A Flooded River Ouse

The winter weather was cold and wet. Somewhere down in the depths fish would be hiding from the great push of flood water.


Where to fish was not the only problem, safety and possibility were also factors to consider.

The banks were treacherous and the amount of weight needed to hold bottom made the Pool out of bounds.

Perhaps the water above the Sea Trout ladder would be more productive.

This was certainly the case as the speed of the current was less as the water backed up to the main weir I found a spot to the right of the ladder and legered with a small Drennan feeder and maggots. It took a few re-fills, with 10 maggots a time in the little feeder, but eventually the small Shimano quiver went slowly round. A roach of about 6 oz came to hand. It looked surprised and felt warmer than I expected. The water temperature was good despite the biting wind trying to freeze me. I hoped the thermal suit would do it’s stuff and I wouldn’t need a toilet break.

At one point the sun tried desperately in vain to break through the clouds, but my success continued as more small roach and several bream came to the net.

A Breamore Barbel.

A trip to Breamore on a fine September afternoon. The river ran with such enthusiasm and was full of promise.

The old Mk IV Avon was pressed into service with a Match Ariel. My standard set up was always a link leger consisting of Swan Shot and a hook of size 8 or 6. Why carry a lot of tackle? Bait on this occasion was corn packed on to the hook, with some hemp and corn in a bait dropper.

Once the bait had settled in the chosen swim then time could be spared for the surroundings. There was the view, the calling Buzzard and then the sight of that great bird. There was that bankside terror, The Little Grebe and all the other birds taht swam past in the parade.

Pride of place went to the tip of the old cane rod which gently nodded in time with the pull of water flowing past. The gentle nodding became a rattle and a slight pull downwards, with an answering lift of the rod. Now the battle had begun and attached to the line was the barbel which had been expected.

Shoreham Beach, West Sussex, UK

Shoreham Beach, West Sussex, UK.

( Photograph and Article submitted by John, Portslade, UK )

When I was young we used to stand at this point and look across at the Gas Works and the old Electricity Building. Both of these two were demolished to make way for a smaller unit. There were fond memories of swimming in warmer water produced by the electricity outflow pipes. It probably was un-healthy, but there we are.

Shoreham Beach

The Harbour at Shoreham was always a good place to fish and sail in the sheltered waters.At times we would fish in the harbour basin if we could get away without being caught.

In the distance is Brighton and Hove. Playgrounds for the rich and famous ever since the Prince Regent built the Brighton Pavilion and put the fishing village of Brigthelmstone on the map.

 

Short Story – “One Morning in Early July”

Here is a short story, submitted by one of our readers.

Enjoy!

“One morning in early July” by Kelowna Trout Angler (Canada)

One morning in early July I rowed an old punt out onto the estate lake.

This old lake had no footpaths around it and was surrounded by trees and reeds. As my friend and I pulled out of the boathouse, which smelt of over 100 years of maintenance, creosote, pitch and tar, we got caught up in the damp webs made by a great many spiders.

Mornings are always full of promise and as we whispered quietly to each other we were able to take in the sounds of the lake and the morning. There were the ducks and other birds flapping wings and arguing as we gently slid across their domain. On early mornings you can rarely see far. There always seems to be a mist rising from the water as you await the sun.

We pulled into a bay and tied the ends of the punt to the reeds. Hopefully nothing had been disturbed and so we settled to fish.

“Hello,” said my mate, ” someone’s coming.”, and sure enough there were the sounds of oars gently dipping into the water and the occasional knock of the rowlocks as the oars turned.

The sound came upon us but we could not see the angler in the mist. He had pulled in behind us and we heard the reeds rustle to the distinctive sound of the punt being pushed into the reeds in preparation for tying.

Soon after we heard the splash of groundbait and then the tapping of a pipe on the end of an oar.

At this I called “Hello Fred”, but as usual the reply was only a grunt of acknowledgement.

We fished hard and caught many fish until the sun had cleared the mist and our bay was gradually becoming a heat trap. During our session we had heard many a splash from Fred’s side of the reeds, but the old fellow was a solitary character and rarely disclosed his catch.

Time to go I felt and we packed and called a last farewell to Fred, but no reply was forthcoming as expected.

“What a miserable sod” said my mate as we left the bay and I had to laugh.

“What’s so funny?” came the retort.

“Well he’s dead” was my reply, “he died 30 years ago and everyone on the lake should pay their respects to Fred when they arrive and leave. You’ve been lucky you have heard him and fished with him.”

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Tight lines!

The Fisherman

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