‘After admiring the most splendid tench I stretch out on the wicker punt chair to luxuriate in warming sunshine and tune in to warblers warbling in the reed bed. I become lost to a memory and begin turning pages back to one of my first seasons here where I will find myself in this very pitch. I recall the almost identical scene, on this particular day however it had been uncomfortably hot and even before sun rise the air had a stifling humidity about it.’
Over the years certain creatures have become a familiar sight when angling. Corixa punctata or the lesser water boatmen is one of them, these super beneficial insects have always captured my imagination. Their movements intrigue skating through the day as they do. Today is without exception as I watch their apparent enthusiasm wheeling around my float. As time passes their characteristic staccato movements suggest an allegory of sorts is taking place, I wonder just what they are telling?
Communication of course is something we take for granted, and through whichever medium. As I sit here pondering such and with a cursory eye on the quill the peel of a church bell rings out from the village beyond the westward willows, simultaneously the float stirs; at first a tremble, then a slow rise, my hand hovers over the centrepin, upon the final toll of the bell my float finds the uppermost point in its peculiar travel and falls to rest upon the calm body of the pool, float, hand and breath are held momentarily until the quill slides away from view.
Immediately I feel resistance signalling that most desirable of piscatorial connections, and to the fish that unequivocally has my heart skipping a beat. Tench being mercurial are rarely seen, and are never overtly obliging when fished for, which only adds to their mystery. They do however have a habit of giving their location away. Well before the classic float movement of a tench bite it is on occasion possible to see a whirl of pinhead bubbles that fizz enticingly upon the surface sometimes accompanied by all manner of unearthed detritus from the lake bed, these signs do not indicate you will catch but in the least you have a reference.
In all my angling days tench so readily capture the essence, spirit and imagination of fishing summer pools. Snoozing is something I do frequently, I imagine many anglers are the same, there must be a sixth sense or as neuroscientists have concluded ‘other’ senses are at work, as I seem to be aware of activity below or above surface when doing so, it’s uncanny.
After admiring the most splendid tench I stretch out on the wicker punt chair to luxuriate in the warm sunshine and tune in to warblers warbling in the reed bed. Becoming lost in a memory I begin turning pages back to one of my first seasons here where I will find myself in this very pitch. I recall an almost identical scene, on this particular day however it had been uncomfortably hot and even before sun rise the air had a stifling humidity about it.
The early hours had passed without an ‘event’ to speak of, and unsurprisingly I needed little prompting toward a snooze, and if unconsciously inclined a daydream. What with the stillness, and the generally slow progress of the morning contributing to the relaxed way of it all I put the cane at rest on an alder and with the sound of dragons haunting my ear I drifted away…….only to be rudely interrupted by a waterhen.
Waterhen are inquisitive but equally can be a taciturn contradiction as they spook rather easily. Now this bird had decided to alight at the foot of my pitch and had landed one of his oversized feet in the corn, the whole lot was thrown in disarray, reaffirming his trait for an alarming retreat he set off across the pool in a fit of feathers and froth as he went.
A good number of kernels had found the margin shelf at around 4 feet, I could see them mostly strewn across the bed, whilst a few appeared like baubles upon the pond weed. I set about trying to retrieve as much of the ‘over the side’ corn as possible. Leaning into my reflection I noticed a shape, then two, no three shapes within my watery self. They were tench, and of a good size all nonchalantly feeding on the corn.
Seeing me peering down did not distract them in the slightest. There was nothing for it but have a go. Retrieving the line away from the trio I stepped back, dropped the quill over their heads nestling the cane in the reed. My position was not ideal as the reed obscured any meaningful view making a visual connection impossible, not wanting to waste time retackling I held the line between the creases dividing the middle and tips of my fingers and waited.
Patience thankfully was not tested as an instant register was felt, then another, and another, was this going to progress or would a strike on the next ‘twitch’ be the answer? I didn’t get the chance to decide, with line taught and flowing the silky smooth whir of the aerial confirmed a fish ‘was on.’
All was going swimmingly well, due in part to the waterhens clumsy disposition and without whom a second tench may not have graced the net. Is it not strange how such an event and unbeknown to you at the time would yield such outcomes? I wouldn’t have believed it (in a figure of speech) had someone told me. But there you have it, if ever you believe you do not have time for a snooze then you should definitely reconsider. The partaking of which always has favourable outcomes.
Writing & Images Pallenpool Summer 2023
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