Gary Cullum takes a traditional approach to his fishing...
Ear Kev | Angling Diary
Ear Kev
Ear Kev, ge'us a case of Heineken if you're goin' up the 'offy.
So said three rods Jace, making his third trip around the lake with barrow of Ballistas, bivvies, boilies, Baitrunners and bits. And stainless steel.
Every club water, country wide, has its fair share of Kevs and Jaces ( I think his name is actually Jason) and let's be honest, they not only survive, but thrive and prosper on them. My own club Boxmoor & District at Hemel Hempstead, of which I am privileged to be chairman, runs annually on around 350 members. Three hundred plus are carpers - and they are happy to pay the money, the club ticket, the night ticket and the third rod ticket, all introduced to keep basic fees to a minimum and ask those who use the water most to pay the most. They are happy, the club is happy, and the carp are growing larger - as Kev does insist on spodding out his offerings for 45 minutes every few hours - though we are only a 3.5 acre lake.
Kev's read too much Jim Shelley, and doesn't realise. The Mere is not a 100 acre lake. Kev is up before the management committee on a 'charge' of polluting the water next month, for we operate a rule; a kilo and a half of bait per 24 hours. Yes, I know such a rule operates on trust. We will trust any angler once.
Anyway enough of that, I get my club enjoyment out of helping a dozen brilliant blokes manage the water, though I occasionally tease a tinca from its marginal swims on a fat lob, or a chunk of flake. And I almost landed my first twenty pounder - a beautiful autumn coloured mirror on a trusty James Mk IV cane and near century old walnut fronted Milwards Zephyr centrepin. But that's a story for another day.
Far from the madding crowd fits my way of fishing - I love the peace and quiet of the river bank, with just an angling companion to share the moment.
My weapon of choice will always be cane. Split cane, whole cane, a combination of both, a 50 year old rod by Allcocks, Milwards, B James or Aspindale perhaps, or a modern cane rod from the Edward Barder Rod Co.
For me, my fishing soothes away the stresses and strains of everyday business life. I am happy with an hour here and a morning there and, if I plan my month well, a full day somewhere else.
Izaac gave us the seasons; Mr Crabtree advised us 40 and 50-year-old somethings, how best to use them to our advantage.
My season started (yes it was June 16) with a brace of fat tench from a reedmace and yellow flag iris lined estate lake in Northamptonshire, with fishing partner Barbel Dave. There were subsequent outings to my fly fishing club, the Amwell Magna on the old River Lea near Hertford for a brownie, and a trip to the Test near the famous Houghton beats below Salisbury for more brown trout and rainbows on my little five weight Barder fly rod, made in honour (I bought that one second-hand) of the Storey family, Yorkshire river keepers, and the 150th anniversary of the Ryedale Angling Club.
I have had chub and roach from my little stream and a net full of swinger roach and dace from a little meandering stretch of River Colne I have access to.
Barbel maestro Dave put me on to five barbel in two visits - and he was there when I set out to catch a five pound chub, a big fish for me but average for the Upper Ouse. To my delight I had a five four - and a six two - in the same summery session, the larger specimen coming to a freelined pellet up in the water on a Barder Barbus Maximus.
Late summer saw a first visit to hallowed carp water Redmire Pool - I went to sit in Dick Walker's famous willow swim to brew and drink tea. Oh, and I wanted just two fish - a three pound carp and one of the pool's mighty gudgeon. The trip was a super success on both counts.
Autumn started with a trip to the Test for a good bag of grayling on trotted corn and flake. Nothing large to date, perhaps averaging just over the pound, but a charming fish to catch and one which gives a good account of itself. And it whets the appetite for the two pounder which will surely be banked at some point in the future.
There's no hurry for me, as there has been no hurry to bank that twenty pound carp - it's just lovely to be at one with nature.
I'll bank a few late autumn and winter perch, and have hopes of a three pounder from the Lea; add a few more grayling from the Rivers Kennet and Lambourn and a decent redfin from the Hampshire Avon - and my season will be complete.
I've spotted a small shoal of half pound roach in a deeper glide of my local stream (about two feet max depth) so I'll be back with a Lucky Strike or Record Breaker, or maybe a Hardy Sheffield style lightweight light and lithe cane next weekend with half a pint of gentles.
Tradition plays a big part for me - and I am happy with a Mr Crabtree day. It doesn't take a monster French carp to make me smile.
Am I missing something?
...Sometime later in December:
Hello Gaz...we are running late. We have just left The Clothes Show at the NEC (what is it about women and clothes?) but the
traffic out of here is awful - we will be at least an hour later than I
said earlier.
Music to my ears. Sixty spare minutes - one 24th of the day, masses of time,
and more than long enough to get to the stream and back... and have a full
45 minutes of trotting a stick.
Club mate Kev thought that was 'undoable', mainly because it took him 45
minutes and three wheel barrow trips round the club Mere just to get his
gear to his camp site on Friday afternoon.
So I nabbed two slices of medium white from the bread bin and grabbed my old
cane Lucky Strike that was still made up in the den from its last outing. A
few bits in a bag and I was off.
The stream, usually a mere ditch, was swollen and coloured after a past
week's heavy rain - if you can call 18 inches of water swollen!
Third cast brought a two pound chub and was followed by two roach pushing
six or seven ounces. And just on dusk, well within my allotted three
quarters of an hour fishing time, I connected on two out of four trots.
A fine brace of silver bars, both well over the pound 'jag-jaggingly' bent
the Lucky Strike. Boy did I Strike it Lucky.
As I write this, wife and daughter are still not home - but it's only been
95 minutes since the phone call.
There's most definitely a moral in there somewhere..
