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I hope that you find my journal interesting and entertaining. If, having read this, you think that I am talking rubbish then at least you have stopped and thought about it long enough to come to that conclusion which is something of a result in my book. If you would like to comment on this article or anything else relating to my website, please feel free to contact me using the adjacent form. Feedback is always greatly appreciated and very helpful when it comes to improving both my site and my angling. Thank you for looking. If this form will not work for you, please e-mail me at editor@ericweight.co.uk
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artificial lite.

Roach season.

 

I am besotted again. The leaves are falling. Twisting and turning in lazy arcs to the ground one minute and then hurled like slingshot against my brolly, the next. The year is winding down already and winter is six weeks away.

George has been in touch. We need to press on with the project again, and I am on the sodden banks of the Ashby pondering soundtracks and footage, while I wait for that float to lift its proud orange tip to the leaden sky. It does. There is life thumping away on the rod tip and it is gone again, just like that.

Fresh bread on the hook and back out into the channel. Edge the float down to the set position once more and breathe. Why was I holding my breath? The whole thing is so beautiful, so filled with drama, and threatening potential riches from every pore. The big roach are here. I know it.

I know it, the fish know it, the float knows it. It looms up glistening in the light of my head torch and the rod curves gracefully around as the first of the morning comes, somewhat splashily, to the net. A glorious, glistening, silver-blue roach.

It lies in the net, it lies on the scales. I check and re-check, but they  only have 10 ounces to offer. Ridiculous, but its early yet. Another two hours until the torch can go back in the bag and the birds will start mumbling away in the bushes opposite.

I try putting in more bait as the bites dry up and they come straight back again. A handful of small skimmers pass my way before all goes solid and a heavier fish nods back at me. Stubborn to the last it wallows into my grasp and covers everything with snot. Two pounds two ounces, but not what I lust after. Can anybody lust after a bream of any size? I think not.

But roach. Of course we can. We should, for they are so beautiful. Men have lusted after them, large an small, since the days of spanish reed and wooden reels, and probably long before that. Maybe even when horses grazed in fear for their tails and all talk among the idle and feckless was of greenheart and greaves.

I say quiet prayer to mother nature, “If I can’t have my roach today, please may I have the next best thing?” A dashing vigorous hybrid to take my mind off the now torrential rain and the fine damp mist that hovers beneath my ancient green mushroom, would be just the ticket.

My wish is granted. One pound one, it streaks off across the canal, making the ratchet squeal, but I have the measure of it now. All the fear is in the first couple of seconds. Will it stay on or will it come unstuck? Is it a decent fish or is it foul-hooked. Will the line hold. Of course it does and peace reigns again. Just the hissing rain and a nice firm weight, cushioned by, and thumping methodically against, the rod tip. Very satisfying.

It’s followed quickly by another larger one of one pound five. A good day in every respect. Apart from a single jogger running to save his health, but looking as though he set off ten years too late, I’ve seen nobody. I’ve seen the moorhens arguing over scraps and the ducks primping and preening like schoolgirls getting ready for the school prom. Geese have been and gone, their trumpeting reaching a crescendo as they passed overhead before fading away again as they head off to who knows where. I’m running out of time today, and my breakfast is calling.

 

One last cast. Maybe a little further out, searching the swim for left overs before the first boat gets here. The float flashes under. Do they not know that I am fishing the lift method? It’s a decent fish, dogged, more animated than a bream, not as quick as a hybrid. Could it be? Oh yes it could. This trip has just received an upgrade from satisfying to perfect. My first result of the winter at one pound three. Onwards and upwards from here, but first,,, breakfast.

artificial lite