It was obvious, when we caught sight of the river as we crossed Ryton Bridge, that Phil and I had made a massive miscalculation when we arranged our latest trip for Sunday. The theory was that Fridays downpour would by then be ebbing it's way out of the river therefore leaving us with the ideal fishing conditions of mild air temperature and a river tinged with colour and fining down nicely.
The chocolate brown raging torrent of water passing under the bridge at Ryton told a far different story and, having seen it with your own eyes, the sensible angler would either head for home or divert to calmer waters. However, there was a plan to fish the river in place and, after all, Phil had already cut his luncheon meat up into little cubes so it would be a shame to disappoint him!
On arrival at Phil's favourite stretch of river things were looking every bit as bad as we'd feared, the water was tanking through under the road bridge and was decidedly oxtail soupy in appearance.
The usual access to the river involves a short walk along a footpath then over a stile and you are at the waterside, not today though, the gate and stile were waist deep in river water.
Undeterred we followed an alternative footpath which involved a stamina sapping slog up an extremely muddy hill heading away from the river, next we turned parallel to the river and skirted along the top of some dense woodland which afforded us the occasional fleeting glimpse of the raging river and surrounding flooded fields below.
A makeshift path eventually allowed us an uneasy descent through the woods and onto the saturated fields below, the next obstacle now became apparent.
A small stream, little more than a ditch in Summertime, runs parallel to the river and we could now see it flowing determinedly through the standing water that was all around, we needed to be on the other side of it somehow.
Phil has a direct approach to these situations and, while I was searching for a likely crossing place I caught sight of him using a bankstick as an improvised wading staff as he moved confidently towards the stream, now, ten out of ten for effort but the water was already slopping around perilously close to the tops of his boots and you could see it coming long before it actually happened. He stepped over the edge of the flowing water and Whoomph down he went, almost falling headfirst, arms windmilling the best they could carrying his rods and tackle, he just managed to stay upright and wade hurriedly ashore soaked to the waist, fantastic stuff and well worth the walk!
I soon exhausted other avenues of attack and resigned myself to a crossing in a similar area to Phil, I took off my thermal boots and suit and made it across in a somewhat cagey manner.
Joining Phil on what is usually a high bank above the weir pool I got my first proper look at the water and things were bad, the only saving grace being that the main flow of water cascading over the weir was being pushed along the far bank and volumes were such that a huge back eddy was being created on our bank, therefore offering some hope on a truly dire day.
I changed back into my boots and suit and tackled up accordingly.
The longer a session goes on without a bite, especially in conditions like this, the more your confidence drains away and so it was on this occasion, we tried hard and we stuck it out until twilight and Phil, to his credit, did catch a bullhead on maggot which was a momentous achievement under the circumstances but our attempts were pretty much doomed to failure from the start.
The only instance where we have fished in worse conditions was some years ago on the Trent at Thrumpton, the river was rising at a frightening pace all day with pallets, trees, dead animals and even, believe it or not, a chicken house passing by.
We made our way home in much the same way as we had arrived, with a Parachute Regiment style yomp across field and stream.
Fresh air, exercise, the roar of a flooded river....Can't beat it can you!
Monday, 25 January 2010
Wednesday, 6 January 2010
Brand New Year, Same Old Story.
With the Daily Mail announcing a mini Ice Age this morning in their own inimitable style it seems as good a time as any to post the story of my latest trip.
The 2nd of January, a dusting of snow on the ground and thoroughly Christmassed up to the eyeballs it was a relief to arrange a short trip to our old stomping ground on the river Leam at Hunningham with Phil.
Common sense should probably have prevailed but to be honest I haven't fished for ages and was keen to get out, a bit of cold weather wasn't going to stop me and Phil, well Phil's as daft as I am!
The river itself was more or less at normal Winter levels, very cold and the colour of tea; not ideal in my view especially with the likelihood of road salt, snow water and God knows what else running through but hey ho, fishing is fishing!
During our school years most Sundays from November to March were spent on this particular stretch and it is fair to say we knew it like the backs of our hands but how it's changed since then. Flood management by Severn Trent Water during the eighties meant that the Leam was kept free of obstructions, I remember in particular the ruthless pollarding programme which left the Willows at Offchurch little more than lifeless stumps and in the Hunningham area the banks were dug back with the use of a JCB into miles of steep, slippery bare earth, Fishery Management at its worst! Gladly it seems that the waterway hasn't been touched since and far from the relatively featureless stretch we fished as kids it has become a wilderness of fallen trees and rafts of debris with a likely fish holding feature in every swim.
