WINTER BITES

     After months of dismal results ended with a flurry of decent Perch, I was all fired up for my trip to the Avon. Although I'd rather floatfish it, I'm not shy about turning to the lead when the weather is foul and today it was foul. I awoke to the sound of icy rain battering the windows so I wasn't surprised that by the time I was ready to leave, the wipers had to shift wet snow from the screen.

     Short days mean later starts that are still in the dark and I hate that more than anything. I hate that everybody else on the road seems to have x-ray vision enabling them to drive like it's a dry, sunny day at Mallory Park, when I can barely make out the car in front through the sleet, spray and blinding modern headlights.  

     I don't hate everything about winter fishing; I love my heated seats and my heated clothing. I bought a new jacket yesterday and if any day would test it for wind resistance, this one would; it passed with flying colours and that is likely to be transformative for my winter fishing.  It was a howling North Westerly; it was surgically sharp and slashed away at me like a pissed off psychopath from 7.30 until I left at 12.30. On paper I should have blanked and the fact that I didn't was testament to modern clothing and my stubbornness.  

 

     The river was back to its normal level but pushing through pretty well and carrying some colour; good conditions really. If I can't fish hemp and casters on the float then I use a modified blockend feeder instead. Two casters on a 12 hook at the end of a two foot tail works well as a rule but the small fish were hammering them so quickly and so hard this morning that I had little trouble seeing the bites even though the tip of my carp rod was flapping about all over the place. Seeing them was one thing but despite losing a half decent Roach at the net, the number I missed was positively embarrassing. I resorted to fishing a six mill pellet banded onto the back of the hook with two casters on the bend as usual. This meant that even with the casters gone, there was still something left for a hungry and hopefully better fish to find.

     Of course, the first fish to manage this now rather large bait was a Minnow but it was at least followed up by a small Chub; right species, wrong size. I was surprisingly comfortable but whenever I re-baited, and I like to do that at 15 minute intervals, my hands quickly went numb, warming up in my pockets just in time to fill the feeder again. It wasn't until I hooked a better fish that I realised that while I was warm enough, my body had stiffened under the relentless - feels like minus 6 - wind and that standing up on a slippery, sloping and very muddy bank was going to be a clumsy, slightly nerve-wracking affair.  

 

     It was a decent Chub well over three pounds; a fish probably harder-earned than any other that I've had this year. By the time I'd got it safely back in the water I was giving serious consideration to packing having at least faced down the elements and proved it worthwhile doing so. Of course I gave it another hour or so to be sure but by then I'd had enough and was actually looking forward the long trudge across a boggy field to my car. With stuff packed away and stripped of the top couple of layers and heavy boots I had a quiet ten minutes just sitting there, recomposing myself before the long drive home. Did I tell you how much I love those heated seats?