Pilgrim’s Progress

He is also a very keen angler, having come back to the sport in 1995 following a break of several years. In this regular column he will tell us about his progress as an angler – his thoughts about the sport, what he learns, the fishing trips he makes, the anguish, the humour, in fact everything he experiences as his angling career develops.

Pilgrim’s Progress – read it everyThursday!

Back On The Big Bream Trail – Part One

My excursion into Suffolk three weeks ago had certainly sparked apassion within my heart. The first threenights at home following the trip I was awoken by buzzers going off(bream style, not carp) and I jumped out of bed looking for aflashing light, so I could strike. My wife, Debby, was getting quiteconcerned, but when I explained what was happening, she just turnedover and went back to sleep. ‘Hope you catch it’ were here lastwords, before I too returned to the land of reality.

But after the third night of big bream dreaming I realised that Ineeded more than mind games to exorcise the demon within. Hence thisarticle, as I quickly searched through my diary to see what I couldjuggle around with in order to clear a free week.

So, with permit sent off for and received, bait purchased andtackle at the ready, it was with great excitement that I lookedforward to another week in East Anglia. My mission was simple – tocatch a double figure bream. How did I get on? Well, without spendingany more time on the preamble, I’ll let you know as we journey ontogether to see what the week ahead had in store for me.

Day One

The week starts on a Sunday. I only had a local morning service,so after a short, sharp and no waffle sermon, I declined invitationsof ‘more tea Vicar?’ so that I could get home quickly. With the carloaded, it was with a sense of deja vu as I once again began the longjourney across the M6 and A14 into deepest, darkest Suffolk. Istopped only once, at a Burger King, to enjoy my last ‘proper meal’for a week. My culinary ability is non-existent. The closest I get tobeing the Naked Chef is when I make a pot noodle in my boxershorts.

Arriving at the gravel pit at 6.00pm, an hour later I had cast outand was bedded in for the week. My prayers had been answered and theswim I’d wanted was free. For those of you who wonder what sort ofprayers a Rev utters, well, I can’t answer for anyone else. But I cantell you that the gist of my conversation with God on the journey wasalong the lines of “could you please keep the platform swim in thetrees free for me.”

The swim I had chosen had a gravel bar about 50 metres out, thatran parallel to the bank. A marker float carefully positioned at theback of the bar gave me the option to fish accurately either side ofit, or even on the top of the bar itself. In fact my intention forthe week was to fish in all three strategic areas.

Settling down for the night I was stretched out on the bedchairwith the bivvie door open, suddenly the peaceful scene was broken bya dark silhouette scuttling about. I knew what it was before I evenswitched the headlamp on, illuminating the ground in front of me. Myfears were confirmed, when eye contact was established with a catsized rat. Dazzled by the sudden influx of light into its dark, murkyworld, it lingered for a few seconds before departing back into theundergrowth where it had come from. Needless to say, my bivvie doorwas immediately zipped up, with the intention of repeating thataction once darkness began to descend each night.

Day Two

The night passed peacefully, certainly as far as fish action wasconcerned. However, after my encounter with the rat I found itdifficult to sleep. I knew I was protected by a bivvie, but at theend of the day (literally), all that separated me from the local ratpopulation was less than 1mm of nylon.

At 7.30 am I had the first bite of the week. Striking into abream, I could tell that on the other end of the line was my firstdouble. For all of 15 seconds my adrenaline level took me up into theclouds. Then suddenly I was sent tumbling back down to earth. Thehook had pulled. When targeting big fish you don’t often get too manybites of the cherry. I just hoped on this occasion that this lostfish wouldn’t come back to haunt me at the end of the week.

Since my last visit to the pit a lot of the fledglings had nowleft their nests and were out and about, exploring the big, wideworld that lay beyond the protection and comfort of their previoushomes. I found myself being visited regularly by a posse of youngrobins and a juvenile blackbird. What angler can resist thecheekiness of a bird that comes right up to you and starts eatingyour bait? Throwing lots of freebies to my new found friends, wequickly developed a bonding between us. I literally had the youngblackbird eating out of the palm of my hand. I was beginning to thinkof myself as a modern day St Francis of Assisi. Then I remembered therat, and changed my mind.

As Monday drew to a close, all was quiet as far as the fishing wasconcerned. After my sleepless night Sunday, I was soon in the Land ofNod.

Day Three

Despite regular groundbaiting and accurate casting, I was stillfishless. (Apart from a brief spell when I fished with maggot duringthe day and had a small roach and an eel). But my confidence levelwas high and I felt that it would be a matter of time before Iconnected with a decent fish.

Tackle-wise I fished with 10lb main line and 10 lb fluorocarbonhook length (the pit is gin clear). A 1.5 ounce in-line lead wassufficient to get me out to the bar. Hook size fluctuated betweensize 6, 8 and 10, and were tied knotless-knot hair rig style. I had anumber of back up baits, but first choice was double 10mm boilies,esterberry on one rod and Tutti Frutti on the other.

Talking of Tutti Frutti boilies, my regular visitor, the youngblackbird, had certainly developed a taste for them. Since picking upthe remains of a broken boilie, he spied the bag from which they hadcome, which lay inside the bivvie. Spurred on by his new-foundaddiction, he proceeded to then attack the bag to try and extraditethe orange boilies which were visible through the plastic. In thesame manner that we sometimes have to hide sweets from our children,I had to zip them away in the boilie bag.

At 6.00 pm I had the second bite of the week. As I struck I wasgreeted by the welcome feeling of another sizeable fish at the end ofthe line. If I had prayed hard for swim selection before, believe me,I was now in intercession mode. It was a relief to slip the net undera beautiful looking tench, which took the dial on the scales round to6lb 14 oz. In the next two hours I struck into three more decentfish, every one shedding the hook. One of the lost fish was a bream,the other two were tench. I managed to glimpse one of the tench,which I estimated to be about 8lb. Ah well, the one that got away andall that stuff. But there’s no point in crying over spilt milk.

About 8.00 pm the heavens opened and I saw Tuesday out tucked upnice and cosy within my sleeping bag as the rain continued to pourdown without any letting up whatsoever.

So, 53 hours into the week long campaign, and all I have to showis the solitary tench. My mid-term school report would read ‘C.Should have done better’. But, how does the rest of the week go?

Join me next Thursday, in ‘BackOn The Big Bream Trail…..Part Two‘, as I take you through thenext few days of the session.

The Reverend Stewart R Bloor
Sedgley International Christian Ministries
PO Box 1216, Dudley. DY3 1GW.
Telephone : 01384 – 828033
Web site : www.sicm.org
e-mail : missionscentre@sicm.org