Phil has stayed in touch with the fishing here by making an annual pilgrimage each Winter and he told me to forget about the big roach and sizable chub of old as the stretch now has a good head of small chub. The plan that had emerged during our earlier telephone conversation was to target chub with bread but to also have a dabble with lobworms to try for a big perch or two (they must be there somewhere), this plan was scuppered somewhat when Lanes didn't have any Lobs and we found ourselves sharing a tub of very sorry looking red worms produced by someone called Mr Worms (I suspect that's not his real name).
As things turned out the fishing was pretty much as dire as the weather, my main mistake was not listening to Phil's advice, I largely ignored the feature filled pegs and made a beeline for a long straight at the furthest end of the stretch, a straight of some three hundred yards in length with even flow and depth which comes off a sharp bend in the river, a straight which screams roach and, indeed, when I knew the river they were here in numbers and ranged from eight ounces to two pounds in weight but alas, as Phil had already warned, there were none to be found on this occasion.
While I stuck it out for my roach Phil was busy trying different swims (as I should have done) and was rewarded for his efforts with a solitary one pound chub.
Despite the disappointing result it was good to revisit the scene of so many good days, it was here I caught my first chub over three pounds and my first two pound roach, I even had a five pound bream on the last day of the season once and it was here we amused ourselves by building a fantastic snow man on a particularly slow Winters day, here where Phil was forced to swim to the bottom of the deepest hole to retrieve his umbrella on a windy March evening (how I laughed) and here where we were forced to smash holes in ice three inches thick in order to fish on what I would call a proper Winters day, probably during the last Ice Age.
The 2nd of January, a dusting of snow on the ground and thoroughly Christmassed up to the eyeballs it was a relief to arrange a short trip to our old stomping ground on the river Leam at Hunningham with Phil.
Common sense should probably have prevailed but to be honest I haven't fished for ages and was keen to get out, a bit of cold weather wasn't going to stop me and Phil, well Phil's as daft as I am!
The river itself was more or less at normal Winter levels, very cold and the colour of tea; not ideal in my view especially with the likelihood of road salt, snow water and God knows what else running through but hey ho, fishing is fishing!
During our school years most Sundays from November to March were spent on this particular stretch and it is fair to say we knew it like the backs of our hands but how it's changed since then. Flood management by Severn Trent Water during the eighties meant that the Leam was kept free of obstructions, I remember in particular the ruthless pollarding programme which left the Willows at Offchurch little more than lifeless stumps and in the Hunningham area the banks were dug back with the use of a JCB into miles of steep, slippery bare earth, Fishery Management at its worst! Gladly it seems that the waterway hasn't been touched since and far from the relatively featureless stretch we fished as kids it has become a wilderness of fallen trees and rafts of debris with a likely fish holding feature in every swim.
Phil has stayed in touch with the fishing here by making an annual pilgrimage each Winter and he told me to forget about the big roach and sizable chub of old as the stretch now has a good head of small chub. The plan that had emerged during our earlier telephone conversation was to target chub with bread but to also have a dabble with lobworms to try for a big perch or two (they must be there somewhere), this plan was scuppered somewhat when Lanes didn't have any Lobs and we found ourselves sharing a tub of very sorry looking red worms produced by someone called Mr Worms (I suspect that's not his real name).
As things turned out the fishing was pretty much as dire as the weather, my main mistake was not listening to Phil's advice, I largely ignored the feature filled pegs and made a beeline for a long straight at the furthest end of the stretch, a straight of some three hundred yards in length with even flow and depth which comes off a sharp bend in the river, a straight which screams roach and, indeed, when I knew the river they were here in numbers and ranged from eight ounces to two pounds in weight but alas, as Phil had already warned, there were none to be found on this occasion.
While I stuck it out for my roach Phil was busy trying different swims (as I should have done) and was rewarded for his efforts with a solitary one pound chub.
Despite the disappointing result it was good to revisit the scene of so many good days, it was here I caught my first chub over three pounds and my first two pound roach, I even had a five pound bream on the last day of the season once and it was here we amused ourselves by building a fantastic snow man on a particularly slow Winters day, here where Phil was forced to swim to the bottom of the deepest hole to retrieve his umbrella on a windy March evening (how I laughed) and here where we were forced to smash holes in ice three inches thick in order to fish on what I would call a proper Winters day, probably during the last Ice Age.
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