said I should. With virtually no flow I lightly pinched on an LG shot about four feet from the hook. The shot was to give me some casting weight. My chosen bait today was bread flake; not small pieces but a whole slice of Farmers Boy extra thick, with the crust removed.
Over the past few weeks I have been fishing my flake slightly different from how most other anglers fish this bait. Instead of pinching it on the shank of the hook, I have been folding the slice of bread in half then compressing it so it sinks. I then stick the hook through the compressed bread, as I would a worm or side-hook a boily. Once the light weight reaches the bottom, the bait then sways from side to side before slowly settling on the bottom.
Having settled in my chosen spot I catapulted eight pieces of compressed bread flake towards a far bank tree overhanging the water. This was followed by my flake-baited hook. After thirty minutes without a touch, Mike and I decided it was time for a fresh brew of Yorkshire Gold tea. As we sat drinking tea and enjoying pheasant sandwiches, a big kelt swirled in the water close by. It looked a well mended fish. We badly need some rain to lift the river a couple of feet then that fish, along with many others, would probably make it back to the ocean.
As we sat talking a skein of pink-footed geese flew overhead, then a heron flew across the river to land in the big beech tree and a dozen or so long-tailed tits were looking for insects in the fading light before going to roost. How these birds see these small insects and flies I don’t know; I can’t see them in the middle if the day. Tea finished, I moved back to my swim.
Rebaiting, I made a long cast downstream into a small gully. Minutes later the rod tip quickly pulled down; fish number one was ‘missed’. Winding in, I rebaited then cast to the same spot and with the light now gone I illuminated my rod tip. Fifteen, twenty minutes later the tip moved about half an inch and, picking up the rod, I thrust it forward giving some slack line. I felt the pressure build up on my index finger, then gave a firm strike. The rod tip pulled over quite savagely as the reel gave a few inches of line. Then it all went slack; fish number two missed, but sadly this time I had pricked the fish, not a good thing to do.
Winding in I checked the hook. It was needle sharp and, rebaiting, I cast to the same area, then catapulted four bait size pieces of flake around the hook. I sat holding the rod with the line looped over my finger. I felt a light pluck, then the pressure built up. The strike connected with a powerful fish which went off downstream. The reel grudgingly gave line, the clutch doing its job perfectly and making that sound I so love to hear. Across the river an owl started hooting as if to say: “That’s a good fish”. I thought I had hooked a kelt as the fish powered away and the last thing I wanted was to play a kelt; they suffer enough in the low water. ‘Should I pull for a break?’, I thought, then the fish rolled on the surface. It wasn’t a kelt but a good barbel and not what I was expecting.
After a few short runs I had the fish coming towards the net and as we switched on our headlights it swirled then dived away in fright. Thankfully the clutch had done its job and gave line at this critical time. A minute later Mick had netted a good barbel for me. On the scales it weighed 10-10-0; a personal best River Ribble barbel. How lucky can you get? If Mick hadn’t called me on Thursday evening, I wouldn’t have bothered to bait-fish, preferring to fly-fish instead. After a few pictures we watched the fish swim off.
My Dream Fish
On checking the water temperature, I found it had dropped another degree F. This did not surprise me as the cold northerly wind ruffled the water surface. How I would love to see a week of rain and south westerly winds, I thought as I rebaited, then made a cast to the same area. I catapulted four hook-size chunks of flake around the hook. Within minutes I missed a good bite then, a minute after casting out another bait, I again missed a fish. Baiting this time with the hook just on the edge of the flake a made a more gentle cast, then sat holding the rod. In less than a minute I felt a pluck on my finger and on striking I connected with a good fish. This was a chub and I didn’t need a second guess. Soon I had a good fish in the net which weighed 5-4-0. This, in my book, was a ‘Red Letter Day’ session, considering the conditions.
Mike had a soccer match the next day, while I had to be in the BBC Radio Lancashire studio by 5 o’clock in the morning. It was now nearly 7 o’clock in the evening; time for one last cast. Baiting with another big chunk of compressed bread flake I nicked the hook into the edge of the flake then made another gentle cast downstream into the gully. I sat holding the rod, occasionally shivering in the cold wind, I was missing my fleece.
Some five minutes later just as I was thinking of calling it a day, when the line was savagely pulled across my finger, my answering strike connected with an angry, powerful fish which took line from the reel – small barbel, I thought. After five minutes I’m thinking this is perhaps a better barbel. Another two or three minutes passed and a good fish was finally close to the bank. Pushing the landing net forward, I switched on my headlamp. I could see a chunk of silver body, then I realised it was a large chub. “That’s got to be a big six”, I thought. Once in the landing net I had a good look at the fish. It wasn’t big, it was huge and looked even bigger than my 6-15-0 fish which I had caught at the back-end of last year. “Could it be a seven?”, I said to myself.
Out with scales and weigh bag which were then zeroed. I carefully moved the fish from landing net to weigh-bag, then hoisted it on the scales. The needle went to nearly eight pounds then dropped back a bit. I could not believe what I was seeing and checked the weight again: 7-10-0. I punched the air, shouting to no-one in particular: “I’ve got my seven!” I shouted to Mick: “I’ve got a seven pound chub can you come down”. Winding in his rod, he was soon beside me. We weighed the fish again, then checked the scales before weighing it a second time; still the reading was 7-10-0. All my birthdays and Christmases had come at once. I said to Mick: ”At age 68 I’ve achieved what I wanted to do for many years and that’s to catch a seven pound chub. I don’t care if I don’t catch another fish. I will pass away happy.”
Placing the fish in the landing net, we looked at this magnificent beast laying there. It reminded me of the time when I first went aboard the killer submarine HMS Churchill; as I stood on the dockside looking down at the submarine I marvelled at its size and shape and that’s just how my chub looked. It was a smaller version of that submarine. Thankfully I had my digital Nikon S.L.R. and big flash-gun with me. After showing Mick how to operate this piece of equipment he shot some pictures. We then watched the fish swim off. I was on a high; I didn’t need drink or drugs, just a big fish. I called Mike Osborne, my wife Kate and Alan Roe to give them the news and then we called it a day.
As we walked back to the car in the buffeting wind I felt as high as kite. At long last I had achieved my dream of a seven pound chub. When I caught the 6-15-0 fish I thought that my chance had gone. How lucky can one get, when the conditions looked so tough? Still that’s the great joy of fishing. We anglers use many excuses as a reason why we didn’t catch; ‘it’s too hot or cold, the river’s too high or low, the moon isn’t right and so on.’ Just remember that we can’t catch if we don’t have a bait, fly or lure in the water…
Writing & Images Martin James M.B.E. -Autumn 2023
You must be logged in to post a comment.