‘I watched the paddlers go on upstream and once they’d made thirty yards distant, the roach moved back up in the water column to resume their sun-bathing. The bigger fish miraculously re-emerged also. I paused and thought about it all. Those roach had sensed the mini-flotilla at least one hundred yards away, from upstream’
‘
Looking through Rob’s old diaries got me thinking how lazy my fishing had become in recent years. We’d both been gradually more complacent, with a coarse rod in our hands, but what became apparent was how Rob, having lost a little interest in barbel and tench, had transferred our previously thoughtful approach to his salmon fishing. The penny dropped as I recalled long conversations (at the bar of course) about fly colouration, the location of the sun in the sky, and how you needed to consider such matters when approaching a lie and deciding what to tie on, and where to position the cast so as to give the best opportunity.
We most certainly underestimate fish. I remember standing on a bridge in May, watching a huge group of roach in the outflow from a mill pool. It was utterly tranquil and I assumed the roach were shoaled from spawning, enjoying the faster flow and ‘cleaning off’ as I have heard say. Most of the fish were four to eight ounces and sitting in the top layer of water, appreciating warm spring sunshine but, as always, bigger fish were sat below and back a little. I can watch roach like this for hours and that morning I was lost in the moment as not another soul had been seen. Then, something changed; it wasn’t sudden but gradually the shoal sank through the layers, coming to rest perhaps two feet from the surface. The bigger fish just disappeared.
I searched for a pike with my Polaroids and couldn’t see anything but on reflection the shoal’s movement was too slow to indicate imminent danger. Looking upwards, I scanned for a black shadow of a cormorant or some other aerial threat but again, nothing. Slightly puzzled, I gazed downstream and spotted the reason, well two of them, as a couple of paddle-boarders appeared from around a bend in the river, approximately one hundred yards away. Rhythmic in their approach, their paddles swept left, then right and left again. With little flow on the far side of the river they made good progress and I watched with one eye the two girls as they got closer, and with the other focussed on the roach sitting low in the water, waiting. A cheery smile from both young ladies brought an instinctive but awkward grin in return as they went past. The roach sat low.
I watched the paddlers go on upstream and once they’d made thirty yards distant, the roach moved back up in the water column to resume their sun-bathing. The bigger fish miraculously re-emerged also. I paused and thought about it all. Those roach had sensed the mini-flotilla at least one hundred yards away, from upstream. Just think about it; this wasn’t the sound (or vibration) travelling downstream in the flow and there was no shadow cast, but there was no mistaking they had recognised their approaching presence.
‘A roach from under the bridge’
Captain Parker, the long-time landlord of ‘The Bull’ at Downtown, on the Hampshire Avon, kept a meticulous thrice-daily ledger of water and air temperature, plus barometric pressure and catch reports. He wrote about how roach were able to sense a change in air pressure from a long way away, switching on or off the feed before the barometer even trembled. Armed with that knowledge, his ability to forecast and guide the fortunes of his hotel guests venturing out on the river was legendary. The last I heard of the records they were with that fabulous Breamore angler, and long-passed friend, John Brough; I wonder sometimes what happened to them. I do hope they’re preserved and in the hands of someone who appreciates them as John did.
One of my favourite childhood waters was a small gravel pit called ‘Tom Thumb’ in Dagenham, just a stone’s throw from the famous Becontree waters. It was a fabulously unregulated place in the early-eighties with no swims as such, or bailiffs. Gin-clear, it offered varied opportunities including big roach on caster, night-time tenching and even a few carp.
I recall watching a shoal of roach in the ‘thumb’ (a little bay that presumably gave the pit its name). A dozen maggots at a time had them feeding with gusto and there were some good ones too. I went back for my trusty Shakespeare Sigma Canal and tried hard to catch those roach. A handful of maggots and mine would be cast to the middle, to sink slowly. Darting, competing, the roach would snuff out the free baits in a few seconds but the one on my hook would descend untouched to the bottom every time. I tried everything, including eight ounce line (we were match fishermen after all) and a tiny, blue, barbless size 26 Au Lion D’or ‘hameçon’ (I still have a few now, kept for old time sake) but to no avail; they knew. Perceptive creatures… Nowadays, I’d look for some foam, an imitation, weightless maggot or perhaps leave a few maggots in a bait box lid with water to take on some buoyancy. The small things make the difference but, at thirteen or fourteen years old, I hadn’t quite worked that out.
‘A catch of caster-taken roach from Tom Thumb, circa 1980’
I was discussing this with Aitch and he recounted the story of a day with his friend Nick on a club water, and again roach were the target. It was a social day and they sat together in the same swim. Aitch was into fish straight away but Nick struggled. They did all the obvious things like compare rigs, depth, bait. In sheer frustration, Nick got off his box, sat in the shade, rolled what was his ‘nth’ cigarette of the morning and just watched Aitch deliver a masterclass in roaching.
I recall a similar situation myself. My father was a non-angler but, desperate to spend some time with me, he agreed to a day float-fishing South Weald. This would also have been early eighties again and I could take you to the exact spot today, round the back of the island fishing into the gap. Matching Ultra wagglers and at precisely the same depth, my Dad sat on his chair, puffing a pipe and watching a motionless float whilst I racked up ten bream. Just as we were packing our gear, Dad’s float went under and he reeled in his first fish. I have never seen this before or after, but he had actually managed to lasso a bream, with the line wrapped around under the gills and the noose tightened by the line catching the hook above its head. I laughed and poked fun but he never fished again (I regret that…).
The connection? Those fish surely could sense the tobacco on Nick’s fingers and the pipe-smoke as my father folded bread flake round his hook; it was enough to put them off. Again, such a little thing but I can think of no other explanation.
I collected some of Rob’s gear a few weeks ago. On his favourite barbel rod he had whipped a keeper ring, just above the very bottom of the cork. And there in his diary was an entry and a beautiful diagram of the exact rod and reel, from many years ago. I only have a photo of the page to hand as I write and half the words are cropped from the frame, but it says something like this:
‘Very useful for…clipping…when roaming about because the lead bounces against the cork handle rather than the delicate fibre of the rod but also very handy for holding the clipped up ledger weight in the palm of the hand when moving about (no chance of spooking bangs or…when poking through willow bushes!)’
Complacency is the road to blank days. Ingenuity is a key to success. Of course it is about enjoyment, as well as taking fish but the thinking angler will always land more. I prefer to catch. Presentation, location, bait; sometimes it is the small things that make all the difference and I need to make more of an effort.
Writing & Photographs – Tengisgol, Illustration – Rob Olsen, Summer 2024
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