DAWN DEBACLE

     It's surprising just how a fortnight away from the river can upset everything. Before I went I had enjoyed two moderately successful mornings in the same swim pushing my season's best Leam Perch beyond a pound and a half and even coming close to breaking the two pound barrier. I'd worked the swim out; I knew the depths, the weedbeds, and just how to position my chair on the steeply sloping bank so that I could fish effectively without falling in. I even knew what time to set off to catch just enough sunlight to tackle up; today, not so much.

     I arrived way too early. It was pitch black but mild and pleasant so I took a leisurely stumble to my swim hoping to lay waste to my shoal of nice Perch. I was unprepared not just for how dark it was but for the deeply satisfying waves of nostalgia that flooded my senses. Deep in the English countryside you can smell the night. It is a rich, comforting smell to me that brought back nights running hares and rabbits with my lurchers, Shaun and Sadie; beautiful long-legged, broken coated crosses between racing Greyhounds and working Bearded Collies from the Scottish borders. The tu-whit of a Tawny Owl added colour to a dark canvas and bats whirled around as I sat waiting for dawn.

     As the horizon lightened, first pale streaks of blue turned to yellow and then darkened to fiery oranges and reds, before lightening to become just another nice day. It was a beautiful start destined to never get much better. With enough light to set up by I tried to set up my chair. Could I get it right? Not a chance, I ended up with it pointing upstream and had to lay the back down and use it as a stool to fish facing my swim. I clipped on the plummet but the depth seemed a lot shallower than I remembered, the long lash between pole and float meaning that the current pulled the float six feet downstream of all the chopped worm and casters that I'd already put in.

     I sorted it out in the end. I was now fishing four feet deep in seven feet of water. Cue a realignment of seat, tackle and angler. More droppers of chopped worm, a re-plumbing and regular tussles with decaying cabbages. It was not going well and my hard-earned dawn start was a thing of the past. Even so, I did begin to catch. An early Chub a little shy of two pounds, some 'nearly netters' Roach and Dace and a couple of hard-fighting but 'not what I was after' Perch around the half pound mark. It was a start, but then Pete rang!

"How's it going"?

I told him.

"Sounds like it could be a red-letter day then".

It wasn't.

     I switched off the phone, quickly caught two of the smallest chub you've ever seen and a minnow before hooking something considerably stronger. Could this be a big Perch? Nope! It was a silly little jack and my morning was over by nine o clock. The hook came out through the other side of its jaw and caught in the net. It was slippery as an Eel, went totally berserk, leaping all over the shop and tying my rig in so many knots that I had to cut it up to put the damn thing back.

     I slumped back on my seat, mumbling and grumbling to myself, tied on a new rig, plumbed the depth again, hooked on the bait dropper and reached down for some casters. They were gone. Not really; they were still there, scattered in the long grass while my bait box was bobbing about in the margins.

     After some, not inconsiderable, scrabbling about I had a couple of handfuls of mixed casters, dirt and grass but it didn't matter anymore. I never had another bite; not even from a minnow.